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   THE

   CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

   DEVOTED TO

   Literature and National Policy.


   VOL. III.

   JANUARY-JUNE, 1863.


   New York:
   JOHN F. TROW, 50 GREENE STREET,
   (FOR THE PROPRIETORS.)
   1863.


   ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
   JOHN F. TROW,
   In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
   the Southern District of New York.


   JOHN F. TROW,
   PRINTER, STEREOTYPER, AND ELECTROTYPER,
   48 & 50 Greene Street,
   New York.


       *       *       *       *       *


   THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY. DEVOTED TO Literature and National Policy.


   JANUARY, 1863.


   NEW YORK: JOHN F. TROW 50 GREENE STREET (FOR THE PROPRIETORS).

   HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY. WASHINGTON, D. C.: FRANCK TAYLOR.


       *       *       *       *       *


   CONTENTS.--No. XIII.


   Huguenots of New Rochelle. Hon. G. P. Disosway,                     1

   Maccaroni and Canvas. No. 10. Henry P. Leland,                      7

   Thought,                                                           23

   Consequences of the Rebellion. Hon. F. P. Stanton,                 26

   "I;" or, Summer in the City,                                       40

   The Ivy. Charles Godfrey Leland,                                   47

   The Mishaps of Miss Hobbs. William L. Williams,                    54

   The Union. No. 4. New York and Virginia Compared,
   &c. Hon. Robert J. Walker,                                         68

   Promise. Edward S. Rand, Jr.,                                      78

   American Destiny. John Stahl Patterson,                            79

   Was He Successful? Richard B. Kimball,                             98

   The Physical Survey of New York Harbor and its
   Approaches. Henry Mitchell, Assistant U. S. Coast
   Survey,                                                           105

   An Englishman in South Carolina. (Concluded),                     110

   Pen, Pallet, and Piano,                                           117

   Literary Notices,                                                 122

   Editor's Table,                                                   126

       *       *       *       *       *

The article in the present number entitled "American Destiny," will be
found worthy of very attentive perusal. It is the production of a
Private attached to the 20th Battery of Ohio Volunteer Artillery. What
country but ours supplies _such_ material to the ranks of its common
soldiery?

       *       *       *       *       *

The continuation of "A Merchant's Story," by the author of "Among the
Pines," is unavoidably delayed till the succeeding number.

Our February Number will contain a Review of our Finances and Mr.
Chase's Report. By Hon. R. J. Walker.

       *       *       *       *       *

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


       *       *       *       *       *


THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY: DEVOTED TO LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.

VOL. III.-JANUARY, 1863.--No. I.




THE HUGUENOTS OF NEW ROCHELLE.


It is worthy of record that Westchester County, New York, was settled by
emigrants from New England and France, and both seeking homes from
religious persecutions. As early as 1642, John Throcmorton, with
thirty-five associates, made the first settlement in this section, with
the approbation of the Dutch authorities. With Roger Williams, driven
away from New England by the violence of Hugh Peters, they came here,
and called the region _Viedeland or Land of Peace_--a beautiful name for
the region of those seeking rest of conscience from wicked and violent
men. But even here the Puritan did not find the desired quiet and
safety; for several of his band perished in the Indian massacre that
sorely visited New Netherland on the 6th of October, 1643.

The next settlement of Westchester was commenced in the year 1654, also
by some Puritans from Connecticut, who adopted its present name, and the
Rev. Ezekiel Fogge was their first 'independent minister;' and in 1684 a
Mr. Warham Mather was called 'for one whole year, and that he shall have
sixty pounds, in country produce, at money price, for his salary, and
that he shall be paid every quarter.' Governor Fletcher, however,
declined inducting the Presbyterian into that living, 'as it was
altogether impossible,' he said, 'it being wholly repugnant to the laws
of England to compel the subject to pay for the maintenance of any
minister who was not of the national Church.' The Episcopal Governor,
however, proposes 'a medium in that matter.' Some French emigrants had
already found their way to this region, and M. Boudet, a French
Protestant minister of Boston, who was in orders from the Bishop of
London, could preach in French and English, and the people called him to
the living, the parish being large enough for two clergymen. M. Boudet
was accordingly sent for, hoping, as the English Governor writes, 'to
bring the congregation over to the Church;' but, 'when he came, they
refused to call him.' The Yankee Puritans were evidently not to be
outmanaged by the English churchman. Westchester then numbered 'two or
three hundred English and Dissenters; a few Dutch.'

On the 20th September, 1689, Jacob Leisler, of New York, purchased of
Mr. Pell 6,000 acres of land in Westchester, a portion of the manor of
Pelham, obtained from the Indians in 1640-'49. The grantor, heirs, and
assigns, as an acknowledgment, were to pay Mr. Pell 'one fatted calf on
every fourth and twentieth day of June, yearly, and every year, forever,
if demanded.' It is a well known fact that every Huguenot, on the
festival of St. John, pays his proportion toward the purchase of the fat
calf whenever claimed.

During the year 1690, Leisler leased to the banished Huguenots these
lands, purchased for them, as they came directly here from England, and
were a portion of the 50,000 who found safety in that glorious
Protestant kingdom four years before the revocation of the Edict of
Nantes. At the revocation itself, not less than half a million escaped
from bigoted France to Holland, Germany, and England; and to those in
the latter country, Charles II., then on the British throne, granted
letters of denization under the great seal, and Parliament relieved them
from 'importation duties and passport fees.' During this same year,
many, flying from France, were aided in their escape by English vessels
off the island of Rhe, opposite brave _La Rochelle_. According to
tradition, some of these were transported to this region, naming their
new settlement in honor of their

   'Own Rochelle, the fair Rochelle,
     Proud city of the waters.'

In the Documentary History of New York, vol. iii., p. 926, we find a
petition to Colonel Fletcher, Governor of the colony, signed by Thanet,
and Elei Cothouneau, in behalf of above twenty of these French refugees.
'Your petitioners,' they state, 'having been forced, by the late
persecutions in France, to forsake their country and estates, and flye
to ye Protestant princes * * *, wherefore they were invited to come and
buy lands in this province, and they might by their labour help the
necessityes of their families, and did spend all their small store with
the aid of their friends, whereof they did borrow great sums of money
[MS. torn]. They had lost their country and their estates, but saved
their good principles and a pure faith; and, in a strange land,
petitioned his Excellency 'to take their case in serious consideration,
and out of charity and pity to grant them for some years what help and
privileges your Excellency shall think convenient.' This is one of the
earliest authentic records (1681) we have met with concerning the New
Rochelle French refugees.

Pell, the lord of the manor, besides the 6,000 acres already obtained,
also granted 100 additional, 'for the sake of the French church, erected
or about to be erected, by the inhabitants of the said tract of land.'
This Huguenot church in New Rochelle was built about 1692-'93, of wood,
and stood in the rear of the present mansion house. It was destroyed
soon after the Revolutionary war. Louis Bougeaud, about the same time,
donated a piece of land forty paces square, for a churchyard to bury
their dead; and, subsequently, a house with three acres of land was
given by the town to the Huguenot church forever.

The Rev. DAVID BOUREPOS was the first minister of the New Rochelle
Huguenots; he had likewise served his French brethren on Staten Island.
The Governor requesting him to nominate 'some persons for the vacant
offices of justices of the peace,' he replies that 'he could not comply,
as none of his colonists at New Rochelle had a knowledge of the English
tongue.' Nothing now is known of Bourepos' ministry or history. From his
title of D.D., he must have been a man of learning; and we can learn
something about the time when he died from the date of his will.
'Letters of administration were granted to Martha Bourepos, wife of
David Bourepos, 25th of October, 1711' (New York Surrogates' Office). He
probably resigned his pastoral charge in 1694.

Rev. DANIEL BOUDET, A. M., was the next minister of the French
Protestant church at New Rochelle, a native of France; and he
accompanied the French refugees, who reached Boston in the summer of
1686. About the year 1695, M. Boudet came to New Rochelle, and at first
used the French prayers, according to the Protestant churches of France,
and subsequently, every third Sunday, the Liturgy of the English Church.
In 1709 the French church at New Rochelle determined to follow the
example of some of their Reformed brethren in England, and conform to
the English Church. All the members except _two_ agreed to adopt the
Liturgy and Rites of the Church of England, as established by law. Some
thirty names appear on the document, requesting this important
ecclesiastical change; and for the information especially of the
genealogical reader, we note some of them: Michael Houdin, Jacob
Bleecker, David Lispenard, Isaac Guion, Peter Bertain, John Soulice,
Paul Lecord, Jean Abby, Jos. Antuny, Peter Bonnet, Peter Parquot, Benj.
Seacord, Judith Leconet, Allida Guion, Josiah Le Conte, Elizabeth
Lispenard, Moses de St. Croix, Deborah Foulon, Marie Neufville, Mary
Stouppe, Jean Nicolle, John Bryan, Oliver Besley, Frederick King,
Susanna Landrin, Anne Danielson, Rutger Bleecker, Mary Rodman, Agnes
Donaldson, Esther Angeoine, Thomas Steel, Jane Contine, Jane Maraux,
James Pine. 'The petitioners are members of the French Church at New
Rochelle' (1793), and 'principally descendants from French Protestants,
who fled from the religious persecutions in France, in the year one
thousand six hundred and eighty-one.' Their fathers settled at New
Rochelle, 1689, nearly a century before the date of this document. Few
lists of family names are more imposing than this; and to this day,
their descendants in Westchester County, increased to thousands, rank
with our most useful and respectable citizens in wealth, good works, and
piety. We are no great sticklers for genealogical _trees_ or _Doomsday
Books_, yet we believe in pride of family to a proper extent. There was
a time once, in this republican land of ours, when many gloried in
ignoring the fact that they came from distinguished stocks, as the
spirit of our democratic institutions opposed the notion of family
histories. We were all born of an honest, industrious race, for several
generations back, and that is enough; and so it may be. Still, a man,
when asked if he had a grandfather, would logically infer he had one,
but he could not historically, unless there was some record of the fact.
This indifference is happily passing way, and an interest of late is
manifesting itself in such researches. No American, in whose veins runs
Huguenot blood, need be ashamed of his origin. His ancestral history is
most honorable, brave, and proud.

In 1705, Colonel Heathcote thus speaks of M. Boudet, the Huguenot
preacher at New Rochelle: 'A good man, and preaches very intelligibly in
English, which he does every third Sunday in his French congregation,
when he uses the Liturgy of the Church. He has done a great deal of
service since his first coming into this country. * * * He has thirty
pounds a year settled on him out of the public revenue here, as the
French minister in York hath; but that is paid with so much uncertainty
that he starves, for the use of it.' During the year 1710, Governor
Hunter permitted his congregation to build a new church of England, as
by law established, and the 'Venerable Propagation Society' presented
the new church with 'one hundred French prayer books of the small sort,
and twenty of a larger impression; and in consideration of the great
learning and piety of Monsieur Boudet, and his long and faithful
discharge of his office, they augmented his salary from L30 to L50 per
annum.' At this period we find the following excellent record of this
excellent French minister: 'M. Boudet is a good old man, near sixty
years of age, sober, just, and religious.' One hundred more French
prayer books were sent to his church, 'for the edification of the French
youth who have learned so much of that language as to join with him
therein.' During the year 1714, M. Boudet took the spiritual charge of
the Mohegan or River Indians, at which period he is called 'minister of
the French colonistic congregation at New Rochelle.' In 1714 he reports
fifty communicants in his church, and asks for an English Bible, with a
small quantity of English Common Prayers, because 'our young people, or
some of them, have sufficiently learned to read English for to join in
the public service, when read in English.'

M. Boudet died in September, 1722, aged sixty-nine years, nearly
twenty-seven of which he had been the minister of the New Rochelle
church. He was eminently useful in keeping his congregation together
amidst its adverse circumstances, and was greatly beloved. He was
interred beneath the chancel floor of the old church; and for whose use
he bequeathed his library.

The Rev. PIERRE STOUPPE, A. M., succeeded M. Boudet. He was also a
native of France, and said to be a son or nearly related to the Rev. M.
Stouppe, pastor of the French Protestant church in London, who was sent
to Geneva, in 1654, by Oliver Cromwell, to negotiate there in the
affairs of the French Protestants. He was born 1690, studied divinity at
Geneva, and accepted a call to the Huguenot church at Charleston, S. C.
Here he continued to preach until 1723, when, resigning the charge, he
conformed to the Church of England, crossing the Atlantic for
ordination. He was admitted to holy orders in 1723, and licensed to
officiate as a missionary in the colony of New York, and to the French
Protestants of New Rochelle, with a salary of L50 per annum. To this
latter flock he proved very acceptable, from his ability to preach in
French, the only language which most of them understood. His elders, or
_anciens_, as sometimes called, were then Isaac Quantein and Isaac
Guion. The new Huguenot pastor soon found trouble, as his predecessor
had, with the dissatisfied M. Moulinais and his followers. Still he was
useful: in 1726 he writes that he 'baptized six grown <DW64>s and seven
<DW64> children, fitted eight young people for the sacrament of the
Lord's Supper, to which they have been accordingly admitted,' and 'the
number of communicants at Easter was thirty-three.'

In a letter of December 11, 1727, he presents some important information
concerning the early settlement of New Rochelle: 'The present number of
inhabitants amounts to very near four hundred persons. There is a dozen
of houses near the church, standing pretty close to one another, which
makes the place a sort of a town; the remainder of the houses and
settlements are dispersed up and down, as far as the above 6,000 acres
of land could bear. Nay, besides these, there were several other French
families, members of New Rochelle, settled without its bounds.' Such was
the commencement of the present picturesque and beautiful village of New
Rochelle. More than a century and a half has passed away since its
founders, the French refugees, emigrated to the spot; but their noble
and holy principles have left good, undying influences, now seen in the
refinement, morals, and religion of their descendants, in this entire
region.

M. Stouppe further states that there were in the settlement two Quaker
families, three Dutch ones, four Lutherans. 'The first never assist on
assemblies; the Dutch and Lutheran, on the contrary, constantly assist
when divine service is performed in English, so that they may understand
it; and their children, likewise, have all been baptized by ministers of
the church. Only the French Dissenters have deserted it, upon M.
Moulinais, formerly one of the French ministers of New York, coming and
settling, now a year ago, among us; and it is also by his means and
inducement that they have built a wooden meeting-house within the time
they were unprovided for, that is, from my predecessor's death to my
arrival here. * * *

'There is no schoolmaster as yet in New Rochelle: the parents take care
to instruct their own children, and that they do generally pretty well,
besides what instructions are given them in the church during summer by
the minister. * * * The number of slaves within New Rochelle is
seventy-eight: part of them constantly attend divine service, and have
had some instruction in the Christian faith by the care and assistance
of their respective masters and mistresses, so that my predecessor did
not scruple to baptize some, and even admit them to the communion of the
Lord's Supper; and I myself have, for the same consideration, baptized
fifteen of them within these three years, some children and some grown
persons, without the least prejudice to the rest of my flock.' It would
be well, in our boasted day of zeal and philanthropy, if all ministers
of the blessed gospel manifested the same commendable interest for the
spiritual welfare of the <DW64>s, as this Huguenot pastor.

About the period of the French war, he writes, June 5, 1758, 'that since
the war broke out, there have been great alterations in his
congregations, which have lost many of their members by removals, and by
enlisting in the king's service, and by death; nevertheless, the number
of his communicants is seventy-four, and he has baptized, within the
present half year, fifteen white and five black children.'

The ministry of this faithful Huguenot terminated on the earth, by his
death in July, 1760. His biographer esteemed him a 'simple-minded,
conscientious man, who for thirty-seven years continued faithfully to
discharge the duties of his mission.' His communicants had increased
from thirty-eight to eighty, and he was greatly beloved by his
congregation. His remains were interred under the chancel of the old
French church at New Rochelle, where so long he had watched over the
little flock of his Master. M. Stouppe was succeeded by the

Rev. MICHAEL HOUDIN, A.M. He was born in France, 1705, educated a
Franciscan friar, and, on Easter day, 1730, ordained a priest by the
Archbishop of Treves, and subsequently preferred to the post of superior
in the convent of the Recollects at Montreal. But, disgusted with
monastic life, M. Houdin, at the commencement of the French war, left
Canada and retired to the city of New York. Here, on Easter day, 1747,
he made a public renunciation of Popery, and joined the Church of
England. Attaining great proficiency in the English language, in June,
1750, he was invited by the people of Trenton, N.J., to officiate as a
missionary in that State.

When he first reached New York with his wife, in June, 1744, Governor
Clinton, suspicious of all Frenchmen at that moment, confined them to
their lodgings, guarded by two sentinels. The following day he was
examined by his Excellency, and learned that 'the French intended to
attack Oswego with eight hundred men, the French having a great desire
of being masters of that place.' Then M. Houdin was ordered to reside at
Jamaica, Long Island, where he complained that his circumstances were
'very low,' and 'can do nothing to get a living;' that 'his wife and
himself must soon come to want, unless his Excellency will be pleased to
take him into consideration.' After this appeal, the authorities advised
his return to the city, on his taking the oath of allegiance.

For some years, M. Houdin officiated at Trenton and the neighboring
places as an 'itinerant missionary;' and in 1759 his services were
required, as a guide, for General Wolfe, in his well-known expedition
against Quebec. Before marching, he preached to the Provincial troops
destined for Canada, in St. Peter's church, Westchester, from St.
Matthew, ch. x. 28: 'Fear not them which kill the body.' And the French
chaplain escaped the dangers of the war; but his brave General, at the
very moment of victory, fell mortally wounded, on the Heights of
Abraham, September 13, 1759. After the reduction of Quebec, he asked
leave to join his mission again; but General Murray would not consent,
as there was no other person who could be depended on for intelligence
of the French movements. While M. Houdin was stationed at Quebec, an
attempt was made by the Vicar-General of all Canada to seduce him from
English allegiance, with an offer of great preferment in the Romish
Church. This pressing invitation found its way into the hands of
Generals Murray and Gage, when they sent a guard to arrest the
Vicar-General.

M. Houdin, returning to New York, in 1761, was appointed 'itinerant
missionary' to New Rochelle, by the 'Venerable Society' of England, 'he
being a Frenchman by birth, and capable of doing his duty to them, both
in the French and English languages.' During his incumbency, Trinity
church, New Rochelle, received its first charter from George III., which
the present corporation still enjoys with all its trusts and powers. It
is dated in 1762, and was exemplified by his Excellency George Clinton
in 1793. In 1763 he writes, complaining that the Calvinists used
unlawful methods to obtain possession of the church glebe. These were
the few old French Protestant families who had not conformed to the
Church of England; and Houdin says of them: 'Seeing the Calvinists will
not agree upon any terms of peace proposed to them by our church, * * *
we are in hopes the strong bleeding of their purse will bring them to an
agreement after New York court.'

The French Protestant preacher continued his pious labors at New
Rochelle until October, 1766, when he departed this life. He was a man
of considerable learning, irreproachable character, and esteemed a
worthy Christian missionary. His remains, which were the last of the
Huguenot pastors, were interred beneath the chancel of the old French
church at New Rochelle, and by the side of his predecessors, Boudet and
Stouppe. Since the removal of this sacred edifice, the ashes of these
earliest Protestant French missionaries to our land repose beneath the
public highway, and not a stone tells where they lie, or commemorates
their usefulness, excellences, or piety. Their silent graves ought not
thus to remain neglected and unhonored: some monumental record should
mark the spot where these early Huguenot preachers in America were
entombed.

Boudet, Stouppe, and Houdin were the last of the Huguenot preachers in
our land of whose histories we can find anything, and as they never can
be fully written, we have made a more full record of these fragments
concerning their memories, than otherwise would have been written.
Especially let the children of the French Protestants in Westchester
venerate these men, who were consecrated to sacred offices in the days
of their pious ancestors, and, like Moses, led them from oppression and
bondage to the land of Canaan in this Western World.

We might mention many who deserve the honor, among the descendants of
the New Rochelle Huguenots; but the name of one will suit our
purpose--JOHN JAY. He was born in New York, from a family originally of
La Guienne, France; and he was sent, by his fellow citizens to the
General Congress which assembled at the commencement of the conflict
between the colonies and England. In 1774 he signed the act of
association to suspend the importation of British merchandise; in 1779
he was honored with the presidency of Congress. At the expiration of
this important post, Mr. Jay was commissioned to represent his country
at the court of Louis XVI., and he was one of the four commissioners
who signed, on the 30th November, 1782, the treaty of Versailles, by
which Great Britain recognized our NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE. A Huguenot,
ELIAS BOUDINOT, was the first president of the great national
institution, the American Bible Society; and at his death, bequeathed to
it a noble benefaction. The French Protestants were always ardent lovers
of the BIBLE, and John Jay succeeded Mr. Boudinot in his important
office of president to that noble institution. 'No one in America,' says
the eminent Dr. Baird, 'need blush at having one of these respectable
Huguenots among his ancestors;' and Bancroft, the historian of our land,
recognizes in them that moral elevation of which they gave so many
proofs in every country where they settled; and he adds: 'The children
of the French Calvinists have certainly good reason to hold the memory
of their fathers in great honor.' (Vol. ii, p. 183.) So think we.




MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

X.

A WALK AROUND SEGNI.


There are three quiet old places on the Continent that Caper always
remembers with solemn pleasure--Breda in Holland, Segni in Italy,
Neufchatel in Switzerland. He reposed in Breda, rested in Segni, was
severely tranquil in Neufchatel: the real charm of travelling is best
appreciated when one is able to pause in one's headlong career in some
such place and meditate over it. Caper paused for many months at Segni.

SEGNI, or Signia, a Latium city of the Volscians, was, after its
colonization by the Romans, always faithful to the Republic. Strabo,
Pliny, Plautus, Martial, Juvenal, Silius, Italicus, Dionysius
Halicarnassus, and Livy, all make mention, in one way or another, of
this city. Little is known of its history, from the fact that it was
burned to the ground by the order of the Duke of Alva, viceroy of
Naples, on the 14th of August, 1557; and in the fire all records of the
city were destroyed. Its polygonal or Cyclopean walls, of Pelasgic
origin, still remain in many parts as perfect as they ever were:
consisting of gigantic blocks of hewn limestone, they are fitted one
into another with admirable precision; no mortar was used in laying
them, and there they stand, these well-named Cyclopean walls, for some
of the stones are 12 feet long by 5 feet wide, firmly as if centuries on
centuries had not sent a myriad of storms to try their strength. There
are several gates in these walls, noted among which is one called the
Saracen's Gate; it is known in architecture from its indicating by its
form one of the first attempts toward the pointed arch.

In walking through the town, you find here and there bits of middle-age
architecture, which have escaped ruin; here a door, there a window, of
graceful design, built around with the rough masonwork for which Segni
is noted in later days; but the greater number of the houses are
constructed in the rudest manner, indicating the poverty and ignorance
of the majority of the inhabitants. It is, however, a decent poverty,
for, to the credit of the town be it spoken, there was not, when Caper
was there, a professional beggar, excepting the friars, in or around it.

Taking the first street--if a rough road winding around the top of the
mountain, and but four or five feet wide, may be called so--Caper saw at
the doors of the houses, standing chatting to each other, many old
women, their white hair flying in every direction, who, as they talked,
knitted stockings; or, with distaff in hand, twirled the spindle, making
flax into thread for spinning, or wool into woof and web for weaving.
Hearing a shuttle, he looked in at an open door, and found a young girl
busily weaving a heavy blue cloth at a queer old loom; not far from her,
an elderly woman was weaving flax thread into coarse, heavy linen goods.
Passing along, he heard the whir of millstones, and, entering a house,
saw a girl working one of the handmills of the country; on a stand,
where there was a stone basin, the girl turned in the wheat; another
stone, fitting exactly in the basin, was attached to the ceiling by a
long pole; catching hold of this, she gave the stone a rotary motion,
grinding the wheat very fairly.

Suddenly Caper saw in the back part of the room a woman, holding what
seemed a large, red-headed caterpillar, without any fuzz on it; she was
evidently nourishing it in the way represented in that famous painting
'The Roman Daughter,' thus proving that it was a baby. Its resemblance
to the caterpillar arose from the way it was swathed: around all the
Segnian infants they wind a strip of knit or woven cloth, about eight
feet long and four inches wide, fairly mummifying them; then, to crown
the work, they put on their little bullet heads, a scarlet cap with
brilliant flowers and ribbons, making the poor babies resemble anything
but Christian productions. In a neighboring town they hang their babies
up in a wicker basket, resembling the birch-bark contrivances for our
Indian papooses.

Continuing his walk, our artist next came to where they were building a
house; and its future occupant, who was a man of some enterprise and
action, told Caper, with a long face, that he almost despaired of seeing
it completed: the harvest came, and almost every workman went off to the
wheat fields, leaving the house unfinished until they were ready to
recommence work on it, well knowing that there were no other ones in the
town able to do their labor; however, those who mixed mortar, carried
tiles, and stone, and plaster, were hard at work. These laborers were
girls of from twelve to sixteen years old, and one or two of them, spite
of dirt and hard labor, were really handsome, with bright, intelligent
countenances. They earned one paul (ten cents) each a day, and seemed
contented and happy, joking with each other and laughing heartily nearly
all the time. Probably our Chippewa Indians would think twice before
they set the young women of their tribe to hod-carrying as a livelihood;
but then the Chippewas are savages. The hods carried by these girls on
their heads were flat, wooden trays, square at each end: once poised on
the head, they balanced themselves, and were carried around without a
fall. This carrying on the head, by the women, from an eight-gallon
barrel of wine down to a sickle or pocket handkerchief, helps to give
them their straight forms and fine carriage of head, neck, and
shoulders.

Napoleon the First, in breaking down most of the feudal customs of the
Papal States, should be regarded by the poor inhabitants as one of their
greatest benefactors; still, many a remnant of the middle ages remains
firmly marked in the habits of the country people. Even now the
inhabitants of the Campagna live, not in isolated houses, but in small
towns built around the once protecting castle or powerful monastery,
where, in times past, they fled, when attacked in the fields by the
followers of some house inimical to the one under whose protection they
lived. Follow the entire Campagna, from Rome to Naples, by way of
Frosinone, and you will see the ruins of watch towers, built to warn the
workmen in the fields of the approaching enemy. Thus, in Segni, although
the fields cultured by the inhabitants, lay miles away at the foot of
the mountain, yet every day seven eighths of the 5,000 inhabitants
walked from four to six miles or more down the mountains to the scene of
their daily labors, returning the same distance at sunset. Often and
often Caper saw the mother, unable to leave the infant at home, carry it
in a basket on her head to the far-away fields, bringing it back at
night with the additional burden of corn shelled or wheat garnered in
the field. Trotting along gayly at her side, you may be sure, was the
ever-present black pig, with a long string wound around his body, by
which he is attached to some tree or stone as soon as he reaches the
fields, and thus prevented from rooting where he should not root. The
day's labor of his mistress finished, she unties him, wraps the string
around his body, and he follows her up to the town with the docility of
a well-trained dog.

It is the women, too, who daily walk four or five miles up the mountain
for their supply of firewood. Arriving at the forest of the commune,
they collect split wood and fagots, tying them into round bundles, a
yard long, and two or three feet in diameter, and return to Segni,
carrying this small woodpile all the way on their heads. It is the
women, too, who bring water from the fountains for their household use,
in A copper vessels (_conche_) holding from two to three gallons: these
are placed on the head, and carried self-balancing sometimes for long
distances. At a fair held at Frosinone, Caper once saw several women,
each one carrying on her head two of these conche filled with water, one
balanced on the other; and this for half a mile up a steep road, from
the fountain at the foot of the mountain, to the town above.

The women, too, do their fair share of harvesting; they cut the wheat
with sickles; then, after it is cut, separate the grains from the stalk
by rubbing a handful of stalks with a small piece of wood in which a
series of iron rings are placed, making a rude rasp; collecting the
grains, they then carry them from the fields, sifting them at their
leisure in a large round sieve, suspended from a triangle of long poles;
then, on a breezy day, you may see them standing over a large cloth,
holding a double handful of wheat high above their heads, and letting it
fall: the wind blows away the chaff, and the clean grain falls on the
outspread cloth.

In the autumn, when the men are employed in the vintage, comes the
chestnut season; and then the women, who are not busy in the vineyard,
and who regard it as a frolic, go for miles up in the mountains,
collecting the nuts, large as our horse chestnuts. They form no small
part of the winter stock of food for the mountaineers, while the refuse
nuts are used to fatten the pet pig. We can have but small conception of
the primeval look these chestnut woods wear, the trees growing to an
enormous size, many a one being ten to twelve feet in diameter. The
weather is glorious during this season: clear, bright, and buoyantly
refreshing, blow the autumn winds; and as Caper, day after day, wandered
among the old trees, now helping an old woman to fill a sack with the
brown nuts, now clubbing the chestnuts from the trees for a young girl,
he, too, voted chestnut gathering a rare good time. Far off, and now
near, the girls were singing their quaint wild songs. Thus heard, the
_rondinella_ sounds well: it is of the woods and deserts; strange,
barbaric, oriental, bacchantic, what you please, save dawdling
drawing-room and piano-ic.

To resume the walk around the town: Caper, after leaving the man who was
employing the sylphide hod-carriers, called in at the shop were cigars
were sold, and outside of which was a tin sign, on which was painted the
papal coat-of-arms, and the usual words, indicating that the government
monopolies, salt and tobacco, were for sale. Having bought some cigars,
he entered into conversation with the man who kept the store. He
learned, what he already knew, that everything in the town was done by
hand, weaving, spinning, thrashing, grinding wheat and corn, &c.

'Do you know,' said Caper, 'that in some countries all these labors are
done by steam?'

It is dangerous to tell great truths; and after our artist had spoken,
he saw, by the expression of the man's face, that he had placed himself
in danger; but suddenly the cigar-seller's face was illuminated with
intelligence, as he exclaimed:

'Oh, you mean that infernal thing that goes _boo-hoo-hoo_? I saw it when
I was in Rome, last week: it's going to drag cars to Civita Vecchia on
the iron road.'

'That's it,' answered Caper, greatly relieved.

'_Benissimo!_ we never had anything of the kind; and what is more, WE
DON'T WANT ONE!'

Caper walked out, determined to write to New York, and beg some of the
good people there to save a few missionaries from death among the
Fejees, and send them to Segni, where there was a wide field open for
the dissemination of knowledge.

Passing along, he next came to the small square in front of the church,
where once every week a market was held: here he found a man, who had
just arrived with fresh fish from Terracina--the Terracina of the opera
of 'Fra Diavolo.' Among the small fish, sardines, &c., which were
brought to town that day, in time for Friday's dinner, when every one
kept _vigilia_, was one large fish, which our artist determined to buy
and present to his landlord at the inn. He asked its price.

'That fish,' said the fishman, 'is for the dinner of the Illustrissimo
and Reverendissimo Monsignore the Bishop; and if you were to turn every
scale in its body into baioccho, _and give them all to me_, you couldn't
have it.'

Caper was sorely tempted to turn the scales in his own favor, for he
knew, if he were to pay well, he could bear off the fish triumphantly,
spite of the seller's declaration; but a thought of the sore affliction
he would bring into the mind of the fat old gentleman in purple, with a
gold chain around his neck, who rejoiced in the name of bishop, deterred
him from his heretical proceeding, and he walked away in deep
meditation.

The patron saint of Segni is San Bruno; and, to do him honor, every
other male baby born in the town is called Bruno; so our artist, in his
walks around town, heard this name howled, cried, screamed, shrieked,
called, and appealed to, on an average once in five minutes, through the
hours when the male inhabitants were about and awake. This similarity in
names was, by no means, accompanied by similarity in appearance, for
there were more light-haired and blue-eyed men by this name in the place
than any one, having the popular idea of what an Italian looks like,
would believe could be found in a town of the same size in America.
Trying to account for the Norse look of many of the Segnians, and the
Oriental look of many others, Caper climbed up to the top of the
mountain above the town, and seating himself in the shadow of the old
Cyclopean wall, looked down the mountain side to the broad valley below
him.

'As all roads lead to Rome,'soliloquized he, 'it's no wonder that those
two famous old ways down there in the valley, the Via Trajana and the
Via Latina, should have once been passed over by white-haired, blue-eyed
Goths, and, seeing the old town perched up here, they should have
climbed up, having strong legs. Once here, they put all the men to the
sword, made love to the girls, plundered all that was plunderable; drank
up all the liquor, Sambuca, Rosoglio, 'Rhum di Giamaica,' and Acqua
viva, they could put their paws on; then, having a call further on, left
the girls, small babes, and other _impedimenta_ (baggage!), rushing onto
Rome to settle accounts with their bankers there, like hon-o-rable men.
_So_ you find many flaxen-haired, sky-eyed people up here, and they are
rough and bold and independent.

Years and years after them, clambering over the mountains from the
seacoast, came the Saracens--oh, you were the boys!--and they, being a
refined and elegantly educated circle, compared with the Goths, of
course did the same amount of slaughtering and love-making, only more
refinedly and elegantly; cutting off heads instead of knocking them in;
and with the gold spoons and other instruments that they found in the
church, instead of making sword hilts and helmets, they at once worked
them into graceful, crescent-shaped earrings, and curious rings, chains,
and brooches, giving them to the girls and winning their hearts in the
old-fashioned style. The girls, for their part, declared to each other
that when these odious Moors went away, they would give all the earrings
and brooches back to the church. But they forgot to; which accounts for
their wearing them, or those of similar pattern, to this day.

The gentle Saracens, moreover, wishing to introduce their own school of
music, taught the girls to sing; proof of which is the horrible songs
the contadini still have, resembling in no wise pious Christian hymns,
but rather a cross between a growl to Odin and a yell to Allah! A growl
to Odin, for the girls could not forget the Goths, albeit they only knew
them through reports of their foremothers.

Then the Saracens turned their attention to crockery ware, pots, pans,
and water jars; forming like fruits and flowers the yielding clay, and
establishing models that are every hour to be seen around one in this
old nest. Clothes, too, they thought, should be made as they saw 'fit;'
and, accordingly, head-dresses and dresses, under garments, &c., _a la
Saracenesca_, were all the rage; and as the colors were in no wise
sombre or melancholy to behold, the girls took kindly to them, and,
slightly modified, wear them still. When you see the _pane_, the white
cloth worn on the women's heads, remember it was once an Oriental
_yashmak_, falling around and concealing the face of the Italian lady
love of a Saracen; but when the Saracens departed, they rolled up the
veil and disclosed to delighted Christians the features of Rita or
Maria, who figured for a time as Zoe or Fatima.

With their religion, the Saracens were not so successful--they could not
make it popular; so they waived this point, contented with having set
the fashions, and introduced their own style of music, crockery, and
jewelry.

Thus reflecting, Caper stopped short, regarded his watch, found it was
near dinner time--the pastoral hour of noon-day--and then turned to walk
down to the inn. On his way he passed a store having French calicoes in
the window, and mourned in his heart to think how short a time it would
be before these became popular, and the homemade picturesque dresses of
the female Segnians would be discarded. The time, too, was fast
coming--with the railroad from Rome to Naples--when travellers will
overrun these mountain towns, and the price of board shoot up from forty
cents to a dollar or two: then the inhabitants will learn geography and
become mercenary, and will learn arithmetic and blaspheme (in their way)
at _forestieri Inglese_, _Americani_, _Francese_, or _Tedeschi_, and
cheat them. Then the peace of the Volscians will have departed, never,
oh, never more to return.

Then the women will wear--bonnets! and cheap French goods; will no
longer look like moving woodyards, bringing fagots on their heads down
mountain sides; no longer bear aloft the graceful _conche_ filled with
sweet water from the fountain, for hydraulic rams will do their
business; no longer lead the sportive pig to pastures new, but pen him
up, and feed him when the neighbors are not looking on! These days will
sorely try the men: now they labor in the fields in shirts and drawers,
never thinking of putting on their pantaloons until they return to the
very gates of the town, where, at sunset, you may see them, ten or
twelve deep, thus employed before entering the city; but in the future
they will have to observe _les convenances_ and make their toilette in
the fields. This they will do with great grumbling, returning homeward,
and they will sing _rondinelle_ bearing severely on the _forestieri_ who
have ruined the good old pod-augur days when they made _vendetta_
without trouble: thus reflecting, the donkeys they ride, while their
wives walk and carry a load, will receive many virulent punches intended
for other objects.

'Signor Giacomo, dinner is served,' said the landlord, as Caper entered
the old inn.

Cool wine, roast lamb, wild pigeons, crisp salad, with a broiled
partridge; great bunches of luscious grapes, figs freshly picked, _and_
maccaroni a la Milanese. Such was our artist's dinner that day.
Patriarchally simple of a necessity; but, then, what can you expect in a
town where the British Lion has never yet growled for a bushel of raw
beef when he is fed, or swore at the landlord for not having a pint of
hay boiled in hot water (tea?) for breakfast, when he is nervous?


FIVE FAIRS AND FESTIVALS.

Do not believe, in spite of all you hear about the benighted Papal
States, that the people spend their holidays groaning and begging to
depart from this vale of tears: on the contrary, the ignorant wretches
believe in enjoying every moment of life; and, to judge by the Segnians,
who are by no means dyspeptical, they do so with all their might. They
know, if they fall sick, good Doctor Matteucci attends them carefully
and well, without any charge, for he receives a salary from the commune.
They know, if they have good health and do their work, they will be
rewarded every now and then with a holiday, in which religion is so
tempered with lottery tickets, wine drinking, fireworks, horse races,
and trading, that, shorn lambs as they are, paying to the church three
cents for every twenty-five pounds of corn they may grind, and as large
a portion of their crops for the rent of the lands they till, they still
have jolly good times at the fairs and festivals in their own and
neighboring towns.

Every town has its patron saint, and it is in honor of his day that they
hold one grand festival each year. To accommodate temporal affairs, a
fair is also held on the same day, so that the country people of the
neighborhood may purchase not only the necessaries, but the simple
luxuries they need or long for.

Besides the only principal festival and fair in Segni to San Bruno,
already described, they had three minor celebrations of minor saints,
substitutes, as Rocjean declared, for Pomona, Bacchus, and Ceres:
certainly, the saints' days fell very curiously about the same time
their predecessors were worshipped.

It is, however, of five festivals and fairs held in five neighboring
towns, that the present chapter treats; so let the drums beat while our
three artists proceed to enjoy on paper the days they celebrated.

One evening, the vetturino, Francesco, came to the trio and told them
that on the next day but one, Sunday, there would be a fair and _festa_
at Frosinone, a town about twenty-three miles from Segni, and that if
they wished to go, he had three seats to hire in his _vettura_. Having
heard that the costumes to be seen there were highly picturesque, and
anxious to study the habits of the people in holiday guise, our artists
determined to go. At daybreak on the appointed morning, having
breakfasted and filled their flasks with wine, they started with a guide
to walk down to Casa Bianca, a small _osteria_, distant, as the guide
assured them, about two miles; three miles, as Francesco swore to; four
miles, as Gaetano, the landlord declared; and six miles as Caper and
Rocjean were ready to affirm to. Down the mountain road they scrambled,
only losing their patience when they found they had to wade a small
marsh, where their tempers and polished boots were sorely tried. Once
over, they reached Casa Bianca, and found the vettura there, having
arrived an hour before from Rome, thirty odd (and peculiar) miles
distant; and now with the same horses they had to make twenty-three
miles more before ten A. M., according to agreement. Rocjean and Caper
sat outside the carriage, while Dexter sat inside, and conversed with
two other passengers, cheerful and good-natured people, who did all in
their power to make everybody around them contented and jolly.

The road went through the fertile Sacco valley; right and left rich
pasture grounds, or wheat and corn fields; the mountains on either side
rising in grandeur in the early sunlight, their tops wreathed with veils
of rising mist. They soon passed Castelaccio (the termination _accio_ is
one, according to Don Boschi, of vilification; consequently, the name
may be translated Bigbad Castle): this castle belongs to Prince
Torlonia, apropos of which prince it is rather singular that all his
money cannot buy good Latin; for any one may read at Frascati, staring
you in the face as it does, as you wind up the villa, engraved on a
large marble tablet, an inscription touching

   TORLONIA ET UXSOR EJUS, ETC.

UXSOR may be Latin, but it is the kind that is paid for, and not the
spontaneous gift of classic Italy.

The carriage next passed through Ferentino, _Ferentinum_ of the
Volscians, where it stopped for a time to let Rocjean see the stone
called _La Fata_, whereon is inscribed the noble generosity of
Quintilius Priscus, who gave _crustula_ and _mulsum_ (cakes and mead) to
the old people; _sportulae_ (cold victuals?) to the decurions, and _nucum
sparsiones_ (a sprinkling of nuts) for the small children.

After which antiquarian research, and a drink of wine at the _Hotel des
Etrangeres_, the trio called loudly on Francesco to drive on; for the
name of the inn suggested similar signboards, Hotel d'Angleterre, Hotel
Vitoria, Hotel des Isles Brittaniques, at all of which one or other of
our travellers had been savagely fleeced.

The carriage at last arrived at the tavern, at the foot of the mountain
on which Frosinone stands, and our artists found that the ascent must be
made on foot: this, in the face of the broiling sun, was equal to two
hot baths at least. However, they determined to take it easily, and
accordingly tarried for a while by an old bridge crossing a small
stream, running bright and clear, where cattle were drinking; then they
stopped at the neighboring fountain, where the girls were filling copper
water jars, and dusty contadini were washing themselves in order to
present a clean face at the fair; and listened with pleasure to the
hearty laughter and holiday jests bandied about with profusion. Thus in
refreshed spirits they commenced the ascent.

On the brow of the mountain, in front rank of the houses of the city,
arose the walls of what they thought at first glance was a very large
factory; they subsequently learned it was a male-factory or prison;
this, with the governor's palace and other lofty buildings, gives
Frosinone a stately air, only lost on entering the place and finding
the streets narrow, steep, and not particularly clean. On entering the
street leading to the main gate of entrance, their ears were saluted by
the squealing and grunting of many hogs collected together in small
droves, on both sides the way, for sale or barter. Here stood a bronzed
peasant, dressed only in shirt and drawers, with boots up to his knees;
a steeple crowned straw hat, with a large carnation pink in it, shading
his closely shaved face, on which no hair was seen save two long curls
pendent in front of his ears, while the back part of his head was shaved
nearly as smooth as his face. This man held in his arms a small pig in a
violent state of squeals. Mixed up among the pigs were many women
dressed in lively  costumes, looking graceful and pretty, and
gaining added effect from the dark tones of the old gray houses around
them. Advancing upward, at times at angles of forty-five degrees and
more, through narrow streets crowded with picturesque houses (if they
did threaten to tumble down), they at last reached the Piazza: here the
squeeze commenced, crockery, garlic, hardware, clothing, rosaries and
pictures of the saints, flowers; while donkeys, gensdarmes, jackasses,
and shovel hats, strangers, and pretty girls were all pressing with
might and main--they did not seem to know where--probably to the nearest
wine shops, which were driving a brisk trade.

Reaching an inn, our artists ordered dinner, and amused themselves,
while it was being prepared, looking out of the window at the crowds in
the street beneath. On the opposite side of the way were two open
windows, evidently 'behind the scenes' of the main church, since many of
the principal actors in the ceremonies were here attiring themselves in
curious robes prior to their appearing in public. A tallow-faced looking
youth, with no hair on the extreme crown of his head, while swinging a
long wax candle around, struck a fat old gentleman, with a black silk
gown and white lace bertha over it, in the back; whereupon, I regret to
write it, the fat old gentleman struck the tallow-faced youth the
severest kind of a blow below the belt, entirely contrary to the rules
of the P. R. Dexter, having watched the performance, at its conclusion
shouted for very joy; whereupon the stout man, raising his eyes, saw in
the opposite windows the three _forestieri_, and I do assure you that
such a look of malevolence as crossed his face for a moment contained
all the Borgias ever knew of poisons and assassinations. Luckily, the
artists did not have to go to confession to that man.

Dinner finished, Rocjean proposed a walk. They first went to the old
church, but found its interior ruined with whitewash and tawdry
decorations. The music, however, was excellent, but the crowd of
worshippers intense; so they repaired to the cattle market, in the
piazza in front of the prison. They had been there but a short time,
before the procession in honor of the patron saint of Frosinone, whose
full-length seated effigy was carried by bearers, passed them. Along
with other emblems borne by priests or laymen was a cross, apparently of
solid wood, the upright piece fully twelve feet long, and as large round
at the base as your thigh; the transverse piece of the cross was
proportionately large; this was borne with ease by a moderate-sized man.
Caper was at a loss to account for the facility with which the bearer
handled pieces of timber as large as small joists of a house; so he
asked a good-natured looking citizen standing near him, if that wooden
cross was not very heavy?

'Eh! that heavy? Why, it's not wood; it's made of stove-pipes!'

The citizen also told Caper that the seated effigy of the patron saint
had had a hard time of it some years ago, for the country around
Frosinone suffering from a long drought, the inhabitants had in vain
prayed, begged, and supplicated the aforementioned saint to send them
rain; but he remained obdurate, until at last, seeing him so stubborn,
they seized him, in spite of the priests, carried him down to the
bridge, neck and heels, and threatened him, by all his brother and
sister saints, to put him to bed--bed of the stream (it was nearly
dry)--unless he speedily gave them a good supply of rain. In a couple of
days, sure enough, the rain came down, and in such torrents, that there
was a grand rush of the country people from the vicinity, begging the
saint to hold up. Since that time he has behaved very decently, and just
now is in high favor.

There were some fine cattle at the fair; and Dexter, noticing a peculiar
and becoming headdress to several of the long-horned oxen, made of the
skin of some animal, ornamented with bright- strips of woollen
with tassels at the end, tried to purchase a pair, but found the owners
generally unwilling to sell them: however, one man at last agreed to
sell a pair made of wolf-skin, with bright red, yellow, and green strips
and tassels, for a fair price, and Dexter at once bought them--as a
study, and also as an ornament for his studio.

The tombola in the Piazza Tosti drew together a large crowd; and then it
was that Rocjean was in his element, Caper delighted, and Dexter
rejoiced in the study of costumes and motives for paintings. The straw
hats worn here looked more picturesque than the black felt conical hats
of the other end of the valley, but the 'soaplocks' of the men were
villanous. The women were brilliant in holiday attire, among their
dresses showing that half-modern Greek, half Neapolitan style, uniting
the classic with the middle age. The _ciociare_, as those who wear
_ciocie_ or sandals are called, were there in full force: one of these
men, with whom Rocjean had a long conversation, told our artist that the
price paid for enough leather for a pair was forty cents. Each sandal is
made of a square piece of sole leather, about twelve inches long by five
inches wide, and is attached to the foot by strings crossing from one
side to the other, and bending the leather into the rough resemblance of
a shoe. The leather is sold by weight, and the _ciociara_ declared that
sandals were far better than shoes.

'But, when it rains, your feet are wet,' suggested Rocjean.

'_Seguro_' (certainly), answered _ciociara_.

'And when it snows, they are wet; and when it is muddy, they won't keep
the mud out; and when it's dusty, where is the dust?'

'Down there in the Campagna!' answered the man. 'But you seem to forget
that we wrap cloths over our feet and legs, as high as the knee, and tie
them all on with strings; or else our women knit brown woollen leggings,
which cover our feet and legs. Well, good or bad, they are better for
_us_ (_noi oltri_) than shoes.'

Fireworks and a ball at the Governor's palace closed that saint's day;
and the next afternoon our artists left the town to return to Segni; but
as toward midnight they began to ascend the long, steep road leading to
the town, they were overtaken by a thunderstorm, which for grandeur
equalled anything that Caper at least had ever seen. The lightning was
nearly incessant, at one flash revealing the valley below them, and
distant mountain peaks after peaks trembling in white light, then all
black as black could be; patches of road in front of the old carriage,
silver one second, sable another; while the thunder cracked and roared,
echoing and reechoing from rock to rock, ringing away up the wild gorge
around which the road wound. The rain fell in torrents, and pebbles and
stones loosened from the mountain sides came falling around them.
Francesco, the driver, on foot, urged the tired horses onward with
blows and the most powerful language he could bring to bear; he accused
the off-horse of being a pickpocket and an _arciprete_, and a robber of
a small family, of which Francesco assured him he knew he was the
father. Then the mare Filomena came in for her share of vilifications,
being called a '_giovinastra_ (naughty girl), a _vecchierellaccia_ (vile
old hag), a--' Here the rain, pebbles, lightning, and thunder
interrupted the driver, and Rocjean told him to take breath and a pull
at his flask, which was filled with _Sambuca_. Thus refreshed, although
soaked to the skin, Francesco livened up, and from despondency passed to
hope, then to joy, finally landing the old carriage near the gate of
Segni, in time for the artists to see far below them the clouds rolling
rapidly away, and hear the thunder grumbling far off, over some other
town, some other benighted travellers.

