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THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

DEVOTED TO

LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.


VOL. III.--MARCH, 1863.--No. III.




TURKEY.


The decline of the Turkish Empire has furnished an eloquent theme for
historians, who have ever made it the 'point and commendation of their
tale.' Judging from its decline, they have predicted its fall. Half a
century ago, the historian of the middle ages expected with an assurance
that 'none can deem extravagant,' the approaching subversion of the
Ottoman power. Although deprived of some of its richest possessions and
defeated in many a well-fought field, the house of Othman still
stands--amid crumbling monarchies and subjugated countries; the crescent
still glitters on the Bosphorus, and still the 'tottering arch of
conquest spans the ample region from Bagdad to Belgrade.'

Yet, how sadly changed is Turkey from her former self--how varied the
fortunes of her classic fields! The physical features of the country are
the same as in the days of Solyman the Magnificent; the same noble
rivers water the fertile valleys, and the same torrents sweep down the
mountain sides; the waves of the AEgean and Mediterranean wash the same
shores, fertile in vines and olive trees; the same heaven smiles over
the tombs of the storied brave--but here no longer is the abode of the
rulers and lawgivers of one half the world.

It has been said, and with some degree of truth, that the Turks are
encamped, not settled in Europe. In their political and social
institutions they have never comported themselves as if they anticipated
to make it their continuing home. Their oriental legends relate how the
belief arose in the very hour of conquest that the standard of the Cross
should at some future day be carried to the Bosphorus, and that the
European portion of the empire would he regained by Christians. From
this superstitious belief they selected the Asiatic shore for the burial
of true Mussulmans; nor was it altogether a fanciful belief, for in the
sudden rise of Russia, Turkey foresaw the harbinger of her fall, and
recognized in Muscovite warriors the antagonists of fate.

A nation to be long-lived must rise higher and higher in the scale of
civilization; must approach nearer and nearer its meridian, but never
culminate. The Athenians reached the zenith of their glory in the age of
Pericles, and lost in fifty years what they had acquired in centuries.
The Turks attained their meridian greatness in the reign of Solyman the
Magnificent--from which time dates their decline.

If we make a comparison between Turkey and her formidable neighbor,
Russia, we shall find that the latter adopted, while the former resisted
reforms. Turkey was in the fulness of her power when Russia had not yet
a name. The spirit of the Ottomans was remarkably exclusive. They
regarded themselves as a separate and distinct people; they were
conquerors, and as such thought themselves a superior race--men who were
to teach and not to learn. In their intercourse with other nations, they
borrowed nothing, and out of themselves looked for nothing. Their
feeling of national glory was not extinguished by national degradation,
but cherished through ages of slavery and shame. But the world is a
world of progress. A nation cannot remain stationary; she must advance
or retrograde. Turkey is not what she was, while Russia, with the rest
of Christendom, has advanced; her faults grew with her strength, but did
not die with her decay. It will not be sufficient for her merely to
regain her former power; she must overtake Christendom in the progress
made during her decadence. Her spirit of vitality is not yet extinct; it
wants guidance and development to strengthen and elevate it. There is
still hope of reforming the Turkish empire without that baptism of blood
which many have urged and are still urging. Indeed, Lord Palmerston
declared in Parliament that Turkey has made a more rapid advance and
been improved more during the last ten years (he made this statement in
1854, and Turkey has been rapidly progressing since) than any other
country in Europe.

Before considering the question of reform, it will be necessary to take
a cursory view of Turkish history and character.

While the monarchs of Constantinople were waging war with Persia, and
both empires were tottering; while the Christian religion gave rise to
different sects, hating each other with intense and fanatical hatred, a
silent power was rising among the Turks, which was destined to subvert
empires and found a new religion. Their original seat was among the
Altai mountains, where they were employed by their masters in working
iron mines. They rose in rebellion, threw off their allegiance, and made
incursions into Persia and China, proving themselves formidable enemies.
From being a weak and enslaved people they became the allies and
conquerors of the Byzantine emperors. 'With the Koran in one hand,' says
Macaulay, 'and the sword in the other, they went forth conquering and
converting eastward to the Bay of Bengal, and westward to the Pillars of
Hercules.' They became a terror to the nations that had beheld with
contempt their rising greatness. Amid the expiring glories of the Roman
world they made Constantinople the capital of their empire. It was all
that the oriental imagination could desire. Rendered by its
fortifications impregnable, and situated on the Bosphorus, whose dark
blue waters flow between shores of unrivalled beauty, where nature and
art had reared their grandest monuments, it surpassed in wealth and
grandeur Nineveh and Babylon.

From this stronghold, which had been the cradle of Christianity, and
which had witnessed the dying struggle of the Roman empire, the
conquerors, maddened with the victories and crowned with the wealth
which years of perpetual war had heaped upon them, mustered their armies
and sallied forth. They subjugated many countries, but copied none of
their virtues; and to-day their degenerate descendants still retain most
of their original traits of character. Their religious sense is deep,
but theirs is a religion which blunts and stupefies the intellectual
faculties, and makes man fit only to perform a score of prostrations
each day. It inspires courage in war, but it also teaches blind
resignation to defeat and disgrace: it teaches morality, but sensuality
and ferocity are not inconsistent with its doctrines. Eat, drink,
smoke--indulge all the passions to-day, for immortality begins
to-morrow! No Turk is so high that he has not a master, none so low that
he has not a slave; the grand vizier kisses the sultan's foot, the pasha
kisses the vizier's, the bey the pasha's, and so on. Yet their many
virtues half redeem their faults. They are proverbial for their
hospitality, and charity, which 'covereth a multitude of sins,' is an
oriental virtue. They have, too, great love of nationality. The beggar
who seeks alms of the Turk with cries and entreaties, will not ask a
single para of the Frank (a name applied to all foreigners).