VALMONTONE was the next town visited, and the festival in honor of its
patron saint, Luigi Gonzago, was a decided success; the singing in the
church operatically excellent; a good-sized tombola; a funny dinner in
the back room of a grocery store, one half of the floor of which was
covered with shelled corn, while the other half was occupied by the
united legs of two tables, a dozen chairs, four dogs, one cat, six male
and three female country people. There was a lamb roasted whole, a small
barrel of wine, plenty of bread, find-your-own-knives-and-be-happy
dinner. Coming out of this small den, and passing a fine large house,
opposite the grand palace of the Prince of Valmontone, behold an Italian
acquaintance of Caper's standing in a balcony with a very handsome
woman; another moment, and Caper was invited in, and passed from poverty
to wealth in the twinkling of an eye. Rooms full of guests, tables
covered with damask linen, silver, flowers, crystal glasses, delicate
food (too late!), good wine (just in time!), charming ladies.

'_Condessa_, permit me to present Signor' Cahpeer, Americano.'

A rich, full, musical voice, lovely eyes, a brilliant toilette--is it
any wonder the heart of our artist beat _con animo_, when the beautiful
woman welcomed him to Valmontone, and hoped it would not be his last
visit. Other introductions, other glasses of sparkling wine--then off
for the street, excitement, music, coffee, and a cigar; pretty girls
with tender eyes; the prince's stables, with hawks nailed to the doors,
and blood horses in their stalls; contadini, cowbells, jackasses; ride
home on horseback by moonlight; head swimming, love coming in, fun
coming out. Exit festival the second.

GAVIGNANO was the scene of the third festival; it is a small town, lying
at the foot of Segni. Caper went there on horseback, and, after a
regular break-neck ride down the mountain, the path winding round like a
string on an apple, arrived there in time to escape a pouring rain, and
find himself in a large hall with three beautiful sisters, the Roses of
Montelanico, numerous contadini friends, and the wine bottles going
round in a very lively and exhilarating manner. The rain ceasing, Caper
walked out to see the town, when his arm was suddenly seized, and,
turning round, who should it be but Pepe the rash, Pepe the
personification of Figaro: a character impossible for northern people to
place outside of a madhouse, yet daily to be found in southern Europe.
Rash, headstrong, full of deviltry, splendid appetite, and not much
conscience--volatile, mocking, irrepressible.

Pepe seized Caper by the arm with a loud laugh, and, only saying,
'_Evviva_, Signor' Giacomo, come along!' without giving him breathing
time, rushed him up narrow streets, down dirty alleys, through a crowd
of mules, mud, and mankind, until they both caught a glimpse of a small
church with green garlands over the door. Hauling Caper inside, he
dragged him through a long aisle crowded with kneeling worshippers,
smashed him down on a bench in front of the main altar, tearing half a
yard of crimson damask and nearly upsetting the priest officiating; and
then, while Caper (red in the face, and totally unfit to hear the fine
chorus of voices, among which Mustafa's, the soprano, came ringing out)
was composing himself to listen, Pepe grabbed him with a 'Music's over;
_andiamo_ (let's go). Did you hear Mustafa? _Bella voce_, tra-la-leeeee!
Mustafa's a contadino; I know his pa and ma; they changed him when only
five years old. Thought he was a Turk, didn't you? He sings in the
Sistine chapel. Pretty man, fat; positively not a sign of a beard.'

Struggling to escape, Caper was rushed out of church, and into a _caffe_
to have a tumblerful of boiling coffee poured down his throat, and again
be expressed up hill at a break-neck rate, catching sights of
tumble-down old houses, mud, water, flowers, peasants, costumes,
donkeys, until he was landed in the Gran' Piazza. Whew!

'Must see the hall where the concert is to-night. Beautiful girl,
_bellisima, pfisp!_ (imitating kiss) girl from Rome; sings three pieces,
Ernani, Norma, _pfisp!_ Come along!

Smack, bang! into the hall, where the silence and presence of a select
few, including Monsignore and the Governatore in council assembled,
commanded silence: Pepe wouldn't hear of it anywheres, so again they
were in the open air; the band was playing good music in the square, the
tombola was about to commence, and contadini were busy with pencils and
tickets, ready to win the eighty scudi put up.

Tombola commenced, and Pepe at once supervised all the tickets within
reach. 'Bravo, twenty-seven! you've got it, Tonio; scratch it, my
lamb.--You haven't, Santi, _poverino mio_.--It's _non c'e_,
Angeluccio.--Ah, Bruno, always lucky.--Fifty-four, _Santa Maria_, who
would have thought it?--_Caro_ Bernardo, _only_ one more number to win
the terno!'

Somebody won the tombola at last, and Pepe told Caper he should wait for
the fireworks and the concert. 'Beautiful girl, ah, _bella_, sings three
pieces;' here he burst out with that song

   _'Ninella mia di zucchero,
   Prende 'sto core, ed abbraccialo;_'

not waiting for the end of which, Caper interrupted him by saying that
he should not wait for the evening, as he intended returning to Segni at
once.

'Will you?' asked Pepe. 'Oh, _bravo!_ good idea. Concert room will be
crowded to suffocation; get hot, perspire, catch cold. Fireworks
nothing. I'll go with you; great fools to wait. Here is a wine-shop; let
us refresh!'

In they went, and finished a quart, after which Pepe proposed visiting
another wine-shop, where they had some frascati, good and sweet. So he
hurried Caper along so fast through mud and narrow streets, all the way
down hill, that his feet could not begin to hold on the slippery stones,
and both went ahead on the plan of not being able to stop; at last they
reached a landing place, where the wine was sold; hastening in, they
nearly fell over a tall, splendid-looking girl, who was standing in the
hall.

'_Iddio!_ it's my _cara_ Giulia, lovely as ever. Come with us and finish
a bottle; this is our friend Giacomo, Americano, brave youth,
_allegro_!'

'It pleases me well to make the acquaintance of the Signor; I have often
seen him in Segni--'

'And _now_ you'll fall in love with him,

   _E tu non pienz' a mi_,''

sang Pepe. 'This comes of my headlong hurry introducing pretty girls to
interesting strangers. Ah, _bella_, Giulia!

'_Zitto!_ Pepe, and pour me out a glass of wine.'

Pepe poured out the wine, one glass after another. Suddenly springing
from his seat, he said, 'Wait here a minute. I see Gaetano: will be back
again _prestissimo!_'

He went, and Caper and Giulia were left seated, talking merrily over the
wine. There were stars shining when Giulia bid good night to Caper, yet
Pepe did not return; he had seized some new idea, may-be the pretty
Roman who sang at the concert. Then Caper saddled his horse and rode out
into the night--glad that he had met black-eyed Giulia.

The night rides up the mountain! Here's romance, real and beautiful. Are
you not treading an old Roman road, over which the legions have marched
to victory, war chariots rattled? Up the mountains, on the old road once
leading over the mountains to Terracina, the _Tarracina_ of the Romans,
who made it one of their naval stations; up that road you go, trusting
solely to your horse, one slip of whose foot would send you into
eternity _via_ a ravine some hundred feet sheer down. Here, bright light
from a _casina_ where the contadini are loading mules with grapes to be
pressed in the city up there near the stars! High above you, nothing but
a wall of black rock, up, up, so high! Stars gleaming down, the comet
tailing from side to side of the ravine, while the path in the ragged,
jagged, storm-gullied rock is so dark you see nothing: your horse stops,
his hind feet slip--no! he clings, his hoofs are planted firm; up he
goes, and there, in the hands of Providence, you are tossed and pitched,
as he winds up and plunges down. The merry ringing, jingling bells of
mules ahead, and the voices of their drivers: turn a corner, and the
bright light of torches flashes in your eyes. Look again and earnestly
at the beautiful scene: mules, drivers, black rocks, olive trees above,
all flamboyant in the ruddy light, appearing and disappearing; a weird,
wild scene. Up, up, long is the way; past the fountain where the stars
are flashing in the splashing waters; past gardens; past the mountain
path at last. _Ecco_, the inn of Gaetano.

ANAGNI held its festival in honor of San Magno (_Prottetore della
Citta_) on the 19th day of August. Gaetano, the landlord, invited Caper
to attend it, putting his famous white horse at the disposal of the
artist, accompanying him on a small bay beast that was extremely fond of
showing his heels to the surrounding objects. Leaving Segni about ten
o'clock in the morning, they had hardly reached a bridle path down the
mountain, nothing more in fact than a gully, when they were joined by a
cavalcade of four other Segnians. One of them, the 'funny fellow' of the
party, was mounted on a very meek-looking donkey, and enlivened the hot
ride across the valley of the Sacco by spasmodic attempts to lead the
cavalcade and come in ahead of the others. He had a lively time as they
approached the city, and a joke with every foot passenger on the way;
but Gaetano, whose reserve was one of his strong points, and who was
anxious to enter Anagni under favorable auspices, gave the word to
Caper, and in a few minutes they left cavalcade and donkey-rider far
behind.

Anagni, the ancient _Anagnia_, was the capital of the Hernici. The
favorite residence, in the middle ages, of several of the popes, it
still shows in its building marks of the wealth it once enjoyed. Having
stabled their horses with a friend of Gaetano's, who insisted on their
finishing the best part of a _bottiglia_ of red wine with him, the
artist, under the landlord's guidance, set out to see the town. They
climbed up street to the cathedral, a fine old pile trembling with music
and filled with worshippers, paintings of saints in extremis, flowers,
wax candles, votary offerings, and heat; then coming out, and feeling
wolfish, looked round for a place where they could find dinner! Here it
was! a scene that would have cheered Teniers: a very large room, its
walls brown with smoke; long wooden tables, destitute of cloth, but
crowded with country people eating, drinking, talking, enjoying
themselves to the utmost extent. Forks were invisible, but every man had
his own knife, and Caper, similarly provided, whipped out his long
pocket weapon and commenced an attack on roast lamb and bread, as if
time were indeed precious. Wine was provided at Fair price; and, with
fruit, he managed to cry at last, 'Hold, enough!'

Gaetano, having a message for a young priest in the seminary there,
asked Caper how he would like to see the interior of the building, and
the way the _prete_ lived? Caper assenting, they entered a fine large
establishment with broad walls and high ceilings, and mounting to the
second story and knocking at the door of a chamber, they were admitted
by a tall, thin, sallow young man, about eighteen years old, evidently
the worse for want of exercise, and none the stronger minded for his
narrow course of education and instruction.

Gaetano introduced Caper to the young priest, and the artist, who, a
moment before entering the room, was as lively as the Infant Bacchus, at
once became melancholy as the Infant Samuel, and a feeling of such pity
seized him, that, endeavoring not to show it, he turned it into a
sentiment of interest in the young priest and his surroundings, admiring
the beautiful view from the window, and, turning inward to a poor wreath
of paper flowers hanging over a holy-water fount attached to the wall,
praised for their resemblance to natural flowers. (Was that untruth
unforgiven?)

'I made them,' said the young priest; 'but they are nothing to the ones
I have made for our church in Montelanico. I will show those to you.'
Opening a large paper box, he showed Caper wreaths and festoons of paper
flowers. 'I have spent weeks on weeks over them,' he continued, 'and
they will decorate the church at the next _festa_. I spend all my
leisure hours making artificial flowers.'

In answer to a question from Caper of the dress he then wore was the
usual one worn by the seminarists on important occasions, the young
priest answered him that it was not, and at once produced the full
dress, putting on the upper garment, a species of cassock, in order to
show him how it looked. He next called his attention to a curious old
work, full of engravings illustrating the different costumes of the
different orders of priests, and was in full discourse to describe them
all, when Gaetano told him that he was sorry, but that he had to go, as
he had some matters to attend to at the fair. So Caper bid the young
priest good-by, saying he regretted that he had not time to further
study the ecclesiastical costumes. A feeling of relief seized him when
he was once more in the open air--thoughts of gunning, fishing,
fighting, anything, so long as it was not the making paper flowers by
that poor, pale-faced boy: it was terrible!

There are several resident families in Anagni having titles; these are
known as the _stelle d'Anagni_ (stars of Anagni), and number among the
ladies many beautiful faces, if those pointed out to him were the true
stars. But it was, while smoking a cigar over a cup of coffee, that he
saw enter the cafe without exception one of the loveliest and most
attractive women he met in Italy. The word _simpatica_, so often used by
Italians, expressing, as it does, so much in so short a space, exactly
applied to the charming woman who passed him, as she entered the room
where he was seated. She was accompanied by several gentlemen, one of
whom, on whose arm she leaned, having the most character of all the
others in his face, and the finest-looking man in figure and carriage,
Caper selected as her husband--and he was right.

Gaetano, having finished his business, soon entered the cafe in company
with a dashing, handsome-looking man, in half ecclesiastical costume;
for though he wore a shovel hat and long-tailed black frock coat, yet
his other clothes, though black, had the air of being made by an _a la
mode_ tailor. His manner was cordial, frank, hearty. He proposed a walk
around the town, to see what was going on among the _villani_. Caper
calling his attention to the lady mentioned above, the ecclesiastic,
making his excuses for his sudden leave, at once hurried over to salute
her, and was evidently very cordially received. He returned in a few
minutes to Caper.

'It is the _Principessa ----_, and she insists on having an introduction
to the American. She is making the _villegiatura_ among these mountain
towns for a frolic. She will be in Segni, with her husband, the Signor
----, and it will be pleasant for you to know them while there.'

'Introduce me by all means. She is the most beautiful woman I have seen
in Italy.'

The introduction was made, and our artist surpassed himself in
conversing intelligibly, much to the delight of the fair Italian and her
friends, who declared they were prepared to converse with him solely by
signs. Promising that when they came to Segni he should not fail to call
upon them, and give them a long account of the savage life he lived
among his Indian brethren in America, he laughingly bid them good day.

The dashing priest now went with Caper and Gaetano through the crowded
streets, pointing out objects of interest, architectural and human; past
booths where all kinds of merchandise was exposed for sale, out to see
the ancient massive walls of travertine, where divers stunning objects
were carved, inscriptions, &c. Then they found a wine shop, where it was
cool and tolerably quiet, and smoked and drank until sunset, having much
sport conversing with the amiable _villane_, who were as comfortably
tipsy as their circumstances would permit. At sunset, the Piazza Grande
was brilliant with hangings, crimson and gold, and  tapestry hung
from the windows of the surrounding houses. Here the tombola was held,
and here the crowd was excited as usual; the lucky ones bearing off the
prizes were in such rapturous state of bliss--'one might have stuck pins
into them without their feeling it.'

About sunset, Gaetano and Caper saddled their horses, and left the city,
striking over the valley to Segni, passing on the road country people
mounted on donkeys, or travelling along on foot, nine tenths of whom
were vigorously canvassing--the life of Saint Magno?--no, indeed, but
the chances of the lottery!

There was to have been the next day, at Anagni, a curious chase of
buffaloes, in accordance with some passage in the life of San Magno, as
the people said; but, according to Rocjean, more probably some neglected
ceremony of the ancient heathens, which the party in power, finding they
could not abolish, gracefully tacked on to the back of the protector of
the city. These kind of things are done to an alarming extent around
Rome; and the Sieur de Rocjean, when he lost his calendar containing the
dates of all the festivals, said it was of no importance--he had and
excellent Lempriere!

The fifth festival--if you have patience to read about it--was held at
GENAZZANO, and was decidedly the most celebrated one of the season. It
came off on the 8th of September, and for costumes, picturesqueness, and
general effect, might have been called, to copy from piano literature,
_Le Songe d'un Artiste_.

The town itself looks as if it had just been kicked out of a theatre.
Round towers at entrance gates, streets narrow and all up hill, the
tiles on the houses running down to see what is going on in the gutter,
quaint old houses, gray with time, with latticed windows, queer old
doors, a grand old castle in ruins. It is one of the scenes you long so
much to see before you come abroad, and which you so seldom find along
the Grande Route. Spend a summer in the mountain towns of Italy! among
the Volscian mountains or hills--and have your eyes opened.

As Caper entered the gate, the first objects meeting his sight were: a
procession of genuine pilgrims, dressed precisely as you see them in
Robert le Diable, or Linda di Chamouni, or on the stage generally--long
gray robes down to their feet, cocked hats with cockle shells, long
wands; some barefoot, some with sandals: on they passed, singing
religious songs. Then came the peasantry, all in perfect theatrical
harmony, costumes rigidly correct _a la Sonnambula_. German artists
dressed in Sunday clothes _a la Der Freyschutz_. A cafe with festoons of
lemon-peel hung from window to window--they are not up to this idea in
_Fra Diavolo_. Pretty girls in latticed windows, with red boddices,
white sleeves, flowers in their hair--_legitimate Italian drama_.
Crockery-ware in piles--_low comedy_. A man with a table, Sambuca and
Acqua-vita bottles on it, and wee glasses, one cent a drink:
_melodrama_. Fresh oranges and figs, pumpkin-seed and pine cones; a
house with mushrooms strung on thread, hanging from window to
window--this was not for festival display, but is the common way of the
country. Notices of the _festa_, containing programme of the day,
including amusements, ecclesiastical and secular, hung up alongside the
stands where they were selling lottery tickets--_tragedy_. Fountains,
with groups of peasantry drinking, or watering horses and
donkeys--_pantomime_. Priests, in crow-black raiment, and canal-boat or
shovel hats--_mystery_. Strangers from Rome, in the <DW64>-minstrel style
of costume, if young men; or in the rotund-paunch and black-raiment
dress, if elderly men; or in the _chiffonee_ style, if Roman women
attempting the last Parisian fashion--_farce_.

Here are the booths with rosaries, crucifixes, Virgin Mary's holy-water
holders, medals of Pio Nono, or jewelry; gold crescent earrings,
_spadine_ (long silver hair pins); silver hearts, legs, arms, for votive
offerings, and crosses without number.

Caper entered the church; it was filled, and stifling with heat and
frankincense, and contadini, and wax lights burning before the shrine,
on which the sun shone. There were beautiful faces among the _pajine_
(people in fine raiment), showing what can be made from the _contadine_
(people in coarse clothes) by not overworking them.

Once more our artist was in the pure air, and, walking up the main
street, came to a house with a beautifully carved stone window, half
Byzantine, half Gothic, while a house on the opposite side of the street
boasted of two other windows finely carved. While looking at them, Caper
was hailed by name, and a stout, fresh- English artist, named
Wardor, whom he had known in Rome, came over and welcomed him to
Genazzano. Wardor, it turned out, was spending the summer there, as he
had done the year before; consequently, there was not a nook or corner
in the old town he did not know; and if he had not been so lazy, he
could have filled his sketch book with a hundred picturesque studies.
But no; with the keenest appreciation of every bit of color, every
graceful pose of a human figure, every beautiful face, every fine effect
of light or shadow--he made no sign. _His_ legitimate function was
friendly guide to the stranger, and in this office he carried Caper all
over the old castle, out to the long shady walk on the esplanade behind
it, pointed out beautiful views over the valley; finally, showing Caper
his studio, which, as it was a large room, and his _padrona_ could
impose on his good nature, was fairly glittering with copper pans, hung
on the walls when not in use in the kitchen. On an easel was a painting,
to be called The King of the Campagna; all that was apparent was the
head and horns of the king. Wardor had thus actually spent three mouths
painting on a space not so large as your fist, while the canvas was at
least three feet by two feet and a half. But the king, a buffalo, would
be a regal figure, for the head was life itself.

Caper proposed finishing a bottle of wine with Wardor, in honor of the
day; so the latter piloted him up street and then down a flight of steps
to a quiet wine-shop, where, sitting on a shady terrace, they could
calmly enjoy the lovely landscape spread below them, and look over the
town, over the valley, to far-away Segni high up in the Volscians. The
landlord's wife, a buxom, comely woman, in full holiday costume, brought
them a flask of cool wine and glasses, presenting them at the same time
with a couple of very large sweet apples, the largest of which was
thirteen inches in circumference by actual measurement. So you see they
have apples as well as oranges in Italy; only, apples are practical, so
they are generally omitted in the poetical descriptions of the
blue-skyed land.

Caper and Wardor dined together in a very crowded inn, where the
maccaroni must have been cooked by the ton, to judge of the sized dish
the two artists were presented with--and which they finished! Chickens,
lamb chops, salad, and two flasks of wine at last satisfied them. When
they left the table, Wardor proposed their calling on a Roman family,
who were spending the summer in the town. They found the house they
occupied crowded with guests, who, having finished dinner, were busily
employed dancing to the music of two guitars and a flute; that is, the
younger part of them, while the elders applauded vociferously, entering
into the amusement with a reckless spirit of fun and good nature, which
people who have to keep shady nine tenths of the year for fear of their
rulers, are very apt to indulge in the remaining tenth.

Elisa, the daughter of the Roman family, received Caper with hearty
welcome, chiding him for having been all summer at Segni, and yet not
coming near them, and entreating him to come to Genazzano and make them
a long visit. She introduced him at once to her affianced husband, a
handsome young doctor of the town, a man of sterling ability and sound
common sense, who very soon made Caper at home, insisted on his dancing
the _Tarantella_ and _Saltarella Napolitana_ with a lively, lithe young
lady, who cut our artist's heart to fiddlestrings before they had danced
five minutes together a polka--for let the truth be told, Caper never
could dance the Tarantella.

Wardor, in the meantime, had been led off in triumph to a side-table,
and was making a very hearty second dinner; he not having force of mind
enough to do like Caper and refuse a good offer! Caper had to drink a
few tumblers (not wine-glasses) of wine, and found it beneficial in
dancing. It may be as well to repeat here, in order to calm all
apprehensions of our artist being a hard drinker, that all these wines
around Rome, with few exceptions, are little stronger than mild sweet
cider, and that satiety will generally arrive before inebriety. Ask any
sober and rigorously correct traveller, who has ever been there, if this
is not so. If he speaks from experience, he will say: 'Certainly!' 'Of
course!' 'To be sure!' And again: 'Why not?'

It is not asserted here that the Romans of the city or surrounding
country never get tipsy; but that it is only occasionally they have
change enough to do so; consequently, a beautiful state of sobriety is
observed by those travellers who--never observe anything.

The moon was shining over the old gate-towers of Genazzano when Caper
mounted his horse, and, in company with two Segnians, rode forth from
the fifth _festa_, and over the hills through Cavi, and over the valley
past Valmontone, and then up the steep road to his summer home;
wondering if in far-away America they were dreaming of a man who was
going through a course of weekly Fourth-of-July's, and how long it would
be before the world came to an end if such a state of things existed in
any country where people had liberty to study geography, and were ruled
by politicians instead of priests?

       *       *       *       *       *

'May I ask your candid opinion of the great moral effect of so many
holidays on an uneducated population?' inquired Caper one day of
Rocjean, while speaking of the festivals of the Papal States.

'Certainly you may! My opinion is that the head of the state, carrying
out the gigantic policy of his predecessors, believes: 'That that
government governs best that gives the greatest amount of fiddling to
the greatest amount of its children.''

'But,' objected Caper, 'I don't see where the fiddling comes in.'

'In the churches!' sententiously remarked the Sieur de Rocjean.

'Oh,' quoth Caper, 'I was thinking of festivals.'

Reader, do you think likewise, when you are with the Romans.




THOUGHT.

   Life is but an outer wall
     Round the realm of thought unseen;
   Ah! to let the drawbridge fall
   Leading to that magic hall!
     Ah! to let creation in.

   Kings that with the world contended,
   What remains of all the splendid
     Misery their hands have wrought?
   Hushed and silent now the thunder
   They have made the world rock under;
   But the ages bow in wonder
     To a thought.

   Ah! the many tragic parts
   That are played by human hearts
     In that golden drama, fame.
   These are minor actors truly,
   That should not be seen unduly,
   Letting idle recollection
   Trifle with the play's perfection,
   Letting an unwritten anguish
   Make the brilliant pageant languish.
     Alas for every hero's story,
   That the woes which chiefly make it
   Must surge from the heart, or break it,
     And show the stuff that fashions glory.

   Pyramids and templed wonders
   At the best are wise men's blunders;
   The subtle spell of thought and fancy,
   It is Nature's necromancy.
   In that land where all things real
   Blossom into the ideal,
   In that realm of hidden powers
   Moving this gross world of ours,
     He that would inherit fame,
   Let him on the magic wall
   Of some bright, ideal hall
     Write his name;
   He and glory then shall be
   Comrades through eternity.

   While the deeds of mighty kings
   Sleep the sleep of meaner things,
   Thoughts enclosed in words of granite
   Revolutionize our planet.
     And, itself a new creation,
   Many an enchanted tune,
   As of nightingale's in June,
     Comes floating down in long vibration,
   To the chorus of the hours
   Lending its harmonial powers,
   Or through Time's resounding arches
   Playing Nature's solemn marches,
   To whose beat the marshalled nations
   Pass in steady generations.

     But deem not the thoughts unspoken,
   Silent despots of the brain,
   Build their airy halls in vain,
     Die and leave behind no token.
       As the stars upon the ether
     Play their golden monody,
   Flashing on dusk-featured night
   The soft miracle of light;
       So upon a finer ether,
   A spiritual emanation
   From the whole mind of creation,
     Plays the brain incessantly;
   And each thought is a vibration,
     Running like a poet's rhyme
     Down the endless chords of time,
     And on each responsive brain
     Dropping in a silver rain
   Of divinest inspiration.

   When the whirlwind rush of war
   Passes, and is heard no more,
   Voices crushed beneath its din
   Rise and their long reign begin;
   Thoughts like burning arrows hurled
   At the tyrants of the world,
   Thoughts that rend like battle axes
   Till wrong's giant hand relaxes,
     Thoughts that open prison gates
   And strike the chains of prostrate limb,
     That turn the current of the fates,
   Like God's commissioned cherubim
   With divine authority
   To proclaim creation free,
   And plant in human hearts the seeds
   That shall grow to noble deeds.
   Ha! when genius climbs the throne
   Sacred to oppression grown,
     And from his seat plucks tyranny;
   When, with thoughts that pierce like flame,
   Songs, and every word a fame,
     She crowns imperial Liberty,
   Then shall the usurper, glory,
   End his foul and brutal story,
   And manhood evermore shall be
   A synonym of liberty.




'IT STILL MOVES.'


   It still goes on. The driving rain
   May chill, but light will gleam again,
   It still goes on. Truth's enemy
   Wins a defeat with victory.
   It still goes on. Cold winter's snow
   Comes that the grass may greener grow;
   And Freedom's sun, whate'er befall,
   Shines warm and bright behind it all.




THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE REBELLION.


Among all the subjects of human cognizance, the least understood, and
therefore the most difficult of anticipation, are those which concern
the acts of men, as individuals or in society. Presumptuous, indeed,
would be that man who should undertake to foretell the exact results of
pending political or military operations, complicated as they must be by
innumerable unknown and undiscoverable contingencies, which lie hidden
in the circumstances of the actual situation. The difficulty of this
investigation does not arise, however, from the absence of fixed laws
controlling such events, but solely from our ignorance of those laws,
and the extreme complexity of the conditions in which they act. The
issue of existing causes is as certain as this moment, as it will be
after it shall have become unalterable in history. No accident can
disturb or thwart it; for, in truth, there can be no such thing as
accident, except in our imaginations, and by reason of our incapacity to
trace the continuous thread of inevitable sequence, or causation, which
connects together all events whatever, in their inception, through their
continuance, and to their end. All enlightened thinkers of the present
age have recognized this great truth; and yet none have been able to
apply to social and political affairs the sole admitted test of genuine
philosophy, the prediction of future results from known antecedents.
Indeed, the wisest and most competent of political observers have always
been the most cautious in their indulgence of the prophetic spirit, and
the most ready to acknowledge their ignorance of what the future will
bring forth in the great field of political and social affairs.
Gasparin, in his late admirable book, 'America before Europe' (according
to his American translator), has this very modest passage on this
subject:

     'Not feeling any vocation for the character of prophet, I shall
     take care not to recount here, in advance, events that are about to
     happen. I marvel at people who are so sure of their facts. The
     future has not the least obscurity for them; it has much for me. I
     confine myself to protesting against the positive assertions which
     have contributed but too greatly to mislead the opinion of Europe.
     My humbles theory is this: the defeat of the South is _probable_;
     the return of the conquered South to the Union is _possible_.'

But while 'political or military vaticination' is proverbially unsafe,
and therefore to be carefully avoided by all judicious inquirers, and
especially by practical statesmen, it must at the same time be admitted
that some of the general laws controlling such events are well
understood; and whenever all the facts of a case are known and
appreciated, and the laws applicable fully comprehended, then it is
possible to anticipate the results of that particular combination with
absolute certainty. Other causes may interfere, and modify these
results--may accelerate of postpone them, or entirely absorb and conceal
them in the general issue of complicated affairs. Yet the particular
results themselves are not, and cannot be defeated or annulled. They are
merely transformed by a sort of 'composition and resolution' of social
and political causes, exactly similar to that which takes place in
mechanics, when two or more forces not concurrent in direction, impel a
body in a line altogether different from that in which either of the
forces may have acted. Every physical impulse, it is said, which is
initiated anywhere on the earth, is felt to the extremities of our solar
system--every motion of the smallest particle of matter communicating
its effect, however inappreciable, to the most distant planet, and as
far beyond as the power of gravitation may extend. It is precisely so
with all social events, even those of the most insignificant character.
Every one of them has its appropriate influence, which is
indestructible; and they all combine to make up the great whole of human
action, the results of which at any specific period are only the
necessary and inevitable consequences of all antecedent facts.

It was the opinion of that most accomplished political philosopher,
Burke, that 'politics ought to be adjusted not to human reasonings, but
to human nature, of which reason is but a part, and by no means the
greatest part,'--the meaning of which is, simply, that the reasonings do
not comprehend, as premises, all the complicated facts which enter into
any important political problem, and hence the conclusion in such cases
cannot be absolutely certain, and ought not to be implicitly received.
It would be extremely difficult to explain how politics could be
adjusted to human nature without the exercise of reason, which alone can
regulate the process of adjustment. But we may certainly claim that, in
the lapse of nearly a century since Burke wrote, the reason has been
considerably enlightened, and something more has been learned of human
nature itself, its apparently capricious and irregular phenomena having
been ascertained to be the subjects of systematic order, as complete as
that which prevails in all other departments of nature. The laws of
social existence and development have been to some extent discovered,
and recognized as being uniform in their operation, so that the natural
and necessary course of human events may be anticipated, though as yet
in a dim and imperfect way. The present age is fruitful of many wonders;
but the greatest of them all is this important truth, which has just
begun fairly to dawn upon mankind. It is already so firmly established,
that no intelligent man who is fully up with the knowledge of his epoch,
can admit the least doubt that all events, however complicated, whether
social, political, military, or of any other kind, are controlled by
general laws, as uniform and certain in their operation as the laws of
astronomy, of physics, or of chemistry. The complexity of conditions
under which they operate, makes these laws extremely difficult of
discovery and of application. But the infinite combinations of
influences which press on minds of individual members of society, and
make the acts of each one of them apparently uncertain and arbitrary,
exhibit a truly wonderful degree of uniformity, when considered in their
operation on the whole mass of a nation. It is by the investigation of
these wide and general effects, that the great laws of human action and
development are ascertained. Their actual existence is absolutely
certain. But after all, in the present state of our knowledge, with all
the light afforded by such history as we have of the past, and with all
the experience of the present generation, the sum and substance of what
we can claim is no more than this: that some influences of a social and
political nature may be traced to their certain results, though, from
the intricacy of all social facts, their vast extent in a great nation,
and especially when international interests are concerned, and from our
necessarily imperfect acquaintance with all these varied, multiplex, and
powerful conditions, we cannot always foresee what conflicting causes
will intervene to counteract, modify, and control the actual issue. It
is therefore only in the most general way that anything can be said with
reference to the future in social or political affairs.

In two former articles contributed to THE CONTINENTAL, we have
endeavored to point out 'the causes of the rebellion,' finding them in
events and conditions contemporaneous with the birth of our
institutions, and in the necessary antagonism of social and political
principles naturally developed in the progress of our country, and
embodied in appropriate but conflicting forms. If we have been
successful in designating the real causes, and tracing their operation
through successive stages, down to the tremendous and calamitous events
of the present day, we may hope to follow these causes, to some extent,
in their further development, and in their necessary action on the
destiny of the nation. We can at least mark the direction of the stream
of affairs as it rolls grandly before us; and while we may not know
precisely through what regions it will take its course, or by what
rapids and over what cataracts it will be hurried and precipitated with
furious and destructive force, we can nevertheless pronounce with
confidence that it will finally make its way, in spite of all
obstructions, to the broad and peaceful ocean of amelioration, into
which all the currents of human action, however turbid, and filled with
wrecks of human work and genius, eventually pour their inevitable
tribute. We can even look through the mists of time which limit mortal
vision, and catch some glimpses of the bloody current, observing where
it disappears in gloom and shadow, only to come forth again in the
distance as a shining river, glistening in the sunlight of peace and
prosperity, and bearing on its bosom the full-freighted ark of a mighty
nation, resting from war, reunited, and reawakened to the animating
sense of a glorious destiny. Though the present generation should be
compelled to struggle and labor, through its whole term of existence,
with immense sacrifice and suffering, such are the elements involved in
the contest, that nothing but good to the nation, which is surely
destined to survive, can come out of it in the end.

The whole history of our country, its origin, the peculiar organization
of our institutions, and their gradual growth and development down to
the present day, seem to have been arranged and ordered for the very
purpose of engendering this contest between slavery and freedom. If this
statement be too strong, we may at least assert that no better
conditions for that purpose could have been devised, by human wisdom at
all events, than those which existed at every stage of our progress,
from the beginning of our existence as a people, to the culmination of
this long-smouldering strife. The germs of freedom and slavery, which we
know were planted in the infancy of our republic, found in the
circumstances surrounding them the most favorable conditions for their
respective growth and expansion. Each found ample opportunity to
flourish according to its nature and necessities, modified, it may be,
but not destroyed, by the unfavorable institutions which coexisted with
it. The organization of separate colonies, and afterward of separate
States, measurably independent, afforded these two irreconcilable
systems full opportunity for complete development, and rendered it
possible for them to maintain, each, a distinct existence in different
localities, and to unfold their respective natures and tendencies, with
comparatively little interference of the one with the other. Thus
slavery soon became extinct in Massachusetts, and died out rather more
slowly in the other Free States of the original thirteen. It flourished
in Maryland and Virginia, and later, from peculiar circumstances, it
grew rank, with unexampled fecundity, in the Carolinas and Georgia. Had
the Government of the United States been consolidated, the conditions of
slavery and free labor would have been wholly different; and it is
reasonable to infer that the course of development of the respective
systems would have been materially modified, if not altogether changed.
We may pronounce with certainty that the institution would not have
become extinct in the whole country as soon as it did in Massachusetts,
or, indeed, in any one of the present Free States; but we cannot assert
that the converse of this proposition would have been true, and that the
Government, as a centralized power, would have abolished slavery more
certainly, and sooner, than the most backward of the separate States may
now be expected to do, under the complex forms of our present
Constitution. In a consolidated government, the power of the majority
would have been competent to effect fundamental and universal changes,
even to the extent of abolishing slavery; but without the existence of
separate States, with their independent local legislation and
administrations, the gradual undermining and destruction of the old
system would have been a process of extreme procrastination and
difficulty. It would have been a gigantic undertaking, convulsing the
whole nation whenever attempted, and yet demanding the exercise of its
united authority for its accomplishment. We should not have had the
effective antagonism of the Free against the Slave States, nor the
demonstration which results from the striking contrasts between the two
systems in their effects on civilization, in all its forms of
intelligence, enterprise, wealth, and improvement. Contiguous States,
with separate jurisdictions, admitted a divergence of customs, laws, and
institutions, remarkable in its character, and fraught with momentous
consequences to the whole sisterhood. Nothing like this could have
occurred under the consolidated form. It is true, according to the
principles we have heretofore enounced as having been established by
universal history and experience, slavery must have disappeared
eventually, alike in a consolidated or a federal form of government; for
it is now well understood by all enlightened thinkers, that different
forms of polity may either facilitate or embarrass the natural
development of society, but cannot actually create or altogether destroy
the tendency to improvement. This tendency is innate in man, and
independent of all forms of government, though not wholly unaffected by
them. But in our vast country, under a centralized system, however
democratic, it would have been far more difficult to initiate the work
of emancipation, on account of the magnitude and unity of the power to
be moved, and for want of those _points d'appui_ afforded by the local
organization and independent authority of the states in a confederacy.
Our own experience, and the recent example of Russia, may serve to
convince us that a consolidated representative republic would probably
have been less favorable to the abolition of slavery than an imperial
and despotic government. The serf-owners of Russia, had the question
been submitted to them, would have been as little disposed to vote for
the destruction of their system, as the slave-holders of America have
shown themselves inclined to submit to the voice of the majority under
our republican institutions.

Thus, it was characteristic of our peculiar political forms, that they
gave opportunity for the complete trial of each of the two plans of
social organization which grew out of the early introduction of African
slaves into the colonies. For while it seems to be clear that the
federal system was most favorable to the disappearance of slavery from
those localities where circumstances made emancipation easy and
advantageous, it is equally plain that it afforded full scope to the
growth and influence of the system of servile labor, wherever, from
climatic conditions, it was peculiarly profitable, and otherwise adapted
to the productions of the region, and to the prevailing sentiments of
the people. The confederated form of government, therefore, almost of
necessity originated the antagonism of Free States against Slave States;
while, at the same time, and from the same cause, it enabled the
opposite sections to give infinitely greater force and effect to this
antagonism, than would have been possible under any other
constitutional conditions. Rebellion might possibly have been initiated
within the bosom of a consolidated republic, and such a government might
well have been broken into two or more fragments; but this would have
been far less likely to happen in that case than in existing
circumstances. At all events, there would have been no room for the
dangerous doctrine of secession, and that plausible pretext would have
been wanting to the incipient rebellion; nor would there have been
anything equivalent to the State organizations which unfortunately
afforded the ready means of immediate and most effective combination.
The inestimable advantages of our complex political system in avoiding
the necessary despotism of consolidated government, by establishing
local legislation and administration in a number of partially
independent States, were in some measure counterbalanced by a natural
tendency to discord among the parts, and a capacity for independent
action in support and perpetuation of dangerous divergencies of opinion
and policy. If some States could repudiate slave labor, and gradually
build the fabric of their prosperity on the safer basis of universal
education, others could, with equal disregard of everything but their
own will and fancied interests, cherish and encourage the original
system of servile subordination and compulsory ignorance of the laboring
class, with which all the States started into their career of
independence at the commencement of the Revolution. And, unhappily, both
parties to this discordant social action were unrestrained by any
constitutional obligation, or by any common authority whatever, in the
indulgence, within their respective limits, of mutual hatred and
vituperation, with all those numberless and exasperating injuries which
no law can either notice or redress. These conflicting capabilities,
with their attendant dangers, lurked in the body of our political
organization from the very beginning. They were born with it; they grew
with its growth, and strengthened with its strength, until the fatal
hour when rebellion undertook the wicked work of its destruction.
Whatever may be the actual issue of the struggle--whether the attempted
dismemberment shall prove a success or a disastrous failure--the effect
of the civil war on the character of our institutions must be
commensurate with the organic character of the causes out of which it
arose. So profound a disturbance of the existing social order, so vast
an upheaval of the very foundations of the whole political fabric, must
either rend it into fragments, and make necessary a complete
reconstruction, or must cause it to settle down upon a basis firmer and
more lasting than that on which it has hitherto rested. We think it
almost absolutely certain that the latter result will be brought out in
the end. It cannot be possible that our system will be utterly
destroyed; and if, against all human probabilities, it should be
momentarily overthrown, it will rise again hereafter in greater splendor
and power, by reason of the very calamity through which it will have
passed.

The federative system, on this continent, will never be abandoned; it
will be far more likely to be extended much beyond its present limits,
even including that immense territory which has been the theatre of its
origin and glorious progress down to the present day. Its superiority
over any system of consolidated power on a large scale, is beyond all
doubt, inasmuch as it provides effectually for the perfect freedom of
local legislation and administration, and for the full participation of
all the parts in the government of the whole, as to those questions
which concern the general interests. But in this very distribution of
powers always consisted the greatest difficulty and the most threatening
peril; for nothing but actual experience, long continued, could adjust
to each other with perfect accuracy the nicely balanced parts of this
complicated political machinery. The principle of local independence is
naturally liable to exaggeration and abuse. The State authorities have
ever shown a tendency to claim absolute sovereignty, and to array their
will against the authority of the Federal Government. This troublesome
question, forever recurring in the important exigencies of our national
life, has never been definitely settled, and perhaps it could not be,
except under the pressure of a great and critical emergency like the
present. One of the most important consequences of the rebellion will
therefore be to dispose of this question forever--to settle the
boundaries of the local and general authorities, and to fix them
permanently and unalterably. This might possibly have been accomplished
in the appointed way, by conventions and explanatory amendments to the
Constitution. But such proceedings would have been subject to all the
uncertain contingencies and delays involved in partisan struggles and
popular elections, and to all the imperfections of halfway measures and
expedients of compromise, born amid angry contentions, and bartered for
by ambitious aspirants to place and power. By no other means could a
complete and adequate arrangement of the difficulty be brought about so
effectually as by the terrible lessons of this lamentable civil war.
Nothing else would have been so well calculated to clear the eyes of the
people of all illusions, and to give them an accurate insight into the
character and demands of the crisis. Great disasters, which destroy the
fortunes of men, and disturb the prosperity of nations, never fail to
awaken the human soul, and impart to it some new and important truths.
The sufferings and calamities of the war are indeed great and
overwhelming; yet there will be some compensation for them all, in the
sad experience we shall gain, and in the stability which will result to
our sorely tried institutions in the future. Even if, against all
apparent possibilities, the rebellious States should finally conquer
their independence, not only the old Government, but even the new one
itself, or the batch of new ones that will spring up, will have learned
the most salutary lessons from the whole course of this sanguinary
struggle. No sundering of such ties as have always heretofore existed
among these States can ever take place peaceably. Both we and our
enemies will have been taught the never-to-be-forgotten truth that
secession is civil war. And we should probably have reason thereafter to
add to this sad lesson the still more solemn and portentous one, that
permanent separation of these States is nothing more or less than
perpetual war, with the accompaniments of large standing armies, vast
public debts, oppressive taxes, loss of liberty, and progressive decline
of civilization. This state of things would, however, eventually cure
itself. What is called the balance of power in Europe has been brought
to its present condition of imperfect stability only through centuries
of war. What bloody commotions should we experience before the
conditions of stable equilibrium could be attained by the warring States
of our broken Union? Each petty fragment of the discordant mass would
contain within itself the germs of precisely such a struggle as we are
now passing through. For though the Confederate Government may have
ostensibly recognized the actual sovereignty of the separate States
composing it, and thereby pretended to establish the principle of
secession as a right, the war will not have reached its termination
before that doctrine will be practically and effectually destroyed in
the very contest for its assertion. At the moment of its apparent
triumph, secession itself would expire; for so strong a government will
be indispensable to this achievement, and to the maintenance of the new
power, that the very principle which presided at its birth will be
suspended and destroyed by the paramount necessities of its existence
and condition. Any one of the deluded States which might in that case
attempt to assert this right, would soon find, in renewed calamities,
the folly and danger of the theory on which it is founded.

Nothing but the hope of foreign intervention has sustained the cause of
the rebellion until the present time; and the realization of that hope
can alone keep up its vitality, and give it success in the future. The
disparity of strength and numbers in the two sections is decisive of the
whole case, if they be left to conclude the fight themselves. The
question is one of means and men, of resources and endurance; and when
we consider the effects of the blockade, and of the probably action of
the slaves under the policy of the President, or even under the ordinary
progress of the war, no great length of time can be required to bring
the contest to an issue, even if the armies of the Union should not at
once succeed in overwhelming the enemy and taking possession of his
country. In spite of discouraging delays and military blunders, and of
all the waste of life and means which have hitherto marked the conduct
of the war, the great struggle is still progressing rapidly, though
silently, in other fields than those of battle, and with other weapons
than bayonets and artillery. The sinews of war are gradually becoming
shrivelled in the arm of the rebellion. Every bale of cotton locked up
in the ports of the South, or hidden in its thickets and ravines, or
given to the flames by ruthless hands of the guerillas, is so much
strength withheld from the enemy, and, in the vast aggregate, will
eventually be equivalent to the overthrow of his armies and the capture
of his cities. The large number of slaves rushing to our lines, and the
still greater number rendered restless under restraint, and preparing to
escape, may be expected, in any other year, to make even his supply of
bread precarious, and still further to paralyze his strength and destroy
his means of resistance. But in addition to these accumulating
difficulties and misfortunes, our armies are everywhere moving down upon
him apparently with irresistible force, and threaten to anticipate the
slower, but not less certain work of physical exhaustion. He is hard
pressed in Virginia, where his pretended capital is again menaced; he is
driven out of Kentucky and Missouri, and is fast receding before our
victorious forces in Tennessee. We have penetrated into Mississippi, and
await only the swelling of the waters to capture its last stronghold,
Vicksburg, when the great valley from Cairo to New Orleans will be in
our possession, and the rebel confederacy will be sundered through its
very spine. We hold important points on the Atlantic coast and in the
Gulf, including the great metropolis of the South, New Orleans, and the
whole coast of Texas.

By her own energies alone, these losses can never be recovered by the
South. Without aid from abroad, there is not the remotest possibility of
prolonging the contest for another year, much less of establishing the
Confederate Government on any permanent basis. And even with such
interference, supposing it to be successful, the career of the new power
would be brief, and full of trouble. It would merely exchange its
position of equality in the old Union, for one of degrading dependence
and subserviency to some one of the great European Governments. The
system of slavery could not be preserved. The demoralization has already
gone too far; and no French sovereign or English administration could
safely venture to interfere in our quarrel for the purpose of upholding
that institution. In the midst of a dissolving social organization, this
exhausted and fragmentary American power, galvanized into temporary
vitality by the sinister aid of foreign arms, would be compelled to
undertake the task of determining its boundaries, defending its
frontiers, and reorganizing its chaotic society. All this would have to
be accomplished in the presence of a still powerful adversary, jealous
of her own rights, and ever ready to assert them, as opportunity would
permit, in the face of all opposition. European affairs are not yet so
thoroughly adjusted, and the peace of that continent established on so
firm a basis, that complications may not be anticipated at almost any
moment, which would at once free America from the disgraceful trammels
of foreign intervention. It is doubtful whether such a movement from
Europe could be successful, even under all the deplorable difficulties
which now beset our country. Let any one of those Governments lay its
hand on the United States, and revolution would probably hasten to rear
its awful head, and so arouse the people of the continent as to shake
and endanger the very thrones which now seem to be most firmly
established. The unfriendly blow aimed at us might possibly react upon
its authors, and transfer to them the misfortunes and disorders which
now afflict this country. So just a retribution is not beyond the
probabilities of the present situation in Europe, whether intervention
should come from the English aristocracy or from the French emperor. The
instincts of the people, everywhere, are on our side; their strong arms
may not be slow to vindicate the judgment they pronounce, and to follow
the sentiments and sympathies which animate their generous hearts.

But in spite of all difficulties and discouragements, at home or abroad,
we firmly believe our righteous cause will eventually prevail, and the
Union be restored to even more than its former glory. The overthrow of
the power of the rebellion, the utter exhaustion of all its resources,
and the frightful derangement of its entire social economy, will leave
the people of the South in a condition of helplessness which will render
further resistance impracticable. An immediate resumption of hostilities
will be effectually prevented by the military force which will
necessarily be maintained for some time after the close of the final
campaign of the war; and before the strength of the rebellious States
can be recruited for another similar contest, new ideas will be
engendered, and new sentiments of attachment to the Union may be
expected to grow up and take the place of that unnatural bitterness
which has exasperated the war and prolonged its horrors. An inevitable
change of institutions in the South, with moderate and conciliatory
measures on the part of the North, will serve gradually to heal the
dangerous wound, self-inflicted, which has so nearly destroyed the very
existence of the fairest and most favored part of our country. In the
end, a homogeneous society will extend over the whole Union, and new
vigor will be infused into our political organization, by reason of its
recovery from the terrible disease by which it has been attacked and for
a time utterly prostrated. The alterative effects of this critical
danger overcome, and of the treatment rendered necessary, will doubtless
be one of the most important consequences of the rebellion.

The dogma of secession, as applied to our complex government, is
inconsistent with reason, and has often been effectually refuted by
argument. But sophistry, stimulated by ambition, was ever ready to renew
the controversy, and to perpetuate it in all the forms of vicious logic
and plausible ratiocination. The appeal to force, however, has done
something more than refute an argument; it has already discomfited the
whole theory, and it will not end short of the utter annihilation of the
very idea of secession as a right, and as a remedy for any evils,
fancied or real, which may be suffered or imagined under our Government.
After the close of the war, when men look back to its bloody fields and
its awful sacrifices, they will be amazed at the insane folly which
permitted them to consider the great American Union, with its honorable
history, its wonderful progress, its immense power, and its proud
standing among the nations, as a mere league among petty states, to be
dissolved at pleasure--as a thing to be broken into fragments, and to be
divided among ambitious aspirants, to be made the sport of domestic
faction, or of foreign rapacity and domination, changing its form and
proportions with every change of popular feeling and every restless
movement of popular discontent. These fatal delusions will be made to
disappear forever, and in their place there will remain in the minds of
men the image of a majestic Government, tried in the furnace of civil
war, made solid and immovable by its grand and successful efforts to
resist the threatened overthrow of its power, and becoming paternal by
the recovery of its wonted strength, which will permit and require the
exercise of magnanimous forbearance even toward those misguided citizens
who have raised their traitorous hands against it. Thus, with the awe
and fear which will be inspired by the tremendous energy put forth to
conquer the rebellion--an energy which will appear only so much the
greater and more imposing in proportion to the difficulties and dangers
met and overcome--there will be mingled the better sentiments of love
and veneration for a Government which re-establishes order, secures
protection to all civil rights, and restores, unimpaired, the liberties
which have been disregarded for a time, in order that they might be
permanently saved. To the people of the United States, the Union will be
what it never was before, and what it never could have been without the
sad experience it is undergoing now. Not that any change of form need be
effected, or any violence done to the principles on which our system is
founded. The change will be solely in the spirit in which our
institutions will be administered, arising from the altered sentiments
and feelings of the whole people. They will see their Government in a
new light--a light thrown on it by the grand events of the rebellion,
revealing capabilities and powers not hitherto known to exist, and
exhibiting it as the sole refuge in times of commotion and danger,
standing unmoved amidst the storm, impregnable to all its violence. In
the public recognition, by universal acquiescence, it will be considered
stronger than before; and this transformation will be as much a change
in the minds of the people as in the character and functions of the
Government itself.

There is, however, no good reason why the central power should acquire
inordinate strength, and absorb any part of the legitimate functions of
the local governments. A more liberal interpretation of the Constitution
will somewhat extend the federal powers, and there will necessarily be
greater intensity in the exercise of acknowledged authority;
nevertheless, consolidation need not be the subject of serious
apprehension. At the beginning of the war, when the Union was sorely
beset with the most imminent dangers, the executive power was extended
far beyond its ordinary limits; and perhaps this excess of action has
been in some cases too long continued, and has been made to embrace
objects not legitimately within the emergency which originally justified
the departure. But even under present circumstances, there can be no
just cause for alarm. There can be no real danger, until the people
shall have become either overawed and silenced by terror, or careless
and indifferent to the encroachments on liberty. Such is evidently very
far from being the case now. The recent elections have shown how
entirely free is the expression of opinion, and how completely
untrammelled the political action of the people, who, in this instance,
have been charged with following their leaders even beyond the bounds
of just opposition, into the dangerous position of giving encouragement
to the enemy. Both parties, however, place their own peculiar
construction on these popular decisions, and it is difficult to
determine, with any accuracy, what is their actual import. We only know
that so extensive a change, affecting the position of many of the
largest States, indicates a serious dissatisfaction of some kind; though
it is by no means probable that the people have intended to sanction the
extreme and mischievous views of some of the candidates, who, here and
there, have secured their election. Factious divisions in the loyal
States, at this critical period, would be ruinous to the cause of the
Union. They would distract the public mind and weaken the arm of the
Government, so as to endanger its success in the war. There is no
indication of any such intention on the part of the people, whatever may
be the designs of some of those who have been successful leaders of this
threatening opposition. And the only effect which ought to follow the
recent popular demonstration is to admonish the Government, and check it
in those errors which are only too natural in the mighty contest in
which it is now engaged. The necessity for decision, vigor, and courage,
is indeed apparent; and the temptation to go beyond the limits even of
proper martial energy, is perhaps a sufficient excuse for those in
power, whose deep sense of responsibility and honest zeal in a holy
cause may sometimes lead them astray. It is not always given to men in
high position to remain cool and calm in great emergencies, and to take
comprehensive views of the requirements of so tremendous a contest, as
its aspects vary from time to time. The necessary exercise of military
authority for the preservation of the Government, however harsh and
severe it may be, will be everywhere justified, and even applauded. But
there are limits which even military license ought to respect; and when
the executive authorities go beyond the bounds of reason and necessity,
they ought themselves to be grateful to those who may have the courage
to throw themselves into the breach and sternly resist the violation of
right. The men in power ought to reflect that they are always liable to
be surrounded by subservient partisans, whose fears or selfish purposes
may induce them to applaud, when they ought to condemn and reprove.
Unfortunately, when such parasites are listened to and rewarded, there
is little hope of just and patriotic action; and this state of things
leaves no channel of escape, through which the public discontent can be
manifested, except that of partisan opposition, which, in the existing
crisis, is perhaps more dangerous even than the evil it pretends to
condemn and cure. While party divisions, in the midst of dangers such as
now threaten us, are greatly to be deplored, we can, nevertheless,
derive some satisfaction from results which otherwise we cannot
altogether approve. All the essential principles of freedom still
remain, through this great trial, undestroyed and unsuppressed by
terrorism; and the popular patriotism and sound common sense, though
liable to be misled at first, will eventually pronounce a just and
enlightened judgment. Parasites and flatterers may shrink from the task
of dissent; but the great heart of the people will find some means of
expression; and happy will be our country if their honest warnings,
given upon 'the sober second thought,' shall be noticed and duly heeded.
There will then be no danger of any serious invasions of liberty, or of
any permanent absorption of the proper constitutional functions of the
States by the Federal Government. Doubtless the central power will be,
and ought to be strengthened. Its standing army will necessarily be
larger than before the rebellion; the public debt will be greatly
increased; the taxes will be heavier; and the revenue and disbursements
larger. Though its functions will remain essentially the same in nature,
they will have a broader sweep and a greater power. This enlargement of
its ordinary action will naturally invest it with all the means and
capacities necessary for its own protection, and without any change of
the Constitution, it will be recognized as the true embodiment of our
permanent nationality, forever paramount in its appointed sphere and
appropriate functions to those of the individual States composing it.
The sum and substance of the change will be merely that the centripetal
and centrifugal forces of the system will have become so completely
adjusted to each other, that from this time forward the eternal
equilibrium of the whole will be secured. The States will not be shorn
of any power rightfully theirs, and necessary for their safety and
progress; but they will be fixed in definite orbits, with the limits of
their authority distinctly circumscribed and established.

All social changes, sooner or later, produce their appropriate effects
on political institutions; and no results of the rebellion will be more
prominent and important than those which will follow the inevitable
disappearance of slavery. A new system of labor will be inaugurated in
the border States, as well as in those now in rebellion. The great act
of emancipation may not be immediate; nor is it by any means desirable
it should be. So radical a change in the condition of millions of
uneducated men would be quite as inconvenient, and, indeed, disastrous
to themselves, for the time being, as to their present owners. Society
itself would be thrown into the utmost confusion, and all the resources
of both parties would be temporarily much diminished, if not nearly
destroyed. But, whether suddenly or gradually, this fundamental change
must take place; for it is self-evident that slavery cannot survive the
present struggle. The proclamation of the President, which is to take
effect on the 1st of January next, will make emancipation more complete
and speedy; but the same result would have followed the stubborn
resistance of the rebels, even without that momentous act. It would be a
mischievous error to believe that emancipation was originally the aim
and object of the war on the part of the Union, and that the liberation
of slaves, which was sure to follow its progress, is the direct act of
our authorities, and not the proper consequence of the rebellion itself.
A war waged for and on account of slavery--for its increase and
perpetuation--necessarily, by its own nature, puts that institution at
stake, and risks it on the contingency of failure. Compelled, in defence
of the national unity, to carry the war into the heart of the Southern
States, the world acquiesces in that sound and necessary policy, which
releases the slaves, and sets them free forever, as fast as they come
within the protection of our armies. The proclamation is a measure of
the same nature, intended to destroy the resources of the enemy, and to
wound him in his most vulnerable point. But it can accomplish little
more than the previous policy; for the slumbering hopes of the slaves
were aroused by the first gun fired at Charleston in the beginning of
the struggle. Every movement of armies, and every bloody battle, which
has since taken place, has only served to inflame their desire for
freedom, and to fix their determination to obtain it. They have received
and gladly welcomed the obscure idea, that, in some way, this sanguinary
conflict was initiated for their benefit, and will not end without their
complete emancipation. In this they are not mistaken. The final
suppression of the rebellion by military force will be the perfect
consummation of that end, accomplished through the treason and wicked
folly of the South herself. If she persevere in her stubborn resistance
to the authority of the Union, the great measure of liberation will be
the result of her own blind and wilful acts of madness, and this as well
through their natural and necessary consequences as by the terms and
import of the President's proclamation. Let slavery destroy itself. It
is a just and righteous judgment that, in its atrocious effort to
destroy the nation, it should accomplish chiefly, if not solely, its own
violent and bloody death. Such retribution often attends the commission
of great crimes; but it seldom happens that effects so momentous for
good flow from the infliction which seems intended only for punishment.

Under all circumstances, with or without the proclamation, slavery must
disappear soon after the suppression of the rebellion. From that time,
the States will become more and more homogeneous in their social
organization. This will tend to promote unanimity among them all, and
therefore, by an obvious process, to strengthen the rightful power of
the Federal Government. The vast extent of our country, comprising so
many varieties of condition and climate, and such diversities of
production, rising through every grade of elevation, from the Atlantic
seacoast to the central mountains, and thence again descending to the
shores of the Pacific, with mighty rivers running through nearly twenty
parallels of latitude--this magnificent seat of republican power affords
the most unbounded resources for industry in all its employments, and
for commercial interchange of productions on the most gigantic scale.
With free labor prevailing everywhere throughout this vast and splendid
region of the temperate zone, no limits can be assigned to the national
progress. The population, wealth, activity, and intelligence of the most
favored among the Free States at the present day, can alone offer the
measure and example of what the whole will be in the full maturity of
the new system. No European complexities of inter-state relations, no
oppressive restrictions on domestic commerce, no fatal divergencies of
opinion and feeling, no important differences of language and
literature--none of these obstructions to harmony and progress will
interfere with the continental development and glorious destiny of our
Federal Union. All that the earth yields from her teeming surface, or
from her deep-embowelled mines; all that enterprise can accomplish with
exhaustless means, the best facilities, and the most stupendous objects;
and all that genius can create, when stimulated by the richest rewards
and the freest opportunities for untrammelled exertion, will supply us
with the means and materials for an almost infinite variety of pursuits
and occupations; but, at the same time, the essential unity of our
complex institutions will be maintained, and their power extended and
exalted by the homogeneity and uniformity of social conditions which
will prevail more and more with the lapse of years and the succession of
generations. The blood of all kindred races will be mingled with
advantage in the veins of the cosmopolitan American; religions will be
harmonized and unified by the most fraternal liberality and unbounded
toleration; and the common enlightenment of the whole people by means of
universal education will exalt them to a condition of unexampled power
and prosperity. Just as dissensions among the States tend to weaken the
central power, their uniform and cordial cooeperation will give immense
strength to the whole. Nor will this increase of power be at all
dangerous, because it will be only the legitimate consequence of the
greater progress and prosperity of the States themselves. To whatever
height the greatness of the Union may attain, it will be determined
exactly by that of the States which compose it--the pyramid of its power
being made up of theirs, which are but the enduring blocks of which the
mighty structure is built.

If social unity and political strength will be promoted by the
suppression of the rebellion and the disappearance of slavery, the ties
of our Union will be made stronger also by other causes. Emerging from
the war victorious, not only without being seriously injured, but with
eventual and speedy increase of power, the Union will command the
respect of foreign nations in a higher degree than ever before. Those
European nations, or rather their rulers and nobles, who now in their
malignant envy hope for the permanent dismemberment of America, will
then hail her resuscitation with a zeal which will be none the less
advantageous to us for being forced from them in spite of their present
hate and detraction. If the division of our country would destroy its
influence abroad, and subject the parts to constant intrigues and
interference from foreign powers, the restoration of the Union with even
more than its former glory will give us unexampled weight in the
counsels of mankind. Our unexpected and astounding exhibition of
military power, our thorough command of the American continent, and its
immense resources, hardly yet begun to be developed, and the unlimited
prosperity which the future will assuredly bring us, cannot fail to
strike the minds of European thinkers, and to awaken deep interest among
the European people. The stream of immigration, interrupted by the war,
will be renewed with at least its former fulness, and will keep pace
with the demands of our country for labor and population. The South may
then be expected to receive her full share of this increase by people
from abroad, and will then commence that process of condensing and
permanently fixing her population, without which she can never attain
any high position in the scale of civilization.

The large public debt destined to be incurred, may be expected to have
some influence in preventing immigration and improvement; but unless the
war shall unfortunately linger far beyond the period at which its end is
now anticipated, the liabilities of the Government will not be so great
as to prevent the speedy return of our usual prosperity. A different and
far better system of taxation will be required--one more favorable to
commerce and at the same time equally productive, or at least
sufficiently so to meet all our liabilities and provide for the
extinguishment of the debt within a reasonable time. One of the
advantages attending this great debt and modifying its certain evils and
burdens, will be the necessity of devising a stable revenue system,
intended solely to provide means for sustaining the Government and
meeting the public obligations. Periodical changes, often depending on
party ascendency and popular elections, have hitherto marked the
financial policy of our Government. So long as the sources of revenue
were superabundant and the demands of the Treasury very moderate, we
could well afford to make experiments, and even to depart from the true
principles of taxation, or at least to do so without any very serious or
ruinous consequences. Now, however, when the public expenditure is about
to be vastly increased, and when it will be for the first time really
felt by the people, it will become the first duty of our rulers to study
the extent and true character of our resources, and to adjust the
burdens of taxation, with all practicable fairness, to the respective
capacities of all classes and interests. We may expect to have a system
stable and permanent in its principles, if not in its details; and the
basis of this system will be a wise arrangement of duties on imports,
which must, from various reasons, ever form the great bulk of our taxes.

It is not an American maxim that a great public debt is a public
blessing; nor is it likely that an educated and eminently practical
people like ours will ever accept that mischievous paradox. Yet if it
be desirable that our large public debt should be widely scattered among
the people, so that every man may be directly interested in maintaining
the public credit and the stability of the Government, the present
system, now but imperfectly adapted to that object, might easily be made
to accomplish it fully. If the Treasury notes recently issued were the
only paper circulation in the country--that is to say, if the banks were
prohibited, by taxation or otherwise, from making any issues of their
own--the Government might increase their amount to at least five hundred
millions, with even less than the present depreciation, and would thus
enjoy the benefit of a loan to that amount without the payment of any
interest. As it is now, the banks get the advantage of a great part of
this extensive loan, and at the same time perform a function which
properly belongs to the Government--that of furnishing a currency for
the people. By the proposed system, the entire community would be
interested in this part of the public debt, and would doubtless find the
circulating medium much safer and better than that now manufactured by
the numberless banks chartered by the States. The issue of these notes
by State institutions was always an evasion of that clause of the
Constitution which prohibits the States from issuing bills of credit,
and is plainly against the spirit and intention of the instrument. If
our public debt should, in this way, eventually drive all bank notes out
of circulation and banish them forever, it will have accomplished a
valuable work in restoring the true construction of the Constitution,
and, in this particular at least, will have proved a public blessing. It
will be very easy, in the course of time, to redeem the Treasury notes,
and gradually to substitute for them a species of national paper based
on actual deposits, which will afford all the conveniences with none of
the dangers of the present system, by which the local banks virtually
establish the currency of the country, flooding it with all varieties of
paper, without uniformity of value, with no adequate control or
regulation of its quantity, thus producing periodical convulsions and
robbing the people of their hard-earned savings.

If the rebellion, by the burdens which it leaves behind, shall bring
about these two results--the adoption of a wise and permanent system of
revenue, and the establishment of a sound currency by the prohibition of
all bank circulation--it will have accomplished ends only inferior in
importance to the two primary consequences, the overthrow of the
principle of secession and the destruction of slavery. Thus, this
tremendous convulsion would bring out of the chaos a new order in the
political world, by annihilating secession, and by perpetuating the
Union and banishing all fear of its dissolution; in the social, by
substituting free men for slaves; in the financial, by a permanent
adjustment of tariffs and taxation; and in the commercial, by the
prohibition of bank paper and the substitution of a safe and uniform
currency.




'I;' OR, SUMMER IN THE CITY.'

     'I love the sweet security of streets.'--CHARLES LAMB.


'I,' my charming friend, do not fully sympathize with the late Mr.
Lamb's statement, as quoted above; which statement I always have
believed partially owed its origin to its very tempting alliterative
robe.

For myself, I do _not_ particularly like the 'sweet security of
streets,' but vastly prefer 'a boundless contiguity of shade,'
especially during the present month--August--or

   'A life on the ocean wave.'

I do not mean a permanent residence there--that would be liable to be
damp and unhealthy, and altogether too insecure to be 'sweet;'--but when
I say a 'life on the ocean wave,' it is merely my poetical license for a
cottage at Newport. (I wish, indeed, that I had any _but_ a poetical one
for such a possession!)

But what folly for me to talk of a cottage there! when my limited income
does not even admit of a cot in the cheapest of seaside inns.

Gentle reader! shrink not from me when, in addition to this melancholy
confidence, I also announce to you that I live in town--in 'Boston
town,' to be accurate--during August! I belong to the 'lower orders of
society;' and my only Newport is the Public Garden, or a walk to
Longwood, and, when I am _very_ affluent, a horse-car drive to Savin
hill, where a teaspoonful of sea view is administered to the humble
wayfarer.

Yes! I positively did exist in the city, not only through the month of
August, but all the summer days of all the summer months. I mention
_August_ in the city, because I know that has a peculiarly God-forgotten
and forsaken sound.

I should soon cease to exist anywhere, I fancy, if I did _not_ stay in
town, for (horror No. 2!) I work at a trade in order to earn my daily
bread and coffee! What my particular trade is, I am not going to
divulge--that shall remain a delicious mystery (the only delicious thing
about it); only this much I will confide: I do not, _a la_ Mr. Frederick
Altamont, 'sweep the crossing.' Unhappy Altamont! he did not appreciate
the sweet security of streets.

'Poor thing!' you exclaim, 'work at a trade?'

Rest tranquil, fair one; the phrase doubtless sounds harshly to your
delicate, aristocratic ears. (Oh, what lovely earrings!) Be tranquil! I
do not work _very_ hard; my hands are perhaps so audacious as to be as
small, as white, and as soft as your own.

But I have to 'work reg'lar,' every week day of all the months of every
year; and when the time arrives for me to go into the country, I shall
not return again to Boston; for I shall go to a land from whence no
traveller returns. _Apropos_ of this rather dismal topic: A queer cousin
of mine, 'Sans Souci,' who has a taste for 'morbid anatomy,' was the
other day enjoying himself with Mr. Smith, the cheerful sexton of the
King's Chapel. These two were 'down among the dead men,' under the
church, when Mr. Smith apologized for leaving my cousin, on the plea
that he had a previous engagement to take a young gentleman into the
country--a delicate way of stating that he was about to convey a body
out to Mount Auburn!

Some fine day, I too shall take a drive with some Mr. Smith--not, of
course, _the_ S. C. Smith, for, as I have mentioned, 'I' belong to the
'lower orders.'

Now let me tell you of _my_ Newport, and of what mitigations there are
for the poor wretches who pass their summer in the city, to whom the
joys of Sharon, Saratoga, the Hudson, and of Lake George are as
impossible as though these delightful resorts were in other planets.
Perhaps, like Mr. T. A.'s 'good Americans,' they have a vague hope that
when they die they can visit these famous places! For myself, I long ago
made out my 'visiting list.' Oh, bless you! as soon as I shall be 'out
of the body,' I shall start on the most delightful tour (no bother about
the luggage, checks, or couriers!); it will be years and years before I
fairly 'settle down' in that

   'bright particular star'

I have selected for my permanent residence. Yes! you horrible madame!
oh, you horrible madame, who express your fears that I shall 'never be
settled,' speaking of me as if I were the coffee in your
coffee-pot--(only, of course, such a well-regulated dame's coffee is
never anything but _quite_ clear and settled)--yes, to relieve your
poor, narrow mind, I can bid you hope that in another and pleasanter
world I fully expect to be--'settled.' I tell you this beforehand, for I
am very sure that you won't go to the same planet, and therefore will
never have the satisfaction of knowing the fact from personal
observation.

But what am I about? Building castles in the skies! Mr. Editor Leland,
as usual, protests against my sad lack of con-cen-tra-tion! Let us
concentrate, therefore, my beloved hearers! With or without sugar? Oh, I
was beginning to tell you about Newport--_my_ Newport, the Public Garden
of Boston, _alias_ Hub-opolis--which you, poor things! belonging to the
'higher orders' and living on Arlington, Berkely, Clarendon, and the
Duke of Devonshire streets, never have a chance to see in its Augustan
pomp and glory. In fact, till this summer, its 'pomp and glory' were
quite concealed by dust and ashes; but now, thanks to the 'City
Fathers,' it is

   'Ye land of flowers.'

Let me describe it to you; for though your dwellings are directly
opposite, yet, custom compelling you to leave them before the flower
season begins, you in reality know less of it than I do, living in a
street whose name must not be mentioned to ears polite. 'Tis far from
the Beacon 'haunts of men,' far from the Garden, and uncommonly far from
the Common. I rise betimes on these summer mornings, and, before I go to
my work, shaking off the dust of my obscure street, I enter your sacred
precincts, oh, F. F. B.'s! Bless you, it can do you no harm, for even
your boudoirs do not look out at me; their eyes are shuttered to all
such vulgar sights. It was impertinent, but this morning I pitied you
(_you!_) that you could not see the wondrous beauty of the--_city in
August!_

The morning was gloriously beautiful: it might have been the sister to
that one born so long ago, on which its Creator looked, and said that it
was 'good.' I actually forgot that I had no position; I imagined I had,
for the very brightest beauty filled my soul--I saw angels ascending and
descending (not Beacon street, as in the winter season) the charmed air
around me. 'Ye land of flowers,' indeed! All of them mine--mine, though
I must not pluck the humblest one. In truth, I had no desire to do so.
Why should I take the lovely creatures from their beautiful home, to the
close, dull room where I must sit all the bright day? Let me rather
think of them fresh, free, and happy there, as I often think of a
golden-haired child in heaven; one so dear to my heart of hearts, I
bless God that I _can_ think of her there with the angels who stand
nearest the Throne--and far, far away the weary paths that I must tread
to the end. But if heaven had not wanted another cherub, and she had
been left to be the flower of my life, think you I could have seen her
beauty wither in the dull room to which I must hasten in an hour? No! a
thousand times no! I should leave her with her sisters in the garden
here, with her cousins, the birds and butterflies, while I worked for
both. Lilies must neither 'toil nor spin.' How idly I am dreaming! She
is far away from this worky-day world; I shall never see her again, but
in dreams, as now! Little sister! with starry eyes, and soft curls
clustering around the sweet infant face; so many nights the same bright
vision--with the same wreath which I myself placed on her head, of May's
pale flowers, and she the palest. Only lilies of the valley, I remember,
seemed fitting for my darling's brow, or to grow on


ANNIE'S GRAVE.

   Bright Roses, wither on the spray!
     Your sweetness mocks the doom
   Of her whose cheeks, so pale to-day,
     Were rivals of your bloom.

   Sweet Violets, I charge ye, fade!
     Wear not those robes of blue,
   For eyes are closed which Nature made
     Of a more lovely hue.

   Pale Lilies, sad and drooping low,
     With perfume like her breath,
   On Annie's grave alone shall grow,
     _Fair flower, plucked by Death_.

          *       *       *       *       *

   Call it an affectation, if you will, but I
   never take a flower from its home without
   a slight twinge of pain. I _know_ it
   suffers! However, I have no scruples in
   accepting flowers after they are plucked
   by others. So pray do not hesitate
   about sending me that superb bouquet,
   which you intended to send me _to-morrow_!
   Have you never observed the
   brutal habit which 'some persons'
   have, of recklessly attacking shrubs
   and flowers, as though they were rank
   weeds (or secessionists), and, without
   in the least enjoying their spoils, tossing
   their quivering, trembling victims
   aside, before they are dead or even
   withered? Such are not worthy of
   flowers, excepting French flowers,
   which are not supposed to suffer. Oh,
   my countrywomen! would that they
   _did_ suffer a little from our neglect.

   Do you know who Lacoontola is?
   I have made her acquaintance this
   summer, and find it one of the compensations
   for passing the summer in
   town.

   She is to be found at the City
   Library--'Lacoontola, or, The Fatal
   Ring,' translated from the Sanscrit.
   Go there for her, I pray you, and you
   will admire with me the exquisite description
   of her tenderness to these
   'flower people,' as Mrs. Mann calls them.

   But, pardon! You who belong to the
   'highest orders' must be already intimate
   with Mlle. Lacoontola, for she is
   highly connected: her papa was a king
   (quite equal in position to Mr. Abe
   Lincoln); her mamma, I regret to
   state, though a very charming person,
   was an actress or goddess, or something
   in that line. Lacoontola, however, in
   spite of her papa's indiscretion, married
   a prince, and was, in fact, perfectly
   genteel and quite religious. Before
   her marriage, she appears to have
   'lived in the woods' the year round;
   her wardrobe being 'turu-lural.' She
   used to wear the 'dearest' little zouave
   of the 'tender bark' of the 'Aurora
   tree.'

   'Rich and rare were the gems she wore,'

for her bracelets were the 'long perfumed stems of the waterlilies!' and
in her hair the lotus flower, in place of a lace _barbe_!

There is a very beautiful description of Lacoontola's love and tender
treatment of all the flowers and shrubs--her companions--and of all
_dumb_ animals. (_On dit_ that the prince was henpecked by _Mrs._ L.!)

This wild girl had a human love for the forest flowers; she says to
thee, Madhari Creeper: 'Oh, most radiant of twining plants, receive my
embraces, and return them with thy flexible arms: from this day, though
at a distance, I shall forever be thine.' How unconventional! I fancy
Mlle. L. must have inherited this style of conversation from her mamma;
all very well, when confined to flowers and 'creeping' things; but one
day, as she was out walking, she met 'by chance--the usual way,' Prince
Dashuranti, and our young lady said pretty much the same sort of thing
to him as to the 'Creeper,' falling violently in love with him at first
sight. It struck H. R. H. as a little peculiar--rather extraordinary in
a well-bred miss; but as it was leap year, and learning that she was the
only child, and would inherit all of papa's immense fortune, he married
her 'off-hand;'--well, that very afternoon at four o'clock--by the
sundial. You see it didn't take so long 'in those days,' to get the
trousseau, and all 'the things' in readiness. Papa raised his
sceptre-wand, and mumbled some infernal gibberish--and, lo! all the
trees and shrubs blossomed instanter, with the 'sweetest loves' of
things trimmed with 'real point;'--well, with something just as
delicious to the soul of a young (or middle-aged) maiden on the eve of
matrimony. There was no necessity, either, for an order to Bigelow
Bros., Boston--since, if Dushuranti wished to present her with a pair of
bracelets on her wedding day, he had but to 'push out' on the pond, and
get some waterlilies!

The 'gibberish' in which the old gentleman is said to have invoked the
backwoods 'Chandlers' and 'Hoveys,' I will obligingly translate for you,
as possibly you may not be able to read it in the original Sanscrit! Oh!
don't tell _me_ that you 'won't trouble me,' and all that. I _will_ bore
you, and nobody can save you!

'Hear, O ye trees of this hallowed forest, hear and proclaim that
Lacoontola is going to the palace of her wedded lord. She who drank not,
though thirsty, before you were watered; she who cropped not, through
affection for you, one of your fresh leaves, though she would have been
pleased with such an ornament for her locks; she whose chief delight was
in the season when your branches are sprayed with flowers,' &c., &c.
Should you like a photograph of this charming person, Lacoontola, taken
by Black & Batchelder, at the time of her marriage, 'Williams & Everett'
can oblige you. You will perceive, from her picture, that she is not too
fond of dress, or a 'slave to fashion.'

'Rappacini's daughter' (one of Hawthorne's Mosses) was a morbid
'Lacoontola.' She loved her flowers,--'not wisely, but too well!' She
became a sort of exterminatrix--a strychninus young person! From the
poisonous _arsenic_ embraces of her garden loves, she acquired, you
remember, her fatal, glowing beauty--beauty altogether 'too rich for
use, for earth too dear,' since it consigned the 'party' ensnared by it
to the silent tomb!

'Rappacini's daughter,' indeed! Lovely girl-woman, seated at yonder bay
window (to be accurate, the 'Back Bay window'!), playing with your ten
cherub children; your tropical 'midsummer-night's-dream' beauty recalls
Beatrice (Hawthorne's Beatrice I mean). How many have _you_ slain, my
love? And Madame Grundy echoes: 'Their name is legion!' 'A quick
brunette, well moulded, falcon-eyed'! As in the description of Beatrice,
one is reminded 'of all rich and intense colors'--the purple-black hair,
the crimson cheek, the scarlet lips. And the eyes? ah! gazing into those
wonderful eyes, one forgets the color they wear, in trying to interpret
their language! 'Cleopatra!' who would not be an Antony for thee? _I
would not!_

I have unconsciously interrupted a lady in her morning bath!--the 'stone
lady' of the fountain. She seems to be looking for her Turkish towel,
judging from her anxious expression! Rather a good-looking person--quite
pretty, if only she would go to Summer street and purchase a black silk.
Dress, I fancy, would improve 'her style of beauty.' Poor thing! it's
rather a long walk to take, _a la_ 'Lacoontola'! I must lend her my
waterproof, only she appears already to be water-proved! How she _must_
envy the coloring and the clothes of my beautiful dame of the window!

But my hour is passing away! '_Resurgam_'--as the sun incorrectly
remarked this morning--and go on my way, rejoicing to say 'bon jour' to
all my dear flower friends. And first, the 'Asters'--they always were
rich, you know, from 'John Jacob' down; but this summer, _malgre_ taxes
and curtailment of incomes and go-comes, the family appear in
unprecedented splendor. What gorgeous Organdies! all quilled in the
fashion--but not by Madame Peinot: her cunning right hand, with all its
cunning, ne'er quilled so exquisitely. Those graceful, fragile Petunias
(what a family of sisters!), in their delicate _glaze_ silks (ratherish
_decollete!_), and the Superbia, Empress 'Gladiolus,' in brocade of such
daring hues, may call the Asters 'stiff and prudish' in their quilled
muslins; but, what say the Asters in return? Ah! what do they _not_ say?

The Verbenas seem fairly delirious this morning, as though the
consciousness of their own beauty made them run wildly from their beds
into the paths, to say to the passers-by, with their bright little
faces:

'See! am I not charming?'

Well, you _are_ pretty--_very_ pretty; but I care not for you as for
your plainer stepsister, the 'sweet-scented Verbena.' She has a pale,
sad face; but she has a _soul_, which you have not, poor things! for
perfume is the soul of 'flower people.'

But, who wants gold? Lives there a man with purse so full who does _not_
want it? Well, then, snatch that heap of sunshine, that dazzling
Coreopsis, and be off before the policeman turns into this path. Ah, ye
Daylilies! You break my heart with your moonlight faces. Standing apart
from the world-flowers, like novices in their white veils, who offer the
incense of their beauty to Heaven--oh! give a little of your perfume to
a poor un-otto-of-rosed mortal--breathe on me, and I can laugh at the
costly 'Wood Violet,' 'Eglantine,' and 'Rose,' with which Harris &
Chapman scent their patronesses--to be dollared in return!

Daylilies, your perfume is too subtle, too vague, to be coined or
'cabined, cribbed, confined' in scent bottles.

Ah! the flowering Mosses; they seem to be having one eternal picnic with
the Myrtles and Verbenas, playing forever that dear-to-children game of
'Tag'! Some are arrayed in Solferino velvets, rather heavy for this warm
day! Prettier these, in soft rose- robes, and this, in a

   'Oh! call me fair, not pale'--

well, _almost_ pale robe, the very climax of delicacy: the faintest
thought of rose color alone prevents one from calling it lily-white. I
am reminded of you, O flower-named friend! Vision of loveliness! which
has in a few never-to-be-forgotten days oasised my Sahara life. Now I
have reached the pond--_my_ Lake George! It is fresh and breezy this
morning, after last night's thunder-shower, and the mimic waves are
impatiently breaking over the thus-far-shalt-thou-go stone. I cannot
blame them for rushing over that green sward to give a morning kiss to
the blushing 'Forget-me-nots,' and just say to them, 'Remember _me_!'

Yes; I have a few crumbs of time left to sit in the rustic arbor and
give one lingering look behind, that I may carry a picture with me when
I go to my work.

How fortunate it is for one that these flowers are Londoners in their
habits, and pass August in the city! I can go to their receptions daily,
if I choose; they are always at home to the poorest, the most
unfashionable; they keep no 'visiting book' in their hall.

Hark! the bell rings seven o'clock. There is a 'knocking at the gate'
of my fairy land; it warns me that I must be on my Washington-street
way, to earn my bread.

_Bien!_ my first meal of to-day has been satisfactory. Heaven hath sent
me all manner of manna for breakfast--and for lunch? a banana. Yes; on
my way 'down town' I shall pass the Studio Building, where the B.'s
live; I will buy one of them, but shall also steal--many glances at the
Hamburg grapes, those peachiest of peaches, bombastic blackberries, and,
O Pomona! _such_ pears.

I escape! purse uninjured, only bananared. I reach Winter street, where
I must turn my back on the Common pleasures of Boston life--but yet, one
glance at that seductive window of the corner store, which, indeed, is
nearly all window. Flowers are there, of course,--flowers from January
to January; any poor devil can have a temporary conservatory at that
window, 'all for nothing;' I ought to pay a yearly tax for the pleasure
I steal in that way. The woman who carries my portmonnaie, only permits
me to open it for the 'necessaries' of life: the luxuries of hot-house
grapes and flowers ever wear for me that fatal label: 'Touch not, taste
not.' Bread and cologne are, of course, the first necessities of life;
in rolls and religion I am a Parkerite; in cologne, I swear by 'Mrs.
Taylor'! Beacon street, I beg that you won't faint at this horrible
disclosure!

Who _is_ 'Mrs. Taylor'? and echo answers, 'We haven't the faintest odor
of an idea!' None know her but to praise, wherever she may be. With
Sancho Panza we say, 'Blessings on the man who invented Mrs. Taylor at
seventy-five cents _per_--the hock bottle. I catch a glimpse of her long
neck, stretching up among the roses and Geraniums: my cologne nature
can't resist that sight! I obey the syren's call, though it will leave
me a beggar, but with Mrs. T. in my chaste-embrace.

'The man I work for' treats me, for some reason, with 'distinguished
consideration.' Though I may sometimes be a little after the required
hour, it's all right; and though he's a Yankee, no questions are asked!
I still have a precious quarter remaining--not of a dollar, but of time.
I have in my purse one postage stamp; but that will warrant a visit to
Loring's! One must have books as well as bread and cologne. O LORING!
what an institution art thou! Name dear to all classes, from Madame
----, who steps from her carriage, to the pretty shop-girl, who always
wants Mrs. Southworth's last--and worst--novel.

Who, indeed, 'so poor' as not 'to do _him_ reverence,' and find two
cents _per_ day, when for that sublimely small sum one can get a
companion for any and every mood,

   'Grave to gay, from lively to severe?'

But will 'LORING'S' be open at this early dawn? 'Open,' indeed! one does
not catch _him_ napping; yes, open and so inviting! A literary public
garden so fresh and clean, as

   'Just washed in a shower.'

In the rear, behind the desk, one is always sure of finding at least
_two roses_, and _on_ the desk a vase of flowers is certainly to be
seen--the offering of some one of the hundreds of admirers who go to
Loring's, nominally for some entertaining book--and they always find
one!

'What book did you say, miss?' asks Fleur de Marie. ('Where _does_ she
get those lilies and roses? I saw none like them in the garden this
morning. Ah! many of the dames who enter here from their carriages would
also like to ask my question--since they do not seem to find them even
at Newport!) 'If you please, _what_ book?' again inquire the Roses.

'Oh!' I answer, 'I was looking, and forgot what I came for; is 'Out of
his Head' _in_ yet?'

The fair librarian evidently thinks I am out of mine. Ah! would that I
were, and out of my whole body; but no! ingrate that I am, to-day I
should be content--simply _to be_; even a cabbage ought to be happy in
such perfect summer weather. T. B. Aldrich _is_ in--as much as he ever
is supposed to be; but I recall now that I read his sketchy book the
other night, while I was brushing my hair, giving it a sort of 'good
time generally,' letting it run wild a little before going to sleep. I
read 'Pierre Antoine's Date Tree' quite through, and liked--the _last
part_ very much indeed. There are some people whom I am always very glad
to have visit me, because I feel so 'dreadful glad' when they go away.
So, also, it compensates one to read certain books for the sake of the
delicious sensation one experiences on finishing them! What a pile of
'_Les Miserables_,' Fantine? _C'est assez miserable._ The 'Hunchback' is
the least deformed of Hugo's offspring; but I read _that_ last Sunday
morn--no; I mean last Saturday evening; for I went to church on Tremont
street, last Sunday. What's this? it looks as tempting as a banana, and
is not unlike one in color. 'Melibaeus in London,' in the summer, too:
good! I'll take that, it shall 'assist' the banana at my lunch. I hurry
out of this 'little heaven,' murmuring, as I depart: 'LORING, live
forever!'

Lady Macbeth undoubtedly alluded to you when she says:

   'We _fail_? there's no such word as fail!'

I believe the Macbeths, and, in fact, everybody but Loring, has failed
during the war times. McClellan certainly has--not succeeded.

The police (those gentlemen of elegant leisure) do not even suspect how
much I have stolen, and what treasures I am carrying off before nine
o'clock A. M.! All the splendors of the early morning are mine; they
will gild the dull grey of my working hours. What a stock of perfumes
stolen from the garden! they will sweeten the 'business air' of
Washington street. The fountain's glistening spray will sprinkle the
dusty walk to 'the shop.'

I have not yet told you of the kisses taken--not from Fera's, but from
the cherry-ripe lips of two lovely children, with whom I formed an
intimacy in the garden by the pond; they were 'sailing' their mimic
boats there. I almost wished

   'I were a boy again,'

and had a boat to sail! These children had such a brave and haughty
beauty, and their dress being of purple and fine linen, I supposed their
name must be Berkeley or Clarendon, but was grieved to learn from the
artless darlings that it was Muggins! However, their kisses were
unexceptionable, whatever their origin may have been.

But what a 'heap' of Beauty I stole in my return walk through
Beaconstreet mall! No wonder those magnificent elms are in love with
each other, and embrace over the people's heads! When I come into my
fortune, I intend, early the next morning, before breakfast, to make the
first use of my 'funds' in purchasing Mr. George Ticknor's house. (Of
course, he will not object.) I shall then laugh at the mill-dam
principalities and powers when I look from my library windows down that
long vista of noble trees. Come and see me when I am settled there! You
shall have a warm welcome in winter, and a cool one in summer. And now,
fare thee well, whoever thou art, who hast kindly walked with me to the
door of--my 'place of business.' I will not ask you to enter there. I
can worry through the day: unseen companions go with me to soothe and
cheer; so do not pity me that I am what I am--'nobody,' living
'nowhere.' You have seen that the Angel of Beauty disdains not to appear
in my humble path--and sometimes hovers so near, I can almost touch her
wings!

And so God be w'ye! Little joys to you are great joys to me. There be
those above you, 'kinges and princes and greate emperours,' to whom your
luxuries and badges would seem as little as mine are to you. When you
are beautiful, you adorn my street; when you are unlovely, I--pass you
by. _Bon jour la compagnie!_




THE IVY.

   'Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
   Fairies, begone, and be all ways away.
   So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle
   Gently entwist,--the female Ivy so
   Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.
   Oh, how I love thee; how I dote on thee!'

   _Midsummer Night's Dream_, act iv., scene 1.

     'The bearers of the thyrsus (bound with Ivy) are many, but the
     Bacchantae are few.'--_Orphic saying._


If, among plants, the Rose is unmistakably feminine, from the delicate
complexion of its flower, the Ivy is not less so from the tender
sentiment of attachment expressed by its whole form and life. In her
infinite array of poetic symbols, Nature has given us nothing so
exquisitely typical of all that is best in woman, as that which may be
found in the graceful curves and in the firm strength of this vine. In
youth and beauty, she clings to the husband tree or parental wall for
support, and, like a wife or daughter, conceals defects, and imparts a
softer shadowing and contour to the support, without which she herself
had never risen to light and life. Time passes on. The oak grows old,
the wall is shattered by lightning; but the Ivy, now strong and firm,
shelters the limbs or binds together the tottering walls with greater
care than before, and covers decay and rifts with fresh care--aided by
the younger daughter-vines.

This simile has occurred to poets in all lands, in all ages. In an old
Chinese poem (JOLOWICZ, _der Poetische Orient_, s. 7) we are told that
'in the south there lives a tree, the Ivy _Ko_ clings and winds around
it, bringing the most excellent of joys and happiness in excess.' Owing
to this natural and most palpable resemblance, the ancient Greeks caused
the officiating priest in the temple to present to a bridal pair, on
entering, a twig of Ivy, 'as a symbolical wish that their love, like it,
might ever continue fresh.' It was a beautiful thought, and one which
was not lost sight of in the ecclesiastical and architectural symbolism
of the middle ages. 'It is,' says FRIEDREICH (_Symbolik und Mythologie
der Natur_, Sec. 103), 'as an ever-greening plant, a type of life, of love,
and of marriage.' It is, therefore, with both truth and propriety that
the modern floral lexicons give the _vitis hedera_, or Ivy, as
expressing 'Female affection--I have found one true heart.'

As with all plants, or, indeed, with all natural objects known to the
ancients, the Ivy was the subject of a myth or religious allegory, and
in investigating this myth, we find ourselves in a labyrinth of strange
mystery. The ordinary works on mythology, indeed, inform the reader that
it was the plant sacred to Bacchus, the god of wine, because, as Loudon
states, 'this wine is found at Nyssa, the reputed birthplace of Bacchus,
and in no other part of India.' 'It is related,' he continues, 'that
when Alexander's army, after their conquest of Babylon, arrived at this
mountain, and found it covered with laurel and Ivy, they were so
transported with joy (especially when they recognized the latter plant,
which is a native of Thebes), that they tore up the Ivy by the roots,
and, twining it around their heads, burst forth into hymns to Bacchus,
and prayers for their native country.'

But there is a deeper significance to the Ivy, even as there is a deeper
and more solemn mystery and might around the primeval Bacchus. To us he
is merely the wine-god, but to the ancient Initiated in the orgies and
mysteries he was--as were each of the gods in their turn--the central
divinity, the lord of light, and the giver of life. For, as it was
concisely said in the spirit of pantheistic abstraction: 'Nothing can be
imagined which is not an image of God;' so it was not possible to
conceive a divinity who was not in himself all the other divinities.
Thus we find that Bacchus was male, female, and at the same time an
absolute ONE without regard to sex; or, in other words, he was the
ancient trinity.

         'Tibi enim inconsumpta juventus.
   Tu puer aeternus, tu formosissimus alto
   Conspiceris coelo, tibi, cum sine cornibus adstas
   Virgineum caput est.'

   OVID, _Met._ l. 4.

For, as the great mystery of all religion, or of all being, is _life_,
and as life, like blood, is most aptly typified by reviving and
inspiring wine, it was not wonderful that renewed strength, generation,
and birth should gather around the incarnation of the vine, and that the
_cup_ should become the holiest of symbols. Like the ark, the chest or
coffer, the egg, and a thousand other receptive or _containing_ objects,
the cup appeared to the ancient Initiated as a womb, or as the earth,
taking in and giving forth life. It was in this spirit that NONNUS, in
the fifth century, wrote The Dyonisiacs, a vast poem on Bacchus, in
forty-eight books; 'a magnificent assemblage of the emblematical legends
of Egypt,' and in which modern criticism has discovered a creative
grandeur, a beautiful wildness of fancy, and a romantic spirit, such as
were combined in no other one poem of antiquity.

Bacchus was thus the lord of life, and that in a vividly _real_
sense--the sense of intoxication, of keenly thrilling pleasure, of wild
delight, and headlong rushing joy. He was fabled to have given men the
grape and wine--but to the Initiated of the mystery and orgie there was
higher and more intoxicating wine than that of the grape--the wine of
wild inspiration, drawn from the keenest relish of beauty, of nature, of
knowledge, and of love. Drunk with this wine of the soul, the Moenad
and Bacchante rushed forth into lonely forests, amid rocks, by silent
lake, and streamlet lone, and cried in frantic joy, bewildered with
passion, to the Great Parent, or shouted in praise: 'Bacche, Evoe,
Bacche!'

               'Then chaunted rose
   The song of Bacchic women: all the band
   Of shaggy Satyrs howled with mystic voice,
   Preluding to the Phrygian minstrelsy
   Of nightly orgies. Earth around them laughed;
   The rocks reechoed; shouts of revelling joy
   Shrilled from the Naiads, and the river nymphs
   Sent echoes from their whirlpool-circled tides,
   Flowing in silence; and beneath the rocks
   Chanted Sicilian songs, like preludes sweet,
   That through the warbling throats of Syren nymphs,
   Most musical drop of honey from their tongues.'

   NONNUS.

For all this wild joy, all this exquisite union of all the pleasures
known to man, whether in the mad embraces of passionate nymphs, in
draining wine, in tasting the fresh honeycomb, in wild dances under
green leaves, in feasting, or in song, Bacchus was the centre, and the
Cup the symbol. And this cup--the absolutely _feminine_ type--the _Iona_
which forms the nucleus of so great and so curious a family of words in
the Indo-Germanic and Shemitic languages--was fabled to have been formed
from the wood of Ivy. Let the reader hear this double sex of Bacchus in
mind; he will find it recurring again in the myth of Ivy. 'We must,'
says CREUZER (_Symbolik und Mythologie der Alten Voelker_), 'think of ALL
things, if we would not see the Bacchic genii in their mysterious rites,
from a one-sided point of view. Not only Bacchus himself, but his male
and female companions must each, like their lord on earth, appear in
_different_ forms. For the mysteries loved the antique, the
pregnant-with-meaning, _i. e._ that which has a really symbolical
fulness, and supplies full food for thought.' And again: 'It would have
been very strange if the Man-Woman had not also appeared in this
mysterious array of forms. In his origin, Bacchus is an Indian god, and
to the Hindus the world was bi-sexed.' Thus we find in the Ivy, as his
sacred plant, a curious and beautiful symbol, in whose trailing embraces
the ancient East and West are bound together.

If the Ivy cup was held to typify female nature, so too were the leaves
of that plant emblematical of the receptive sex. The thyrsus, the
distinctive object borne by the worshippers of Bacchus, was a phallic or
male symbol, the characteristic portion of which was wreathed and buried
in Ivy leaves; signifying the union of the sexes. It is curious to
observe that this regarding the Ivy as characteristic of the feminine
principle, found its way among the Druids, and was transmitted from them
to the Christian and Christmas ceremonies of the middle ages. In these
we always find that the thorned holly is spoken of as male, and the Ivy
as female. In the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for 1779, a correspondent
relates a ceremony, which is still preserved in some parts of England.
'The girls, from five or six to eighteen years old, were assembled in a
crowd, burning an uncouth effigy, which they called a _holly-boy_, and
which they had stolen from the boys; while in another part of the
village, the boys were burning what they called an _Ivy-girl_, which
they had stolen from the girls. The ceremony of each burning was
attended with huzzas and other acclamations, according to the receipt of
custom in all such cases.'[1]

There is but one legend in all the legends of the gods; but one
solution, though the enigmas be thousandfold; and the myth of the Ivy is
only a repetition of that of Bacchus and of all the immortals--the
endless allegory of birth and death, male and female, winter and spring.
_Kissos_--the Greek word for Ivy--was a young faun beloved by Bacchus,
who accompanied the god of the Cup and of life, in all his strange
adventures. Mad with wine, Kissos once at an orgie danced until he fell
dead. Then his lord, grieving bitterly, raised the beloved form in his
arms, and, changing it to Ivy, wreathed it around his brow. It is the
old story of death and revival.

But we may expect to find of course a feminine goddess, or demi-goddess,
whose name includes the same root as Kissos--and she appears in
_Kiseis_, one of the nymphs to whom Bacchus gave the infant Bacchus to
be brought up. For her reward, she was placed by Bacchus among the
stars--in the constellation of the weeping Hyades--that she might have a
place in heaven. Apropos of which we may quote the words of the quaint
old Jesuit GALTRUCHIUS, saying that 'Bacchus was brought up with the
Nymphs, which teacheth us that we must mix Water with our Wine.'[2]

We also find that _Kisaea_, was, at Epidaurus, one of the names of
Minerva. Notwithstanding the apparent dissimilarity between the wild god
of wine and the goddess of calm wisdom, it was still taught in the
mysteries that they had an affinity in more than one lower form, and, of
course, an _identity_ in their highest. 'The temple of Bacchus,' says
Galtruchius, 'was next to _Minerva's_, to express how useful Wine is to
revive the Spirits, and enable our Fancy to Invent.'[3] In the older
worship, Minerva was one with Venus, Diana, Proserpine--the generating
female principle of love and of beauty being of course predominant. 'In
this _unity_ or identity of barbarian divinities,' says Creuzer
(_Symbolik_, IV. _Theil_), ('to speak like the Greeks') 'we must,
however, seek for the source of that _variety_ which made the Greeks so
rich in gods; and what had in Hellas been separated into so many,
remained by the 'barbarians' single and undivided. Therefore the older a
Greek local worship might be, so much the more did it in this resemble
the barbarian. * * So we have truly learned in Argos, Laconia, Dodona,
and Sicily, * * that Proserpine was one and the same with Venus and
Diana, and the identity with Minerva may also be proved.' For the proof
I refer the reader to his work. With Venus, however, Bacchus had amours,
begetting Priapus. Certain it is that the Ivy _Kissos_ appears in both
male and female names.

But as the Ivy formed the cup--_kissubion_--into which life entered, and
from which it was drained as wine; so, too, from its wood was made the
sacred _chest_ (_kiste_) in which, in the Dyonisiac mysteries, the same
secret was preserved under the form of a serpent, while in the
Eleusinian it hid the dread pomegranate which Persephone had tasted. For
they were all one and the same, this wine and serpent and
pomegranate--the type of life and of knowledge--of human birth, and
human intellect--of the world's generation and of eternal wisdom. The
fruit of which Adam ate, the bread and wine of the holy supper of the
mysteries of all lands in all ages, the pomegranate, whose seeds, once
eaten, kept the soul in another life beyond death, all have _one_
meaning--and this meaning was that of infinite revival, endless
begetting, the renewal of nature--and with this the _knowledge_ of the
great mystery which sets the soul free. '_Eritis sicut Deus._'

It was no small honor for a single plant to have furnished the wreath of
Bacchus, the wood of his cup, emblematic of the human body containing
his life-blood, and the material for the chest of the great
mysteries--meaning also the body and the world. I think, however, that
its philological root may also be possibly found in the Greek noun
_kissa_, and the verb _kissao_, implying strange and excessive
passionate longing. Such yearning would well become the Bacchantae, the
wild children of desire and of Nature. It is longing or _desire_ which
leads to renewing life, which constitutes love, which flashes like fire
and light through the beautiful, and pours forth the wine, and breaks
the bread, and causes the rose-blush to bloom, and the nymphs to cry
amid the mountains, _Evoe Bacche!_

Coming down from the pagan mysteries into lower and more literal forms,
the Ivy preserved two meanings. It was already the vine of life, and the
early Christians laid it in the coffins of their departed, as the emblem
of a new life in Christ.[4] It had hung upon the limbs of naked nymphs,
convulsed in passionate orgies, as a type of vitality renewed by
pleasure--it was now wreathed at Christmas-tide over quaint columns and
tracery-laden Gothic windows and arches, as a sign--they knew not
exactly of what--but guessed, naturally enough, and rightly, that it
typified as an undying winter-plant the resurrection. And they sang its
praises in many a brave carol:

     IVY, chief of trees it is,
       _Veni coronaberis_.

   The most worthy she is in town,--
     He who says other says amiss;
   Worthy is she to bear the crown;
       _Veni coronaberis_.

   IVY is soft and meek of speech,
     Against all woe she bringeth bliss;
   Happy is he that may her reach:
       _Veni coronaberis_.

   IVY is green, of color bright,
     Of all trees the chief she is;
   And that I prove will now be right:
       _Veni coronaberis_.

   IVY, she beareth berries black;
     God grant to all of us his bliss,
   For then we shall nothing lack:
       _Veni coronaberis_.

Very quaint is the following fragment:

   Holly and Ivy made a great party,
   Who should have the mastery
                    In lands where they go.

   Then spake Holly, 'I am fierce and jolly,
   I will have the mastery
                    In lands where we go.'

   Then spake Ivy, 'I am loud and proud,
   And I will have the mastery
                   In lands where we go.'

   Then spake Holly, and bent him down on his knee,
   'I pray thee, gentle Ivy,
   Essay me no villany
                   In lands where we go.'

_Old Christmas Carol._

'Good wine needs no bush,' says an old proverb; but is it generally
known that the 'bush' in question, used as a sign for wine, was a bunch
of Ivy? The custom went from Greece to Italy, from Italy to Germany, and
so on westward. Very different is this use of the evergreen vine in
taverns, from that of adorning churches--the one meaning a mere
invitation to drink, while the other reminds the believer that, as the
Ivy lives through the bitter winter, so shall our souls endure through
cold death and live again in Christ, even as He passed through the grave
to live in 'eternal bloom.' Yet to those who have mastered the legend of
Bacchus, there is no absolute difference between the two, when studied
with regard to their origin. It is worth remarking that among the
ancients the impression prevailed that the Ivy was the plant of
joyousness, of triumphant strength, and of _life_, even as Bacchus was
the lord of joy. And at a later day, long after the association with
genial Bacchus was forgotten, the Ivy in popular lay and legend, and
quaint custom and holiday rite, still by some inexplicable association
always seemed to the multitude to be sweet and gentle, noble and dear.
It is such a feeling of love, derived from old traditions and old
worships, long forgotten, which makes the stork and the house-cricket
and the robin and dragon-fly and swallow so dear to children and grown
people in many parts of Europe. The rose is gone, but the perfume still
lingers in the old leaves of the manuscript. And the reader who
comprehends this may also comprehend the tender affection for the Ivy
expressed in the old Christmas carols which I have quoted, and which,
without such comprehension, seem absurd enough; while _with_ it, they
appear truly beautiful and touching.

As the symbol of a joyous faith, the Ivy seems to have been especially
repugnant to the Hebrews, whose stern monotheism admitted few attributes
to the Deity save those of tremendous power, vengeance, and gloom. So we
find (_Maccabees_, book ii., c. 6., v. 7) that it was regarded by them
as most horrible that, 'in the day of the king's birth, every month,
they were brought, by bitter constraint, to eat of the sacrifices; and,
when the feast of Bacchus was kept, the Jews were compelled to go in
procession to Bacchus, carrying Ivy.' A dislike to this emblem of
heathen joy seems, however, to have clung to them through all changes of
faith--a fact apparently well known to Ptolemy Philopater, king of
Egypt, who ordered that all the Jewish renegades who had abjured their
religion should be branded with an Ivy-leaf.

When the reader who may be interested in the architecture of the middle
ages meets in its tracery, as he often must, the Ivy-leaf, let him
recall that here is a symbol which was not used unthinkingly by the Free
Masons, who seldom lost an opportunity to bring forward their orientally
derived Nature-lore. In fact, the whole mass and body of mediaeval
architectural emblems presents nothing less than a protest of Nature and
life, independence and intelligence, knowledge and joyousness, against
the gloomy prison of form and tyranny which held Truth in chains. The
stone Ivy-leaf carved on the capitals of old cathedrals was as reviving
a symbol to the heart of the Initiated as was the living Ivy on the
walls without, green and beautiful among mid-winter's snow. It has been
well conjectured by a German writer (STIEGLITZ, _Archaeologie der
Baukunst der Griechen und Roemer_, Weimar, 1801, I _Theil_, Sec. 268), that
the relation of the Ivy to Bacchus was probably the cause why it was so
frequently introduced by the Greeks among the architectural ornaments of
their temples; a very natural conjecture, when we remember that it was a
firm conviction in the early faith, even of India, that where the Ivy
was found, the god had literally been. The same bold spirit of tradition
which brought into the very bosom of the church so much genial, latent
heresy and heathen daring, kept the Ivy alive--for Nature and Truth
_will_ live, and man will have his guardian angels, who will hope for
him and for the dawn, though buried in the deepest night and lost among
horrible dreams and ghastly incubi. A French writer on mediaeval art[5]
has declared that an excellent work might be written on the foliage of
Christian architecture, but regrets that the relations of the leaves as
employed--or, in fact, the law guiding their employment--should be
unintelligible. Let them be studied according to their symbolical and
antique meaning, and they will seem clear as legible letters; and to
those who can read them, the gloomy Gothic piles will ray forth a
strange and beautiful light--the sympathetic light of congenial minds
long passed away, yet who did not vanish ere they had breathed out to
those who were to come after them, in leaf or other character, their
hatred of _the tyrant_, and their unfailing conviction of the Great
Truth. GOD bless them all! I have studied for hours their solemn
symbols--each a cry for freedom and a prayer for light; and when I
thought of the gloom and cruelty and devilishness of the foul age which
pressed around them, I wondered that they, knowing what they did, could
have lived--ay, lived and sung and given a soul to art. And,
understanding them in spirit and in truth, every Ivy-leaf carved by them
seemed the whole Prometheus bound and unbound--yes, all poems of truth,
all myths, all religion.

And as it is the leaf of life, so is it by that very fact the leaf of
_death_; for death is only the water of life. And in this sense we find
a rare beauty in the poem by Mrs. Hemans, though she saw its truth, not
through the dim glass of tradition, but by direct communion with Nature.


   TO THE IVY.

   OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED
   IN THE CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.


   Oh! how could fancy crown with thee,
     In ancient days, the god of wine,
   And bid thee at the banquet be,
     Companion of the vine?
   Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
     Of revelry hath long been o'er;
   Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
     But now are heard no more.

   The Roman, on his battle plains,
     Where kings before his eagles bent,
   Entwined thee, with exulting strains,
     Around the victor's tent;
   Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
     Triumphantly thy boughs might wave--
   Better thou lov'st the silent scene
     Around the victor's grave.

   Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
     The bards and heroes of the past,
   Where through the halls of glory gone,
     Murmurs the wintry blast;
   Where years are hastening to efface
     Each record of the grand and fair--
   Thou, in thy solitary grace,
     Wreath of the tomb! art there.

   Oh! many a temple, once sublime
     Beneath a blue Italian sky,
   Hath nought of beauty left by time,
     Save thy wild tapestry.
   And, reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
     To wave where banners waved of yore,
   O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
     Along his rocky shore.

   High from the fields of air look down
     Those eyries of a vanished race,
   Homes of the mighty, whose renown
     Hath passed and left no trace.
   But thou art there--thy foliage bright,
     Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave--
   Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
     And deck the humblest grave.

   The breathing forms of Parian stone,
     That rise round grandeur's marble halls;
   The vivid hues by painting thrown
     Rich o'er the glowing walls;
   Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
     In sculptured beauty waving fair--
   These perished all--and what remains?
     --Thou, thou alone art there.

   'Tis still the same--where'er we tread,
     The wrecks of human power we see,
   The marvel of all ages fled,
     Left to decay and thee.
   And still let man his fabrics rear,
     August in beauty, grace, and strength,--
   Days pass, thou 'Ivy never sere,'[6]
     And all is thine at length.

There was a strange old belief that Ivy leaves worn as a garland
prevented intoxication, that wine was less exciting when drunk from a
cup of its wood, and that these cups had finally the singular property
of separating water from wine by filtration, when the two were
mingled--or, as it is expressed by MIZALDUS MONLUCIANUS in his
delightfully absurd 'Centuries,'[7] 'a cup of Ivy, called _cissybius_,
is especially fitted for two reasons, for feasts: firstly, because Ivy
is said to banish drunkenness; and secondly, because by it the frauds of
tavern keepers, who mix wine with water, are detected.' It is worth
remarking, in connection with this, that, according to LOUDON(_Arboretum
et Fruticetum Brittanicum_, c. 59), the wood of the Ivy is, when newly
cut, really useful as a filter, though it is highly improbable that
anything like a complete analysis of mingled water and wine can be
effected by it.

It may interest the literary critic, should he be ignorant of the fact,
to know that the golden-berried Ivy--worn by Apollo ere he adopted the
Daphnean laurel--is the plant consecrated to his calling. Witness Pope:

   'Immortal Vida, on whose honored brow
   The poet's bays and critic's Ivy grow.'

Perhaps it is given to the critics to remind them that they should be
kindly sheltering and warmly protecting to poor poets and others, who
may be greatly cheered by a little kindness. For there is an old legend
that the Druids decorated dwelling places with Ivy and holly during the
winter, 'that the sylvan spirits might repair to them, and remain
unnipped with frost and cold winds, until a milder season had renewed
the foliage of their darling abodes. (DR. CHANDLER, _Travels in
Greece_.) Think of this when ye ink your pens for the onslaught!

It is worth noting that in two or three 'Dream Books' the Ivy is set
down as indicating 'long-continued health, and new friendships'--an
explanation quite in keeping with its ancient symbolism, and still more
with its most literal and apparent meaning of _attachment_. This latter
sense has given poet and artist many a fine figure and image. 'Nothing,'
says ST. PIERRE in his _Studies of Nature_, 'can separate the Ivy from
the tree which it has once embraced: it clothes it with its own leaves
in that inclement season when its dark boughs are covered with hoar
frost. The faithful companion of its destiny, it falls when the tree is
cut down: death itself does not relax its grasp; and it continues to
adorn with its verdure the dry trunk that once supported it.'

And of the golden-berried Ivy, Spenser sings:

   'Emongst the rest, the clamb'ring Ivy grew,
     Knitting his wanton arms with grasping hold,
   Lest that the poplar happely should rew
     Her brother's strokes, whose boughs she doth enfold
   With her lythe twigs, till they the top survew
     And paint with pallid green her buds of gold.'

Madame DE GENLIS tells us of a true-hearted friend, who clung to a
fallen minister of state, through good and ill fortune, and followed him
into exile, that he adopted for a 'device' a fallen oak tree thickly
wound with Ivy, and with the motto: 'His fall cannot free me from him.'
An 'emblem' of the later middle age expresses undying conjugal love in a
like manner, by a fallen tree wound around with Ivy, beneath which, is
the inscription in Spanish: '_Se no la vida porque la muerte._'
(RADOWITZ, _Gesammelte Schriften_.) A not uncommon seal gives us the Ivy
with the motto; 'I die where I attach myself;' while yet another of the
ivied fallen trees declares that 'Even ruin cannot separate us.'

Ivy is the badge of the clan Gordon, and of all who bear that name. In
conclusion, lest my readers should object that the subject, though
eminently suggestive, has been treated entirely without a jest, I will
cite a quaint repartee, shockingly destructive of the sentiment just
cited:

'Woman,' said a lovelorn youth, 'is like Ivy--the more you are ruined,
the closer she clings to you.'

'And the closer she clings to you, the sooner you are ruined,' replied
an old cynic of a bachelor.

Poor man! He had never realized the truth of the French saying, that to
enjoy life, there is nothing like being ruined a little.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _New Curiosities of Literature, and Book of the Months._ BY GEORGE
SOANE, B.A. London, 1849, Vol. i., p. 57.

[2] _The Poetical History._ By P. GALTRUCHIUS. London 1678.

[3] Galtruchuis, c. 7.

[4] 'Hedera quo que vel laurus et hujusmodi, quae semper servant virorem,
in sarcophago corpori substernantur, ad significandum, quod qui
moriuntur in Christo, vivere non desinant; nam licet mundo moriantur
secundum corpus, tamen secundum animam vivunt et reviviscunt in
Deo.'--DURANDUS, _Ration. <DW37>. Offic._, lib. vii., cap 35.

[5] BERTY, _Dictionnaire de l'Architecture du Moyen Age_. Paris, 1845.

[6] 'Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.' MILTON'S _Lycidas_.

[7] 'Poculum ex hedera, cissybium dictum, ratione duplici conviviis
summe est accomodum: imprimis, quod hedera vini temulantiam, arcere
fertur: deinde quod cauponum fraudes, qui vinum aqua miscent, eo poculo
deprehenduntur.'--_Memorabilium, Utilium ac Jucundorum Centuriae Novem,
&c._ Paris, 1566.




THE MISHAPS OF MISS HOBBS.

   'New beauties push her from the stage;
   She trembles at the approach of age;
   And starts, to view the altered face
   That wrinkles at her in her glass.'

   TRUMBULL'S _Progress of Dulness_.


CHAPTER I.

Ann Harriet Hobbs was getting cured of her youth. 'She was going
backward,' as the French say of people when Time is running forward, and
they themselves are being forwarded a little too rapidly by his Express.
All the ladies said so of her; all the gentlemen said so; and, worse
than all, even the mirror made similar reflections a little--the only
difference being that the ladies and gentlemen said so behind her back,
but the mirror expressed it before her face. One by one her sisters and
companions ripened and were plucked by the admiring crowd, but Ann
Harriet remained untouched. No one even pinched her to see if she were
good. And finally, as the throng were rapidly passing on, it became her
settled conviction that she must shake herself into some one's hands, or
she would be left to wither forsaken on the ancestral tree.

Ann Harriet, like some patent medicines, was not bad to take. True,
children did not cry for her as they did for the famous cough lozenges
of old; but the fact was, that in Peonytown most of the people were
homoeopathists, and preferred small doses; therefore Ann Harriet, who
was popularly reported to weigh three hundred and one pounds--_vires
acquirit eundo_--was altogether too large a dose for any gentleman of
the homoeopathic persuasion. Possibly, if Ann Harriet could have been
divided into twin sisters of about one hundred and fifty pounds each,
her matrimonial chances would have greatly increased; for however it may
have been in years past, this putting two volumes into one is not at all
popular at the present _duo_-decimal time.

Business, too, was dull in Peonytown, and the men could not afford to
marry a wife who would require twenty-five yards for a dress, when they
could get one that ten yards would cover up.

Miss Hobbs's twenty-sixth birthday was approaching. She could see it in
the dim distance, and she knew too well that the twenty-seventh was
ready to follow it up; and that Time stepped heavier than he used
to--the clumsy fellow; for, 'handsome' as she was, she could see the
marks of his feet on her face.

Ann Harriet had an uncle residing in Boston, whom she had never seen,
but had often heard him favorably spoken of by her mother, whose only
brother he was. Ann therefore determined that she would write to her
Uncle Farnsworth, and ask him if it would be agreeable should she visit
him for a few weeks.

Her letter met with a cordial response from the old gentleman, who
expressed himself 'highly gratified at the prospect' of seeing his
sister's daughter; named the day for her to come, and said that Gregory,
his son, would meet her at the railroad station in Boston, when the
train arrived.

Ann Harriet had never been in Boston, and the thoughts of a journey
thither animated her 'to a degree.' Her wardrobe was renovated; a
bran-new bonnet was purchased; and as all Peonytown was informed that it
was to be deprived of her presence for several weeks, the
'meeting-house' was of course filled on the following Sunday to hear
Parson Bulger preach about it; for he was one of the new-fashioned
ministers, who considered the Bible as a wornout book, and generally
preached from a newspaper text, or the last exciting piece of news.
Alas! they were disappointed; for the sermon was on Barnum's Baby Show.

The appointed day came, and Ann Harriet paid Seth Bullard, the butcher's
boy, a quarter of a dollar to 'carry' her and her luggage over to the
Yellowfield depot, where she was to take the cars for Boston. She bore
in her hand a rhubarb pie, nicely tied up in a copy of the _Peonytown
Clarion_, which was intended as a gift for her Aunt Farnsworth. It was a
pie she made with her own hands, and would have taken a prize for size
at any cattle show.

After asking engineer, brakeman, and conductor which they thought the
safest car, and getting a different answer from each, she finally
ensconced herself in the third car from the engine. Opening the window,
her attention was attracted by a neat tin sign, on which was painted,
'_Look out for Pickpockets!_'

'Now, that is kind,' said she, 'to give people notice. I forgot all
about pickpockets. I would really like to see some, and will certainly
look out for them.''

She accordingly thrust her head and neck out of the car window, and
looked sharply at the bystanders. While engaged in this detective
service, the signal was given, and the cars started, when Miss Hobbs,
thinking it was needless to keep up a longer lookout, reentered, and was
surprised to find a nice-looking young man by her side. He wore a heavy
yellow watchguard, yellow kid gloves, and a moustache to match,
patent-leather boots, a poll-parrot scarf, and a brilliant breast-pin.
Ann Harriet was delighted to have such a companion; and her wish that he
would enter into conversation was soon gratified.

'Travelling far?' asked the 'city-looking chap.'

'Yes, sir; I am going to my uncle's, in Boston,' replied Ann Harriet.

'Taking a vacation, I suppose?' continued he of the yellow kids.

['How delightful!' thought Miss Hobbs; 'he takes me for a
boarding-school girl.']

'For a few weeks,' replied she, with a bland smile; and dropping her
black lace veil to improve her really fine complexion, knowing, as well
as Shakspeare, that

   'Beauty, blemished once, is ever lost,
   In spite of physic, painting, pains, and cost.'

'Is not this Miss Hobbs, of Peonytown?' suddenly asked the proprietor of
the patent leathers, after a few minutes' conversation.

'Why! yes; how _did_ you know?' was Ann Harriet's reply.

'Oh, I had a friend as went to the academy in Peonytown, and he always
kept me posted up on the pretty girls; and he talked about you so often,
I knew it _must_ be Miss Hobbs,' was the flattering answer.

'How strange!' thought Ann Harriet. 'Well, it proves that I am not
wholly overlooked by the young men of my native village.' She did not
remember that she carried a little satchel, on which the stranger had
read, 'ANN HARRIET HOBBS, _Peonytown_.'

At this time a boy entered the car with a supply of ice water for
thirsty passengers. In handing a glassful to Miss Hobbs, he spilled a
part on the floor.

'What a waste!' remarked he.

Ann Harriet blushed deep crimson--fat folks are always sensitive--and,
with a grave, fat, solemn air, she said:

'I think you are quite rude, sir.'

'I'd like to know how?' inquired he, with a look of surprise.

'By making remarks on my waist, sir. No gentleman would be guilty of
such an offence,' replied the indignant lady.

Fortunately, the train at this juncture stopped at a way station, and
the yellow moustache, poll-parrot scarf, and kid gloves got out, first
bowing very politely to their late companion. Ann Harriet was a little
sorry to have their inmate go, but consoled herself with the thought
that he was altogether too familiar.

About fifteen miles farther on, an orange boy made his appearance; and
Ann, thinking an orange would moisten her throat, felt for her
portemonnaie, and found it not; for, while she was so intently looking
_out_ for pickpockets at Yellowfield, her agreeable companion had
appropriated her cash, by looking _in_ her pocket.

'_There!_ that dandy villain has robbed me of my wallet, with fifteen
dollars in it, and the receipt for Sally Lunn cake I was going to give
Aunt Farnsworth!' exclaimed she, placidly. Stout folks bear disasters
calmly. Luckily, she had two or three dollars in her satchel, which she
had received from the ticket master when she purchased her ticket, so
she was not entirely bankrupt. Some of the passengers attempted to
sympathize with her, but they found it a thankless task, and soon
desisted.

Ann Harriet, her griefs digested, drew herself into as compact a compass
as possible, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.

The cars rolled, in due time, into the noisy station at Boston, and our
traveller, after much exertion and trepidation, safely reached the
platform, with her rhubarb pie unharmed. She looked anxiously around for
her cousin Gregory, whom she had never seen, save in his _carte de
visite_, and by that she found him in a few minutes. Gregory was a
handsome man, quite young, and dressed in a neat suit of light clothes,
donned that afternoon for the first time. He had never seen his cousin,
and was therefore not a little surprised when the corpulent beauty
introduced herself as Miss Ann Harriet Hobbs, of Peonytown. Gregory had
come down to the station with a light buggy, in which he intended to
convey his fair relative home, but at the first glance saw that it would
be disastrous both to the buggy and Ann Harriet to attempt any such
feat. He therefore escorted her to a hack, and left her a moment. While
he was gone, Ann Harriet, who had forgotten all her troubles in the
contemplation of riding home with her handsome cousin, laid the rhubarb
pie on the opposite seat of the carriage, reserving the place by her
side for Gregory. But this gentleman, not feeling sure that he would
find room by the side of his massive cousin, when he entered the
carriage, sat hastily down opposite her. _Crash_ went the _Peonytown
Clarion_, and 'sqush' went the juicy rhubarb, completely saturating
Gregory's new garments. Ann Harriet gave a loud shriek, exclaiming: 'Oh!
you have spoilt that nice pie that I made for Aunt Priscilla, from Mrs.
Wilkins's receipt.'

'Hang Mrs. Wilkins's receipt!' exclaimed Gregory, who was imperturbable.
'I think I shall have to get some one to reseat my pantaloons.'

There was nothing to be done but to drive home as quickly as possible.
The hackman was paid for the damage to his vehicle, and Gregory hastened
up stairs to resume the old suit which only a few hours before he had
thrown aside disdainfully.

Ann Harriet found her uncle's family all that she expected. They found
her a little more than they expected. Everything was done to make her
comfortable. Aunt Farnsworth condoled with her niece on the loss of her
money, and the receipt for Sally Lunn cake. They brought a fan to cool
her, and placed a footstool for her feet. Her cousin Miranda exhibited a
photograph album containing all the family likenesses, besides a number
they had purchased to fill up the book, such as the Prince of Wales,
McClellan, Stonewall Jackson, Beauregard, and Butler. All this comforted
her greatly, and Ann Harriet was much interested, but was obliged to
inquire which were fighting for the North, and which for the South--'she
had heard something about it, but was not thoroughly informed,'--for, to
tell the truth, the only medium for news in Peonytown was the _Clarion_,
and the only portion of even that which Ann Harriet attended to was the
deaths, marriages, and dry goods.

The remainder of the day passed quietly, and the hour for retiring
approached. Before Ann Harriet's arrival, it had been arranged that she
should share Miranda's bed; but it was now very evident that Ann would
get very much more than her share, and it was therefore decided to give
her a bed to herself. A lamp was brought, and Aunt Farnsworth escorted
her to her room, and bade her good night. Ann Harriet had the usual
share of curiosity which all females--even plump ones--possess; and
wishing to know how a Boston street appeared in the evening, she hoisted
the curtain with a vigorous jerk, and looked forth: it was not a very
beautiful scene; long rows of brick houses stretched away on either
side, relieved at intervals by the street lamps and loafers, which, as
they appeared at a distance, reminded her of a torchlight procession she
had witnessed once in Peonytown, when the Hickory Club turned out with
twenty torches and a  lantern. Having satisfied her eyes with the
view, she attempted to draw down the curtain, and found that it would
not move. She had pulled it up so vigorously that the cord had slipped
from the wheel, and rendered the curtain immovable. By stepping on a
chair she could, indeed, reach and adjust it; but the only chairs in the
room were cane-seated, and seemed altogether too fragile for such a
weighty lady as Ann Harriet. To add to her perplexity, the dwelling
directly opposite was a boarding house, full of young men; and she
noticed that one or two of them had already discovered her, and that the
news was probably being communicated to all their fellow boarders, for
in a very few minutes every window had two or more spectators at it,
armed with opera or eye glasses, while one saucy fellow had a telescope
three feet long. What to do she did not know: there was but one window
in the room, and no recess into which her portly beauty could retreat.
Once more she tried the curtain, giving it a forcible twitch, and this
time it came down--but the whole fixture came with it, and, after
striking her on the head, slid out of the window into the street, much
to the amusement of the spectators opposite.

Here was a dilemma--and what would her aunt say? She had to give up all
hope of excluding the gaze of her impudent neighbors. Poor damsel! She
would have asked assistance of some of the family, but they had all been
asleep some time, and she disliked to disturb them. Finally, she decided
to extinguish her light and undress in bed--a difficult undertaking,
which was, however, accomplished, with the loss of sundry strings and
buttons; and Ann Harriet laid her wearied head on the pillow, and
thought her troubles for that day were over. But Sleep forsakes the
wretched, and her eyes would not 'stay shut.' While coaxing them to
'stay down,' she was startled by a flash of light on the wall and an
explosion, then another, and then a third, accompanied by a shower of
gravelly substance in her face and eyes. Miss Hobbs, as we have seen,
was

   'A woman naturally born to fears,'

and this sudden and inexplicable exhibition of fireworks in her chamber
almost burst the strings of her night cap, by causing her curly black
hair to stand on end.

The mischievous young men opposite had procured a _sarbacane_--vulgarly
known as a 'bean-blower,'--and were shooting torpedoes into Ann
Harriet's chamber. Not daring to rise to shut the window, she was wholly
at their mercy; but fortunately their stock of ammunition was limited to
half a dozen pellets, and in a few minutes the bombardment ceased.

About midnight Ann Harriet fell into a deep slumber, and when she awoke
the broad sunshine was illuminating her chamber, while the rattling of
teams along the paved streets reminded her that she was in the great
metropolis of New England. She missed the green foliage and healthy
perfume and bird songs of her pleasant country home: all she could see
was a combination of bricks, slate, and stone; and not a green thing was
visible in the street, save a few Irish servants, who were washing off
the doorsteps and sidewalks. In the middle of the cobble stones lay the
curtain which had fallen during the scene of the previous evening, muddy
and torn, its sticks broken by the heavy wagons which had passed over
it. A glance at the hostile boarding-house assured her that all was
quiet there; so, after arranging her dress with studied nicety, and
disposing her hair in the most enchanting style--and Ann Harriet was
really neat and winsome--she descended to the breakfast room. Her cousin
Gregory was the only person present--he sat by the window, reading.
After the customary greeting, Ann Harriet inquired what interested him.

'I have been glancing over an article called 'Ludicrous Exaggerations,'
in Leigh Hunt's _Indicator_,' replied Gregory, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes.

Ann Harriet did not notice any point to this remark, but said: 'I do not
remember having seen that book.'

'What have _you_ been reading lately?' pursued Gregory.

'Oh! I have begun a splendid book that Mrs. Orrin Pendergast lent me; I
have forgotten who wrote it, but its name is 'The Bloody Butcher's
Bride; or, The Demon of Dandelion Dell.'

Here Gregory was so impolite as to burst into a loud laugh, much to the
discomfiture of Ann Harriet, who was on the point of describing a
thrilling scene in the story.

'I see nothing to laugh at,' remarked she, solemnly; 'it is a _very_
nice book, Cousin Gregory. Why, some parts of it were so powerful that
it made me tremble all over.'

'It _must_ have been powerful,' said Gregory, drily.

'You're a saucy fellow,' said his cousin. 'But, by the way, where is
that new suit that was damaged yesterday? You do not look so stylish
this morning.'

'Stylish? I hope not. I hate that word; it is only fit to be applied to
pigs; they always look sty-lish,' replied Gregory.

The door opened, and the rest of the family appeared, much to Ann
Harriet's discomfort, for she liked her cousin, and was just thinking
how she could make an impression upon him. The surest way would have
been to sit in his lap.

They seated themselves at the table, when the customary question came
from Aunt Farnsworth:

'How did you rest last night, Ann Harriet?'

This, of course, called forth the history of the mishaps she had
experienced, and the indignation of her uncle and aunt was great when
they heard how the occupants of the boarding house had behaved.

'Those young men over there are Boarder Ruffians,' remarked Gregory.

'Mercy!' exclaimed his fat cousin; 'if I had known that, I shouldn't
have slept a wink all night. I have heard Miss Pendergast tell about
those awful men: she had a sister out in Kansas, and a parcel of Border
Ruffians came to her house one Sabbath day and ate up everything she
had, and then carried off her cow and five pullets.'

'What cow-ardly and chicken-hearted fellows, to rob a poor woman in that
manner!' remarked Gregory, grimly.

'Oh yes,' said Ann Harriet; 'and they spit tobacco juice all over her
clean floor, and whittled all over the hearth, and told her it was lucky
for her that she was a widow, for if she hadn't been, they would have
made her one. I should think you would feel dreadfully to have a whole
houseful right opposite.'

'We do feel pretty dreadfully,' replied Gregory; 'often.'

'Miranda, you must have a little company while your cousin is here, and
make her acquainted with some of the ladies and gentlemen of the city,'
said Aunt Farnsworth.

'I should like to, very much, mother; and if you are willing, I will set
about it immediately after breakfast; and perhaps I can arrange things
so as to have it to-morrow night,' was Miranda's reply.

This suggestion was eagerly seconded by Gregory, who always enjoyed the
social parties that his sister had a peculiar knack in getting up at
short notice.

Their pleasant anticipations of the _soiree_ were suddenly checked by
quite a melancholy mishap to the solid Ann Harriet. In reaching forward
to receive a cup of coffee from her aunt, she was obliged to rise a
little from her seat. Now, the chair in which she was sitting had been
broken the day before and was glued together, strong enough for any
ordinary usage, but wholly inadequate to sustain such a weight as now
taxed it; so when Ann 'set back' into the furniture, the already
strained joints came apart, and she felt herself descending to the
floor; to save herself, she clung to the edge of the table, but, of
course, that was no support; on the contrary, it tilted up and launched
its whole contents over the prostrate form of the unfortunate Ann
Harriet. There she lay, pinned to the floor by the heavy table, while
her face and neck and dress were covered with butter, gooseberry pie,
hot coffee, broken eggs, and slices of fried ham. The carpet was in a
similar condition, and the Old Dominion coffee-pot was found expiring
under the sofa.

Mr. Farnsworth, in an attempt to save the table from going over, lost
his own balance, and fell flounder-flat on the floor, where he lay
shuddering, with his hair in a dish of Shaker apple-sauce: the rest of
the family escaped unscathed, but were sadly astonished at the sudden
turn things had taken.

Mr. Farnsworth and Gregory raised the fallen table to its former
position, and Miranda set about collecting the scattered dishes.

'I knew that we were going to breakfast, but I did not think we should
break so fast as that,' remarked Gregory, ruefully.

Ann Harriet, up to this time, had retained her consciousness, when it
suddenly occurred to her that, in the stories she had read, the heroines
always fainted when anything unusual happened; so she shut up her eyes
and began to gasp, just as her uncle and cousin were about to assist her
to her feet.

'She is faint; get some water, quick!' exclaimed Miranda.

Gregory seized the 'Old Dominion,' and dashed what coffee there was left
in it on Ann's face, then threw on all the cream in the pitcher, and
wound up his frightful orgie by emptying over her locks a lot of brown
sugar from a bowl which stood near. The effect was that the faint damsel
'came to' very fast, and requested to be helped up. Her aspect was
remarkably ludicrous; the moistened sugar, clinging to her hair and
plastering up her eyes, caused so much mirth on Gregory's part that he
could hardly restrain it within the bounds of politeness.

'Oh, _do_ help me up!' implored Ann Harriet.

Easier said than done. Mr. Farnsworth took hold of one arm, and Gregory
the other, but their united effort was not sufficient. Mr. Farnsworth
had but recently recovered from an attack of the rheumatism--and apple
sauce--and was by no means strong enough for such work; while Gregory
was so full of laughter that it deprived him of half his strength. After
one or two futile attempts, Miranda had a happy thought: she ran into
the parlor and brought out half a dozen thick volumes of music; then
Gregory and his father lifted Ann Harriet as far as they could at one
effort, while Miranda pushed a book under; at the next lift, a second
book was inserted, and this movement was repeated until Ann was
seated--_alto_ and _allegro_--on a pile of six large music books. Aunt
Farnsworth then brought a basin of water, and carefully bathed her
niece's face, removing all traces of the catastrophe, in which she was
assisted by a copious flood of tears from Ann's eyes--so copious,
indeed, that Gregory guessed there would be a rainbow when she ceased.

In about twenty minutes 'things were put as near to rights as possible,'
but their appetites, like the breakfast, were thoroughly spoilt; so
Miranda and her cousin went up stairs to make their plans for the
entertainment, which was to be given in honor of the fair Peonytowner.
This kept them busy all day; for there was shopping to be done, pastry
and cake to be made, dresses to be 'fixed,' and other arrangements, 'too
numerous to mention.'

Ann Harriet's thoughts dwelt incessantly on the appointed evening; the
iron would then be hot, and she knew that she must strike, or lose a
golden opportunity for exchanging the desolate monotony of a heavy
single life for the sparkling, honorable, enviable title of wedded wife.

Surely, Ann Harriet, he who leads thee to the altar will possess a brave
and stout heart--one on whom you, although fat, can lean, and of whose
home you, though heavy, will be the light. You will so fill his heart
that there will be no room for discontent, melancholy, or any evil or
mischievous visitor. Whoever the fortunate man may be, you can rest
assured that you will exceed his greatest expectations, and he will not
attempt to exaggerate your charms and attractions.


CHAPTER II.

   'There was music and mirth in the lighted saloon;
   The measure was merry--our hearts were in tune;
   While hand linked with hand in the graceful quadrille,
   Bright joy crowned the dance, like the sun on the rill,
   And beamed in the dark eyes of coquettes and snobs;
   But the belle of the hall was Ann Harriet Hobbs.'

   MRS. OSGOOD (with slight variation).


Bright shone the gas at Mr. Farnsworth's on the evening of the grand
_soiree_ given for the gratification of Ann Harriet, who was anxious to
see some of the beaux of Boston. Both of the parlor chandeliers were in
full blaze, much to the delight of Miss Hobbs, who, after gazing at them
in admiration, expressed the wish that her friend surnamed Pendergast
might see such a sight.

'That takes the shine all off of Miss Pendergasses' double back-action,
self-adjusting, anti-corrosive, herring-bone, powerloom lamp, don't it,
my dear cousin?' asked Gregory, who had been regaled several times with
an account of a wonderful lamp that burnt one hour at a cost of only ten
cents, or ten hours at a cost of one cent--Gregory never could remember
which.

'Now, Gregory, if you bother me so, I sha'n't tell you anything more;
please hand me that fan on the table, and tell me who that man is by the
corner of the mantelpiece.'

'That is Captain Dobbs; he is very fond of poetry, and has written some,
too; but it was never published, for the editors charged too much for
putting it into their papers. Shall I introduce him to you?' said
Gregory.

'A captain and a poet, too? Oh, certainly, I should be delighted to know
him,' replied Ann Harriet, who began to cool down her countenance by a
vigorous application of the fan, while Gregory went after the poetical
captain. He was soon back again, and presented him, as follows:

'Captain Dobbs, Miss Hobbs; Miss Hobbs, Captain Dobbs.'

The Captain bowed so low that Ann Harriet could see the brass buttons on
the back of his coat, and then, taking her hand, he said, earnestly:

'I rejoice exceedingly that our acquaintance with each other should have
commenced under such charming auspices!'

Now, they were standing directly under one of the beautiful chandeliers,
which glistened with brilliant pendants; and Ann, supposing that the
gallant Captain alluded to them, accordingly replied:

'Yes, they are very charming auspices, and make a beautiful jingle.'

What the Captain really alluded to was the rhyming of their names when
Gregory introduced them; the jingle of the rhyme pleased him much, and
he regarded it as propitious to their future acquaintance: Ann Harriet's
reply happened to suit the case precisely, and placed her in high
estimation with the Captain.

Drummond Dobbs was about thirty-two years of age, a gentleman, and a
right good fellow, but so _very_ sentimental that few ladies could
endure his company. Yet was he anxious to please the fair sex and be
popular with them: unfortunately, he supposed that the way to be so was
to shower on them love-sick poetry and sentimental speeches; 'he wore
his heart upon his sleeve,' fell in love with every new face, and had
been rejected a score of times; he comforted himself, however, with the
very scaly proverb, 'there is as good fish in the sea as ever was
caught,' and--cast in his line for another chance. He had tried poor
women and rich women, young school-girls and elastic old maids,
brunettes and blondes, but all in vain; and the moment he saw Ann
Harriet he determined to make one more attempt to secure a heart that
should beat for him alone, an ear that should be ever on the alert for
his footstep, and eyes that should sparkle only when he was near.

Ann Harriet, on her part, saw all in Captain Dobbs that she could wish
for; and she thought that if she could return to Peonytown with a live
captain as her affianced lover, she should be the happiest of fat girls.
What a sensation she would create on Sunday, when she went to meeting
arm in arm with him, and _how_ the folks would stare at his bright
buttons and shoulder straps! She wondered if he would wear a 'trainer
hat,' with feathers in it.

To Captain Dobbs, Ann Harriet Hobbs was 'a devilish fine-looking woman;'
there was something tangible in a woman like that, sir; _she_ was not
one of your flimsy, languid girls, with waist like the stem of a goblet.
Somebody had said,'the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat,' but he did
not believe in that; he wanted a _wife_, and if he could get one twice
the size of any one else's, so much the better, by Jove!

Gregory, with the tact of Young America, saw instantly what the result
of an evening's interview would be; so, telling Dobbs that he would find
his cousin from Peonytown very in-_fat_-uating, he left them to their
own enjoyment.

'It is very singular,' remarked the Captain, promptly, 'how much alike
our names are: Hobbs and Dobbs!'

'Yes; but I think that yours is much the prettiest; I always hated the
name of Hobbs,' remarked Ann Harriet.

'Hate Hobbs? Well, I detest Dobbs; but you have the advantage of me, for
you can change yours without much trouble,' replied the Captain.

He did not know that Ann Harriet had been longer, and at more trouble,
in trying to get her name changed, than if she had applied to seven
legislatures. She blushed deeply, and raised her fan to hide the rosy
hue--but it was a small, round fan, and only partially concealed her
face, leaving a crimson disk of two inches around it. Captain Dobbs was
delighted; a blush to him was a certain proof of maiden coyness, and
bespoke a heart so full of love that every emotion sent it mantling to
the face.

Gregory here returned, to say that they were getting up a dance, and
Captain Dobbs and his cousin must certainly join in it.

'But I never danced in my life!' said Ann Harriet, innocently.

'Oh, never mind _that_; it is a very simple dance--the Virginia Reel;
every one can dance that; only do as others do,' replied Gregory.

Ann Harriet, accepting Captain Dobbs's proffered arm, proceeded to the
room where the arrangements for the dance were progressing.

'I understand that Miss Hobbs is the star of this business,' remarked
Mr. Pickett to Gregory, as he crammed himself behind a bookcase, to
allow the lady and her escort to go by.

'Star? ' repeated Gregory. 'Yes; the full moon of the concern.'

'You mean of the firm,' quoth Pickett.

'Yes,' replied Gregory, 'the full moon of the firm, I meant.'

The dancers took their places, and a merry tune soon set them in motion.
Ann Harriet watched the others carefully, and soon understood the
figure. At length her turn came to advance. She performed her part very
well until she came to that step known as _dos a dos_, and here her good
luck forsook her; for, in stepping back, she struck with full force her
companion, a slim young man with shell eyeglasses, and sent him forward
with an impetus which was only checked by his coming in collision with a
plaster-of-Paris pedestal, on which stood a bust of General Zachary
Taylor; his head penetrated the column, and the bust came down on his
back with a thump that nearly knocked the breath out of his body. His
eyeglasses were shattered, his soul rent, and his shirt bosom torn
asunder. The unfortunate youth gathered himself up and retreated to an
anteroom, where he rearranged his disordered clothing; but was not seen
again, having disappeared through a side door and hastened home.

Ann Harriet came out of the collision like a second 'Monitor,' unscathed
and undaunted; indeed, she was not aware that anything unusual had
happened till she heard the crash, and then was surprised to learn that
she was the cause of the catastrophe.

When our heroine heard how serious the collision had been, she felt much
disturbed, until Gregory observed that, although she had been backward
in causing the mishap, she should not be backward in making what
reparation she could.

On this suggestion, Ann Harriet inquired the whereabouts of Mr. Google,
and learning that he was in an anteroom, started in search of him. She
found herself in the supper room, hurrying across which, she pulled open
a door on the other side with such a vigorous effort of elephantine
strength, as to precipitate a waiter, who had just caught hold of the
handle, headlong into the room. The unfortunate servitor, who was
dressed in white cravat and black coat, landed under the supper table,
where he lay motionless. Ann Harriet made her way back to the parlor as
quickly as possible, where she startled the visitors by exclaiming:

'Oh dear, come here, quick! I have killed a minister!'

Miss Helen Bumpus, who was playing a quickstep on the pianoforte,
uttered a sharp shriek, which was echoed from various parts of the room,
and the whole company, headed by Captain Dobbs, followed Ann Harriet to
the scene of the disaster.

When they reached the dining room they found her 'minister' sitting on
the floor, rubbing his head, and using language more appropriate to one
of Captain Kidd's profession than to an expounder of the gospel. When
the damaged waiter saw the immense crowd entering the room, he vanished
into the kitchen amid shouts of laughter from the assembly, who
comprehended at once Miss Hobbs's error. Ann Harriet felt much relieved
to find that the accident was no worse, and explained the mishap to her
friends, ending by inquiring what denomination he belonged to. Gregory
informed her that the individual was not a clergyman, but a lay-man and
a waiter.

Soon after, the guests were requested to repair to the supper room, and
each gentleman chose his partner for the occasion. Unfortunately for Ann
Harriet, Captain Dobbs chanced to be at the farther end of the room, and
before he reached the object of his adoration she had already accepted
the arm of an exquisite youth with patent eyeglass, pink necktie, and
tomato- moustache. The disappointment nearly destroyed Dobbs's
appetite. He had intended to be irresistibly attentive to Miss Hobbs; to
furnish her with every little delicacy the table afforded; and _now_,
she must depend upon the languid movements of a 'snob:' it was too bad,
by Jove!

The table was elegantly decorated with flowers, and the neatly prepared
dishes and ministerial waiters presented a scene which to Ann Harriet's
vision was enchanting.

'What shall I have the pleasure of obtaining for you?' asked Mr.
Struttles of Ann Harriet.

'Let me see,' replied Ann. 'It's some time since I eat anything, and I
feel pretty hungry: if you will get me a plateful of pandowdy[8] and
some ginger snaps, I shall feel thankful.'

Mr. Struttles was a very polite man, and would not laugh in a lady's
face for a farm; but his tomato-hued moustache quivered, and he had to
frown fiercely to conceal the laughter which threatened to burst him
asunder.

'What amuses you so much, Strut?' asked a friend, who found him a few
moments later in the entry, giggling all by himself.

'Oh dear! I shall die!' he replied, shaking with mirth; 'that fat girl
asked me to get her something to eat that I never heard of: I believe
she called it _slam dowdy_, or rip snap, or something like that, and, of
course, there is nothing of the kind on the table.'

'Go and tell her it is all eaten up,' suggested the friend; 'article all
sold.'

Struttles had not thought of that; it was a good idea, so off he went
and told Ann Harriet that the object she wished had been so fashionable
that it was all devoured before he reached it.

'Oh, well! I had just as lief have some gingerbread and a pickle-lime,'
was her calm response.

Struttles rushed desperately to the table, filled a plate full of
anything that came handy, brought it to his dame, and informed her that
there was not a pickled lime to be had. Ann Harriet did not care; she
was soon busy devouring the contents of the plate, while Struttles stood
by, chuckling and grinning.

Captain Dobbs, in the mean time, was doing all he could to make hungry
and handsome Miss Helen Bumpus happy, by giving her oyster salad, ice
cream, frozen pudding, and cake, with plenty of champagne to wash it
down; but his heart was with Ann Harriet, and many an anxious glance he
bestowed on her, to see if she was well supplied with the niceties of
the festive board. He thrilled with joy at seeing her behind a plate
piled nearly as high as her chin with a variety of cakes, tarts, fruits,
and jellies.

After a while every one was surfeited, and gradually the supper room was
deserted, leaving none but the waiters, who quickly cleared away what
there was left of the supper.

On entering the parlor, Captain Dobbs caught a view of himself in a
large mirror, and saw to his dismay that he had not escaped the usual
fate of gallants who endeavor to make themselves agreeable to the ladies
in a crowded supper-room; lumps of blanc-mange adhered to his shirt
bosom; particles of calf's-foot jelly coruscated like gems on his
patent-leather gaiters, and quivering oysters hung tenaciously to his
coat sleeves. He looked around for some place of refuge where he could
retire and remove the remnants of the banquet, and espying a side room
apparently deserted, there being no light in it, stepped in, and, taking
off his coat, commenced the task of restoring it to its pristine
splendor. While doing this, he was startled by a sound so singular that
his coat nearly fell from his hand, so alarmed was he. Glancing at the
door, his eyes met the known form of Ann Harriet, when he instantly
hurried on his coat in horror, and, apologizing to his fair friend for
being caught without it, referred to the curious noise he had heard.

'What did it sound like?' asked Ann Harriet.

The Captain tried in vain to find a simile; he had never heard anything
that resembled it; and Ann Harriet's suggestions as to what it might
have been were equally fruitless.

The truth was, that when Miss Hobbs appeared at the threshold of the
door she heaved a deep sigh, and it was this that startled her lover;
but as he had his head in a stooping position, and was busy brushing his
coat, the sound seemed to him to come from the farther end of the room,
which was obscured in darkness. He was not aware that fat ladies' sighs
were proportionate to their size. However, now that his heart's idol was
present, he cared nothing for aught else; so, taking her small hand, he
led her to the window, and they stood gazing with mutual consent at the
starry heavens. Gregory spied them there, and mischievously closed the
door. What conversation ensued is only known to the two who were engaged
in it, but every one noticed that when Ann Harriet reappeared her step
was light if not actually fantastic, and her mild countenance beamed
with a moonlike radiance, so serenely bright as to reveal a heart
buoyant with bliss. Soon after, the company dispersed, and the damsel,
retiring to her dormitory, was soon dreaming sweetly of 'her betrothed,'
and imagined that all the bells in Peonytown were rung on her wedding
day.

Sleep on, Ann Harriet! Thou hast waited long for the happy hour; but
thou wert thyself weighty, and it was fit that thou, too, shouldst deal
deliberately in matters of _'great' weight_.

The next day she informed her uncle of her intention to marry the
accomplished Drummond Dobbs, and received his hearty approval; for
Dobbs's character was good, and without a scar.

The nuptials were to take place without delay, and so Ann Harriet
hastened home to make the requisite arrangements.


CHAPTER III.

   'In wedlock a species of lottery lies,
   Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;
   But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
   Should so long have remained in the wheel?'

   MOORE.

Ann Harriet was determined that her wedding should be a romantic one;
she said that it was by no means an every-day affair, and therefore it
should be carried out in a style proportionate to its rarity. After
consulting Mrs. Pendergast, and searching through a pile of 'New York
Dashers,' she was much inclined to a midnight wedding, especially as
Mrs. Pendergast offered to loan her patent lamp for the occasion; but
when they suddenly happened to hear of a marriage celebrated in the wild
and picturesque woods of the White Hills, it was immediately decided
that there was no better place; so sacred a ceremony should be performed
'under the broad canopy of heaven,' and the birds of the air and the
countless leaves of the trees should sing their epithalamium.

After some search, it was decided that the happy spot should be on
'Huckleberry Hill,' a picturesque elevation about a mile from the
postoffice in Peonytown, covered with a luxurious growth of pines and
hemlocks, interspersed with huckleberry bushes, sweet fern, and
mullenstalks. A small, open place was selected, where the long moss made
a beautiful carpet, and the tall trees on every side entwined their arms
as lovingly together as if they, too, were about to take each other 'for
better for worse,' while the ripple of a brook hidden in the woods lent
a pleasant melody to the scene.

'This is the place of all others,' remarked Ann Harriet. 'Houses may
burn down or decay, churches may be sold and turned into ice-cream
saloons and lager-beer depots--as Mr. Dunstable's was; but these lofty
pines and rugged hemlocks will stand for centuries, to mark the spot
where, in my girlhood, I plighted my troth to that _dear_ Dobbs.'

Preparations for the bridal went gloriously on. The Peonytown dressmaker
was busy day and evening in making up the trousseau of the expectant
bride. The wedding dress was to be of fine white muslin, and no
ornaments to detract from its spotless purity.

The important day at length arrived. The sun rose warm, brilliant, calm,
and cloudless--and so did Ann Harriet. Her heart beat quick and
tumultuously as the coming event of the day suddenly occurred to her,
and she rejoiced to think that she was now to have _one_ to shield her
from the chilling blasts of a cold, relentless world--a husband on whose
breast her weary head could rest and feel secure.

These thoughts made her footsteps light, and she hastened to array
herself for the bridal, which, was appointed at ten o'clock. The barber
of Peonytown was sent for, and, although dressing a bride's hair was
something as yet unknown to him, yet, after much perseverance and more
ox marrow, he succeeded in twisting and braiding her luxuriant black
locks into a kind of triumphal-arched basketwork, that resembled a
miniature summer-house. The white muslin dress was then put on, and a
pair of white kid gloves drawn over her small fingers (plump people have
little hands), and Ann Harriet awaited her husband elect.

All Peonytown had been apprized of the hour of the wedding, and, in
consequence, the grove was at an early period filled with spectators.
Boys climbed into the trees; camp stools were provided; and one
enterprising Peonytowner brought a long wooden settee, and let the weary
rest on it for the slight consideration of half a dime each. The Rev.
Derby Sifter was there too. He was to perform the ceremony, and, as it
was the first wedding in Peonytown for six months, he was in unusual
humor, rubbing his hands together, and laughing at every remark that was
made.

At the appointed time Ann Harriet appeared, hanging lovingly on the arm
of the gallant Captain. The bride attracted universal attention. At
first, indeed, many were impressed with the idea that a crowd of girls
were coming, dressed in unsullied white; but as she approached nearer,
they saw that it was the fair Ann Harriet in her white muslin, leaning
on the arm of Captain Dobbs, who was dressed in full uniform, and had a
carnation pink in his mouth. The Rev. Derby Sifter now stepped forward,
and the parties took their places. No bridesmaids were needed, the bride
'answering' for several. After a few preliminary remarks, the reverend
gentleman pronounced them--under green leaves--_husband and wife!_ Ann
Harriet heaved a sigh of relief: the H had vanished forever from her
name, and D now reigned in its stead. A short prayer then followed.

Meanwhile, a boy in a tree directly over their heads spied a
caterpillar's nest near him, and, breaking a twig from a branch, he
probed the nest, causing a tremendous stampede among the inmates. Down
they dropped, silently and softly, upon the elaborate head of the bride,
who stood wholly unconscious of the additional ornaments so profusely
decorating her hair; the company noticed it, and very soon every one was
in a broad grin. Ann Harriet became conscious of some merriment in that
portion of the party immediately under her observation, and a succession
of blushes suffused her face as she felt that something ridiculous to
herself must have caused it. At that instant a caterpillar, that had
been swinging to and fro on his attenuated web, landed plump on Ann's
nose as she raised her face (he had been waiting for something to turn
up), causing her to give utterance to a scream that made the clerical
gentleman open his eyes, and a couple of catbirds to fly frightened and
squealing from their nests.

At the same time an angry cow, rendered furious by the sting of some
insect, plunged frantically into the wedding circle, bellowing, tossing
her head, and flourishing her tail in a terrific and antinuptial manner.
The Rev. Mr. Sifter was the first one to leave, and, being very spare,
he passed swiftly through the trees and bushes, never looking behind him
till he had reached the meeting house, where he stopped and in his
unconscious delirium caught at the bell rope and rang the bell with a
vigor that started every one from his work, so that in a few minutes
'Extinguisher No. 1' was hurried along the roads by an extempore company
of about fifty men and boys.

Meanwhile, the witnesses of the rural wedding had all skedaddled--to
borrow a Greek word--into the woods, in dire confusion, tearing
dresses, pulling down 'back hair,' hitching hoop skirts, and tumbling
over blackberry vines--but each intent on increasing the distance from
the mad cow. Ann Harriet was not so fortunate; her size prevented her
running, and a fiery peony on her bosom attracted the animal's
attention, so that, with a loud roar, the beast rushed directly upon
her. Had Ann Harriet been--as she was a few weeks before--an unprotected
female, the undertaker of Peonytown would have had a 'big job' that day;
but luckily, he who had just sworn to love and protect her saw that now
was his time and chance to begin; so, drawing his sword, he stepped in
front of his trembling bride, and, as the cow approached with head down
and eyeballs glaring wildly, he aimed a blow with his weapon, which
inflicted a severe cut on her nose.

The cow paused.

'Step backward gradually, my Ann Harriet,' said the valiant Dobbs, 'and
I will see that she does not touch you.'

Ann Harriet stepped backward, but not 'gradually,' for she trod on a
loose stone, which upset her, and she rolled over and over down a
sloping rock, ruining, on the way, any quantity of huckleberry bushes
and pennyroyal. This started the cow, who made another furious charge at
the soldier, who this time, by a well-directed blow, cut one horn sheer
off.

'That's good!' exclaimed he; 'next time I'll take t'other horn, and then
commence on her legs.'

The cow made another retreat, but appeared by no means vanquished. The
Captain stood his ground manfully. Ann Harriet sat on the moss at the
foot of the rock, disentangling from her hair the bruised and mangled
caterpillars which still remained there.

Just as the cow was about to make her third charge, shouts were heard in
the path which led to the village, and in a moment 'Extinguisher No. 1,'
with its brave volunteers, was on the ground. They had followed the
directions of the parson and arrived at an opportune moment.

The boys at once decided that, as there was no fire to put out, they
would 'put out' the cow; so, unreeling the hose, they drew the water
from the brook, and in a very little while a stream of water from a
two-inch pipe struck the astonished cow full in the face, when she
turned and scampered off into the forest, jumping over Ann Harriet at a
single bound, and was seen no more.

Captain Dobbs wiped his gory weapon on the greensward, and returned it
to the sheath. He then sprang to the side of his wife, and, with the
help of the foreman and two brakemen, raised her. She said her nerves
were all unstrung, and she 'never could walk home in the world;' so she
was placed on the box of the hose carriage and carried to the village.

The Peonytowners turned out _en masse_ to meet them, and were anxious
that the heroic Captain should make a speech from the town pump; but he
declined.

In a short time the happy couple were comfortably seated on the sofa in
the parlor of the old homestead, and his arm was as far round her waist
as it would go. Here we will bid them adieu. Ann Harriet being married,
she will have no more _miss_-haps--albeit at some future time something
may be heard of Captain and Mrs. Dobbs--and all the little Dobbses.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Broken-up apple pie.




THE UNION.

IV.


The census tables of the North and the South, and especially of
Massachusetts, Maryland, and South Carolina, heretofore presented, have
proved that slavery greatly retarded the progress of population, wealth,
science, education, and religion. The comparison now instituted between
New York and Virginia demonstrates the same law.

By the census, the population of Virginia in 1790 was 748,308, and in
1860, 1,596,318, making the ratio of increase 113.32 percent. In 1790,
New York numbered 340,120, and in 1860, 3,880,735, the ratio of increase
being 1,040.99. (Table 1, Prelim. Census Rep., p. 132.) Thus, the rate
of increase in New York exceeded that of Virginia more than nine to one.

In 1790, the population of Virginia was largely more than double that of
New York. In 1860, the population of New York was very largely more than
double that of Virginia. In 1790, Virginia, in population, ranked first
of all the States, and New York the fifth. In 1860, they had reversed
their positions, and New York was the first, and Virginia the fifth.
(Rep., p. 120.) At the same rate of progress, from 1860 to 1900, as from
1790 to 1860, Virginia, retaining slavery, would have sunk from the
first to the twenty-first State, and would still continue, at each
succeeding decade, descending the inclined plane toward the lowest
position of all the States. Such has been, and still continues to be,
the effect of slavery, in dragging down that once great State from the
first toward the last in rank in the Union. But if, as in the absence of
slavery must have been the case, Virginia had increased from 1790 to
1860 in the same ratio as New York, her population in 1860 would have
been 7,789,141, and she must always have remained the first in rank of
all the States.

AREA.--The natural advantages of Virginia far exceed those of New York.
The area of Virginia is 61,352 square miles, and that of New York,
47,000. The population of Virginia per square mile in 1790 was 12.19,
and in 1860, 26.02. That of New York, in 1790, was 7.83, and in 1860,
84.36. Now, if New York, with her present numbers per square mile, had
the area of Virginia, her population, in 1860, would have been
5,175,654, and that of Virginia, reduced to the area of New York, on the
basis of her present numbers per square mile, would have been 1,320,000.
This illustrates the immense effect of area, as one of the great
elements influencing the progress of population. But, wonderful as are
these results, the great fact is omitted in this calculation, that
Virginia, in 1790, had largely more than double the population of New
York. Thus, if we reverse the numbers of New York and Virginia in 1790,
and take the actual ratio of increase of each for the succeeding seventy
years, the population of Virginia, in 1860, would have been 728,875, and
that of New York, as we have seen, would have been 7,789,141, making the
difference exceed seven millions, or very largely more than ten to one.
Reverse the areas also, and the difference would exceed eight millions.

SHORE LINE.--As furnishing cheap and easy access for imports and
exports, creating marts for commerce with great cities, and affecting
the interior most beneficially, the shore line, with adequate harbors,
constitutes a vast element in the progress of states and empires. Now,
by the last tables of the United States coast survey, the shore line of
Virginia was 1,571 miles, and of New York 725 miles. The five great
parallel tide-water rivers of Virginia, the Potomac, the Rappahannock,
the York river, James river, and Roanoke (partly in North Carolina),
with their tributaries, furnish easy access for hundreds of miles into
the interior, with both shores of the noble Chesapeake bay for many
miles, as well as its magnificent outlet and the main ocean for a
considerable distance, all within the limits of Virginia. We have seen
that the coast line of Virginia is largely more than double that of New
York, and the harbors of Virginia are more numerous, deeper, and much
nearer the great valley of the Ohio and Mississippi. By the coast-survey
tables, the mean low water into the harbor of New York by Gedney's
channel is 20 feet, and at high-water spring tides is 24.2; north
channel, 24, mean low water, and 29.1 spring tides, high water; south
channel, 22 and 27.1; main ship channel, after passing S.W. spit buoy,
on N.E. course, one mile up the bay, for New York, 22.5-27.06. By the
same tables, from capes at entrance of Chesapeake bay to Hampton, at
mean low water, 30 feet; spring tides, high water, 32.8. Anchorage in
Hampton roads, 59-61.8. From Hampton roads to Sewell's point, 25-27.8.
South of Sewell's point (one mile and a half), 21-23.8; up to Norfolk,
23-25.8. From Hampton roads to James river, entering to the northward of
Newport News, middle ground, 22-24.8. From Hampton roads to James river,
entering to the southward of Newport News, middle ground, 27-29.8. From
abreast the tail of York spit, up to Yorktown, 33-35.8. Elizabeth river,
between Norfolk and navy yard, 25.5-28.3.

When we leave the tide-water rivers for the interior navigable streams,
Virginia has a vast advantage. New York has no such rivers above tide,
but Virginia has the Ohio for hundreds of miles, with its tributaries,
the Kanawha, Guyandotte, and Big Sandy. It is true, New York has several
of the great lakes, and the vast advantage of connection with them
through her great canal. But, in the absence of slavery, the canal
projected by Washington (preceding that of New York) would have
connected, through Virginia, the Chesapeake bay with the Ohio river. The
James river, flowing into the Chesapeake, cuts the Blue Mountains, and
the Kanawha, a confluent of the Ohio, cuts the Alleghany; thus opening
an easy and practicable route for a great canal from the eastern to the
western waters. The valley of the lakes, with which New York is
connected by her canal, has an area of 335,515 square miles. The valley
of the Mississippi, with which the Chesapeake would long since, in the
absence of slavery, have been connected by the Virginia canal, has an
area of 1,226,600 square miles. The shore line of the Mississippi and
its tributaries, above tide water, is 35,644 miles. (Page 35 Compend.
Census of 1850.) Our shore line of the lakes is 3,620 miles, including
bays, sounds, and islands; and that of the British, 2,629. (Ib. 35.) The
connection of the lakes with the Ohio and Mississippi would be the same
for both States, the one being from the lakes to these rivers, and the
other from the rivers to the lakes. The location of Virginia is more
central than that of New York, and Virginia runs farther west by several
hundred miles. We are so accustomed to look at the connection of New
York with the West by her canal, and Virginia with no such union, that
it is difficult to realize the great change if Virginia had been
connected by her progressing work with the Ohio and Mississippi, and
thence, by the present canals, with the lakes.

It is apparent, then, that, as regards easy access to the West, the
natural advantages of Virginia surpass New York, and with greater
facilities for artificial works. How many decades would be required,
after emancipation, to bring the superior natural advantages of Virginia
into practical operation, is not the question; nor do I believe that
the city of New York will ever cease to be the centre of our own trade,
and ultimately of the commerce of the world. But although Virginia, in
adhering to slavery, has lost her supremacy in the Union, it is quite
certain that, as a Free State, she would commence a new career of
wonderful prosperity, that capital and population from the North and
from Europe would flow there with a mighty current, her lands be doubled
in value, and her town and city property far more than quadrupled.

MINES.--Virginia has vast mines of coal, the great element of modern
progress. New York has none. It is coal that has made Great Britain a
mighty empire, giving her power, by land and sea, equal to the manual
force of all mankind. It is stated by the Commissioner of the General
Land Office, in his report before referred to, of November, 1860, 'that
an acre of coal, three feet thick, is equal to the product of 1,940
acres of forest trees; and each acre of a coal seam four feet in
thickness, and yielding one yard of pure coal, is equivalent to 5,000
tons, and possesses, therefore, a reserve of mechanical strength in its
fuel, equal to the life labor of more than 1,600 men.'

This statement of the Commissioner is made on the highest authority, and
proves the vast natural advantages of Virginia over New York. Virginia,
also, has far more abundant mines of iron, more widely diffused over the
State, reaching from tide water to the Ohio. She has also these iron
mines in juxtaposition with coal and all the fluxes. Virginia, also, has
valuable mines of gold, lead, and copper. New York has no gold or copper
mines, and produced in 1860 but $800 worth of lead. (Table 14.)

HYDRAULIC POWER.--Omitting Niagara, which thus far scorns the control of
man, the hydraulic power of Virginia very far exceeds that of New York.
It is to be found on the Potomac and its tributaries, and upon nearly
every stream that flows into the Chesapeake or Ohio. The superior
mildness of the climate of Virginia makes this power available there for
a much greater portion of the year. The great falls of the Potomac,
where Washington constructed the largest locks of the continent, has a
water power unsurpassed, and is but twelve miles from tide water, at
Washington. This point is a most healthy and beautiful location,
surrounded by lands whose natural fertility was very great, and, in the
absence of slavery, must have been a vast manufacturing city. This water
power could move more spindles than are now worked on all this
continent.

AGRICULTURE AND MANUFACTURES.--The natural fertility of the soil of
Virginia far exceeded that of New York, with a more genial sun, and much
more favorable seasons for agricultural products, as well as for stock.
The number of acres of land in Virginia susceptible of profitable
culture, is nearly double that of New York, but much of it has been
impoverished by slave labor, scratching and exhausting the soil, without
manure or rotation of crops. The census shows that Virginia has all the
products of New York, and cotton in addition. Virginia produced, in
1860, 12,727 bales of cotton (table 36), worth, at present prices,
nearly $3,000,000. She also adjoins the States of North Carolina and
Tennessee, producing, in 1860, 372,964 bales, worth, at present prices,
nearly $90,000,000. Virginia is also much nearer than New York to all
the other cotton States. With these vast advantages, with her larger
area, more fertile soil, cheaper subsistence, her coal and iron and
great hydraulic power, with so much cotton raised by herself and in
adjacent States, Virginia should have manufactured much more cotton than
New York. But, by the census (table 22), the value of the cotton
manufacture of Virginia in 1850 was $1,446,109, and in 1860,
$1,063,611--a decrease of one third. In New York, the value of the
cotton manufacture in 1850 was $5,019,323, and in 1860, $7,471,961, an
increase of over 48 per cent. So, if we look at the tables of mines,
manufactures, and the fisheries, with the vastly superior advantages of
Virginia, the whole product in 1860 was of the value of $51,300,000, and
of agriculture $68,700,000; whilst in New York these values were
respectively $379,623,560 and $226,376,440. (Tables of Census, 33 and
36.)

CLIMATE AND MORTALITY.--By table 6, page 22, of the Census, there were
for the year ending June 1st, 1860, 46,881 deaths in New York, being 1
in every 82 of the population, and 1.22 per cent. The number of deaths
in Virginia, in the same year, was 22,472, being 1 in every 70 of the
population, or 1.43 per cent. There was, then, a slight difference in
favor of New York. But Virginia is divided into four geographical
sections: the tide-water, the Piedmont (running from the tide-water
region to the Blue Mountains), the valley between these mountains and
the Alleghanies, and the trans-Alleghany to the Ohio. These three last
sections, containing three fourths of the area and white population of
the State, surpass New York in salubrity, with the most bracing and
delightful climate. The climate of Virginia is far more favorable for
stock and agricultural products than New York, with longer and better
seasons, and is more salubrious than the climate of Europe. (Comp.
1850.)

PROGRESS OF WEALTH.--We have seen how great was the advance in
population of New York over Virginia, from 1790 to 1860, being in the
ratio of more than 9 to 1. Now let us compare the relative progress of
wealth. It is contended by the advocates of slavery, that it accumulates
wealth more rapidly, and thus enriches the nation, although it may
depress its moral and intellectual development, its increase of numbers
and of power, and tarnish its reputation throughout the world. As
population and its labor create wealth, it must be retarded by a system
which, as we have seen in this case, diminishes the relative advance of
numbers in the ratio of more than 9 to 1. But the census proves that
slavery greatly <DW44>s the increase of wealth. By tables 33 and 36 of
the census of 1860, it appears, omitting commerce, that the products of
industry, as given, viz., of agriculture, manufactures, mines, and
fisheries, were that year in New York $604,000,000, or $155 _per
capita_; and in Virginia $120,000,000, or $75 _per capita_. This shows a
total value of product in New York more than five times greater than in
Virginia, and _per capita_, more than 2 to 1. If we include the earnings
of commerce, and all business not given in the census, I think it will
be shown hereafter, that the value of the products and earnings of New
York, in 1860, exceeded those of Virginia at least 7 to 1. As to the
rate of increase, the value of the products of agriculture,
manufactures, mines, and fisheries of Virginia, in 1850, was $84,480,428
(table 9), and in New York $356,736,603, showing an increase in Virginia
from 1850 to 1860 of $35,519,572, being 41 per cent., and in New York
$247,263,397, being 69 per cent., exhibiting a difference of 28 per
cent. Now the increase of population in Virginia from 1850 to 1860 was
12.29 per cent., and in New York 25.29 per cent., the difference being
only 13 per cent. (Table 1, p. 131.) Thus, it appears, the increase of
wealth in New York, exclusive of the gains of commerce, as compared with
Virginia, was more than double the ratio of the augmentation of
population. By the census table of 1860, No. 35, p. 195, 'The true value
of the real and personal property, according to the eighth census was,
New York, $1,843,338,517, and of Virginia $793,249,681.' Now we have
seen the value of the products of New York in 1860 by the census was
$604,000,000, and in Virginia $120,000,000. Thus, as a question of the
annual yield of capital, that of New York was 32.82 per cent., and
Virginia 15.13 per cent.; the annual product of capital being more than
double in New York what it was in Virginia. The problem then is solved
in Virginia, as it was in Maryland and South Carolina, and all the South
compared with all the North, that slavery <DW44>s the progress of wealth
and accumulation of capital, in the ratio of 2 to 1. Our war taxes may
be very great, but the tax of slavery is far greater, and the relief
from it, in a few years, will add much more to the national wealth than
the whole deduction made by the war debt. Our total wealth, by the
census of 1860, being, by table 35, $16,159,616,068, one per cent. taken
annually to pay the interest and gradually extinguish the war debt,
would be $161,596,160; whereas, judging by Virginia and New York, the
diminished increase of the annual product of capital, as the result of
slavery, is 2.8 per cent., or $452,469,250 per annum, equal in a decade,
without compounding the annual results, to $4,524,692,500.

That our population would have reached in 1860 nearly 40,000,000, and
our wealth have been more than doubled, if slavery had been extinguished
in 1790, is one of the revelations made by the census; whilst in
science, in education, and national power, the advance would have been
still more rapid, and the moral force of our example and success would
have controlled for the benefit of mankind the institutions of the
world.

By table 36, p. 196, of the census of 1860, the _cash_ value of the
farms of Virginia was $371,096,211, being $11.91 per acre, and of New
York $803,343,593, being $38.26 per acre. Now, by the table, the number
of acres embraced in these farms of New York was 20,992,950, and in
Virginia 31,014,950, the difference of value per acre being $26.36, or
much more than 3 to 1 in favor of New York. Now, if we multiply this
number of acres of farm lands of Virginia by the New York value, it
would make the total value of the farm lands of New York $1,186,942,136,
and the _additional_ value caused by emancipation $815,845,925. Now the
whole number of slaves in Virginia in 1860, was 490,865; multiplying
which by $300 as their average value, would be $147,259,500, leaving
$668,586,425 as the sum by which Virginia would be richer in farms
alone, if slavery were abolished. But, stupendous as is this result in
regard to lands, it is far below the reality. We have seen that the farm
lands of Virginia, improved and unimproved, constituted 31,014,950
acres. By the census and the land-office tables, the area of Virginia is
39,265,280 acres. Deduct the farm lands, and there remain unoccupied
8,250,330 acres. Now, Virginia's population to the square mile being
26.02, and that of New York 84.36, with an equal density in Virginia,
more than two thirds of these Virginia lands, as in New York, must have
been occupied as farms. This would have been equivalent, at two thirds,
to 5,500,000 acres, which, at their present average value of $2 per
acre, would be worth $11,000,000; but, at the value per acre of the New
York lands, these 5,500,000 acres would be worth $206,430,000. Deduct
from this their present value, $11,000,000, and the remainder,
$195,430,000, 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,
$815,845,925, and the result would be $1,011,275,925, as the gain of
Virginia in the value of lands by emancipation. To these we should add,
from the same cause, the enhancement of the town and city property in
Virginia to the extent of several hundred millions of dollars. In order
to realize the truth, we must behold Virginia as she would have been,
with New York railroads and canals, farms, manufactures, commerce,
towns, and cities. Then we must consider the superior natural advantages
of Virginia, her far greater area, her richer soil, her more genial sun,
her greater variety of products, her mines of coal, iron, gold, copper,
and lead, her petroleum, her superior hydraulic power, her much larger
coast line, with more numerous and deeper harbors--and reflect what
Virginia would have been in the absence of slavery. Her early statesmen,
Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Mason, Tucker, and Marshall, all
realized this great truth, and all desired to promote emancipation in
Virginia. But their advice was disregarded by her present leaders--the
new, false, and fatal dogmas of Calhoun were substituted; and, as a
consequence, Virginia, from the first rank (_longo intervallo_) of all
the States, has fallen to the fifth, and, with slavery continued, will
descend still more rapidly in the future than in the past. Let her
abolish slavery, and she will commence a new career of progress. Freedom
and its associates, education and energy, will occupy her waste lands,
restore her exhausted fields, decaying cities, and prostrate industry,
employ her vast hydraulic power, develop her mines, unite by her grand
canals the waters of the Chesapeake and Ohio, and, placing her feet upon
slavery, hear her proclaim, in the proud language of her own State
motto, '_Sic semper tyrannis._'

By census table 36, p. 197, the value, in 1860, of the farm lands of all
the Slave States, was $2,570,466,935, and the number of acres
245,721,062, worth $10.46 per acre. In the Free States, the value of the
farm lands was $4,067,947,286, and the number of acres 161,462,008,
worth $25.19 per acre. Now if, as certainly in the absence of slavery
would have been the case, the farm lands of the South had been worth as
much per acre as those of the North, their total value would have been
$6,189,713,551, and, deducting the present price, the _additional_ cash
value would have been $3,619,346,616. Now the whole number of slaves in
all the States, in 1860, was 3,950,531, multiplying which by $300, as
their average value, would make all the slaves in the Union worth
$1,185,159,300. Deduct this from the enhanced value of the farm lands of
the South as above, and the result would be $2,434,087,316 as the gain
in the price of farms by emancipation. This is independent of the
increased value of their unoccupied lands, and of their town and city
property.

By census tables of 1860, 33 and 36, the total value of the products of
agriculture, mines, and fisheries in the Free States was $4,100,000,000,
and of the Slave States $1,150,000,000, making the products of the Free
States in 1860 nearly 4 to 1 of the Slave States, and $216 _per capita_
for the Free States, and for the Slave States $94 _per capita_. This is
exclusive of commerce, which would greatly increase the ratio in favor
of the North, that of New York alone being nearly equal to that of all
the Slave States. Now, multiply the population of the Slave States by
the value of the products _per capita_ of the Free States, and the
result is $2,641,631,032, making, by emancipation, the increased annual
product of the Slave States $1,491,631,032, and in ten years, exclusive
of the yearly accumulations, $14,916,310,320.

By the table 35, census of 1860, the total value of all the property,
real and personal, of the Free States, was $10,852,081,681, and of the
Slave States, $5,225,307,034. Now, the product, in 1860, of the Free
States, being $4,100,000,000, the annual yield on the capital was 38 per
cent.; and, the product of the Slave States being $1,150,000,000, the
yield on the capital was 22 per cent. This was the gross product in both
cases. I have worked out these amazing results from the census tables,
to illustrate the fact, that the same law, by which slavery retarded the
progress of wealth in Virginia, as compared with New York, and of
Maryland and South Carolina, as compared with Massachusetts, rules the
relative advance in wealth of all the Slave States, as compared with
that of all the Free States. I have stated that the statistics of
commerce, omitted in these tables, would vastly increase the difference
in favor of the Free States, as compared with the Slave States, and of
New York as contrasted with Virginia. I shall now resume the latter
inquiry, so as to complete the comparison between New York and Virginia.
By commerce is embraced, in this examination, all earning not included
under the heads of agriculture, manufactures, the mines, or fisheries.

RAILROADS.--The number of miles of railroads in operation in New York,
in 1860, including city roads, was 2,842 miles, costing $138,395,055;
and in Virginia, 1,771 miles, costing $64,958,807. (Census table of
1860, No. 38, pp. 230 and 233.) Now, by the same census report, p. 105,
the value of the freights of the New York roads for 1860 was as follows:
Product of the forest--tons carried, 373,424; value per ton, $20; total
value, $7,468,480. Of animals--895,519 tons; value per ton, $200; total
value, $179,103,800. Vegetable food--1,103,640 tons; value per ton, $50;
total value, $55,182,000. Other agricultural products--143,219 tons;
value per ton, $15; total value, $2,148,055. Manufactures--511,916 tons;
value per ton, $500; total value, $391,905,500. Other articles--930,244
tons; value, $10 per ton; total value, $9,302,440. Grand total,
4,741,773 tons carried; value per ton, $163. Total values, $773,089,275.
Deducting one quarter for duplication, makes 3,556,330 tons carried on
the New York roads in 1860; and the value, $579,681,790. The values of
the freights on the Virginia roads, as estimated, is $60,000,000, giving
an excess to those of New York of $519,681,790, on the value of railroad
freights in 1860. The passenger account, not given, would largely
increase the disparity in favor of New York.

CANALS.--The number of miles of canals in New York is 1,038, and their
cost $67,567,972. In Virginia, the number of miles is 178, and the cost
$7,817,000. (Census table 39, p. 238.) The estimated value of the
freight on the New York canals is 19 times that of the freight on the
Virginia canals. (Census.)

TONNAGE.--The tonnage of vessels built in New York in 1860 was 31,936
tons, and in Virginia 4,372. (Census, p. 107.)

BANKS.--The number of banks in New York in 1860 was 303; capital
$111,441,320, loans $200,351,332, specie $20,921,545, circulation
$29,959,506, deposits $101,070,273; 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. (Table 34, p. 193, Census.)

INSURANCE COMPANIES.--The risks taken in New York were $916,474,956, or
nearly one third of those in the whole Union. Virginia, estimated at
$100,000,000; difference in favor of New York $816,474,956. (Census, p.
79.)

EXPORTS AND IMPORTS, ETC.--Our exports abroad from New York for the
fiscal year ending 30th June, 1860, were $145,555,449, and the foreign
imports $248,489,877; total of both, $394,045,326. The clearances same
year from New York were 4,574,285 tons, and the entries 4,836,448 tons;
total of both, 9,410,733 tons. In Virginia, the exports the same year
were $5,858,024, and the imports $1,326,249; total of both, $7,184,273;
clearances, 80,381 tons, entries, 97,762 tons; total of both, 178,143
tons. (Table 14, Register of United States Treasury.) Revenue collected
from customs same year in New York, $37,788,969, and in Virginia
$189,816, or 200 to 1 in favor of New York. (Tables, U.S. Com. of
Customs.) No returns are given for the coastwise and internal trade of
either State, but the tables of the railway and canal transportation of
both States show nearly the same proportion in favor of New York as in
the foreign trade. Thus the _domestic_ exports from New York for the
above year abroad were $126,060,967, and from Virginia $5,833,371.
(Same table, 14.) And yet Virginia, as we have seen, had much greater
natural advantages than New York for commerce, as well as for mines,
manufactures, and agriculture. But slavery has almost expelled commerce
from Virginia, and nearly paralyzed all other pursuits.

These tables, taken from the census and the Treasury records, prove
incontestably, that slavery <DW44>s the progress of wealth and
population throughout the South, but especially in Virginia. Nor can the
Tariff account for the results; for Virginia, as we have seen, possesses
far greater advantages than New York for manufactures. Besides, the
commerce of New York far surpasses that of Virginia, and this is the
branch of industry supposed to be affected most injuriously by high
tariffs, and New York has generally voted against them with as much
unanimity as Virginia. But there is a 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 New
York over Virginia was greater than from 1820 to 1860. Thus, by table I
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 New York was:

   From 1790 to 1800 72.51 per cent.
     "  1800 "  1810 63.45    "
     "  1810 "  1820 43.14    "
     "  1820 "  1830 39.76    "
     "  1830 "  1840 26.60    "
     "  1840 "  1850 27.52    "
     "  1850 "  1860 25.29    "

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 New York was 340,120, in
1820, 1,372,111, and in 1860, 3,880,735. Thus, from 1790 to 1820, before
the inauguration of the protective policy, the relative increase of the
population of New York, as compared with Virginia, was very far greater
than from 1820 to 1860. It is quite clear, then, that the Tariff had no
influence whatever in depressing the progress of Virginia as compared
with New York.

We have heretofore proved by the census the same position as regards the
relative progress of Maryland and Massachusetts, and the same principle
applies as between all the Free, as compared with all the Slave States.
In New York, we have seen that her progress from 1790 to 1820, in the
absence of high tariffs, and, even before the completion of her great
canal, her advance in population was much more rapid than from 1820 to
1860. Indeed, it is quite clear that, so far as the Tariff had any
influence, it was far more unfavorable to New York than to Virginia, New
York being a much greater agricultural as well as commercial State.

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
New York in 1860 was 542, of which 365 were political, 56 religious, 63
literary, 58 miscellaneous; and the number of copies circulated in 1860
was 320,930,884. (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. Thus, the annual circulation of the press in New York was
twelve times as great as that of Virginia. As to periodicals: New York
had 69 monthlies, of which 2 were political, 25 religious, 24 literary,
and 18 miscellaneous; 10 quarterlies, of which 5 were religious, and 5
literary; 6 annuals, of which 2 were political, 2 religious, and 2
miscellaneous. Virginia had 5 monthlies, of which 1 was political, 2
religious, 1 literary, and 1 miscellaneous; and no quarterlies or
annuals. The annual circulation of the New York monthlies was 2,045,000;
that of Virginia was 43,900; or more than 43 to 1 in favor of New York.

As regards schools, colleges, academies, libraries, and churches, I must
take the census of 1850, those tables for 1860 not being yet arranged
and printed. The number of public schools in New York in 1850 was
11,580, teachers 13,965, pupils 675,221; colleges, academies, etc.,
pupils 52,001; attending school during the year, as returned by
families, 693,329; native adults of the State who cannot read or write,
23,341. Public libraries, 11,013; volumes, 1,760,820. Value of churches,
$21,539,561. (Comp. Census, 1850.)

The number of public schools in Virginia in 1850 was 2,937, teachers
3,005, pupils 67,438; colleges, academies, etc., pupils 10,326;
attending school during the year, 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.
(Compend. of Census of 1850.) By table 155, same compend, the percentage
of native free population in Virginia over 20 years of age who cannot
read or write is 19.90, and in New York 1.87, in North Carolina 30.34,
in Maryland 11.10, in Massachusetts 0.32, or less than one third of one
per cent. In New England, the percentage of native whites who cannot
read or write is 0.42, or less than one half of one per cent.; and in
the Southern States 20.30, or 50 to 1 in favor of New England.
(Compend., table 157.) But, if we take the whole adult population of
Virginia, including whites, free blacks, and slaves, 42.05 per cent., or
nearly one half, cannot read or write; and in North Carolina, more than
one half cannot read or write. We have seen, by the above official
tables of the census of 1850, that New York, compared with Virginia, had
nearly ten times as many pupils at schools, colleges, and academies,
twenty times as many books in libraries, and largely more than seven
times the value of churches; while the ratio of native white adults who
cannot read or write was more than 10 to 1 in Virginia, compared with
New York. We have seen, also, that in North Carolina nearly one third of
the native white adults, and in Virginia nearly one fifth, cannot read
or write, and in New England 1 in every 400, in New York 1 in every 131,
in the South and Southwest 1 in every 12 of the native white adults.
(Comp. p. 153.)

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. Surely such a system is hostile to
civilization, which consists in the education of the masses of the
people of a country, and not of the few only. A State, one third of
whose population are slaves, classified by law as chattels, and
forbidden all instruction, and nearly one fifth of whose adult whites
cannot read or write, is semi-civilized, however enlightened may be the
ruling classes. If a highly educated chief or parliament governed China
or Dahomey, they would still be semi-civilized or barbarous countries,
however enlightened their rulers might be. The real discord between the
North and the South, is not only the difference between freedom and
slavery, but between civilization and barbarism caused by slavery. When
we speak of a civilized _nation_, we mean the masses of the people, and
not the government or rulers only. The enlightenment of the _people_ is
the true criterion of civilization, and any community that falls below
this standard, is barbarous or semi-civilized. In countries where kings
or oligarchies rule, the government may be maintained, (however
unjustly,) without educating the masses; but, in a republic, or popular
government, this is impossible; and the deluded masses of the South
never could have been driven into this rebellion, but for the ignorance
into which they had been plunged by slavery; nor is there any remedy for
the evil but emancipation. If, then, we would give stability and wisdom
to the government, and perpetuity to the Union, we must abolish slavery,
which withholds education and enlightenment from the masses of the
people, who, with us, control the policy of the nation.

With our only cause of ignorance and poverty among the people, and only
element of discord among the States, extirpated by the gradual removal
of slavery and negroism, we would bound forward in a new and wonderful
career of power and prosperity. Our noble vessel of state, the great
Republic, freighted with the hopes of humanity, and the liberties of our
country and of mankind, still bearing aloft the flag of our mighty
Union, indissoluble by domestic traitors or conspiring oligarchs, will,
under Divine guidance, pass over the troubled waters, reassuring a
desponding world, as she glides into the blessed haven of safety and
repose. All the miracles of our past career would be eclipsed by the
glories of the future. We might then laugh to scorn the impotent malice
of foreign foes. Without force or fraud, without sceptre or bayonet, our
moral influence and example, for their own good, and by their own free
choice, would control the institutions and destiny of nations. The wise
men of the East may then journey westward again, to see the rising star
of a regenerated humanity, the fall of thrones and dynasties, the
lifting up of the downtrodden masses, and the political redemption of
our race, not by a new dispensation, but by the fulfilment thus of the
glorious prophecies and blessed promises of Holy Writ. And can we not
lift ourselves into that serene atmosphere of love of country and of our
race, above all selfish schemes or mere party devices, and contemplate
the grandeur of these results, if now, _now_, NOW we will only do our
duty? Now, indeed, is the 'accepted time,' now is the day of the
'salvation' of our country. And now, as in former days of trouble, let
us remember the mighty dead, as, when living, silencing the voice of
treason, and calming the tempest of revolution, he uttered those
electric words: 'UNION AND LIBERTY, NOW AND FOREVER, ONE AND
INSEPARABLE!'

If we could rise to the height of prophetic vision, behold the
procession of coming events, and, unrolling the scroll of advancing
years and centuries, contemplate our Union securing by its example the
rights and liberties of man, would we not welcome any sacrifice, even
death itself, if we could thus aid in accomplishing results so god-like
and sublime? But, whether in gloom or glory, chastened for national sins
or rewarded for good deeds, let us realize the _great truth_, that the
Almighty directs nations as well as planets in their course, governs the
moral as well as the material world, never abdicating for a moment the
control of either; and that persevering opposition to his laws must
meet, in the end, retributive justice.




PROMISE.


   O watcher for the dawn of day,
     As o'er the mountain peaks afar
   Hangs in the twilight cold and gray,
     Like a bright lamp, the morning star!
   Though slow the daybeams creep along
     The serried pines which top the hills,
   And gloomy shadows brood among
     The silent valleys, and the rills

   Seem almost hushed--patience awhile!
     Though slowly night to day gives birth,
   Soon the young babe with radiant smile
     Shall gladden all the waiting earth.
   By fair gradation changes come,
     No harsh transitions mar God's plan,
   But slowly works from sun to sun
     His perfect rule of love to man.

   And patience, too, my countrymen,
     In this our nation's fierce ordeal!
   Bright burns the searching flame, and then,
     The dross consumed, shall shine the real.
   Wake, watcher! see the mountain peaks
     Already catch a golden ray,
   Light on the far horizon speaks
     The dawning of a glorious day.

   Murky the shadows still that cling
     In the deep valleys, but the mist
   Is soaring up on silver wing
     To where the sun the clouds has kissed.
   Hard-fought and long the strife may be,
     The powers of wrong be slow to yield,
   But Right shall gain the victory,
     And Freedom hold the battle field.




AMERICAN DESTINY.


We would study the question of American Destiny in the light of common
sense, of history, and of science.

It may be unusual to illustrate from science a principle which is to
have a political application; but we shall endeavor to do so, believing
it to be unexceptionably legitimate. The different departments of
science, science and history, science and politics, have been,
heretofore, kept quite distinct as to the provinces of inquiry to which
it was presumed they severally belonged. Each has been cultivated as if
it had no relation external to itself, and was not one of a family of
cognate truths. This, however, is undergoing a gradual but certain
change, in which it is becoming constantly more manifest that between
the different departments of human inquiry there are mutual dependences
and complicated interrelations, which enable us, by the truths of one
science, to thread the mazes of another.

There are certain general laws which pertain with equal validity to many
departments of activity in the natural world; there are parallel lines
of development as the result of the inherent correlation of forces.
Thus, if we have found a great general law in physiology, that same law
may apply with equal aptness to astronomy, geology, chemistry, and even
to social and political evolution.

One of these general laws, and perhaps the most comprehensive in its
character and universal in its application of any yet known, we will
announce in the language of Guyot, the comparative geographer: 'We have
recognized in the life of all that develops itself, three successive
states, three grand phases, three evolutions, identically repeated in
every order of existence; a _chaos_, where all is confounded together; a
_development_, where all is separating; a _unity_, where all is binding
itself together and organizing. We have observed that here is the law of
_phenomenal life_, the _formula_ of development, whether in inorganic
nature or in organized nature.'

This answers for the department of physics and physiology. We will let
Guizot, the historian, speak for the political and social realm: 'All
things, at their origin, are nearly confounded in one and the same
physiognomy; it is only in their aftergrowth that their variety shows
itself. Then begins a new development which urges forward societies
toward that free and lofty unity, the glorious object of the efforts and
wishes of mankind.'

We find an illustration of this law in the simplest of the sciences, if
the nebular hypothesis be true, as most astronomers believe. We have
first the chaotic, nebulous matter, then the formation of worlds
therefrom, by a continuous process of unfolding. Each world is a unit
within itself, but part of a still greater unit composed of a system of
worlds revolving around the same sun; and this greater unit, part of one
which is still greater--a star cluster, composed of many planetary
systems, and subject to the same great cosmical laws. If the theory be
correct, we find, in this example, the heterogeneous derived from the
simple, and far more completely an organized unit, with all its
complexity, than was the chaotic mass from which development originally
proceeded.

We find additional illustration in coming to our own world. Its primeval
geography was simple and uniform; there was little diversity of coast
line, soil, or surface. But the cooling process of the earth went on,
the surface contracted and ridged up, the exposed rocks were
disintegrated by the action of the atmosphere and the waters; the
sediment deposited in the bottom of the seas was thrown to the surface;
continents were enlarged, higher mountain ranges upheaved, the coasts
worn into greater irregularity of outline; and everywhere the soil
became more composite, the surface more uneven, the landscape more
variegated.

Corresponding changes have taken place in the climate. At first the
temperature of the earth was much warmer than now, and uniform in all
parallels of latitude, as is shown by the fossil remains. Now we have a
great diversity of climate, whether we contrast the polar with the
torrid regions, or the different seasons of the temperate zone with each
other.

The same law of increasing diversity obtains in the fauna and flora of
the various periods of geological history. The earliest fossil record of
animal life is witness to the simplicity of organic structure. Among
vertebrated animals, fishes first appear, next reptiles, then birds;
still higher, the lower type of animals which suckle their young; and as
the strata become more recent, still higher forms of mammalia, till we
reach the upper tertiary, in which geologists have discovered the
remains of many animals of complex structure nearly allied to those
which are now in existence. In the historic period appear many organic
forms of still greater complexity, with man at the head of the
zoological series.

In this glance of zoological progress, we discover increasing
complication of two kinds; for while the individual structure has been
constantly becoming more complex, there are now in existence the
analogues of the lowest fossil types, which, with the highest, and with
all the intermediate, present a maze and vastness of complication,
which, in comparison with the homogeneity of the aggregate of early
structure, is sufficiently obvious and impressive.

There is in this view, still another outline of increasing complexity.
At first the same types prevailed all over the earth's surface; but as
the soil, atmosphere, and climate changed, and the animal structure
became more complex and varied, the limits of particular species became
more and more localized, till the earth's surface presented zoological
districts, with the fauna of each peculiar to itself.

But, what of unitization? Here, there appears to be divergence only, and
that continually increasing.

Guyot says that 'the unity reappears with the creation of man, who
combines in his physical nature all the perfections of the animal, and
who is the end of all this long progression of organized beings.'
Agassiz recognizes man alone as cosmopolite; and Comte regards him as
the supreme head of the economy of nature, and representative of the
fundamental unity of the anatomical scale.

But another and more obvious example of unitization in complexity, is
derivable from the consideration of the animal organism, and will soon
be given.

We will merely mention in passing, that the most complex animals, in the
various stages of fetal development through which they pass, correspond
to the types of structure which are permanent in the lower forms of
animal life. Thus, in the zoological chain, there are beings of all
grades, from the most simple in structure to the most complex; and the
most complex animal, in its development from the ovum or egg, passes
through all these grades of structure, ending in that which is above
all, and distinctively its own. 'Without going into tedious details, man
presents, as regards the most important of his constituent structures,
his nervous system, the successive characteristics of an avertebrated
animal, a fish, a turtle, a bird, a quadruped, a quadrumanous animal,
before he assumes the special human characteristics.' (Draper.)

Our purpose being to show that while complexity of structure is
constantly increasing, unitization, or the organized dependence of one
part on another, is, at the same time, becoming more complete, we shall
refer briefly to the comparative anatomy and physiology of animals.
There is in this connection such wealth of material--a long chain of
animal beings with all grades of structure from very simple to very
complex; each complex animal, in its development from the ovum, passing
through all the lower types of structure in succession; so many new
organs and functions arising in the course of this development; each
organ so arising, becoming, in its turn, more complex in structure, more
specialized in function, and more dependent on the office of other
organs;--in the midst, I say, of all this wealth of material, indicated
here in a great general and imperfect manner, the difficulty, in so
brief an exposition as this, is to know what facts to seize upon as
calculated to illustrate most aptly the principle under consideration.

The development of the senses, with reference to their organs, nerves,
and functions, presents a striking illustration of increasing
complexity.

In the lowest forms of animal life, we find general sensibility only,
and it is claimed that this exists in the lowest forms, without even the
presence of nerves. But as we rise higher in the scale, the special
organs of sense gradually become developed--one new sense after another
appears; but this is not the only line of increasing complexity. When an
organ of sense first appears, its function is of the simplest character;
and it is only when we reach the highest types of animal life that it
performs the greatest variety of offices peculiar thereto. That of touch
is, at first, but crude and simple, becoming delicate and complicated
only in the highest types. The sense of pain is a differentiated
function, possessed only in a slight degree by reptiles and fishes, and
probably not at all by animals still lower in the scale.

The eye-spots of star fishes and jelly fishes simply distinguish light
from darkness, much as we do with our eyes closed. There are many
degrees of development from this condition of the inferior organism to
that of the human eye, which distinguishes the nicest shades of color,
distance, form, and size of objects, and the play of passion on the
human countenance.

The same variety of function is acquired by the ear in its development
from its simplest to its most complex form. In the higher animals, the
organ of hearing is formed of three parts, an external, middle, and
internal portion; but in birds the external ear is wanting; in fishes
both the external and middle parts are wanting; in mollusks it is
reduced to a simple sack of microscopic dimensions, filled with a liquid
in which there are otolithes, or pebbly substances. Such an organ can
distinguish noises only; it can recognize nothing of the infinite
variety of articulations, notes, tones, melodies, harmonies of the human
voice and of musical instruments. There is even a great difference
between the disciplined, and therefore differentiated ear of a cultured
person, and the undisciplined, and therefore less differentiated ear of
a boor. Similar specializations of structure and function pertain to the
other senses; but we may pass them.

The digestive, circulatory, and respiratory systems, and all the other
systems of the animal structure, evince the same law.

The lowest form of the circulating fluid, as in sponges, is simply water
containing gases and organic particles; and this can scarcely be spoken
of as circulating, for it is merely drawn in and then expelled. A little
higher in the scale naturalists find a 'chylaqueous fluid,' which
oscillates in the general cavity of the sack-like animal. The true blood
is another step in development; and even this organized fluid changes
its character as the scale advances. Most animals have no heart; and
when the organ does first appear, it is but a simple, rudimentary
structure, very unlike the complex machine which plays at the centre of
circulation in the higher types.

Though fishes breathe through their gills, receiving all the oxygen they
require from the small amount of air in the water, the swimming bladder
is in them the rudimentary lung--a very simple structure, indeed, when
compared with the more complex arrangement for respiration in the higher
animals.

Some animals of gelatinous, and therefore flexible structure, perform
digestion by folding their bodies over the food, and pressing the
nutritious matter out of it: they extemporize a stomach for the
occasion. And even in some of their higher types, in such as have a
permanent mouth and stomach, the digestive process is simply a squeezing
out of the elements of nutrition. The digestive apparatus, from being a
simple sack in the polype and similar organisms, becomes, by a
continuous unfolding, the complicated structure which we find in the
higher animals, with various organs effecting various parts of the
digestive change, and even different parts of the same organ having
specialized functions to perform.

The most complex animal proceeds originally from a simple cell; and 'at
the two extremes we may contemplate the single germinal membrane of the
ovum, which is discharging contemporaneously every function--digesting,
absorbing, respiring, etc.; and the complete organic apparatus of man,
the stomach, the lungs, the skin, the kidneys, and the liver--mechanisms
set apart each for the discharge of a special duty, yet each having
arisen, as we know positively from watching the order of their
development, from that simple germinal membrane.' (Draper.) This is what
one physiologist says of the ovum which is being developed into a
complex being. Here is what another says of animals at the lower end of
the zoological scale: 'The simplest organisms breathe, exhale, secrete,
absorb, and reproduce, by their envelopes alone.' (Lewes.) Here we
perceive the resemblance between the ovum of the higher animals and the
permanent structure of the lower animals. Indeed, some of the lower
forms of animal life are simply cells. How vast the difference between
the organism of man, with all its complexity of structure, and that of
the Ameba or Actinophrys, which, being merely a homogeneous mass of
organic matter, performs all the functions of its simple life without
any special organ whatever! Yet, is man any less a unit than the Ameba,
or any other simple organism? Does his multiplicity of organs impair the
integrity of his anatomical and physiological oneness? Is the
circulation independent of respiration? Is digestion independent of the
circulation? Can any one organ act independently of the others? Is not
the entire series of parts, organs, and functions bound up in complete
and inseparable unity? The vicarious action of one organ for another has
been a question among physiologists; and if admitted, as in the case of
the salivary glands acting for the kidneys in profuse spitting, and the
skin for the liver, the vicarious function can only obtain to a slight
degree and in a temporary manner. The destruction of any considerable
organ involves the destruction of all the rest. I repeat that the
integrity of the physiological unity at the top of the scale, is far
more complete, with all its complexity, than is the integrity of the
physiological unity at the bottom of the scale, with its marked
simplicity of structure. By no sort of legerdemain or surgical skill can
we make an individual mammal become two. If we divide it, the whole
dies. Not so, however, with some of the lower grades of animal
existence. Cut a hydra into thirty or forty pieces, and each piece will
become a distinct animal--a facsimile of the original one. In quite an
analogous way do a large number of animals at the lower end of the scale
propagate, by segmentation and division; one individual becoming two,
two four, and so on.

Many examples might be adduced to show the absence of organized unity in
the lower orders of the animal creation. Thus, in the annelid, which is
composed of a great many similar rings, and is regarded as quite a
complex creature, there is so little dependence of one part on another,
that a number of the rings may be destroyed without any injury to the
rest. The Synapta, when in want of food, will amputate its own body to
procure the necessary supply; and it has been observed to repeat the
operation, until it 'had by degrees eaten away the whole of its body to
keep life in the head.' (Quatrefages.) Such a phenomenon as this is very
unlike that presented by the higher animals, which, together with their
multiplied individuality of part and function, and their infinite
variety of physiognomic expression, present, at the same time, a unity
of organization so complete, that an injury to one part is
instantaneously telegraphed to all parts of the system, and sympathized
in by all to a greater or less extent.

As in physiology, the development of the individual corresponds to the
development of the entire zoological series; so, when we rise into the
psychological realm, do we ascertain that the development of the
individual mind corresponds to the development of the mental series from
the savage to the civilized. In the physiognomy of the savage there is
little variety of expression; he has not differentiated that
multiplicity of thought and feeling which moulds the face and plays upon
its lineaments in the cultivated Teuton. The same is true of the latter
while an infant. But who will say that the cultured man of this age is
less a balanced, unitized creature than the child of the cradle, or of
the forest? The latter is but a creature of impulse, moved by every
appetite, and swayed by every gust of passion. He has no fixed
principles for the regulation of his life. There is no presiding power
to rule and subordinate the tumultuous and refractory elements of his
character, and thus unitize the mental organism and its manifestations.
This is what culture gives. Here then we also perceive that with the
development of variety and complexity, the element of unity becomes more
active and manifest. This view of the progressive unitization of the
individual man in a psychological aspect, is very suggestive when taken
in connection with the wane of despotism and the growth of liberty, as
society and government advance, and it becomes ever less the province of
law to govern, and also to regulate.

We have adduced some of the illustrations which physical and
physiological science affords of the Law of Universal Development: let
us close this part of our subject with the illustrations afforded by the
rise and progress of Science as a whole. The first germs of science were
very simple, existing in connection with Art, and subserving the
purposes of priestcraft. For a long time the range of scientific inquiry
was so limited that the same individual was able to grasp it entire. But
one branch after another has sprung up, diverging more and more into the
realms of the unknown, until no one mind can hope to obtain even a
general knowledge of them all.

But this has not been the only tendency of scientific growth. Divergence
and differentiation had not proceeded far till the combining and
organizing movement began. The more individuality and complexity have
threatened to outreach the mental powers and become unmanageable, the
more have order and organization shown their ability to subordinate and
unitize the seeming diversity of elements. While the sciences continued
to increase in number and complexity, they began to overlap and
interlace, the principles of one running into the domain of another,
and even cooerdinating and binding together its seemingly incongruous
parts.

A simple scientific generalization is based on certain facts which,
taken in their collective capacity, mean the truth which is expressed in
the formula. A higher generalization embraces those which are simpler,
and unites by its expression the truths which they contain into the
formula of one great truth. This process goes on, rising constantly
higher and higher, the generalizations of the ascending series becoming
more comprehensive, and the convergence of all the diversified elements
into great general laws more striking and complete. Thus advances the
unitizing movement of science; and it is now progressing with a
steadiness and certainty unknown in former periods of research. Great
minds are at this moment occupied in the discovery and verification of
these great unitizing laws. Thus we perceive, that while science has
developed a bewildering mass of individual facts and minor principles,
it has also developed the germs of a unity which is destined to unfold
with a richness and magnificence of result heretofore unknown in the
annals of human inquiry.

As the special departments of science have testified, so also does the
general view of all science testify to this Law of Universal
Development.

But, what has all this to do with American Destiny? Very much, as may
yet appear. It is by the Past only that we can read the Future; and if
in history and in all development, there is revealed by the inductive
process a great general law, that law becomes the Oracle of Destiny.

A fitting transition from science to history would be ethnology, the
science of races, connected as it is with physics, chemistry, and
physiology, on the one hand, and with history on the other.

There are different theories in vogue to account for the diversity of
human races now in existence. Some refer human origin to an original
pair, whose descendants have changed through the action of physical
causes, as food, soil, climate, and scenery, and also through the
operation of moral ones as dependent on the physical, and therefore
secondary thereto, such as manners, customs, and government. Others
deduce it from different lines of development, coming up through the
zoological scale, and thence passing from the lower to the higher races
of men. Others still speak of mankind as originating 'in nations,' each
race being fixed in its physical and mental characteristics, and having
an origin independent and distinct from all others.

It matters little to our purpose which of these theories may be true,
the difference as to aptness of illustration being only one of degree.
We prefer, however, to deal with facts in regard to which there is
little or no difference of opinion among the theorists themselves.

There are simple and complex peoples or races, as there are simple and
complex organisms. Take any primitive race, whether described in history
or by some contemporaneous traveller: in a physical point of view, the
men are all very nearly alike, and the women likewise. Describe one
individual, and you have the description for all other individuals of
the same sex belonging to the race. And there is not usually as much
difference in the physical appearance of the sexes in primitive races as
among those who stand higher in the scale. What is true of their
physique, is also true of their minds. As one thinks and feels, so all
think and feel--and that, too, without concert; it is the simple
expression of an undiversified mental organism. Their faculties are rude
and uncultivated; they act chiefly on the perceptive plane, reflecting
but little. They are predominantly sensual, not having developed the
higher mental activities which pertain to an advanced state of society
and result in those great diversities of attainment and expression among
individuals of the same people. There are reasons for believing that
there was a time when this planet had no human inhabitants but races of
this simple type. Great changes have taken place since that day; changes
which, by the law of their accomplishment, correspond precisely with the
changes which have taken place in the zoological scale. Owing to causes
which we may not fully understand, races have been developed which
present, each within its own limits, great contrarieties of physical
appearance and mental characteristics. Among 'Anglo-Saxons' there is
often greater diversity in members of the same family, than you would
find in a million individuals of a primitive race. The complex appears,
somehow or other, to have been developed from the simple.

The simple fact of a population becoming more numerous, necessitates
certain changes--from hunting to pasturage, for example, from pastoral
life to agricultural and fixed habitation--and these would affect the
habits, modes of thought, and, to some extent, personal appearance. The
modification of climate by clearing, draining, and cultivation, and the
removal of a people from one climate to another, would effect still
other changes. But the intermixture of races by war and immigration has,
perhaps, done more than any other cause to produce the great physical
diversities which we now find in the higher races. Having traced the
stream of warlike immigration from Eastern Asia westward, and thence to
Central Europe, and still westward and southward to the shores of the
Atlantic, and even across the Mediterranean into Africa, overwhelming
the Roman Empire of the West in its course,--observe this tide of human
movement, as wave followed wave for centuries, rolling peoples against
and over one another, confounding them together, and leaving them upon
the same soil, or in close proximity to each other; and, even admitting
that they were simple and primitive to begin with, we shall not wonder
at the diversified aspect of the people of Europe and their descendants
in America. But this is only one series of movements from which has
resulted the intermixture of races; there are others, and some, no
doubt, beyond the farthest reach of history. The process of intermixture
is still going on, especially in the Western World, though by methods
usually more peaceful than formerly. The result multiplies itself, and
the leading races of mankind are becoming constantly more composite.

The contact and intermixture of races have had a moral result, which, in
its turn, acts upon the physical. Mental development has been one of the
results of war and immigration; one people learning from another, and
striking out new modes of thought from the sheer necessity of new
circumstances; and this mental development changing the physiognomic
expression and general bearing of the man. This result has been
increasing in geometrical progression since history, printing, and the
facilities of intercommunication have made the culture of one people
contagious to other peoples, and the attainments of one generation
available to all the generations that follow. Thus does every movement
among the nations conspire to change the simple types into those which
are more complex.

The ethnological unity may be less apparent; and before we clearly
perceive it, we may have to rise into the consideration of social and
political relations, not divorcing these from physiology, without which
no question relative to man can be rightly judged. And it may be that
after greater development in this direction, the unity of races may
become more distinctly pronounced and more readily recognized.

We may observe, in passing, that the same causes which have contributed
to this ethnological complexity, have, at the same time, aided in the
development of the cosmical idea--the idea of the unity of the universe.
At first, tribes had little communication with each other, and knew
nothing of geography beyond the limits of their own hunting grounds.
They knew as little of the vastness of the earth outside of their domain
as of that of the universe. This could only be conjectured from the
vantage ground of some degree of intellectual culture, and the idea must
remain vague and indefinite till after long ages of real experience and
intellectual unfolding. It was not till after Alexander's conquests in
the East, the extension of the Roman Empire, the invention of the
mariner's compass, the discovery of America, and the circumnavigation of
the globe, together with the perfection of optical instruments by the
use of which the true character of the celestial bodies was
demonstrated, that the cosmical idea became truly a scientific one.
(Humboldt.) Thus were the partial and fragmentary notions of early
peoples at length corrected, enlarged, unitized.

Closely akin to this is the development of the god-idea. Fetich-worship
is that of the rudest people. They see a god in every individual object,
in every stream, in every tree, in every stone. All they see is,
however, shrouded in mystery, and they have a blind veneration for every
object. A step farther, and the developing mind generalizes these
objects. The individual trees, for example, are taken collectively, and
their divine representative worshipped as the god of the groves. There
are, at the same time, other unitizing conceptions of the god-idea.
There is a god of the hills, a god of the streams, of the seas, and so
on. New classes of divinities may be evolved in the mythological system;
the strong and salient passions of our nature may come to have their
deities--to be unitized, at length, with all other gods. Meantime,
mankind are forming into states, with some degree of regular government;
and apparently in accordance with this fact, the gods are subjected to
the partial control of one who is greater than all the rest, and who is
their father and king, but himself subject to the decrees of Fate.
Another grand step, and seemingly in correspondence with the more
centralized government of a vast and powerful empire, we hear of one God
only, who is all-powerful, and master of Fate itself, with a hierarchy
of angels, powers, and principalities, reaching from God to man, and
subordinate to the Central Will, which rules all things, whether 'in the
armies of heaven or among the inhabitants of the earth.' Thus did the
idea of one God eventually swallow up all the others; and the god-idea
was completely unitized.

We now come to consider the political and social evolution of mankind,
as it appears to be revealed by the comparison of various stages of
national growth.

The primitive condition of all races, so far as history and travel
reveal it, correspond with what is characterized as homogeneous or
unorganized. Socially and politically, individuals of the same sex are
all alike. There are no classes in society, no rulers, no
aristocrats--no society even--nothing but individuals; and it is here
that we find individuality in its purest form. There is no law
originating with a sovereign, or with the people, for the adjustment of
difficulties; every individual avenges his own wrongs in his own way.
Cooeperation is scarcely known; there is nothing in their habits, nothing
in their social and political relations to bind society together; there
are no specialized parts or functions--no dependence of one part on
another; it is marked by a homogeneity of structure, if structure it can
be called, which is unimpeachable. The only cooeperation which obtains
beyond the limits of the family, is that of hunting and war; and these
exercises develop the need of a chief or leader. The strongest and most
daring are self-elected by virtue of individual prowess. But still the
chief is very like all the rest of the tribe, lives in the same style,
provides for his own wants in the same way, has no special
privileges--is merely a chief or leader, and nothing more. And
afterward, when he may have acquired some degree of authority, that
authority is purely of a military character--civil government is not yet
born. Usage comes at length to confirm the chief's right, and human
selfishness works out its legitimate results: smaller men are dwarfed,
as occasion permits, in order that the one who is greatest may be
magnified. His office becomes hereditary, and his family is, at length,
fabled to have descended from the gods. This is the tendency of
primitive ignorance and superstition: there must be a sensual object for
the blind veneration of sensual minds; and the imagination readily
provides this, by attributing to the progenitors of their chiefs vast
corporeal forms, great strength and skill, undaunted courage, and
success in amorous intrigue--the perfection of those qualities which
they themselves most covet. Their chiefs or petty kings are now such by
divine origin; and when civil relations become developed, one man
combines within himself all the prerogatives of civil, military, and
religious government.

The ambition and turbulence of the chief or petty king and of his people
bring them into hostile conflict with other tribes or petty states; and
when victorious, they appropriate the conquered territory, and
annihilate, enslave, or extend their rule over the vanquished people.
This warlike encroachment and increase of power alarm other states, and
they form confederacies or leagues more or less intimate and permanent
for resistance and mutual protection. Thus does the unitizing element of
government gather strength with the progress of political movement.

The ambitious chieftain, having acquired greater power than his
neighbors, conceives of further aggrandizement, undertakes new
conquests, attacks the weak, and adds other states to his own, till in
time he may have made himself a great sovereign and won a great kingdom.
These new conquests impose additional cares on the ruler; but he uses
the tools of his power to execute his will; he governs his kingdoms with
absolute sway, as a general governs his army; it is a military despotism
of the simplest structure, and all prerogatives and interests are merged
in and subservient to this one. The civil function is not yet developed
as distinct from the military. Only one idea pervades the government,
and that is the idea of absolute rule by brute force. Society has as yet
developed few elements, has but few interests and little functional
diversity; there are only two classes, the ruler and the ruled, the
masters and the slaves. There being but few political and social
interests to play among each other, there cannot be development for want
of activity; there can be little progress of any kind. Such are the
simple, unprogressive, one-idea governments which prevailed in the
earliest times of which we have any tolerably authentic record, and
which still prevail among half-civilized peoples.

Government is simply a growth, a development, and it must correspond to
the character of the people out of whose mental status it has sprung. If
the people are homogeneous in their mental structure, their social and
political interests must be correspondingly homogeneous and simple. The
more rude and primitive the minds of any people, the fewer are the
relations external to the individual which obtain among them. But when a
people, or a mixture of peoples, have developed great versatility of
mind, a great variety of tastes, propensities, aspirations, and
interests, their social and political institutions become
correspondingly heterogeneous and complex. Such are the social and
political systems of Middle and Western Europe. There was nothing of the
kind in the ancient world. Then the people were more simple and less
versatile in their mental habitudes; and a simple, though despotic
government was the inevitable outgrowth. Rome was but a military
despotism, and it conquered and ruled with military stringency. It was
not till the reign of Diocletian that the civil functions were divorced
from the military, and then only to a partial extent. It remained for
Constantine to carry out more fully what Diocletian had begun, and to
divide, or, if you please, to differentiate the governmental functions
to an extent which had been altogether unknown before.

The people of the provinces subject to Roman dominion had no recognized
rights, no voice in their own government, but were dominated by the
central power at Rome. The right of representation, so sacred in modern
times as an element of confederate policy, they did not desire nor
appreciate; for, when seven provinces of the south of Gaul were
commanded by the emperor Honorius to send a representation of their
chief men to the city of Arles for the supervision of interests which
concerned themselves, they disregarded the mandate. A central despotism
maintained Roman unity; and, whenever its iron arm should by any means
become weakened, the empire must fall into fragments.

The dissolution of the Roman Empire in the West was the end of one
cycle; thence began another--that in which we now are, and which should
be of absorbing interest to us. A state of affairs quite unlike anything
known before was then inaugurated. Hundreds of years have been required
to develop results so as to enable the human mind to divine at all
definitely the law of its movement; and hundreds more may be required to
develop the full fruition of what was then so inauspiciously begun.

As we are all aware, the Roman Empire of the West was overrun by hordes
of barbarians from the North, who annihilated a great portion of the old
population, and changed the character of society. But Rome did not die
without bequeathing a legacy to be enjoyed by the descendants at least
of those by whose hands she had fallen. There was still some remembrance
of what Rome was. Guizot says that 'the two elements which passed from
the Roman civilization into ours were, first, the system of municipal
corporations--its habits, its regulations, its principle of liberty, a
general civil legislation common to all; secondly, the idea of absolute
power--the principle of order and the principle of servitude.' These
elements, though almost latent for a time, were destined to make up and
play a conspicuous part in the war of diversified interests and the
adjustment of political relations, hundreds of years afterward.

Another element of society at the time of the Fall, was the Church. The
barbarians conquered the empire, but the Church conquered them; without
gaining much, however, to show for her victory; for, while the
barbarians embraced Christianity, they reduced it to barbarism, and were
much the same rude, cruel people, after their conversion, that they were
before. The Church, however, in its origin and growth, illustrates the
law under consideration, in the gradual development of the distinct
specialities of organization; and we are now regarding it at a time when
it was one element among others, and destined with them, by the
interaction of their various forces, to evolve a still higher unity.

Another element in society, at this time, was that which was brought by
the conquerors from their native wilds in the free North. They were a
rude, and even savage people, with no fixed ideas of property, but
living by hunting and pasturage, and driving their herds from one region
to another as necessity required. The most marked and distinctive
feature in their character, and that which played the most conspicuous
part in the social and political drama of the following centuries of
development, was their personal independence--their almost absolute
individuality, as the result, we believe, of their superior native
physical constitution.

They had little or no cooeperation in their own country; no combination
of civil interests; no settled government. They were apt for adventure,
and readily formed into bands of roving warriors; and when pressed
forward by the tide of warlike immigration from the East, they conquered
the Roman Empire, and divided the lands among themselves. German
magnates courted followers in their own country by hospitality, by
presents of horses and arms; but in the conquered countries, by grants
of land for military service. These grants were at first made during
pleasure, then for life, and at length they became hereditary.
(Robertson.) In this manner it appears that the feudal system
originated--a system which grew into such magnificent proportions in
Middle and Western Europe. It was, however, a growth which was five
centuries in maturing. (Hallam.)

A curious circumstance, connected with its development, deserves to be
noticed, as showing that certain rights, however desirable, and even
sacred they may seem to be, must succumb to the prevailing order,
however undesirable that system or order might, under other
circumstances, appear to be. Allodial lands, or those held in the right
of the individual, and for which there was no obligation of service,
except in the general defence, were at length swallowed up by the feudal
system. In those days of universal anarchy, rapine, and oppression, the
rule of might and unrestrained selfishness prevailed to such an extent,
that small proprietors, having no means of defence against the strong,
were compelled to surrender their allodial title for a feudal one, and
do homage to the neighboring lord for the sake of protection. And to
such an extent did the abasement of allodial privileges prevail, that it
came at length to be recognized as a principle that the feudal
arrangement was the only legitimate one; whereupon allodial lands were
seized with impunity, and appropriated by the feudal barons. Even the
Church was subordinated by the prevailing system. Bishops became feudal
lords. The incomes of religious service were, in some cases, seized upon
by the irresponsible barons, and disposed of according to the feudal
policy. This, however, is but one example of the struggle of a system or
movement to subordinate what stands in its way, and become universal; it
is a law of history.

The feudal system was a very complete embodiment of despotism. It grew
out of the political circumstances and mental status of the times, and
could only exist by the warrant of these conditions. It had its
redeeming qualities, however, and, no doubt, promoted the conditions and
the spirit which prepared the way for its own overthrow and the
inauguration of a better system. The isolated and pent-up condition of
all classes, together with such culture as was afforded by their mode of
life to the inmates of the baronial castle, made the occasion for that
general restlessness in society from which proceeded such ready response
to the fanatical appeals of Peter the Hermit. The Crusades lasted two
hundred years, and contributed to the overthrow of feudalism by the
increase of general intelligence and the diminution of the baronial
estates.

After the fall of the empire, the cities began to decline, and their
government fell, in a great measure, into the hands of the clergy; and
thence supervened a kind of ecclesiastical municipal system. Commerce,
which some centuries later began to develop, gave renewed importance to
the cities; and the activities developed within them were antagonistic
to the feudal spirit, and destined to contribute their part, and an
important one, to the process of ultimate organization and its
accompanying phenomena. The cities at length became free, not without a
struggle; for it is not to be supposed that the great barons would
passively allow the enfranchisement of a rival power within their own
domains. In those rude times, the cities had little intercourse with
each other; yet they became independent nearly at the same time, showing
that this political phenomenon was also a growth arising out of the
condition of the times--the result of political and social causes acting
in concert over more than half a continent.

The cities accomplished their political mission by doing something
toward establishing law and order, and fostering the germs of freedom.
Their example could not but tell upon their immediate neighbors. In some
cases they even attacked the nearest feudal lords, and afterward those
more remote, compelling them to become citizens. Thus was feudalism
overthrown in Italy in the thirteenth century. Elsewhere, commerce had
as yet done less for the cities, and their progress was less rapid. But,
whenever they appeared, they had the great barons to contend with. The
free cities or communities gradually extended intercourse with each
other; and for objects of commerce and mutual defence against their
enemies, they formed into leagues. Coalitions of the feudal barons also
sprung up, and wars between the two systems were frequent and bloody.
Feudal France made war on municipal France. The Hanseatic league,
embracing at one time eighty-five German cities, maintained successful
wars against the monarchs themselves. There was a confederacy of cities
in Italy of great power and influence. These movements show that the
former isolated condition of European society was no longer compatible
with the change which was being gradually brought about in the social
elements. We perceive a manifest tendency toward more extensive union;
larger combinations were becoming a demand of the times.

But, along with the progress of this tendency to unity, we perceive that
society was constantly becoming more diversified in character, and its
elements more distinctly defined. The institution of chivalry, the
troubadours, and minnesingers had played their part. Besides those great
political and social powers, the Church, the barons, the kings, and the
free cities, new classes were rising in society, giving it greater
complexity, and, by their diversified activities and needs, urging it
forward to a more comprehensive and centralized organization. At first,
in the twelfth century, the inhabitants of the cities or free
communities were composed only of 'small traders and small landed or
house proprietors.' 'Three centuries afterward there were added to
these, lawyers, physicians, men of letters, and local magistrates.'
(Guizot.)

In the rude and chaotic society which succeeded the fall of the empire,
there was no occupation honorable but that of arms; but in the course of
time, the meed of honor assumed new branches, and fell upon various
classes.

The discovery of the Pandects of Justinian in the twelfth century, gave
the study of the law a new impulse, and, together with accompanying
developments, complicated the administration of justice. Rude and
ignorant warriors were no longer adequate to this function; civil
processes required a distinct organ; the profession of law arose, and
commanded its share of public attention and respect. With the rise of
commerce, there was developed a commercial class, which acquired wealth,
power, distinction, and a demand for rights. With the revival of
learning and philosophy, however unpromising at first, there arose a
literary class, which attracted notice and acquired influence.

In the view given of the earlier stages of modern civilization, we
perceive, first, a social chaos which obtained for some time after the
fall of the empire in the West; secondly, the development out of this
chaos, in the course of centuries, of various political and social
powers, classes, and interests, which were differentiated from the
unorganized mass; thirdly, all these diversified elements, classes, and
interests, gradually tending to the formation of more comprehensive
relations with each other. There was no general organization of these
several elements, in the early periods of the modern cycle. There were
what were called kings and kingdoms, but it was not till a comparatively
recent period that the government became an integer, a complete
organism, with a sensorium and will-power, and a mutual interrelation
and dependence of parts and functions. During the prevalence of the
feudal system and the rise of the independent communities, European
society was composed of innumerable fragments, isolated from each other,
and each caring for itself only, looking to no centre as the source of
political order and vitality, without organization or head. The king did
not rule the barons any more than the barons ruled the king--they were
rival powers; the barons and the cities were rival powers; the kings and
barons played off the cities against each other. The Church, by the
peculiarity of its constitution and character, was related to them all.
The clergy were the subjects of the king, the vassals of the baron, and
yet the spiritual lords of both, as well as of their feudal peers. And
when the Church effected the separation of her own from the political
power, she sought, in turn, to subordinate the latter; and secular
rulers were obliged to resist her encroachments to save themselves. The
kings had no fixed revenue adequate to government, and were the sport of
the capricious elements within their own realms. But the Crusades
brought all these fragments into closer relations, and broke the power
of the feudal lords. The king gained what the barons lost; and with
these powerful, turbulent, and refractory subjects out of the way, the
cities were easily subordinated. The sovereign acquired at length an
adequate revenue and a standing army; he was now enabled to command the
resources of his kingdom, and play a king's part in the drama of
nations. Thus was consummated the movement of national centralization.

Progress advances by action and reaction; extremes develop each other.
It was so in governmental affairs. The movement of unitization ended in
the absolute power of the sovereign, who became not only the head of the
executive function, but the source of legislation as well. In France,
Louis XIV. knew no will but his own; the States General and Parliament
were little more than empty names; and in England, Parliament stood in
awe of Queen Elizabeth, and the courts did her behests. The sovereigns
were absolute. But with the culmination of royal prerogative and
centralized government, there were also an increase of intelligence,
greater facilities for intercommunication, and, as we have seen, a
diversity of social and political forces interrelated, and acting and
reacting upon each other in a manner quite unprecedented. The inquiry
and criticism of plebeian minds were becoming more daring, and there was
a stir and a restlessness in society, which made bad subjects for an
absolute monarch. The religious Reformation, which began in Germany and
spread to the westward, was but the legitimate result of the
intellectual agitation which preceded it; and the political absolutism
of kings could no more expect exemption from searching criticism and
final revolution than the religious absolutism of the Pope. The German
Reformation was blind to the magnitude and significance of its own
mission; for while its leaders denounced reason, it was in its essential
nature a protest against priestly domination over intellect, and a plea
for the right of free inquiry. Agitation, of whatever kind, is
contagious; and the energetic play of this diversity of plebeian forces
must needs result in the recognition of a popular element in the
government, more or less formal in its character. The government of an
intelligent people must emanate from the popular will, to a very great
extent, whatever the form of government may be. If Queen Elizabeth and
Louis XIV. were more absolute than the sovereigns of our day, it was
because the French and English people had not then developed that
versatility of genius, that intelligence and freedom of inquiry, that
self-appreciation and dignity of character for which they have since
become so conspicuous. With the increase of intelligence and
self-respect among the people, there originated a popular branch of
government to look after their interests, and it grew with their growth.
Through this channel there came a pressure upon the throne, which must
needs yield, or be overturned by the surges of revolution. The examples
of Charles I. and Louis XVI. were extreme. The popular element has since
then usually accomplished its ends with less turbulence and commotion.
It has been less violent, but none the less effective. Since the
Restoration in England, the popular will has been making itself felt in
national affairs more and more. And in France, even a Napoleon, mighty
and original as he was, had to consult popular tastes, and, in a great
measure, conform thereto. We have heard a great deal about the tyranny
and usurpation of Louis Napoleon; but he, too, must conform to the
predominance of public feeling in France, or that public
feeling--'public opinion'--would burst out in a torrent of revolution
which would overwhelm him. This introduction of the popular element into
government is a result of the developing process, which has made
government an organism of almost infinite complexity.

As we have seen, while primitive peoples remained in an isolated and
exclusively individualistic condition, there were few civil interests;
and these few the sovereign was not concerned with, so that he could
discharge in person all the functions of his simple government. But,
when the civil interests had grown into greater magnitude and diversity,
and the pressure of their administration was upon the throne, the
affairs of government became too burdensome for one man. A division of
labor became necessary. The order of priests originated at an early day,
and took charge of religion. The king, in time, ceased to march at the
head of his army, and sent his generals instead. Not being able to hear
and decide all causes, he named judges to administer justice; and thus
the process of functional differentiation began, and kept on without
abatement as the needs of the government required. There was a time when
an Englishman had no conception of a prime minister. (Hume.) In this age
we cannot conceive of government without such a functionary, whether
administered in the name of king or president. With the development of
new interests arose new branches in the administration of government.
The constant rise of new industrial elements; the increasing demand for
the facilities of intercommunication; the development of trade and
commerce; the interrelation of interests within, and the complication of
affairs without, have given rise to new departments in the government,
with a hierarchy of subordinate bureaus; while the interests of towns,
counties, and states have necessitated an analogous scale of
functionaries, making, on the whole, an amazing complication of
governmental machinery. This increase of complexity is precisely
analogous to the order of development in every department of nature; it
is perfectly in accordance with the second feature of the law which we
have recognized as a Law of Universal Development.

Some of our economists may object on principle to so much complexity,
and attempt to simplify government by eliminating certain terms of the
series. Let them try it; GOD is mightier than they! There may be
governmental abuse in regard to the complexity of its functions; but the
thing itself is simply in the order of destiny. Man develops it, because
he _must_; it is the historical result of the accumulation of all human
activities.

There is one kind of simplification, however, which should be closely
observed; and that is to accomplish the object of any governmental
function in the most _direct_ and economical manner. There is great room
for improvement in this respect. Nature, in the midst of all her growing
complexities, exemplifies the principle of the greatest possible result
with the greatest possible economy of means, considering in all cases
the obstacles to be overcome. Let government do the same, and see that
every channel of official activity be thoroughly purged of corruption
and abuse.

This development of organic complexity is just as necessary and
inevitable in the political as in the animal economy; and the
performance of any function, in the one case as in the other, depends
for the degree of its completeness on the extent to which 'the division
of labor' is carried through the complexity of the organic structure.
There are no grounds of apprehension from this source whatever. In
regard to government, this increase of complexity is most strikingly
observable in the executive department; and it is worthy of notice that
while this department of government is in general becoming less
tyrannical and relatively weaker with reference to the legislative
department, it is also becoming more complex: as tyranny recedes,
complexity advances. There is no point better sustained in history than
the general fact that, as government increases the multiplicity of its
machinery, it gradually relaxes its interference with the private rights
of individuals.

After man has laid aside his primitive habits of selfish isolation, and,
though still rude and untutored, has come, through the mere increase of
numbers, into a more compact form of society, the government, however
circumscribed as to territorial limits, assumes a despotic and
intermeddling character. Such was the government of the feudal lords
during the middle ages, and of the kings at a still later day. Laws were
made for the regulation of dress, as to quality and cut for particular
classes, and the number of garments which any person might have in a
year. Citizens were not allowed to keep certain kinds of furniture; and
the dishes they might have for dinner and supper respectively were
definitely and rigidly prescribed. The wages of the laborer were fixed
by law to the great advantage of the lordly employer: this, however, was
a very natural sequence to the abolition of villanage or vassal
servitude. The law made service at particular trades compulsory; and
decided where certain kinds of manufacturing should be carried on; and
how an article should be made, and how sold when made. This interference
affected every department of the individual's private life. Religious
interference need only be mentioned; it is well known. As Buckle
declares, in speaking of the interference of governments, 'It may be
emphatically said that they have taxed the human mind. They have made
the very thoughts of men pay toll.' Queen Elizabeth was a very great
sovereign, but she meddled with very small matters. She disliked the
smell of woad, a plant used for blue dye, and thereupon prohibited its
cultivation. She was displeased with long swords and high ruffs, and
commissioned her officers to break the swords and abate the ruffs. None
of the nobility dared marry without her consent; no one could travel
without her permission. Foreign commerce was subject to her capricious
will. The star chamber, the court of high commission, the court martial,
the warrants of the secretary of state and privy council, were
instruments of terror to the subject, who had no remedy by law. There
was no safety but for harmless stupidity or slavish conformity.
Individual independence was impossible. Every noble, manly head that
appeared above the servile mass, was unceremoniously hid away in a
dungeon, or struck off on a scaffold.

Such annoying and insolent meddling on the part of governments no longer
exists. There can be no such thing among an enlightened people. As the
mass of mankind, or we will say their leaders or representatives, become
more cultured, they demand a larger field of individual freedom, and
organize a pressure upon government, which in time effects its object,
and the oppression is removed, or gradually becomes relaxed and
obsolete.

Observing that the differentiation of function obtains chiefly in the
administrative department of government, and putting the two general
facts of history together,--first, that while the subject is enlarging
the domain of individual liberty, and secondly, the government becoming
more complex in structure and activity,--we infer that, through the
advance of general intelligence and the multiplication of interests,
government is changing its character from an instrument of compulsion
and force to an instrument of management and direction, wielded by the
governed themselves for the benefit of their own diversified and
interrelated interests.

In following the course of individuality, we find it simple and almost
absolute in savage life; then it is overpowered and disappears under the
despotic and one-idea governments of ancient times, and of Asia still;
at length it reappears, and gathers strength with every advancing age,
with every discovery, with every improvement, with every flash of
intelligence, till it has accumulated, in its course, all the
diversified means of expression and gratification afforded by art,
literature, and all the social appliances of a complex and exalted form
of society;--and the end is not yet: there will be more freedom, other
methods of expression, new facilities for enjoyment and happiness. Its
destiny is a glorious one!

It may be well in this connection to recall to mind the principle that,
with the rise of new functions and the increase of complexity, _unity
obtains its completest form and fullest expression_. These two elements
are by no means antagonistic; they belong together, and one necessitates
the other.

It is a general fact of history that there is a relation between the
culture of a people and the geographical extent of their voluntary
combinations. Whilst rude and uncultivated, with no facilities for
intercommunication, they form no permanent associations of any
considerable magnitude; but with the advance of general intelligence,
the rise of distinct classes and industrial and commercial interests,
together with the improvement of facilities for travel and trade, and
for the intercommunication of thought and feeling, there is developed a
general bond of sympathy between larger masses of mankind, and the
natural result is more extensive combination. The unity becomes more
comprehensive. We have observed this in our glance at European
development.

Let us trace the course of one of the lines of political movement. In a
primitive society, as among the ancient Germans, each individual has
the right of avenging himself, of taking justice into his own hands,
and determining what the measure of satisfaction shall be. The right of
private war, derived from rude society, remained for a long time in
Western Europe, and pertained to the clergy as well as to laymen--a
custom which was withal not very Christian-like. A step beyond this, and
there was recognized a regular method of determining the amount of
satisfaction due for an injury: composition for crime became fixed. We
observe here a development from absolute individuality in the matter of
determining justice to the recognition of a conventionalism--a law which
was the product of the sense of many individuals acting, it may have
been, in some cases, without conscious concert, yet in a social and
cooeperative way. As mankind grew out of their original rude conditions,
they relinquished the individual prerogative of taking justice into
their own hands, and appealed therefore to a tribunal which was
recognized as adequate to this end, and the jurisdiction of which seems
to have had a constant tendency to enlarge its territorial limits. Thus,
for a time, the feudal barons claimed the final adjudication of all
difficulties among their own vassals; but, gradually, dissatisfied
clients appealed to the king, who encouraged them to do so, and at
length the throne became the universally recognized centre and source of
all formal justice.

This was a movement occupying centuries for its consummation, a movement
which extended the jurisdiction of the tribunal of justice from the
territory of a private individual to the territory of an entire kingdom,
collecting the isolated jurisdictions of every individual in barbarian
society, and uniting them all together in the recognized sovereign of a
consolidated nation.

Now, while it is true that 'the history of progress is the history of
successful struggles against coercion and authoritative direction, and
in favor of human spontaneity and free motion' (Slack); it is also true,
as we have seen in tracing the course of the administration of justice,
that 'the progress of civilization consists in the substitution of the
general for the individual will, of legal for individual resistance.'
(Guizot.)

The development of law, or of a general method, is the necessary result
of social interchange, through which thoughts and feelings become
contagious and mould a general will. In primitive society, individuals
are isolated, and it matters little to others what any individual does;
hence he is allowed to settle his own difficulties in his own way. He is
let alone in a way so terrible, that similar treatment would be social
death to a man of culture. We repeat, there is nothing like absolute
individuality, except among isolated and unsocial savages. In an
advanced state of society, human interests become interrelated--a
complete network of complexity; and what any particular individual does
becomes a matter of interest to many, since the many are, to a certain
extent, affected thereby. The individual of civilization has developed
relations external to himself, and his rights can only be secured and
his tastes and wants gratified by mutual understanding, cooeperation, and
combination. His individuality is of a far higher order than that of the
uncultivated man; and precisely because it is higher, does it develop
law as the embodiment of the general will, and require organization for
its expression. 'It is through association that the highest form of
individuation becomes possible; and nationality wisely developed will
terminate in a cosmopolitan identity of interests, and a general unity
founded upon a reciprocity of services among all the divisions of
mankind.' (Slack.)

It is owing to this same fact of the interrelation and dependence of
interests, that the movement of unitization has not stopped in Europe
with the organization of a distinct government for each nation. We have
observed that when primitive individuals develop relations with each
other, they form into small societies, and that when these develop
relations with like societies, they unite and form larger associations;
and further, that these states, cities, baronies, come at length to
develop relations with each other, and the result is their union into
kingdoms. But this tendency of growth does not cease here. One nation
cannot long remain isolated and distinct from other nations. The
interests of one kingdom become, in many ways, interrelated with the
interests of other kingdoms; and there must be new governmental
appliances to meet the case. Diplomacy, a new function of government,
arose from this necessity. This is a political activity of quite recent
development: it originated in the fifteenth century. Like all
progressive developments, it was at first immature; 'it was not till the
seventeenth century that it became really systematic; before then it had
not brought about long alliances, great combinations, and especially
combinations of a durable nature, directed by fixed principles, with a
steady object, and with that spirit of consistency which forms the true
character of established government.' (Guizot.)

Who can say that we have yet seen the end of this process of national
development? Centuries have been required for all great changes
affecting the destiny of man: the centuries of the great Future may yet
develop a unity among the nations themselves--a distinct political
organism for the regulation of national interests, which are constantly
becoming more interrelated and complex. As cities, states, and baronies
were developed from individuals and tribes, and as kingdoms were
developed from cities, states, and baronies, so may a mightier political
fabric than has yet been known be developed from the family of nations!

The law, we repeat, is, that with the advance of social dependence and
complexity, the principle of unitization becomes practically more
intimate and comprehensive. _It is to this law that nations owe that
vitality_ of which diplomatists and constitutional lawyers take
cognizance. By virtue of this law, a nation is a living organism,
resisting with all its vital force whatever may threaten it with
dissolution. Hence the utter folly of cherishing the idea of a
'peaceable separation' of confederated states. There can be no such
thing in the order of nature. The rupture and division of a nation is a
reaction against the spirit of social progress, a backward movement
against the current of civilization, a terrible outrage to the
organizing forces of the political realm, and can only be effected
through violence and bloodshed. The more mature civilization becomes,
the more difficult to effect disunion, the more terrible the penalty,
and the more enduring, discordant, and wretched the consequences.

The law of unitization is a universal one, being an accompaniment of all
unfolding, and man worse than wastes his energy in fighting against it.
It is a great law of Universal Progress; and in lifting our hands
against it, we are presuming to measure arms with a Power which will be
sure to overwhelm us with confusion and defeat. We must consent to go
with the grand movements of the Universe, and to march to the step of
Destiny, or be crushed under the resistless tread of advancing peoples!

The course of industrial, mechanical, and commercial progress from
savage to civilized life, goes to illustrate and confirm the view which
we have taken of the course of political development.

Among the least cultivated tribes of mankind, the family is wholly
adequate to itself, there being no dissimilarity of industrial function,
except between the husband and wife. The family builds its own hut,
makes its own weapons, kills its own game--in short, provides for all
its own needs. What is industrially true of one family is true of all
others; there is no division of labor, no exchange of products. They
have no accumulated property, no fixed habitation, but wander from place
to place, as the attractions of their simple life may lead them. But
when population becomes more numerous, and neither hunting nor pasturage
is sufficient for their support, the cultivation of the soil is resorted
to, and new wants are developed. The division of labor, the
differentiation of the industrial function begins. One man cultivates
the soil, another works in iron, another in wood, and so on; and these
specialities, in their turn, assume new branches. Take agriculture for
example: At first every husbandman grows all that he needs for himself
and family; after a while he observes that his soil is better adapted to
one kind of crop than another, and he devotes himself more exclusively
to its cultivation. A similar result with a different crop obtains on a
different soil and in a different locality; and thus do the specialities
of soil and climate result in the specialization of agriculture. These
diversities of occupation with reference to the soil, wood, metals,
imply the exchange of products; but this must obtain to a very limited
extent while neighbors are remote, and the means of travel and
transportation defective. With few roads, and commerce undeveloped,
there is little intercommunication, little culture, little civilization.
This was the condition of Scotland as late as the middle of the
eighteenth century. (Buckle.) England had some external commerce as
early as the thirteenth century (Hallam), but did not send a ship of her
own into the Mediterranean till the fifteenth. (Robertson.) Think of the
difference between then and now!

The making of tools, implements, and fabrics is at first carried on
solely by individuals working alone, but at length, machinery comes into
use, the elements are used as driving power, and manufacturing
establishments arise having a complicated organization. The division of
labor has been all the time becoming more complete, till now a single
workman manages but a part of the process of making an implement or a
fabric, which must pass through many hands in succession before it is
completed. All are familiar with this fact. It is exactly analogous to
that which we observe in the animal economy. Low in the zoological
scale, one membrane performs all the organic functions; higher in the
scale, there are different organs to perform the distinct functions.
When the stomach and liver first appear, they are very simple in
structure, and as simple in function; it is just so with the
manufactories in the industrial organism. But the stomach and liver
become more complicated as the scale rises; it is just so with the
manufactories as civilization advances. Animals lowest in the scale have
no heart--no circulation. It is just so with society--if society it may
be called--which is lowest in the scale; it has no exchange of
products--no commercial circulation. The parallelism is complete.

Further, as already specified, we find in the animal organism, that the
dependence of parts and functions upon each other becomes greater with
the increase of complexity; that unitization at the top of the scale, in
the midst of an almost infinite complication of organic structures and
functions, has a completeness and significance which it cannot have in
the simple organism at the bottom of the scale. The same precisely is
true of the social organism. At the bottom of the scale, there is no
dependence of one part on another--no cooeperation--no proper
unity--nothing but simple individual life. Higher in the scale, there is
dependence of one element of society on another; there must be
cooeperation, combination, organization, a tendency, at least, toward
unity.

This is well exemplified by industrial and commercial development. With
regard to manufacturing, there is specialization, not only in the
handiwork, but also in the locality of production. Thus, in Great
Britain, where this development has most fully matured itself, 'the
calico manufacture locates itself in this county, the woollen-cloth
manufacture in that; silks are produced here, lace there, stockings in
one place, shoes in another; pottery, hardware, cutlery, come to have
their special towns; and ultimately, every locality becomes more or less
distinguished from the rest by the leading occupation carried on in it.
Nay, more, this subdivision of functions shows itself, not only among
the different parts of the same nation, but among different nations.'
(Westminster Review.) Some of our economists object to this process, and
would bring all kinds of productive labor into the same district; but a
law higher than their theories brings artisans of the same kind into the
neighborhood of each other;--it is the cooeperative action of the
principles of differentiation and unitization.

The effect of this process is to make one locality dependent on another
locality. Once, as we have seen, the family was adequate to its own
needs; now, we perceive the industrial producers of one district have
become dependent on each other, and on the products of other districts
and nations, for the supply of their needs. This industrial division and
concentration gives increased importance to commerce, without which
there could be no industrial development. It is thus that these two
activities are separating the elements of society in order to bind them
the more firmly together.

The improvement of roads, rivers, harbors, the construction of canals,
railroads, and telegraphs, the development of industry, the extension of
commerce, the advance of general culture, and the consequent increase of
human wants, is making society a very complicated structure;--indeed, it
has nerve and tissue, and is becoming very sensitive. The loss of a crop
in one country affects all other countries. The burning of a city, or
even of a great manufacturing establishment, is really felt to the
remotest ends of civilization. A commercial crisis on either shore of
the Atlantic shocks the whole civilized world. A rebellion in the United
States is affecting the agriculture of the whole country, the production
of a staple on three continents, manufacturing in France and New and Old
England, commerce everywhere. Every partisan clique, every political
court and cabinet, even political destiny itself, throughout the whole
world, reels with every surge of a distant revolution! How different
from the condition even of Europe in the twelfth century, when a whole
city or barony, an entire kingdom, or half the continent even, might
have sunk beneath, the ocean, and the rest of the world have known
nothing of it by its social results!

Thus, as in the undeveloped organism there is a want of dependence and
sensitiveness, so is there the same want in undeveloped society. As in
the higher organic structures there is a high degree of unity and
sensitiveness, an injury to the remotest part affecting instantaneously
the whole organism; so, precisely, is the same true of society in its
higher stages of development. The law is universal; it governs the
organic as well as the inanimate, the social as well as the organic
world. Hence the reason why the rupture of Europe, on the death of
Charlemagne, into provinces and kingdoms loosely united, could not
prevent the ultimate organization of national government, and the rise
of relations external to the individual nation, out of which diplomacy
grew, for the consummation of a policy above the nations themselves.
Obstructions may be thrown in the way of unitization, but it will
express itself in some form or other. If, on account of the viciousness
of primitive conditions from which it has been developed, modern Europe
cannot yet exist as a union of states under one great and glorious
government, it will, nevertheless, approximate that union, as best it
can, and consummate vast national leagues, which are becoming constantly
more comprehensive and permanent as civilization advances.




WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

     'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one _lives_
     it--to not many is it _known_; and seize it where you will, it is
     interesting.'--_Goethe._

     'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or
     intended.'--_Webster's Dictionary._


CHAPTER XV.

Our hero starts once more with a new field before him--the field where
all his hopes and aspirations have been centred since he first was
capable of comprehending the shrewd advice of Hiram Bennett, of the firm
of H. Bennett & Co.

Yes, he starts with a new field in view, unencumbered by any love
affair, and free from all entanglements of that nature--indeed, of any
nature.

I have endeavored to be so minute in this history as to give the reader
a proper idea of young Meeker at the time he was ready to launch upon
New-York life. He was now nearly twenty-three years old, and fully
competent, by his previous education and experience, to undertake any
kind of business.

Mr. Bennett, with whom Hiram had become a great favorite, looked
confidently to securing him in his establishment. It is true, he had
attempted to make no positive engagement with his namesake in advance,
but for the last year he always spoke to him as if, in due time, he was
to enter his service as a matter of course. Hiram did not assent nor
dissent to such observations; but, really, he had not the slightest idea
of taking a situation with his cousin. He did not like 'dry goods' to
begin with. He thought the trade offered too little scope for
enterprise, unless, indeed, one had good foreign connections, and even
then he had his objections to it. The competition was more active, the
credits longer, and the risks were greater, than in other commercial or
mercantile pursuits. The question, as you may naturally suppose, had
occupied his serious attention for years; but he kept his counsel, and
never spoke of his designs.

The first that was known of Hiram's whereabouts, he was established as
the junior clerk in a first-class ship chandler's store in South street.
It was rather difficult to obtain such a situation; but the reader well
knows that, once in it, Hiram will not fail to merit the approbation of
his employers.

Singular to say, he was indebted for the place to that scapegrace Hill.
The head clerk was Hill's cousin, himself utterly unlike his relation,
yet a good deal attached to him. Hiram, who made it a rule never to lose
sight of anybody, always managed to fall in with Hill (who had quit
Joslin) whenever he came to the city, and on one occasion Hill
introduced him to this cousin. He managed to make himself very
agreeable, and an intimacy commenced, which ended in Hiram's obtaining
the place of the junior clerk, who was about leaving. Of course, Hiram
came backed with the highest recommendations, so that his friend had
really to assume no responsibility on his behalf. Thus he secured the
place.

A 'ship chandler!' Reader, have you any idea of his occupation? You have
doubtless some business notion of commerce, or at least a romantic idea
of ships on the ocean, their sails spread to favorable breezes, or
closehauled, braving adverse gales--joyous in fine weather, defiant in
the tempest--yes, you know or feel something about this. But to enable
the good ship to pursue her way, she must be 'provided.' She must not
only have wherewithal to feed crew and passengers, but every special
notion which can be conceived of in the ship's 'husbandry.' From out a
ship chandler's establishment comes everything, directly or indirectly,
which shall furnish the vessel.

Step in, and look through such a store. Taking the interest I hope you
do in Hiram, pray devote a few moments to visiting the place where he
has resolved to _begin_ his New-York life. You won't find it an
agreeable spot. Nothing to compare with the neat, well-arranged office
at Burnsville--pleasant Burnsville!--nor even as attractive as the
country store of Benjamin Jessup, at Hampton. It is dark and
disagreeable. It smells of tar, bacon, cheese, and cordage, blended with
a suspicious odor of bilge water. This last does not really belong to
the store, but comes from the docks, which are in close proximity. The
place is ample. It has a large front, runs back deep, and you will find,
if you walk far enough, a respectable counting-room, where the gas is
kept all the time burning. This establishment is managed by three
partners, careful, economical men, who divide a large sum each year in
profits. They have, it is true, the cream of the trade, for they are
reliable, straightforward people, and can be trusted to fit out a ship
without fear that advantage will be taken if they are not closely
watched. No danger that the pork, when opened ninety days out, will
prove to be rusty, or the beef a little tainted. Hendly, Layton & Gibb
are old-fashioned, respectable people. They have been already twenty
years together. Hendly keeps the books, Layton makes all the purchases,
Gibb fits out the vessels. Levi Eastman (Hill's cousin, Hiram's friend),
now over ten years in the place, is head man under the firm, having a
general supervision of whatever is going on. He is forty years old at
least, has a wife, and, some say, in addition to a good salary, enjoys a
percentage on all profits over a certain amount. Hiram Meeker ranks next
to Eastman, though it will take him a few weeks to get familiar with his
duties.

I will tell you presently what decided Hiram to become clerk to a ship
chandler, I do not intend, after being so communicative, to hide his
motives on this occasion. I say I will explain presently: meantime, do
not fear that Hiram has any desire to supplant his friend Eastman, or
get the control of the business of the firm; not at all. Other views,
far more important, engage his mind--views which he thinks, in this ship
chandler's store, to study and develop to advantage.

Hiram seemed to have altered his tactics on leaving Burnsville. There
his style of living was considered expensive. His salary was very
liberal, and although he did not spend it all (it was much increased
after the Joslin affair), he appeared far from calculating in his
disbursements. Now, this was all changed. Eastman, who had no children,
and with two spare rooms in his house, consented, after consulting his
wife, to take Hiram as a boarder, on more moderate terms than he could
possibly get elsewhere for comfortable accommodations.

In this arrangement, Hiram had unquestionably decided to forego the
luxury of pleasant female society. Mrs. Eastman had a sour-looking
countenance, which did not in the least belie her disposition. In fact,
her husband had a hard time of it, and doubtless thought Hiram's
presence might prove a distraction for him--or for his wife. In either
case, he would be the gainer, even if Hiram suffered somewhat. The
latter did not appear to be apprehensive, but made himself at home in
short order.

Then, and not before, he called on Mr. Bennett, and told him, ere the
latter had time to inquire, that he had quit Burnsville, and was now
clerk for Hendly, Layton & Gibb, ship chandlers.

'Well, that's a move, I declare! Did you suppose I was so full I could
not make room for you?'

'Not that; but, you see, I am not going into your line,' said Hiram,
blandly.

Till that moment Mr. Bennett had himself no idea how much he was
calculating on Hiram's assistance in his largely increasing business. He
was greatly disappointed. He was too shrewd, however, to express much
regret. He only said, 'I should have been glad to have had you with me,
but you know your own business best, I dare say. You will _do_ anywhere,
I guess. Now you are here, come and see us often, and let me know when I
can be of use to you.'

Keen men sympathize with keen; knaves with knaves; the good with the
good.


CHAPTER XVI

When Sarah Burns, after Hiram's departure, sat down, quietly to think
over the events of the past few days--for during the week he remained in
the house she had no opportunity for reflection--she was sensible of a
species of relief that she was no longer bound to him.

It was not permitted in nature nor in God's providence that this fellow
should have lasting power over one so true hearted. With such, his
influence was not to become absolute or controlling.

This was Sarah's first love affair, and she had no experience as to her
own emotions, and possessed, therefore, no test by which to judge of
their intensity. Now she could look back and see that her heart had not
been satisfied.

'_Not satisfied!_' How many a young girl has been forced bitterly to
take up this burden--when too late. '_Disappointed!_' How many, when it
is past help, whisper the terrible word in secret to their souls! How
many are now dragging out a despairing existence, chained to some Hiram
Meeker, with heart-wants never to be filled; with sympathies never to be
responded to; with rich capacities for loving, which find in return
neither tenderness nor appreciation; with affections, and no lawful
object;--glowing, earnest natures companioned with calculation and
selfishness and a remorseless subtlety; full, fresh, joyous vitality,
yoked to a living corpse.

Thank God! for Sarah Burns it was not too late.

It is true, she persuaded herself she loved Hiram, and that she enjoyed
every delight which flows from affections mutually pledged. But, really,
it was entirely on one side. He, as we know, utterly selfish, had no
genuine affection to impart; so all was made up by her. Out of her full
imagination she brought rich treasures, and bestowed them on her lover,
and then, valued him for possessing them.

Still, for Sarah Burns it was not too late.

That afternoon, when she came and threw her arms around her father's
neck, and pleaded to come back again to his confidence, she was fully
convinced of Hiram's real character. From that moment everything was
settled. She permitted no explanations; for Hiram, when he saw how
summarily he was to be disposed of, felt not only piqued, but roused, I
may say, to a certain degree of appreciation of the object he was to
lose so unexpectedly. He believed Sarah was so strongly attached to him
that she would become reconciled to his going to New York, and then he
could permit the affair to drag along to suit his convenience, to be
revived or die out at his pleasure. So all his attempts at a private
interview, his injured looks, and woful countenance went for nothing.

Sarah treated him precisely as she would treat an ordinary acquaintance,
while Mr. Burns was careful to make no allusion to the subject, or
permit the slightest difference in his conduct toward his confidential
clerk. Hiram, therefore, was the one to feel uncomfortable; but the week
was soon brought to a close, and he departed.

He went first to Hampton to visit his home. When the wagon drove to Mr.
Burns's house to receive his luggage, Sarah was entertaining two or
three young ladies who were paying her a morning visit. I dare say there
was an object in the call not altogether amiable: namely, to see how
Sarah would 'appear' in respect to Hiram's departure, and to find out,
if possible, by the way she bore it, whether or not there was anything
in the rumor of an engagement between them. Hiram had already taken a
most affectionate leave of each of these young ladies the day before,
and they thought he was to depart early in the morning. Much to their
disappointment, Sarah Burns never appeared more natural or more at ease.
She spoke of Hiram's going to New York as a settled plan, determined on
even before he came to Burnsville; and (the trunks were now all in the
carriage) at length exclaimed, 'Come, girls; I think Hiram must be
waiting to bid us good-by.'

Thereupon, all went on the piazza, and thus frustrated a design of
Hiram of taking a brief but most pathetic and impressive and
never-to-be-forgotten farewell of his cruel betrothed. He had prepared a
short speech for the occasion, which he believed would plant a dagger in
her heart. He intended, just as soon as everything was ready, to find
Sarah, deliver his speech, then rush to the carriage, and be almost
instantly lost sight of.

As it was, he saw with intense mortification a bevy of girls come
running out, each with something to say, and all at once--for, to
conceal any little private feeling of her own, each one was as gay as
possible. At last Hiram was forced to mount the wagon (the trunks filled
all the vacant space, and, besides, were provokingly placed so that his
seat was a most awkward one) and to drive away very unromantically, amid
the adieus and railleries of the commingled voices.


CHAPTER XVII.

Freed from Hiram's disagreeable presence, Sarah Burns, as soon as her
visitors had left, sat down to _think_; and she experienced, as I have
already remarked, a species of relief. By degrees her spirits rose to
their old, natural level, and then the fact struck her that they had not
of late been so elastic and joyous as formerly. Presently she jumped up,
and, snatching her hat, she resolved to run into the office, as she used
to do in 'old times,' and surprise her father by a little visit. She
tripped cheerfully out, and was soon at the office door. Here she
paused. Her heart beat loudly, but it was with pleasure. Then she
quietly opened the door and stepped in.

'Good morning, sir,' she exclaimed. 'Here is your old clerk back again.'

She rushed up and gave him a kiss, and received a dozen in return.

Mr. Burns used afterward to say it was the most blissful moment of his
life.

After that, how they enjoyed themselves!--like school children let
loose. Sarah ran up, and down, and around the office, through the front
room and the little room back, then in the closets, her father
following, as much of a child as she--his heart also freed of a load,
and his soul filled with sunshine--no Hiram Meeker to cast a baleful
shadow over it.

There were not any explanations between those two. Explanations were not
in the least necessary. Each felt that all _was_ explained, and all was
right and happy again. That was enough.

After a while, some one came in to see Mr. Burns on business, and Sarah
took her departure. With a light heart she retraced her steps toward
home. She had reached the memorable corner where she once encountered
Hiram--it was on his first visit to Burnsville--when, quite abruptly, as
it seemed, a tall, handsome young man stood directly in her way.

She stopped, of course; she could not do otherwise, unless she chose to
run into the arms of the stranger. A pair of bright, dark eyes were
turned inquiringly on her.

'I have found you at last,' said the young man, in a pleasant tone. 'I
have just left your house. I did not think you would be out so early.
And now that we do meet,' he continued, 'I perceive you don't know me:
that is too bad!'

Sarah stood like one in a trance. At first she thought the man was
deranged; but he looked so handsome and so intelligent, she quickly
abandoned that hypothesis. Then she began to think she was a little out
of her wits herself. That seemed to her more probable.

Meanwhile, there he stood, directly and squarely in her path. He
appeared rather to enjoy Sarah's perplexity.

'Yes, it is unkind in you to forget an old friend--one you promised to
remember always.'

Sarah was beginning to recover herself. It was evident, from the whole
appearance of the stranger, that he would not adopt this singular mode
of addressing her, unless he had some claim to her acquaintance. So she
reasoned. Resolving she would no longer play the part of a bashful miss,
she said: 'I am very sorry to be obliged to confess it; but, really, I
have not the slightest recollection of you.'

'Ah, that is the way with the sex!' continued the other, in the same
tone. 'Who would have thought it? After bestowing on me such a precious
token (here he presented a locket, in which he exhibited a curl of
hair), you now propose to ignore me altogether.'

'I am inclined to think you are the one in error. I am quite sure you
mistake me for some other person,' retorted Sarah, quietly.

'Possibly. Therefore, permit me to inquire whether or not I have the
honor of addressing Miss Sarah Burns?'

'Yes.'

'Yet you have no recollection of presenting me with this?'

'You must have shown me the wrong locket,' said Sarah, dryly. 'The hair
is several shades lighter than mine.'

'True, I did not think of that,' said the mysterious young gentleman.' I
ought to have known it would be so; but it never occurred to me.
Good-by!'

He bowed courteously and passed on his way, leaving Sarah in complete
bewilderment. She walked slowly toward home. She roused her memory. She
went through the list of her acquaintances. She endeavored to recall
those she had encountered when taking some little trips with her
father--but the stranger was not any of these.

A faint outline was, nevertheless, before her. A shadowy image, the
same, yet not the same, with the young man who had stood in her path.

'Who? where? when?'

In vain she asked herself the questions.

Over the past hangs a dim uncertainty, like that which veils the future,
and, young as Sarah was, she could already realize it. At length she
stopped her efforts, and recurred to the more pleasing task of thinking
about the young gentleman as he now appeared, without respect to any
other circumstance. She recalled his manly form. He was nearly six feet
in height. How bright his eyes were, and how mischievously they were
turned on her, yet how kindly--she was almost ready to think
lovingly--when the locket was produced! What about that locket? She
never gave anybody a locket, never--not even Hiram Meeker. Faugh! It
sickened her to think of _him_ now, and in this connection. Only imagine
it! A lock of her hair. How ridiculous! No living being had a lock of
_her_ hair. She knew that well enough. Besides, this was so much
lighter--as light as hers was when she was a child. A sudden thought
struck her. Strange; how very, _very_ strange! Yet, it was true. Once in
her life she _had_ given a single curl! Was this it? Had she promised
anything with the curl? And was this young man he? Sarah's heart beat
tumultuously as she entered the house. She reflected on the words of the
stranger as he turned to leave her. Should she see him again? * * *

A message came from her father. He would bring a gentleman to dine with
him--that was all.

Who would it be? the one she had lately parted with? Not a doubt of it.
_That_ she felt instinctively.

On a certain occasion, as the reader may remember, Sarah had
imperceptibly prepared herself to receive Hiram Meeker. It was the first
time he took tea at the house. This day she did the very same thing to
receive somebody else. There is no use to deny it, for such is the fact.
Yet it was but a short week since she was the betrothed of Hiram, and
believed she loved him. That very morning they had separated forever!

It often happens that a young girl is deceived by or disappointed in her
admirer. They may prove to be incompatible, or, what is worse, he may
prove unworthy; and she discards him, but with reluctance, after a
struggle, leaving a pang in her heart, while she mourns over her lost
_love_--not lover. _Him_ she no longer regards with any feeling; but the
memory of the old attachment is dear to her, though it be sad, and time
is required before the heart will be attracted by new objects, or seek
to be engrossed by a fresh passion.

The bond between Hiram and Sarah was of no such nature. He exercised a
species of magnetism over her, in consequence of her lively and
sympathetic nature; but it was of a kind that, when broken, neither
pleasing nor mournful reminiscences remained--no recollection of past
joys, no thought of former happiness and bliss. The fountains of the
heart had not been reached, and when Hiram Meeker quitted her presence,
she was as though she had never known him.

Thus it was, when she received her father's message, her pulses thrilled
at the idea of meeting the one he was to bring with him.

Already she guessed who it was.




VATES.


   Poets are never in the wrong,
     Whate'er the present age may say:
   The future only, in their song,
     Will see the truth of this our day;
   And what a BRYANT says and sings
     May well outweigh all false-born things.




THE PHYSICAL SURVEY OF NEW YORK HARBOR AND ITS APPROACHES.


No coast offers more admirable opportunities for the study, on a large
scale, of the effects of winds, waves, and currents, tidal and others,
on the movable matters which line the ocean shores, than that from New
York southward. Besides the peculiar local actions, there are general
ones, which are changing, slowly or rapidly, the whole of the sandy
coast line. While here the pebbles of the ancient drift are being
assorted by size and shape, and rolled into ridges and heaps, by the
action of the waves, there heaps and ridges of wet sand are formed by
the waves and travel under their motion, and the dry sand is forced
along by the winds, covering up meadows and woods, and changing the
ocean shore line; and in other or the same localities, sub-currents,
setting in a nearly constant general direction, roll onward the movable
materials of the bottom of the sea, or tidal currents roll them forward
and backward, giving the general direction of the resulting motion.

The reports of the Government and State engineers and commissioners,
public and private, who have studied the improvements of different
localities, have given us glimpses of the local, and even of the general
actions; but most commonly there has been a want of means or such
preliminary experiments as were necessary fully to develop the actions,
and which, like the stitch which saves nine, would often have saved the
costly experiment on the full scale of construction. Remarkable
instances of complete modes of investigation occur in the examination of
the Mississippi River by Captain A.A. Humphreys and Lieutenant Abbot, of
the Topographical Engineers, and by the commission of which General
Totten, Prof. Bache, and Admiral Davis were members. As most familiar to
me, from having taken an official part in the experiments and
observations made, I propose to notice the Physical Surveys of New York
and Boston, indicating the chief agents which are at work in destroying
and building up, so as to produce the present condition of these
important ports.

       *       *       *       *       *

In connection with the surveys made a few years since by direction of
the Commissioners on Harbor Encroachments, there was undertaken, as an
incidental inquiry, an investigation into the physical conditions under
which the shoals and beaches in and about New York harbor had submitted
to those changes of position and area which the repeated surveys
revealed. It was at the request of these Commissioners that Professor
Bache, the Superintendent of the Coast Survey, gave his personal
attention to this subject. He drew up a comprehensive scheme for a
series of observations upon all the natural agencies at work, and, for
the execution of the project, selected one of his assistants, whose
experience had already been considerable in similar studies.

The investigation was commenced in the lower harbor early in the spring
of 1856. Records were kept of tides, currents, winds, and waves, and the
most careful notes were made on the immediate effects of these working
agents as observable in the movements of the sands.

A glance at a general coast chart discovers at once a marked contrast
between two different sections of our seaboard: to the eastward of us,
the principal harbors of New England are rockbound, with elevated back
countries; while to the southward, in the region of alluvial drift,
which extends all along the coast of the Middle and Southern States, the
harbors have flat and sandy shores. The harbor and neighborhood of New
York, holding an intermediate position between these diverse sections,
exhibit a singular combination of the leading physical features of both,
and present to the hydrographer a field for research that is quite
without a parallel.

We recognize in the Bar of New York simply a submerged portion of that
_sandy cordon_ which skirts the coast from Montauk Point to Florida; and
although, in the ordinary sense, the lower entrance to the harbor is not
an _inlet_, it may nevertheless be regarded as belonging to the same
class.

This _sandy cordon_, which may be said to be the principal
characteristic of our coast, is an exceedingly interesting feature; it
appears to have been formed by the action of the sea, which has
disintegrated the borders of shallow flats, bearing away the light
vegetable moulds, but suffering the coarse quartz sand to remain rolled
up into ridges. In many places the dry winds have caught up these sands,
when laid bare at low water, and elevated them into dunes or galls.

The distance of the sand ridge from the mainland is observed to vary
with the <DW72> of the adjacent country. It is the _motion of
translation_ which a wave acquires on reaching shallow water, that gives
it such great capacity for the transportation of material.

This _translative action_, as it is technically called, commences
ordinarily in about three fathoms water, and is most violent in six or
eight feet depths, within which the sea breaks. It is just within the
breaker that the windrows of sand are observed to form on exposed flats.

This disposition of the sea to cast up well defined boundaries of sand
along its margin, is so great and persistent, that the inland waters are
dammed up and suffered only to escape into the ocean by narrow avenues,
where their rapid currents maintain a supremacy of power--albeit with
unceasing contest.

Wherever, along our coast, the waves drive _obliquely_ upon the beach, a
movement of the sand takes place, and the inlets are consequently
continually shifting.

The Long Island inlets are moving _westward_, and Sandy Hook advances to
the _northward_, because the sea rolls in along the axis of the great
bay between Long Island and New Jersey, and necessarily sweeps along the
beaches, instead of taking the direction of a _normal_ to the shore
line.

The movement of Sandy Hook to the northward is, however, a problem not
so easily disposed of as we might conceive from the above
considerations; for although, in the most general sense, its existence
must be regarded as the work of the waves, there are other agents
influencing materially its form and its rate of progress. The currents
control, to a very great extent, the final disposition of the sands worn
away or kept in motion by the waves.

Professor Bache's investigations in the neighborhood of Sandy Hook have
been published, and we should not especially refer to them here, except
that the recent physical changes reported by Colonel Delafield to the
Engineer Department, have reawakened an interest in the matter.

The measurements of the Coast Survey, made in 1856 and 1857, showed that
the Hook was being washed away on the east and west shores, but was
extending slowly to the northwest, where it already encroached on the
main ship channel. This order of things has continued up to the present
time, and is now in progress.

The able Superintendent of the fortifications at Sandy Hook has evinced
considerable alarm lest the new fort shall fall a prey to the
encroachments, or be separated from the main body of the beach by
slue-ways. The Coast Surrey has been notified of the matter, and the
assistant to whom I have already referred has visited the Hook, and made
an informal report, which agrees essentially with the statements of
Colonel Delafield. A complete and reliable report can only be made upon
_actual surveys_; and we trust these will be executed, and the
Government placed in possession of the whole truth.

We understand that Colonel Delafield has already, upon a small scale,
made some very successful experiments of curvilineal dikes, constructed
with caissons of concrete; and we have no doubt that, with adequate
means at his disposal, this ingenious engineer could avert the dangers
which threaten, not only the fort, but the noble harbor of New York.

To return to the Physical Survey, and to speak as briefly as we may upon
so extended a subject, we hold that it is possible, by a patient
collection of facts and figures, to determine the natural _scheme_ of
the harbor--we had almost said the _formula of its development_.

It is ascertained that the group of shoals which form the Bar--composed,
as they are, for the most part, of loose and shifting sands--are not
accidental accumulations, modified by violent storms and freshets, but
that they are orderly arrangements, made by the currents, to whose
unceasing activities are due the form and preservation of each bank and
channel. The peculiar contours of the shoals given by our most ancient
charts are still developed by recent surveys, although alterations in
magnitude have taken place. _The order of the physical forces is
unchanged, but their work is still progressing._

Now, since these currents have determinable laws, regulating their
periods, durations, velocities, and directions, it was only necessary to
compile observations, in order to reduce this study to a simple
consideration of the _composition of forces_.

'The process by which sand is swept along by currents upon the bottom of
the sea, is not unlike the motion of dunes upon the land; a ridge of
sand is propagated in the direction of the current by the continual
rolling of the particles from the rear to the front. This movement is
exceedingly slow when compared with that of the current which induces
it, and for this reason a shoal, though traversed by violent tidal
currents, may, as a whole, remain stationary when the alternate drifts
are equal and opposite; for in this case, though the sand upon the
surface is drifted to and fro, it undergoes no more ultimate change of
position than it would if the forces which acted upon it were
simultaneous and in equilibrium.'[9]

Of course, so simple a case as that in which the ebb and flood forces
are equal and opposite, is rarely presented; for at most of the stations
on the Bar the direction of the flow varies from hour to hour, going
quite round the circle in a half-tidal day: the velocities and
directions also vary with the depth. These circumstances complicate the
computation a little, but the problem is still simple and direct.
Everything depends upon the faithfulness of the observations.

The physical diagrams which have been plotted from the results of these
studies may be regarded as decided successes, for they show in most
cases that the shoals lie in the foci or in the equilibrium points of
the observed forces.

The current stations occupied cover a district embracing not only the
immediate vicinity of the shoals, but extending many miles from them in
different directions; for it was deemed necessary that each elementary
force should be separately studied before it reached its working point.
It has been ascertained that among the causes of the different shoal
formations there exists a mutual relation and dependence, so that they
may be regarded as a single physical system. _It will be seen from this
consideration, that any artificial disturbance of the conditions, at a
single point, may interrupt the operations of nature in other localities
more or less remote, or cause general changes in the hydrogaphy of the
harbor._

It is not simply the superficial drift of the tidal and other currents
that these observations comprehend; but, with the use of apparatus
suitably arranged, the movements at all depths have been determined,
with the exact amount of power exerted by streams coursing along the bed
of the sea. The necessity for this minuteness of examination has been
fully shown in some of the curious discoveries that have been made.

In several parts of our harbor, systems of counter-currents have been
detected, occupying strata of water at different depths, and these
present, in their motions, striking contrasts of directions, velocities,
and epochs. The most remarkable exhibition of these sub-currents was
observed in the neighborhood of the city, in the channel between
Governor's and Bedloe's Islands. In this locality, during the last
quarter of the ebb, floating objects drift southward toward the sea,
while the heavier material upon the bottom is borne northward toward the
city piers. While, upon the surface, the ebb exceeds the flood both in
velocity and duration, the motions of the lowest water-stratum are
subject to the reverse conditions: it therefore follows that _the
heavier deposits from the city drainage cannot be swept away through
this the main avenue to the sea_. This contrast of motion between the
upper and lower drifts was observed in greater or less degree throughout
the entire distance from the Bar to a point in the Hudson River off Fort
Washington. These results appear to us of the highest importance, since
they would seem to indicate that the scouring action of the currents
will not be sufficient to prevent the accumulation of certain classes of
deposits in the upper harbor--as the ashes from the steamers, and the
like.

The course of the land waters in their progress seaward was followed
nearly sixty miles beyond the Bar, where currents of considerable
velocity were still observed. At the station farthest seaward, where the
sounding is thirty fathoms, the observations at different depths
disclosed some very remarkable peculiarities. It was perceived that the
moving stratum was not always of the same depth; the whole body of the
sea moving steadily forward at one time, while at another no motion
could be detected below a superficial stream.

The land waters, to which allusion has been made, augment the ebb
current to such a degree, that a general eastwardly preponderance was
observed in the drift along the south shore of Long Island; and this
preponderance, increasing steadily from station to station at each
remove, was found, at a point twenty-five miles east of Fire Island
Light, to outlive the tidal currents and maintain itself as a constant
coastwise stream.

One very curious discovery was made with regard to this stream along
shore. It was ascertained that during easterly gales a portion of the
water, crowded up into the bight of the coast, escapes seaward by a
sub-current. Shells, carefully marked, were deposited in the sea during
fine weather, and, after an easterly gale, were picked up on the shore
of Fire Island, _four miles eastward_ of the place of deposit. There was
no evidence that these shells travelled any distance during still
weather.

We do not despair of the possibility of artificial improvements at the
Long Island inlets.

At present the great inland basins on the southern portion of Long
Island communicate with the sea only by narrow passes obstructed by bars
and shoals; yet, in spite of the dangers which are always presented,
large fleets of market vessels pass out daily through the inlets, laden
with farm produce and shell fish. It requires no thought to perceive
that if these inlets were made safe and permanent by suitable marine
constructions, and were furnished with the proper buoys and beacons,
there would spring up in their neighborhood great commercial
enterprises.

While, in the case of the lower harbor and its approaches, it was the
design of the observations to detect in the movement of the waters the
causes of alterations in the physical geography, the same kind of
studies, undertaken afterward in Hell Gate, had for their object the
reverse inquiry, viz., to ascertain to what degree and in what manner
the form of the rocky channel influenced the tides and currents, in
order that some prediction might be made of the consequences likely to
follow the removal of obstructions from the waterways. The propagations
of the tide wave meet at Hell Gate, so that here the observations, when
plotted, exhibit compound curves, in which the portion due to the wave
from Sandy Hook is easily distinguishable from that due to the wave from
Long Island Sound. The Sandy Hook tide wave differs so widely in height
and time from that of Long Island Sound, that there is over three feet
difference of level between the harbor and the Sound at certain stages
of the tides; and at these times the currents rush through the Gate,
vainly endeavoring to restore the inequalities.

The problem of referring a current to a _tidal head_ is a very difficult
one. The current, for instance, which renders Hell Gate so dangerous, is
not at any time so great as a _permanent head_, equal to the difference
of the tides observed, would engender. The currents are so very slow in
their movements, compared with the undulations of the tide wave, that it
cannot be ascertained as yet, what are the magnitudes of such elements
as _inertia_ and _friction_, and how they are to be corrected for, so as
to predict the time and velocity of the current from observations of the
vertical rise and fall.

It is due to the officers of the Coast Survey to state that their
services to the Harbor Commissioners were rendered gratuitously; the
work offered to them only an opportunity for research.

This Physical Survey must, at the outset, have held out small
inducements to patient labor--the field was so large and ill defined,
and had been so long the region of mere speculation; but the few simple
and useful generalizations it has now grasped should, hereafter, prove
the stepping stones to larger inductions, valuable alike to physical
science and commercial interests.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Report of the Observations for the Completion of the Physical Survey
of New York Bar and Harbor, in pursuance of the Act of the Legislature
of New York, April 17, 1857, and of the authority of the Commissioners
on Harbor Encroachments. By A. D. BACHE, Supt. U.S. Coast Survey.




AN ENGLISHMAN IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

DECEMBER, 1860, AND JULY, 1862.


II.

'Mornin', sa! De Cunnel send dis with his compliments. Merry Christmas,
sa!' Such was the salutation arousing me on the anniversary of the birth
of Him who came on earth to preach the Gospel of love and fraternity to
all men--or the date which pious tradition has arbitrarily assigned to
it. And Pomp appeared by the bedside of the ponderous, old-fashioned
four-poster, in which I had slept, bearing a tumbler containing that
very favorite Southern 'eye-opener,' a mixture of peach brandy and
honey. I sipped, rose, and began dressing. The slave regarded me
wistfully, and repeated his Christmas salutation.

I knew what the poor fellow meant, well enough, and responded with a
gratuity sufficient to make his black face lustrous with pleasure. All
through the South the system of _backsheesh_ is as prevalent as in
Turkey, and with more justification. At the hotels its adoption is
compulsory, if the traveller would shun eyeservice and the most
provoking inattention or neglect. His coffee appears unaccompanied by
milk or sugar, his steak without bread, condiments are inaccessible, and
his sable attendant does the least possible toward deserving that name,
until a semi-weekly quarter or half dollar transforms him from a miracle
of stupidity and awkwardness into your enthusiastic and ever-zealous
retainer. This, however, by the way.

My present had the usual effect; Pompey became approbative and
talkative:

'You come from England, sa?' he asked, looking up from the hearth and
temporarily desisting in his vigorous puffing at the fire he had already
kindled for me to dress by.

'Yes,' I answered.

'Dat a long ways off, sa?'

'Over three thousand miles of salt water, Pompey.'

'Golly! I 'fraid o' dem! didn't tink dere was so much water in de
world!' adding a compliment on the supposed courage involved in crossing
the Atlantic. <DW64>s have almost no relative ideas of distance or
number beyond a very limited extent; they will say 'a tousan'd,' fifty
or a hundred 'tousand,' with equal inexactitude and fluency. Presently
Pompey began again:

'Many <DW52> people in England, sa?'

'Very few. You might live there a year without meeting one.'

'I'se hear dey's all free--dem what is dar? dat so?' he asked,
curiously.

'Yes; just as they are at the North; only I think they're a little
better treated in England. We don't make any difference between men on
account of their skin. You might marry a white woman there, Pompey, if
you could get her to have you.'

Pompey honored this remark with as much ready <DW64> laughter as he
seemed to think it demanded.

'I'se got a wife already, sa,' he answered. 'But 'pears to me England
must be good country to lib in.'

'Why so?'

'All free dar, sa!'

'Why you'd have to work harder than you do here, and have nobody to take
care of you. The climate wouldn't suit you, either, there's not enough
sunshine. You couldn't have a kinder or a better master than Colonel
----, I'm sure.'

'No, _sa!_' with a good deal of earnestness; 'he fust-rate man, sa, dat
a fac; and Mass' Philip and de young ladies, dey berry good to us.
But--' and the slave hesitated.

'What is it, Pompey? Speak out!'

'Well, den, some day de Cunnel he die, and den trouble come, _suah!_ De
ole plantation be sold, and de hands sold too, or we be divide 'tween
Mass' Phil, Miss Jule, and Miss Emmy. Dey get married, ob course. Some
go one way, some toder, we wid dem--nebber lib together no more. Dat's
what I keep t'inkin ob, sa!'

What answer could be made to this simple statement of one of the dire
contingencies inevitable to slave life? perhaps that most dreaded by the
limited class of well cared-for house servants, of which Pompey was a
good representative. He knew, as well as I, that his poor average of
happiness was fortuitous--that it hinged on the life of his master. At
his death he might become the chattel of any human brute with a white
epidermis and money enough to buy him; might be separated from wife,
children, companions and past associations. Suggesting the practical
wisdom involved in the biblical axiom that sufficient for the day is the
evil thereof, I turned the conversation and presently dismissed him. I
experienced some little difficulty in accomplishing the latter, for he
was both zealous and familiar in my service: indeed, this is one of the
nuisances appertaining to the institution; a pet slave seems hardly to
understand the desire for privacy, and is prone to consider himself
ill-used if you presume to dispense with his attendance. His ideal of a
master is one who needs a great deal of waiting on in trivial,
unlaborious ways, who tolerates all shortcomings and slovenliness, and
bestows liberal gratuities.

Descending to the breakfast parlor, I received and responded to the
appropriate salutations for the day from my host and his family, who had
already recognized it, English fashion, by the interchange of mutual
presents, those of the Colonel to his daughters being jewelry of a
handsome and expensive character. The trinkets were submitted to my
inspection and duly admired.

'I must tell you something about these knick-knacks, Mr. ----,' said the
evidently gratified father. 'You wouldn't suppose, now, that these
mercenary girls actually asked me to give them money instead of
trinkets?'

His tone and looks involved some latent compliment to the young ladies,
and I said as much.

'They wanted to give it to the State, to help arm and equip some of the
military companies. I couldn't let 'em suffer for their patriotism, you
know; so I had to advance the money and buy the trinkets, too; though
I'll do them the justice to say they didn't expect it. Never mind! the
Southern Confederacy and free trade will reimburse me. And now let's
have breakfast.'

The Southern Confederacy and Free Trade! During secession time in
Charleston, there was displayed in front of the closed theatre, a
foolish daub on canvas, depicting crowded wharves, cotton bales,
arriving and departing vessels, and other indications of maritime and
commercial prosperity, surmounted by seven stars, that being the
expected number of seceding States, all presented as a representation of
the good time coming. It remained there for over a month, when one of
those violent storms of wind and rain variegating the humidity of a
South-Carolinian winter tore it to pieces, leaving only the skeleton
framework on which it had been supported. May not this picture and its
end prove symbolical?

'Did you observe that our Charleston ladies dress very plainly, this
season?' continued the Colonel, as we sat at breakfast. 'There are no
silks and satins this Christmas, no balls, no concerts, no marriages. We
are generally economizing for whatever may happen.'

'Why, I thought you didn't expect war?' I answered.

'No more we do; but it's well to be prepared.'

'There's to be no race ball, I understand,' said the lazy gentleman, who
had appeared later than the rest of us, and was having a couple of eggs
'opened' for him into a tumbler, by Pompey. 'The girls will miss that.
Can you tell me how the betting stood between _Albine_ and _Planet_?'

I could not, and observed that the Colonel changed the subject with some
marks of irritation. I learned afterward that his indolent relative had
an incurable passion for betting, and, when carried away by it, was
capable of giving unauthorized notes upon his opulent relative, who paid
them in honor of the family name, but objected to the practice. He
himself affected to discourage betting, though his State pride actually
induced him to risk money on the 'little mare' _Albine_, a
South-Carolina horse, who subsequently and very unexpectedly triumphed
over her Virginian opponent. But this by the way.

Breakfast over and cigars lighted (the Colonel imported his own from
Havana, each one enwrapped in a separate leaf, and especially excellent
in quality), we strolled abroad. The <DW64>s were not at work, of
course; and, early as it was, we found their quarters all alive with
merriment and expectation. Some of the younger men, dressed in their
best clothes--generally suits of plain, substantial homespun, white or
check shirts, and felt hats--went from house to house, wishing the
inmates the compliments of the season, blended with obstreperous,
broad-mouthed laughter; in some instances carrying nosegays, received,
in common with the givers, with immense delight and coquetry on the part
of the females. These wore neatly-made, clean cotton dresses, with
gaily- handkerchiefs arranged turban fashion upon their heads.
Many of the old men and not a few of the old women were smoking clay or
corncob pipes; the children laughed, cried, played with each other,
rolled upon the ground, and disported themselves as children, white,
black, or particolored, do all the world over; the occasional twang of a
banjo and a fiddle was heard, and everything looked like enjoyment and
anticipation. Of course, the huts of the future brides constituted the
centre of attraction: from the chattering of tongues within we inferred
that the wedding dresses were exposed for the admiring inspection of the
<DW64> population.

The Colonel had just arrived at the peroration of an eloquent eulogium
of the scene, when the overseer appeared at the end of the avenue of
orange trees, and presently drew rein beside us, his countenance
exhibiting marks of dissatisfaction.

'I've had trouble with them boys over to my place, Colonel,' he said,
briefly, and looking loweringly around, as though he would be disposed
to resent any listening to his report on the part of the <DW64>s.

'Why, what's the matter with them?' asked his employer, hastily.

'Well, it 'pears they got some rotgut--two gallon of it--from somewheres
last night, and of course, all got as drunk as h----, down to the old
shanty behind the gin--they went thar so's I shouldn't suspicion
nothin'. They played cards, and quarrelled and fit, and Hurry's John he
cut Timberlake bad--cut Wilkie, too, 'cross the hand, but ain't hurt him
much!'

'Hurry's John! I always knew that <DW65> had a d----d ugly temper!' I'll
sell him, by ---- ! I won't have him on the place a week longer. Is
Timberlake badly hurt?'

'He's nigh killed, I reckon. Got a bad stick in the ribs, and a cut in
the shoulder, and one in the face--bled like a hog, he did! Reckon he
may get over it. I've done what I could for him.'

The Colonel's handsome face was inflamed with passion; he strode up and
down, venting imprecations of an intensity only to be achieved by an
enraged Southerner. Presently he stopped and asked abruptly:

'Where did they get the liquor from?'

'I don't know. Most likely from old Whalley, down to the landing. He's
mean enough for anything.'

'If I can prove it on him, I'll run him out of the country!
I'll--I'll--d----n it! I'll shoot him!' And the Colonel continued his
imprecations, this time directing them toward the supposed vender of the
whiskey.

'These men are the curse of the country! the curse of the country!' he
repeated, excitedly; 'these d----d mean, low, thieving, sneaking,
pilfering, poor whites! They teach our <DW64>s to steal, they sell them
liquor, they do everything to corrupt and demoralize them. That's how
they _live_, by ----! The slaves are respectable, compared to them. By
----, they ought to be slaves themselves--only no amount of paddling[10]
would get any work out of their d----d lazy hides! I almost wish we
might have a war with the Yankees: we should get some of 'em killed off,
then!'

How little Colonel ---- thought, as he uttered these words, 'so wicked
and uncivic' (as Gellius says of a similar wish on the part of a Roman
lady, for which she was fined the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds
brass), that in the future lay such dire fulfilment of them! Apropos of
the subject, what fitting tools for the purposes of rebellion have these
hated 'poor whites' proved themselves!--their ignorance, their vices,
their brutality rendering them all the more appropriate instruments for
the work in hand. It would seem, almost, as if a diabolic providence had
prepared them for this very result.

'I must ride over and see about this business at once,' resumed the
Colonel. 'Mr. ----, I can very well suppose you'd rather be spared
accompanying me, so make yourself at home for an hour or two. I won't be
a minute longer than I can help. Perhaps you'd better not mention this
unfortunate affair up at the house until I return; it'll shock the
girls, and I'm very careful to keep all unpleasant things out of their
way. It's the first time such an atrocity has occurred on this
plantation, believe me.'

And, ordering his horse, he rode off with the overseer. I should really
have preferred visiting the scene of the recent tragedy, but my host's
wish to the contrary was evident, and I knew enough of Southern
sensitiveness with respect to the ugly side of their 'institution' to
comply. (I had been advised by a fellow countryman not to attend a slave
sale in Charleston, lest my curiosity might be looked upon as
impertinent, and get me into trouble; but I did it, and, I am bound to
say, without any evil consequences.) So I retraced my steps toward the
house, presently encountering the lazy gentleman, and one in black, who
was introduced to me as the Reverend Mr. ----, an Episcopal clergyman of
Beaufort, also a resident on an adjacent island.

The lazy gentleman inquired after Colonel ----. Judging that my host's
caution, as to secrecy, was only intended to apply to his daughters, I
made no scruple of relating what I had heard. My auditors were at once
more than interested--anxious. Whenever a <DW64> breaks bounds in the
South, everybody is on the alert, a self-constituted detective, judge,
inquisitor, and possible executioner. Eternal vigilance is the price
of--slavery!

'That boy born on the plantation?' asked the clergyman, when the affair
had been discussed at considerable length.

'Yes! He's a valuable hand, too; I've known him pick seven hundred and
fifty pounds of cotton in a day--of course, for a wager.'

'The Colonel will have to sell him, I suppose? he can't keep him after
this.'

'Reckon so, though he hates to part with any of his hands. This trouble
wouldn't have happened, if it hadn't been for the whiskey, I've no
doubt. The rascal who sold it ought to be responsible.'

'Are crimes originating in drunkenness common among the <DW64>s?' I
asked.

'Well, no!' answered the clergyman, deliberately; 'I can't say that. But
most of them will drink, if they get an opportunity--the field hands
especially; and then they're apt to be quarrelsome, and if there's a
knife handy, they'll use it.'

'That's so,' assented the lazy gentleman, nodding. 'You Englishmen and
Yankees--excuse me for coupling you together!--know very little of <DW64>
character; and, because the <DW54>s have a habit of indulging in
unmeaning laughter on all occasions, you think them the best-tempered
people in existence. In reality their tempers are often
execrable--infernal!' And he compacently blew a ring of tobacco-smoke
into the mild, humid morning. The clergyman looked on assentingly.

'They can never be trusted with any responsibility involving the
exercise of authority without abusing it. They ill use animals on all
occasions--treat them with positive brutality, and sometimes whip their
children so unmercifully that we have to interfere. I don't know what
would become of them without us, I'm sure!'

'What do you think of their religious convictions?' I asked of the
clergyman, when the speaker had arrived at his comfortable,
characteristically Southern conclusion.

'Our best <DW64>s are unquestionably pious,' he answered; 'and some of
them have a very earnest sense of their duties as to this life and the
next; but I regret to say that a good deal of what passes for religion
among them is mere exitement, often of a mischievous and sensual
character.'

'Heathenish! quite heathenish!' added the lazy gentleman. 'Did you ever
see a _shout_, Mr. ----?'

I responded in the negative, and inquired what it was.

'Oh, a dance of <DW64> men and women to the accompaniment of their own
voices. It's of no particular figure, and they sing to no particular
tune, improvising both at pleasure, and keeping it up for an hour
together. I'll defy you to look at it without thinking of Ashantee or
Dahomey; it's so suggestive of aboriginal Africa.'

I had an opportunity, subsequently, of witnessing the performance in
question, and can indorse the lazy gentleman's assertion. Inheriting the
saltatory traditions of their barbarous ancestry, the slaves have also a
current fund of superstition, of a simple and curious character. But
further ethical disquisitions were here cut short by the appearance of
the Colonel's daughters, when the conversation was at once changed, as
by tacit consent of all three of us. What their father had told me,
relative to his solicitude to keep them in ignorance of all 'unpleasant
things' accruing from the fundamental institution, was in perfect
accordance with Southern instincts. I had observed similar instances of
habitual caution before, reminding me of the eulogized tendency toward
'Orientalism' alluded to in the previous chapter. And, of all people,
South-Carolinians possess the equally rare and admirable faculty of
holding their tongues, when there is occasion for it.

We joined the ladies in a walk. As the elder had much to say to the
clergyman about mutual acquaintances, while her fat relative strolled
carelessly by her side, her sister naturally fell to my companionship.
With a rather handsome and intelligent girl I should have preferred to
converse on general topics than the one with which I had been already
nauseated at Charleston--secession; but she was full of it, and would
not be evaded. Very soon she asked me what I supposed would be the
sentiment in England toward the seceding States, in the assumed event of
their forming a confederacy.

I told her, as I then believed, that it would be adverse, in consequence
of the national hostility to slavery, appealing to her own British
experience for confirmation.

'Yes,' she said, 'they were all abolitionists in England, and could
hardly credit us when we told them that _we_ owned <DW64>s. They thought
all Southerners must be like Legree in _Uncle Tom's Cabin_! But papa,
who went to the club houses, and mixed with the aristocracy, says that
_they_ are much better informed about us; that they were opposed to
emancipation in the West Indies, and have always regarded it as a great
mistake. And England must have cotton, you know.'

'If there's a war between the North and South, won't you find it very
difficult to retain your <DW64>s?' I asked, waiving the immediate
question.

Miss ---- responded by the usual assertion of the fidelity of the slaves
to their owners.

'What if the new Government resorts to emancipation as a weapon against
you?' I made this inquiry, thinking it possible that this might be done
_at the outset_. Like other foreigners, though familiar with the North,
I had not supposed that nearly two years of civil war, with its
inevitable expenditure of blood and treasure, would be needed to induce
this direct and obvious means of subduing a rebellion. Englishmen, it is
known, have ferocious ideas on the subject, as witness India.

'If the slaves rose, we should kill them like so many snakes!' was the
answer. And the young lady's voice and flashing eyes showed that she was
in earnest.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our promenade lasted until the return of the Colonel, who presently took
a private opportunity of informing me that the wounded slave would
probably survive, and that he had sent for a surgeon from an adjoining
plantation, expressing some apprehension that delay or indifference on
his part might involve fatal consequences.

'It's Christmas time, you see, and perhaps he won't care about coming,'
said my host. I may add that his anticipation was in part verified by
the result, 'the doctor' not appearing till the following morning.
Thanks, however, to a rough knowledge of surgery on the part of the
overseer, aided by the excellence of his constitution, 'Timberlake'
recovered. I will mention here, in dismissing the subject, that 'Hurry's
John' was subsequently sold to a Louisiana sugar-planter, a fate only
less terrible to a <DW64> than his exportation to Texas.

Within an hour of our return to the house, we partook of an excellent
and luxurious Christmas dinner, to which birds of the air, beasts of the
earth, and fish of the sea had afforded tribute, and the best of
European wines served as an appropriate accompaniment. The meal was, I
think, served earlier than usual, that we might attend the event of the
day, the <DW64> weddings.

These were solemnized at a little private church, in the rear of which
was absolutely the most enormous live-oak I had ever seen, its branches,
fringed with pendent moss, literally covering the small churchyard,
where, perhaps, a dozen of the ---- family lie buried--a few tombstones,
half hidden by the refuse of the luxuriant vegetation, marking their
places of sepulture. The plain interior of the building had been
decorated with evergreens in honor of the time and the occasion, under
the tasteful direction of the young ladies, who had also contrived to
furnish white dresses and bouquets for the brides. These, duly escorted
by their future husbands, clad in their best, and looking alternate
happiness and sheepishness, had preceded us by a few minutes, and were
waiting our arrival, while all around beamed black faces full of
expectation and interest.

We walked through a lane of sable humanity--for the church was too small
to contain a fourth of the assembled <DW64>s--to the little altar,
before which the six couples were presently posed by the clergyman, in
front of us and himself. That done to everybody's satisfaction, the
Colonel stationed to give away the brides--an arrangement that caused a
visible flutter of delight among them--and as many lookers-on
accommodated within the building as could crowd in, the ceremony was
proceeded with, the clergyman using an abbreviated form of the Episcopal
service, reading it but once, but demanding separate responses. I
noticed that he omitted the words 'until death do ye part,' and I
thought that omission suggestive.

The persons directly concerned behaved with as much propriety as if they
had possessed the whitest of cuticles, being quiet, serious, and
attentive; nor did I detect anything indecorous on the part of the
spectators, beyond an occasional smile or whisper by the younger
<DW64>s, whose soft-skinned, dusky faces and white eyeballs glanced
upward at the six couples with admiring curiosity, and at us, visitors,
with that appealing glance peculiar to the <DW64>--always, to my
thinking, irresistibly touching, and suggestive of dependence on,
humility toward, and entreaty for merciful consideration at the hands of
a superior race. Perhaps, however, the old folks enjoyed the occasion
most, particularly the negresses: one wrinkled crone, of at least
fourscore years, her head bound in, the usual gaudy handkerchief, and
her hands resting on a staff or crutch, went off into a downright
chuckle of irrepressible exultation after the closing benediction,
echoed more openly by the crowd of <DW52> people peeping in at the
doors and windows.

The ceremony over, the concourse adjourned to a large frame building,
part shed, part cotton-house, ordinarily used for storing the staple
plant of South Carolina, before ginning and pressing. The Colonel had
sent his year's crop to Charleston, and the vacant space was now
occupied by a triple row of tables, set out with plates, knives and
forks, and drinking utensils. Here, the newly married couples being
inducted into the uppermost seats, as places of honor, and the rest of
the company accommodated as well as could be effected, a substantial
dinner was served, and partaken of with a gusto and appreciation only
conceivable in those to whom such an indulgence is exceptional, coming,
like the occasion, but once in a year. Upward of a hundred and fifty
persons sat down to it, exclusive of those temporarily detailed as
waiters, who presently found leisure to minister to their own appetites.
Their owner surveyed the scene with an air of gratification, in which I
could not detect a trace of his recent serious discomposure. I am well
persuaded, however, that he had not forgotten it, as that the cause of
it was known among the <DW64>s; I thought I observed evidences of it in
their looks and deportment, even amid the general hilarity.

The ladies had returned to the house, and we were about following them,
when the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard without, and the officious
voices of the <DW64>s announced the arrival of a visitor or messenger
for the Colonel, who stepped forward to meet him. A young man, clad in a
coarse homespun gray uniform, scantily trimmed with red worsted, and a
French military cap, alighted, and addressed our friend in a faltering,
hesitating manner, as though communicating some disastrous intelligence.
I saw the Colonel turn pale, and put his hand to his head as if he had
received a stunning blow. Instinctively the three of us rushed toward
him.

'My God! what's the matter? what has happened, ----?' inquired the
clergyman.

'Philip! Philip! my boy's dead--shot himself by accident!' was the
answer.

A very few words explained all, The young volunteer had fallen a victim
to one of those common instances of carelessness in playing with loaded
firearms. While frolicking with a comrade, at his barracks, he had taken
up his revolver, jestingly threatening to shoot. The other, grasping the
barrel of the cocked pistol, in turning it round, had caused its
discharge, the bullet penetrating the breast of the unfortunate owner of
the weapon. Conveyed to the hospital, he had died within an hour after
his arrival.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our holiday-making, of course, came to a sudden termination. Next day I
accompanied the Colonel to Charleston, to claim the body of his deceased
son, and not long afterward parted with him, on my return to the North.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] The paddle has superseded the cowhide in all jails, workhouses, and
places of punishment in South Carolina, as being more effective--that is
painful. In some instances it is used on the plantations. It consists of
a wooden instrument, shaped like a baker's peel, with a blade from three
to five inches wide, and from eight to ten long. There are commonly
holes in the blade, which give the application a percussive effect. In
Charleston this punishment is generally administered at the guardhouse
by the police, who are all Irishmen. Any offended master or mistress
sends a slave to the place of chastisement with a note, stating the
desired amount, which is duly honored. Like institutions breed like
results all over the world: in Sala's 'Journey Due North' we find the
same system in operation in Russia.





PEN, PALLET, AND PIANO.


With the roar of cannon and tramp of armed men resounding through the
land, and the fair young face of the Republic disfigured to our eyes by
the deep furrows of war, it is pleasant to know that in certain nooks
and corners, gentler sounds of harmony still linger, and that ateliers
exist where men's fancies grow on canvas from day to day into soothing
visions of loveliness.

The scarlet-and-gold and general paraphernalia of war are too tempting
to pallet and brush, not to be seized on with avidity and reproduced
with marvellous truth; but it is more agreeable to pass over accurate
representations of the Irish zouave, with Celtic features, not purely
classical in outline, glowing defiantly under the red cap of the Arab,
and Teutonic cavalrymen, clinging clumsily to their steeds, and turn for
solace to the grand, solemn Shores of Niagara, to wander amid the
tangled luxuriance of the Heart of the Andes, or to bask in the sweet
silence of Twilight in the Wilderness. There are Icebergs too, floating
in the Arctic Sea, frozen white and mute with horror at the dread
secrets of ages; but, responsive to the versatile talent of the hand
that creates them, they glow with prismatic light of many colors. Mr.
Church irradiates the frozen regions with the coruscations of his own
genius, bringing to these lonely, despairing masses of ice the
revivifying hope and promise of warmer climates.

In pondering over the sad mystery of these Icebergs, we float down again
to Tropical Seas and Islands; and as we linger under the shade of palm
and banana tree, the rude chant of the <DW64> strikes the ear in the
grotesque and characteristic framework of the '_Bananier_,' the
plaintive melody of '_La Savane_' sighs past on the evening breeze,
Spanish eyes flash out temptingly from the enticing cadence of the
'_Ojos Criollos_,' and Spanish guitars tinkle in the soft moonlight of
the '_Minuit a Seville,_' and Tropical life awakes to melody under the
touch of the Creole poet of the piano, Mr. Gottschalk.

There are many beings, otherwise estimable, to whom the Tropical sense
is wanting; who are ever suspicious of malaria lurking under the rich,
glossy leaves of the orange groves; who look with disgust and loathing
at the exaggerated proportions and venomous nature of all creeping
things; who find the succulence of the fruit unpleasant to the taste,
and the flowers, though fair to the eye, deadly as the upas tree to all
other sense;--for whom it is no compensation to feel, with the first
breath of morning air, the dull, leaden weight of life lifted, or no
happiness to watch the sea heaving and palpitating with delight under
the rays of the noon-day sun, and to know that the stars at night droop
down lovingly and confidingly to the embrace of warm Tropical earth.
With an insensibility to these influences, there can be but little
sympathy or appreciation of the works of Mr. Gottschalk; for all that is
born of the Tropics partakes of its beauties and its defects, its
passionate languor, its useless profusion and its poetic tenderness. And
where else in the United States, can we look for a spontaneous gush of
melody? Plymouth Rock and its surroundings have not hitherto seemed
favorable to the growth and manifestation of musical genius; for the old
Puritan element, in its savage intent to annihilate the aesthetic part of
man's nature, under the deadening dominion of its own Blue Laws, and to
crush out whatever of noble inspiration had been vouchsafed to man by
his Creator, rarely sought relief in outbursts of song.

Psalmody appears to have been the chief source of musical indulgence,
and for many a long, weary year, hymns of praise, nasal in tone and
dismal in tendency, have ascended from our prim forefathers to the
throne of grace on high.

Such depressing musical antecedents have not prepared New England for
greater efforts of melody than are to be found in the simple ballads
supposed to originate with the plantation <DW64>, who, in addition to his
other burdens, is thus chosen to assume the onerous one of Northern
song, as being the only creature frivolous enough to indulge in vain
carolling. If we can scarcely affirm that the Americans are yet a
musical people, that they would be is an undeniable fact, and one
constantly evinced in their lavish support of artists, from the highest
to the lowest grade. Among the musical aspirants to popular favor, none
has of late enjoyed so large a share of notice and admiration as Mr.
Gottschalk; and to return from our recent digression, we will proceed to
the consideration of his compositions. Fragmentary and suggestive as are
his ideas, there is infinite method and system in their treatment.
Avoiding thus far what is termed '_sustained effort_,' and which
frequently implies the same demands on the patience of the listener as
on the creative power of the composer, Mr. Gottschalk's compositions
contain just so much of the true poetic vein as can be successfully
digested and enjoyed in a piano piece of moderate length. With the power
to conceive, and the will and discipline of mind to execute, there is no
reason why, with perhaps a diminished tendency to fritter away positive
excellence at the shrine of effect, enduring proofs of the genius of our
American pianist should not be given to the world.

As a mere player, the popularity of Mr. Gottschalk with the uninitiated
masses is due, in a great measure, to his tact in discerning the
American craving for novelty and sensation, and to his native
originality and brilliancy, which allow him to respond so fully to these
exigencies of public taste, as to possess on all occasions the keynote
to applause. The faculty of never degenerating into dulness, the rock on
which most pianists are wrecked in early youth, is another just cause
for insuring to our compatriot the preeminence which he enjoys. Viewed
from a critical point, the mechanical endowments and acquirements of
Gottschalk are such as to enable him to subject his playing to the test
of keenest analysis without detriment to his reputation. For clearness
and limpidity of touch and unerring precision, for impetuosity of style,
combined with dreamy delicacy, he has few rivals. The evenness and
brilliancy of his trill are unequalled, the mechanical process required
to produce it being lost to sight in the wonderful birdlike nature of
the effect. In the playing of classical music, Mr. Gottschalk has to
contend against his own individuality. This individuality, naturally
intense and of a kind calculated to meet with public favor, has been
cultivated and indulged in to such an extent as to prove an occasional
obstacle to the exclusive absorption and utter identification with the
ideas of another composer that classical music demands. In the mere
matter of execution there is no difficulty which the fingers of this
skilful pianist cannot overcome, and his intellectual grasp of a subject
enables him to discern and interpret the beauties of all musical themes;
but where an earnest, passionate interest in the music of the old
masters is not felt by the performer, it is rarely communicated to his
hearers.

The world of letters, however, has not seemingly regretted the inability
of Byron to trammel his muse with the uncongenial fetters of Pope's
metre, and has certainly never quarrelled with Tom Moore for not
assuming the manners and diction of the revered Samuel Johnson, LL.D.

With due allowance for difference of latitude, and wide difference of
aim and pursuit, the contemplation of the Master of Creole Melody
recalls to us a genius which found utterance in song none the less
melodious that it was written, not sung. The 'ashen sky' and 'crisped,
sere leaves of the lonesome October,' so thrillingly pictured by Edgar
Poe in his 'Ulalume,' find echo in the foreboding sadness of the opening
bars to Gottschalk's 'Last Hope;' and as both poems grow in vague,
dreamy sound, they culminate in a cry of smothered despair at the tomb
where all hopes lie buried with the lost Ulalume. The same weird
conception and eccentricity of design, with knowledge of rhythmical
effect and extreme carefulness of finish, are prominent traits of both
artists; and the American disregard of tradition, as evinced in all
enterprises, whether literary, artistic, or commercial, and which
readily infects the simple sojourner among us as well as the happy being
born to republican privileges, marks alike the nationality of poet and
pianist.

Edgar Poe's literary reputation undoubtedly gains additional lustre as
the lapse of years permits the veil of obscurity to fall over the
personal vices and irregularities which so tarnished the living fame of
this great artist. Genius draws around itself a magical circle,
attracting and keeping by the force of its own magnetism those whom it
values, but at the same time exercising an equally repellent effect on
the envious and ignorant wandering beyond the pale of its charmed
precincts. Hence the difficulty of judging it by contemporaneous
standards. The Hyperion head of Poe was lost to the view of many by a
too persistent search for the satyr's cloven foot. In considering the
poet's eccentricities, in common with other extraordinary and anomalous
beings, it must be deeply deplored that one so endowed with wealth of
intellect beyond his fellow men, should be still so poor in moral store
that the dullest of them could dare look with disdain on this heir to
gifts regal and sacred.

He could forget his deep, earnest love of order in things intellectual,
in every excess of disorder in things material, and his passionate love
of the beautiful could be profaned by frequent grovelling amid the
hideous deformities of vice. Poe, in his reverence for Art (his only
reverence), seemed generally to set greater store on the elaborate and
artistic perfection of his works, than in the spontaneity of genius
therein displayed. So it would seem, at least, in his voluntarily
exposing the skeleton design of his greatest poem, 'The Raven,' and the
various processes by which this grand shadow attained its final
harmonious and terrible proportions. This may be a noble sacrifice to
the principles of Art, intended as a warning to rash novices against the
sin of slovenliness in composition; but the poem must be of solid fibre
to resist this disenchanting test. The unveiling of hidden mysteries,
the disclosure of trap doors, ropes, and pulleys, may assist in the
general dissemination of knowledge; but in behalf of those who prefer to
be ignorant that they may be happy, we protest against the innovation.
In this dangerous experiment of Poe's, however, we are forced to do what
he would have us do--admire the ingenuity of the poet, together with his
knowledge of effect, rhythmical and dramatic, his flexibility and
strength of versification, and marvellous faculty of word painting. This
propensity to make all things subservient to the advancement of Art is
not always productive of present good to one's fellow beings, whatever
may be the results to posterity, as the luckless women who cross the
path of such men cannot unfrequently testify--oftentimes assiduously
wooed, won, and lightly discarded, to furnish an artistic study of the
female capacity for suffering, as well as to supply renewed inspiration
for further poetic bemoanings. In the prose narrations of Edgar Poe, the
same skilful handling of mystery, and the turning to account of any
incident susceptible of dramatic effect, are always apparent as in his
poems. But the want of extended sympathy with mankind, the artist
egotism, which looks inwardly for all material, and in truth scorns the
approval of the masses, must naturally fail to secure the interest of a
large class of readers. His compositions, on the contrary, which give
full scope to his keen, subtle powers of analysis, and vigorous handling
of the subject in question, are more widely understood and appreciated.
Since the days when Poe dealt with contemporaneous literature, and
literary men, in not the most temperate mood of criticism, poetic fire
in America, with few exceptions, seems to have sunk into a dead,
smouldering condition, and to have yielded to its sister art of painting
the task of grappling with the New-World monster of utilitarianism and
practical reform. The demands for indigenous painters in America being
constantly greater, the result is necessarily a vast increase and
improvement in this branch of Art.

New England, on whose barren musical soil we have already descanted, and
who has not hitherto disputed to the Old World her privilege of pouring
out on our untutored continent the accumulated wealth of years of
musical study and training, has at last gone far to redeem her
reputation of artistic nullity, by producing the greatest landscape
painter of which the country can boast. With us, the superiority of
atmospheric effects over most countries, and the great variety and
originality of American scenery, have united in bringing the landscape
painter into existence, and the public have assured this existence by
fostering applause and pecuniary compensation. Nature, thus prodigal of
gifts to America, has, in a crowning act of munificence, conferred also
a painter, capable of interpreting her own most recondite mysteries, and
of faithfully transcribing the beauties revealed to all eyes in their
simple majesty.

Immensity of theme possesses no terrors for Mr. Church's essentially
American genius; his facile brush recoils not before the gigantic
natural elements of his own land, but deals as readily and composedly
with the unapproachable sublimity of Niagara and the terrible beauty of
icebergs as with the peace of simple woodland scenes and the glowing
sentiment of the tropics. To tread the beaten path of landscape
painting, and offer to the public a tame transcript of the glories he
has beheld, is repugnant to the creative power of this true artist; but
when form, color, and the legitimate means at his command fail to embody
all he would express, his suggestive faculty is generally of force
sufficient to reach all beholders, even those of feeblest imagination.

In standing before the _Falls of Niagara_, one can, in fancy, feel the
cool moisture of spray, rising, incense-like, through a rainbow of
promise, from the inspired canvas, together with the earth's tremor at
the roar of mad waters rushing headlong to a desperate death. This
inestimable quality of suggestiveness is preserved in Mr. Church's
pictures when deprived of the aid of color and reduced to mere black and
white in engraving, a fact bearing equally conclusive testimony to their
inherent correctness of lines and elegance of composition.

Mr. Church's prominent characteristics of hardy vigor and adventurous
treatment of a subject, seem to have monopolized his artistic nature, to
the frequent exclusion of tenderness, either in idea or in the handling
of color. The painting, in our eyes, least open to this objection, is
_Twilight in the Wilderness_--a dreamy picture of inexpressible sadness,
of a tearful silence that is felt, and of a loneliness too sacred to be
profaned by human intrusion. The gorgeous panorama of the _Heart of the
Andes_, its snowy mountain peaks, and plains glowing with tropical
verdure, is too bewildering in its complicated grandeur to excite dreams
of beauty so tender and sadness so touching.

In contemplating this last-named picture, the demands on the attention
are so numerous and weighty,--in the first place, to comprehend the
situation, and exchange at a moment's notice the stagnation of the
temperate zone for the emotional excitement of the tropics; then to
separate and classify the many points of beauty, to rise to the summits
of distant mountains, sublime in their snowy crests, and sink again to
earth at the foot of the rustic cross, by whose aid we may one day rise
to sink no more,--to follow the painter successfully through this maze
of thoughts, without the guiding light of his own matchless color, would
seem a difficult and displeasing task. But the task has been
accomplished with complete success, in an English line engraving of the
_Heart of the Andes_, recently arrived in this country; which indication
of popularity abroad conduces materially to the ever-growing fame of the
artist. The same test, we believe, is in store for the _Icebergs_--with
what result, time will show. Meanwhile, the picture itself will, on
foreign soil, plead the cause of American civilization, and tend to
assure those who look with dismay at the tumultuous upheavings of
freedom's home, that imperishable Art still maintains her placid sway in
this distracted land, and that her votaries falter not in their
allegiance.

Volcanoes pour out fiery lava under the red glare of the setting sun,
obedient to Church's magic touch--delicate fancies are weaved into
poetic life by the fingers of Gottschalk--but the voice of Poe, alas! is
mute forever. The 'Lost Lenore,' found too late, may have inspired a
song far beyond the dull range of human comprehension, but poor mortals
left below, can only echo, with the grim and ghastly raven: _Nevermore!
Nevermore!_




LITERARY NOTICES


     THE SLAVE POWER; ITS CHARACTER, CAREER, AND PROBABLE DESIGNS: BEING
     AN ATTEMPT TO EXPLAIN THE REAL ISSUES INVOLVED IN THE AMERICAN
     CONTEST. By J. E. CAIRNES, M.A., Professor of Jurisprudence and
     Political Economy in Queen's College, Galway, and late Whately
     Professor in the University of Dublin. Second edition. New York:
     Carleton, 413 Broadway. London: Parker and Son & Co.

It is to be sincerely hoped that the American public, in its detestation
of the ungenerous, narrow-minded, and inconsistent conduct of the
majority of Englishmen toward the Federal Union since the present war
began, will not lose sight of the fact that, here and there in Great
Britain, men of superior intelligence and information have labored
strenuously to make the truth known, and to vindicate our cause. Amid a
mob of ignorant and furious foes of freedom, France has seen a Gasparin
rise calm and great in superior knowledge, declaring incontrovertible
truths; and in like manner, the English press has given the views of
Stewart Mill and Professor Cairnes to their public, at a time when it
seemed as if falsehood had completely triumphed. In 'The Slave Power,'
the latest work by this last-named writer, we have indeed such a
searching analysis of the present American crisis, and find the history
of the entire difficulty set forth so fully, yet with such remarkable
conciseness, that we cannot suppress a feeling of astonishment that a
country which has slandered us so cruelly should, at the same time, have
given to the world by far the best vindication of our cause which has as
yet appeared. For it is no undue praise to say, that in this book we
have the completest defence of the Federal cause and the most effective
onslaught on the Slave Power which any writer has thus far placed on
record; and we cordially agree with the vigorous reviewer of the
_Westminster_, in believing that a work more needed could scarcely have
been produced at the present time, 'since,' as he adds, 'it contains
more than enough to give a new turn to English feeling on the subject,
if those who guide and sway public opinion were ever likely to
reconsider a question on which they have so deeply committed
themselves.'

'The Slave Power,' it is true, contains little which has not, at one
time or another, been brought before the mind of the well-informed
American republican; yet it is precisely in this that its chief merit
consists, since it is not by idle oratory and fine writing, but by
_facts_ and the plain truth, that we can be best vindicated. Englishmen
are grossly ignorant of the true causes of this struggle, or of the
principles involved--a matter little to be marvelled at, when we find
almost a majority of professed Federal Americans, under the name of
Democrats, cheerfully admitting that their confederate foes are quite in
the right as far as the _main_ cause of the difficulty is concerned. For
all such men, a clear exposition of facts, logically set forth, cannot
be other than a real blessing; since their amiability to the South, when
not based on traitorous and selfish interests, means simply nothing more
nor less than ignorance--and that of a kind which is little less than
criminal, let the guilt rest where it may.

Professor Cairnes begins judiciously by showing that in the beginning it
was believed, not without very apparent cause, in England, that our war
'sprang from narrow and selfish views of sectional interests,' in which
the free-trading South was in the right, and that the abolition of
slavery was a mere pretence by which the North sought, without a color
of truth, to attract foreign sympathy. And when we remember for how long
a time slaves were returned by Federal officers to their owners, and how
persistently anything like abolition, or even the most moderate
emancipation, was earnestly and practically disowned by the Federal
power, it is not wonderful, as Mr. Cairnes declares, that England should
have regarded our claim to be fighting for the cause of free labor as a
shallow deceit. Even as we write, we have before us a journal containing
an allusion to an officer who attempted to return to slavery a
contraband who had brought to him information of the greatest
importance. Yet, despite the frightful appearances against us, our
writer saw, through all, the truth, and declared that, as regarded the
popular British abuse of this country, 'never was an explanation of a
political catastrophe propounded, in more daring defiance of all the
great and cardinal realities of the case with which it professed to
deal.'

Slavery is the cause and core of our national difficulty. Secession and
Southern Rights have flourished in strength in exact ratio to the number
of slaves in the States--nay, in the very counties in which slaves
abounded. Slavery early developed a sectional class of politicians
devoted to one object, who, by the sheer force of intense, unscrupulous
application, from the year 1819 down to 1860, swayed our councils, gave
an infamous character to American diplomacy, and stained our national
character. They are called the Free Trade Party: why was it, then, that
they never employed their power to accomplish that object, 'or how does
it happen that, having submitted to the tariffs of 1832, 1842, and 1846,
it should have resorted to the extreme measure of secession while under
the tariff of 1857--a comparatively Free Trade law'? 'From 1842 down to
1860, the tendency of Federal legislation was distinctly in the
direction of Free Trade.' 'If Free Trade was their main object, why did
the Southern senators withdraw from their posts precisely at the time
when their presence was most required to secure their cherished
principle?' Or why did they not apply to their supple and infamous tool,
Buchanan, to veto the bill? _Because they wished it to pass_--to make
political capital against the North in England; and they accordingly
aided its passage, Mr. Toombs being in the Senate, and actually voting
for it! Or if it was a Free Trade question, why was it that the Western
States did not take part with them?

The North, however, did not take up arms to destroy slavery, but the
Right of Secession, since that was the irritating _point d'honneur_,
and, what was more, the real first cause of injury which at first
presented itself. Mr. Lincoln had cause to know that in the beginning,
even in the South itself, secession was only the work of a turbulent
minority. 'To have yielded would have been to have written himself down
before the world as incompetent--nay, as a traitor to the cause which he
had just sworn to defend.' In short, we were misunderstood--painfully
so--and it is not a matter of indifference to learn that at last there
is a reaction of intelligence in our favor, and that light is breaking
through the bewildering mists which once veiled the truth.

In discussing 'the economic basis of slavery,' Professor Cairnes deals
out truths with a prompt vigor which is truly admirable. From Stirling,
Olmsted, Sewell, and others, he disposes of the old falsehood that only
the <DW64> can endure the Southern climate--a fact but recently
_generally_ made known at the North--that isothermal lines do not follow
the parallels of latitude--and that it is a gross error to believe the
black incapable of improvement as a freeman. He admits that slave labor
has its advantages, in being absolutely controllable, and in returning
the whole fruit of its labor to the owner. It may, therefore, be
combined on an extensive scale, and its cost is trifling. But, on the
other hand, slave labor is given reluctantly, and is consequently a
losing means, unless much of it can be concentrated under the eye of one
overseer. It is unskillful, because the slave cannot be educated; and,
therefore, having once learned one thing, he must be kept at that for
life.

The result of this is that, as the slave, unlike the free farm-laborer,
cannot (with rare exceptions) be profitably employed at aught save
agriculture, and indeed only at one branch of that, he soon exhausts the
soil. If all the blacks in the South were capable of laboring at
rotation of crops, they would soon be free. Slavery has always of itself
died out in the wheat and corn regions--because, in raising cereals,
labor is more widely dispersed than in cotton or tobacco planting, and
the workers are more difficult to oversee. Hence the constant
immigration from the wornout to the new plantation, and the cry for new
land; and hence the admission, by the most intelligent men of the South,
that to prevent the extension of slavery would be to destroy it. Free
labor flourishes even on barren soils--ingenuity is stimulated and
science developed. But slave labor requires abundance of fertile soil
and a branch of culture demanding combination and organization of large
masses of labor and its _concentration_.

Yet, in spite of these facts, a writer in the London _Saturday Review_
informs the English public that the rapid deterioration of the soil
under slave labor is a popular fallacy! Could the gentleman who gives
this information so glibly, examine, we do not say Virginia, but simply
that lower county of Delaware which has adhered somewhat to the old
Southern slave system, in contradistinction to its two sisters, he might
have distinctly ascertained if the exhaustion of soil by slave labor be
a fallacy. Again, if the profits of slavery be only for the master, it
may be true that the same process which enriches him impoverishes the
country at large; and this is really the case through all the South.
Free labor shuns slave society: a few Northern men may here and there
live in the South, but as a rule the <DW64> makes the poor white meaner
than himself. It is true that free white labor in new lands is very
exhaustive--but in time it takes them up again and restores them: this
the <DW64> never does, and never can do.

The tendencies of slavery to render the white man insolent, arrogant,
and oligarchical, are well pointed out by Professor Cairnes, and with
them the evil tendencies of slave societies. It makes bad white men, and
intolerable political neighbors. In the ancient world, slaves were
constantly being educated, freed, and made equal to their masters; but
in the confederacy, everything is done to crush them lower and lower;
and in these facts lie _perdu_ the future further degradation of every
poor white in the South, the constant increase of power and capital in
the hands of a few, and the diminution in number even of these few.

The fact that Virginians breed slaves expressly for sale is well exposed
in this book. Our author is kind enough to believe that they never raise
a single <DW64> for the _express purpose_ of selling him or her; but we,
who live nearer the 'sacred soil,' know better. It is not many days
since a farmer in our present immediate vicinity, on the Southern
Pennsylvania line, found himself obliged to dismiss a fine six-foot
<DW64> runaway from Virginia, whom he had hired, on account of the entire
inability of the contraband to do the simplest farm tasks. 'What _is_
the reason you can't stand work?' inquired the amazed farmer. 'Why,
mass', to tell de trufe, I wasn't brought up to wuck (work), but to
_sell_. If I'd been wucked too hard, it ud a spiled my looks fo' de
markit.' Professor Cairnes may accept the sorrowful assurances of more
than one person, who has been taken frequently enough into the councils
of 'the enemy' in bygone times (_crede experto Ruperto_), that slaves
_are_ begotten, born, bred, and raised for the Southern market--as much
so as any pigs--and that, too, by eminently aristocratic and highly
refined scions of first families. Now that we can and dare speak the
truth, it is not amiss to do so. We recall the day when to have taken
part in the charge of the Six Hundred would have been a trifle of
bravery compared to making the above truthful statement--for any one who
valued social standing, or indeed a whole skin--on the border. Whether
their own children were sold may be imagined from an anecdote long
current in Virginia, relative to ex-Governor Wise, who, in a certain law
case where he was opposed by a Northern trader, decided of a certain
slave, that the chattel, being a mulatto, was of more value than 'a
molangeon.' 'And what, in the name of God, _is_ a molungeon?' inquired
the astonished 'Northern man.' 'A _mulatto_,' replied Wise, is the child
of a female house-servant by young master'--a molungeon is the offspring
of a field hand by a Yankee peddler.'

Mr. Cairnes has, we doubt not, often heard of mulattoes--they constitute
the great majority of Virginia slaves. But did he ever hear of
'molungeons'?

Mr. Cairnes justly denies the common theory that the South has
maintained paramount political sway in the Union by a superior capacity
for politics. He declares that men whose interests and ideas are
concentrated in a very narrow range, on one object, have vast advantage
over their intellectual superiors, when the latter pursue no such single
course. He might have added that the young Southern gentleman, when not
intended for a physician, almost invariably devotes to mere provincial
politics and the arts of declamation and debate, all of those
intellectual energies which the Northerner applies to business, art,
commerce, literature, and other solidly useful occupations. If the
Southerner has an inborn superior _talent_ for politics, why is it that,
as in the case of British or French statesmen, he never develops the
slightest talent for _literature_? So notoriously is this the case, that
even the first writers of the South, especially for the press, are
generally broken-down Northern literary hacks, or miserable Irish and
English refugees. Mr. Cairnes quotes De Bow's _Review_. He might be
amazed, could he examine a number of that remarkable periodical, at the
quality of the English written by some of the most eminent philosophers,
patriots, and politicians of the confederacy!

The history of the Slave Power, as set forth in Louisiana, Missouri and
its Compromise, the Mexican war, Kansas, the rise of the Republican
Party, the Dred Scott decision, the attempt of John Brown, and
secession, are given in a masterly manner in this work, and with a
miraculous appreciation of truths. Not less vigorous and shrewd is the
chapter devoted to the designs of the Slave Power, in which the future
capacity of that power to do illimitable mischief is set forth in a
manner which will be new even to the great mass of American Republican
readers. If we differ with him in his 'Conclusion,' it is that we may be
consistent to his earlier position. We do not agree with him when he
advocates the giving permission to the South to secede with the
Mississippi as their western boundary. Penned up by North and West, and
with their ports occupied by us, the South would soon decay. But we
rather believe the North, brought to the tremendous trial of a test
between aristocracy and republicanism, will yet conquer by destroying
slavery and giving the poor whites of the South their rights. But we
cannot conclude without expressing the earnest hope that this book will
be read, and that thoroughly, by every intelligent American. There is at
present a reaction rapidly forming in England in favor of the Federal
cause, and we foresee that this extraordinary work--the best summary in
existence of our principles, and the most overwhelming stylus-stroke
which slavery has ever received--is destined to be of incalculable
service to the great cause. Let it circulate by the hundred
thousand!--and do you, dear reader, do your part by perusing it, and
making its merits known to all. In connection with it, we commend the
review in the _Westminster_ already referred to. It is pleasant to
realize that we have friends among enemies. Let us hope that when
brighter days come, our Government and our people will not be unmindful
of those who defended us in the days of darkness and dole. We owe a
great debt of gratitude to such men as Professor Cairnes, and must not
be slack in paying it.


    LES MISERABLES. No. IV. _St. Denis._ By VICTOR HUGO. New York:
    Carleton.

A great improvement on the preceding miserable trio, yet still far from
fulfilling the extravagant assertions as to its merit with which the
press has been deluged. We see in this novel, historic pictures, not
without accuracy, details of life which are true enough, and, we might
add, familiar enough, from a thousand _feuilletons_, but we find no
PURPOSE, corresponding to the expectations excited. We have every
variety of miserable wretch imaginable paraded before us, without a hint
of any means of curing their social disease. 'There is a hammer for
tearing down, but no trowel for building up,' beyond a little empty talk
on the benefits to be derived from education. The truth is that Victor
Hugo writes, like too many of his nation, simply for sensation and
effect. The fault to be found with this series is, that, like Jack
Sheppard, it degrades the taste and blunts the feelings--in a word, it
vulgarizes, and is as improper reading for the young, so far as _effect_
is concerned, as the most immoral production extant. Vulgarity is the
open doorway to vice, and, philosophize as we may, sketches of thieves
and vagabonds, _gamins_, prostitutes and liars are vulgar and unfit
reading for youthful minds, if not for any minds whatever.


    ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE. By JOHN SAUNDERS. New York: Harper & Brothers.

The reader is well aware that this work has attained a great
popularity--we may add that it has deserved it, being a work of marked
originality; one of characters and feelings which will even bear at
sundry times reperusal: as good a character as can be given to a novel,
and a far better one than we are disposed to award to the majority of
those which we meet. It is, we should say, in justice to the progressive
powers of the author, far superior to his earlier productions.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


In the noble Message of President LINCOLN, there are two paragraphs
which should be committed to memory and constantly recalled by every
man:

     'Fellow citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this Congress and
     this Administration will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No
     personal significance or insignificance can spare one or another of
     us. The fiery trial through which we pass will light us down into
     honor or dishonor to the highest generation.

     'We say 'we are for the Union!' The world will not forget that we
     say this. We know how to save this Union. _The world knows we know
     how to save it._ We--even we here--hold the power and bear the
     responsibility!'

'We cannot escape history.' And this is true, not only of the Congress
and of the Administration, but of all men who at the present day are
raised one fraction above the veriest obscurity and completest
nothing-ism. You, reader, and series of those whom you daily meet, may
fancy that your deeds, speeches, writings, overshadowed as they are by
the greater men and events of the day, will be forgotten. It is not so.

The last age was more antiquarian, more given to collecting, searching,
and recording, than its predecessor. This present one is, however, a
hundredfold more seeking and more chronicling than the last, and this
tendency increases every year. As it is, scarce a hero or a traitor,
even of the Revolution, is escaping glory or infamy. Will it be less the
case with the good and bad men of the Emancipation? There is not one
among them who shall escape history.

There is no thieving contractor, no 'helping' official, no shoddy
scoundrel, no unrighteously 'commission' gathering leech, who is not
quietly noted down here and there, to be duly exposed, some soon--some
in after years. We know that extensive researches have been undertaken,
to prepare and keep in black and white a record of the rascality of this
war, in high places as well as low. _They shall not escape history._

There is no cowardly, dishonest, selfish politician--be he who he
may--no trimmer and truckler to the times--who will be forgotten. The
most important war of all history--the greatest and most clearly
outlined struggle between Aristocracy and Republicanism--will not pass
away into oblivion. Men will toil away their lives that they may revive
some of the salient points of this great fight for freedom. To
commemorate the good, they must set forth the opposition of the bad--of
those who aided the foe either by approving of endless slavery, by
clogging the action of the Administration, or by turning the hardly
earned income of Government, wrung from a suffering people, to their own
profit. They shall not escape history.

Those who had the ability to aid the great cause of truth in any way, by
brain or hand, and yet who did nothing--verily they shall not escape
history.

The cautious, shrewd fellows, who hurrah loudly for the truth--after it
has become safe and profitable to do so--they who run with the hound and
hold with the hare--they may chuckle to themselves in their day, and
rejoice at their shrewdness-but Time and GOD sift all things, however
small--even such men as these. They shall not escape history.

And let them cry, 'After us the Deluge,' who will. You will live again
in your children; the heritage of sin is repaid with compound interest
to your name. How do you know but there is a GOD and a future knowledge
of all this, that you act so boldly? What evil have your children or
your name done you, that you should lay a curse on them? For if you do
not put forth your hand to the great cause of truth and in the great
battle of the LORD on behalf of Freedom, be certain that you are now
shaping a malediction, and awaking the anathema maranatha, which shall
go down into the deepest ages, and even in many lands, to cover you and
yours with the dark shadow of shame forever. You shall not escape
history.

But neither shall they escape who have fought the good fight for truth,
for man and liberty. Truly, as the German proverb hath it, _Zeit bricht
Rosen und Zeit bringt Rosen_--'Time breaks roses--but Time brings them
also.' There is an age coming which will distinguish between the battles
for conquest and idle glory and the honor of kings, and those which were
fought for holy freedom. In that age, the great and good and wise, yes!
even the smallest and weakest who chose the cause of Truth, will be
prized above the men of all battles which ever were beforetime. Stand
fast, O soldier! be firm, O friend of the good cause! let us see this
thing bravely through to the end, come what may. GOD bless you!--and he
_will_ bless you! Die on the battle field, or labor humbly at home--if
your heart and your hand have been given to the good work, you shall not
escape history.

   'Fate for you shall sheathe her shears,
   You shall live some thousand years.'

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been nobly proposed, and we doubt not that the proposition will
be as nobly realized, that a shipload of food be sent to the relief of
the starving operatives of England. If the wealthy classes of Great
Britain were generous in proportion to the same order of men in this
country, and in proportion to their own riches, it would be simply
absurd for us to offer to relieve their paupers. But they are not so;
and it is a matter to be deeply deplored, that the manufacturers who
have made fortunes from their operatives, are, in Great Britain, the
ones who are least inclined to relieve the sufferings of their poor
dependants. And this we state entirely on the authority of the British
press, and from the comments made by it on a recent and wretchedly
abortive effort to collect from manufacturing capitalists somewhat to
feed the poor who had enriched them. To an American, accustomed to hear
of deeds of generosity and public spirit, the list of moneys subscribed
for such an object, against the names of millionaires, would seem
incredibly beggarly and pitiful.

However this may be, some one must feed the poor; and if John Bull
cannot afford it, Jonathan must. There is a degree of suffering in which
Englishman or confederate rebel becomes simply a suffering brother, and
when he who would not act the good Samaritan becomes most truly an
outlaw to all humanity. Therefore, let there be, not one, but many
shiploads sent to the sufferers--let us cast our bread upon the waters,
literally as well as figuratively, and give no heed or thought to its
return. The London _Times_ will, we presume, impugn the motives of the
charity--call it Pecksniffian and Heep-ish--or possibly try to prove
that the Federals had no hand in the good deed. Let it rave--the
business in hand is to feed starving men, women, and children, and not
to make political capital, or gain glory, or please a party--for that we
most assuredly shall not--but to do good and act in the large-hearted
manner which gives a good conscience, and which as a national trait is
the noblest characteristic of a republican.

       *       *       *       *       *

The South has been quicker than the North in perceiving that public
opinion in England is rapidly changing in certain quarters in favor of
the Federal cause, and it is for this reason that the press in Secessia
has of late been so unamiable toward Great Britain, while SEMMES has
shown in his pirating so little kindness to English goods. Possibly
Secessia may after all discover that she might do a more unprofitable
thing than be in alliance offensive and defensive with us, and that she
might go further and fare worse, either alone, or with foreign friends
who are, after all, only foes in disguise.

But it is a mad and a foolish thing for England to hope to be benefited
by our dissension. Have we grown weaker or less dangerous by the
discovery that we are capable of raising the greatest armies and the
most invincible fleets in the world? While we flourish in prosperity, we
afford her an outlet for all her paupers, thieves, vagabond Bohemians,
and refuse of all sorts, to say nothing of the vast mass of the really
industrious poor who do well here, but who would have starved to death
at home. With one person in eight in Great Britain dying as a pauper and
buried at the public expense, it is hardly expedient for its people to
wish to see us ruined. Were we to exclude her vagabonds and paupers by
an alien act from entering this country, and at the same time close our
markets to her goods, of what avail would all the cotton in the world be
to her? The American public understand this thing perfectly--so
perfectly that the first movement toward intervention would be to
effectually shut out the offending party, to bear by itself the worst
results of prostrated manufactures and a turbulent starving population.

But we trust that nothing of the kind may happen, and that England will
perceive that a great, prosperous, and united America, though it covers
the whole Western hemisphere, will be of more advantage to her than a
divided, impoverished land, full of fighting factions. It is a bad, an
inhuman, and a most un-Christian policy to set wealthy and powerful
neighbors at dissensions, to rejoice at their losses, and finally hope
to see them from prosperous citizens, turned into starved brigands. Envy
is of the devil. And it is the more wicked, because _we_ know, and every
one of our readers knows with us, that there never existed in this
country, within our recollection, any desire whatever to see England
impoverished, injured, or in any way 'set back' as a country. That
deep-seated desire, openly avowed by her orators and press, to see our
growing greatness checked, was never seriously cherished by any true
American--and it could be proved that the insulting expressions of such
a desire have in almost every instance originated with British _emigres_
in this country, who are notoriously the most bitter foes to their
fatherland.

It is finally worth noting that the sympathy expressed by Americans for
Russia during the Crimean war, has been of late frequently urged in
England as a reason for withholding sympathy from the Federals. Now it
is most _undeniably true_ that, with certain rare exceptions, the
friendship for Russia _at that time_ came in a great measure from the
Democratic party, and especially from the South. It was an Irish
antipathy to England in the North, and a serf-sympathy in the South
which caused it all--naturally enough, in all conscience. If any one
doubts this, let him recall Roger Pryor's book, indorsing Russia as the
great power destined to swallow up all Europe--written at a time when
Pryor was beyond question the first and loudest exponent living of
Southern feelings and principles. This is the simplest and plainest of
facts, most easily susceptible of proof--and yet how many Englishmen are
there who would believe it?

The truth is that the whole criticism of America by England has
presented the melancholy spectacle of prejudice and envy, made maudlin
by gross ignorance--and the worst of it all has been the making the
North responsible for the bygone evil deeds of the South. Repudiation,
protection, Russian sympathy, filibustering, and other objections--are
all heaped on the Federal head alone to bear? Will the _truth_ ever come
to light in England?

       *       *       *       *       *

May we venture to mention to our readers that 'Among the
Pines'--originally published in these pages--is now selling its
_thirtieth_ thousand, with constantly increasing orders. And in
connection we would add that 'Americans in Rome'--originally published
in THE CONTINENTAL under the title of _Maccaroni and Canvas_ has
appeared in book form, and may be obtained from George P. Putnam. This
work is, we believe, one of the most remarkable collections of sketches
and observation ever written on Italy; combining a very great amount of
accurate personal observations of the Roman people, both in the city and
country, with that of American artists' life there. The observations are
throughout racily humorous, and those who have within a few years
visited 'the Cradle of Art' cannot fail to recognize, as hit off with no
sparing hand, more than one American notoriety. Art quackery as it
exists, is well shown up in 'Americans in Rome;' the author having
little in common with those amiable romancers who glorify every
illiterate picture-maker, though he never fails to do justice to true
genius. We believe, in short, that these sketches form a very peculiar,
piquant, and _earnest_ work, as truthful as it is amusing, and as such
commend it to our readers.




The

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

EDITORS:

   HON. ROBERT J. WALKER,
   CHARLES G. LELAND,
   HON. FRED. P. STANTON,
   EDMUND KIRKE.


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.

By the accession of HON. ROBERT J. WALKER and HON. F. P. STANTON to its
editorial corps, the CONTINENTAL acquires a strength and a political
significance which, to those who are aware of the ability and experience
of these gentlemen, must elevate it to a position far above any
previously occupied by any publication of the kind in America.
Preserving all "the boldness, vigor, and ability" which a thousand
journals have attributed to it, it will at once 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 men most familiar with its diplomacy and most
distinguished for ability, are to become 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.

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, the accomplished scholar and author, who has
till now been the sole Editor of the Magazine, will, beside his
editorial labors, continue his brilliant contributions to its pages; and
EDMUND KIRKE, author of "AMONG THE PINES," will contribute to each
issue, having already begun a work on Southern Life and Society, which,
will be found far more widely descriptive, and, in all respects,
superior to the first.

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,       Seven dollars.
   Six copies for one year,         Thirteen dollars.
   Eleven copies for one year,      Twenty-four dollars.
   Twenty copies for one year,      Forty-four 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.

As an Inducement to new subscribers, the Publisher offers the following
very liberal premiums:

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," bound in cloth (the book to be
sent postage paid).

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, (a 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 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,
Sorgheim, 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
on 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
   Payments 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     300.00

   40 acres at $10 per acre;
   Cash payment                $24.00
   Payments 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

Address Land Commissioner, Illinois Central Railroad, Chicago, Ill.


       *       *       *       *       *


Number 14

25 Cents

The CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

DEVOTED TO Literature and National Policy.


FEBRUARY, 1863.


NEW YORK:

JOHN F. TROW 50 GREENE STREET (FOR THE PROPRIETORS).

HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY. WASHINGTON, D.C.: FRANCK TAYLOR


       *       *       *       *       *


CONTENTS.--No. XIV.

   Our National Finances. Robert J. Walker,                          129

   A Trip to Antietam. Charles W. Loring,                            145

   American Destiny. John Stahl Patterson,                           160

   The Birth of the Lily,                                            169

   Was He Successful? Richard B. Kimball,                            171

   Nullification and Secession. Hon. Robert J. Walker,               179

   The Sioux War. John G. Nicolay, Private Secretary

   to President Lincoln,                                             195

   "Dead!"                                                           204

   A Merchant's Story. Edmund Kirke,                                 206

   The Consequences of the Rebellion. Hon. Frederic

   P. Stanton,                                                       223

   Sunshine in Thought,                                              233

   How they Jested in the Good Old Time. Charles G. Leland,          237

   Literary Notices,                                                 248

   Editor's Table,                                                   250


The article in this number of THE CONTINENTAL, on "Our National
Finances," by Hon. ROBERT J. WALKER, will be found worthy of especial
attention at the present time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our next issue will contain a valuable article on "GOLD."

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

INDEX TO VOLUME III.


   A Chapter on Wonders. Perth Granton, 461

   A Fancy Sketch, 482

   A Heroine of To-Day, 543

   A Merchant's Story. Edmund Kirke, 206, 289, 451, 528, 642

   American Destiny. John Stahl Patterson, 79, 160

   An Englishman in South Carolina, 110

   A Trip to Antietam. Charles W. Loring, 145

   A Winter in Camp. E. G. Hammond, 519


   Cloud and Sunshine, 687

   Consequences of the Rebellion. Hon. F. P. Stanton, 26, 223

   Cost of a Trip to Europe, 730


   "Dead," 204

   Down in Tennessee, 469


   Editor's Table, 126, 250, 379, 503, 747

   Ethel. Mrs. Martha Walker Cook, 435


   False Estimations, 274

   Flag of our Union. Hon. R. J. Walker, 480

   For and Against, 334


   Gold. Hon. Robert A. Walker, 279

   Great Heart, 629


   Henrietta and Vulcan. Delia M. Colton, 421

   How they Jested in the Good Old Time. Charles Godfrey Leland, 237

   How the War affects Americans. Hon. F. P. Stanton, 411

   How Mr. Lincoln became an Abolitionist. S. B. Gookins, 727

   Huguenots of New Rochelle. Hon. G. P. Disosway, 1

   Huguenots of Virginia, 348


   'I;' or, Summer in the City, 40

   In Memoriam. Richard Wolcott, 527

   'Is there Anything in It?' 688


   Last Words. Ingoldsby North, 282

   Literary Notices, 122, 248, 374, 500, 630, 744


   Maccaroni and Canvas. Henry P. Leland, 7

   May Morning, 657

   Mill on Liberty. Hon. F. P. Stanton, 674

   Miriam's Testimony. M. A. Edwards, 589

   Montgomery in Secession Time, 354


   National Ode, 554

   Nullification and Secession. Hon. Robert J. Walker, 179


   Our National Finances. Hon. R. J. Walker, 129

   Our Present Position, its Dangers and Duties, 488


   Parting, 288

   Pen, Pallet, and Piano, 117

   Pictures from the North, 398

   Poetry and Poetical Selections, 474

   Promise. Edward S. Rend, jr., 78

   Promoted, 420


   Reason, Rhyme, and Rhythm. Mrs. Martha Walker Cook, 662, 698


   Shylock vs. Antonio. Carlton Edwards, 539

   Sunshine in Thought, 233


   The Birth of the Lily, 169

   The Blue Handkerchief, 279

   The Buccaneers of America. Wm. L. Stone, 703

   The Captain of '63 to his Men, 315

   The Causes and Results of the War. Lieut. E. Phelps, U. S. A., 617

   The Century of Inventions. C. G. Leland, 318

   The Chained River. Charles G. Leland, 410

   The Chech, 395

   The Complaining Bore, 496

   The Confederation and the Nation. E. Carey, 694

   The Destiny of the African Race in the United States.
     Rev. J. M. Sturtevant, D. D., 600

   The Great Prairie State. Mrs. C. M. Kirkland, 513

   The Ivy. Charles Godfrey Leland, 47

   The Lady and her Slave. Mrs. Martha W. Cook, 330

   The Mishaps of Miss Hobbs. Wm. L. Williams, 54

   The Navy of the United States, 659

   The New Rasselas, 404

   The Physical Survey of New York Harbor
   and its Approaches. Henry Mitchell, 105

   The Return. E. S. Rand, jr., 464

   The Sioux War. John G. Nicolay, 195

   The Skeptics of the Waverley Novels. Chas. G. Leland, 439

   The Soldier's Burial, 373

   The Surrender of Forts Jackson and St. Philip. F. H. Gerdes, 557

   The Union. Hon. R. J. Walker, 68, 366, 465, 615

   The Value of the Union. W. H. Muller, 571, 633

   The Vision of the Monk Gabriel. Eleanor C. Donnelly, 316

   The Wonders of Words, 385


   Thought, 23

   Three Modern Romances, 667

   Touching the Soul. Lieut. Egbert Phelps, 734

   Turkey. A. Comte, jr., 257


   Virginia, 714

   Visit to the National Academy of Design, 718


   War Song--Earth's Last Battle. Mrs. M. W. Cook, 562

   Was He Successful? Richard B. Kimball, 98, 171, 611, 719


JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Continental Monthly, Vol. 3, No. 1
January 1863, by Various

*** 