Turkey in Europe, though smaller in extent than the Asiatic division of
the empire, is by far the wealthier and more important. It extends from
Russia to the Adriatic, and from Hungary to the Euxine sea, the command
of which it shares jointly with Russia. The Straits of Constantinople,
the Dardanelles, and the Sea of Marmora are free to all friendly
nations. The situation of the country, its numerous and safe harbors,
are all favorable to commerce. There is every variety of climate, and
the soil in every part of the empire is fertile, and, when cultivated,
yields productions in the greatest abundance. The agricultural, like the
manufacturing industry, owing to the indolence of the people, is much
neglected. This indolence is, in a great measure, the result of
oppression. Before Russia extended her protection over the provinces,
the Turks left agriculture to their tributaries, whom, when wealthy and
prosperous, they plundered.

Let us now consider the causes which led to the decline of the empire.
In the reign of Solyman, poetry, science, and art flourished. New
privileges were conferred upon the ministers of religion; the
Janissaries received increased pay; the coffers of the empire were
filled to overflowing; the condition of the rayas was ameliorated;
security to life, honor, and property was given to all, without
distinction of creed or race. But even then there were causes at work
destined to effect a decline. The sultan in person was ever at the head
of his troops. Thus the vizier, or prime minister, who remained in the
capital, became, by degrees, a more influential personage than 'the
grand seignior' himself. The intrigues of the eunuchs in the imperial
harem began to exert their baneful influences on the administration. The
seraglio--in which many hundred females are immured, the most beautiful
that can be found in the contiguous realms of Europe and Asia, wherever
the Turk bears sway--from being the most beautiful appendage, became the
moving spring of the Ottoman Porte. The inmates formed a faction hostile
to the ministers of religion. The administration was transferred to
Greeks, Jews, and Armenians, who filled the treasury of the sultan and
enriched themselves by impoverishing the people, who, since they could
no longer enjoy the fruits of their labor, became indolent. The army was
more eager for booty and captives than for glory; slaves were
multiplied; the higher classes revelled in wealth and luxury, while the
poorer classes with difficulty obtained a livelihood.

It would be strange, indeed, if in an empire so extensive and with an
immense and motley population, we did not find it difficult to introduce
reforms, and instruct the people in the arts of more civilized nations,
and remove old abuses, guarded by the fanaticism of the clergy.
Political reforms can be made only by those in high places of authority;
and to be sanctioned by the prejudiced and infatuated Ottoman they must
assume the garb of religion. The sultan himself, wielding the sceptre
over millions of subjects, uniting in his own person all the powers of
the state, claiming to reign by divine commission, and profanely styling
himself the shadow of God--even he dares not venture to vary one iota
from the teachings of the Koran and the Sunnah.

Selim III was the first royal reformer. While Europe was shaken to its
very centre, and the continental monarchs trembled on their thrones, he
applied himself assiduously to those civil and military reforms, which
his successors promoted, and without which Turkey could not have
maintained her position as a European power. Selim made a new
organization of the army, made innovations in the judicial and
administrative branches of the government, changed the system of
taxation, and gave a decidedly new organization to the divan, where
reform was most needed. He also attempted to make innovations in the
financial department, but by depreciating the coin, in order to fill an
exhausted treasury, signally failed. He deposed the then reigning
hospodars of the Moldo-Wallachian provinces, and established others more
favorable to his work of reform. Russia and England remonstrated at this
measure, and war was declared. The Turkish army was defeated and driven
across the Danube. The Janissaries, ignorantly attributing their defeat
to Selim's reforms in military discipline, rose in rebellion. The
well-meant but too mild sultan fell a victim to their violence, and was
succeeded by Mustapha, who had instigated the insurgents to revolt. His
short reign is signalized by the vigorous measures he took to destroy
Selim's reforms. Shortly after his accession to the throne, the defeat
of the Turkish fleet by the Russians spread consternation and terror
through the capital. It was at this critical juncture that an Asiatic
pasha, a friend of the deposed sultan, advanced with a powerful army,
and laid siege to Constantinople, which yielded to him after a vigorous
resistance of one year. Mahmoud ascended the throne. From Selim, his
cousin, he had learned the lamentable condition of the empire and the
necessity of reform. He had no sooner ascended the throne, than the
Janissaries began to manifest a feverish anxiety for revolt. No time was
to be lost; and Mahmoud acted with that energy which was one of the few
redeeming traits of his character. Mustapha, the murderer of Selim and
the destroyer of the work of a lifetime, was put to death; his son and
wives shared his fate. Mahmoud was now firmly established. He was the
last scion of the Othman race, and as such was vested with _sacrosancta
potestas_. He resolved to annihilate the unruly corps and anathematize
their name. He engaged the services of their aga, or commander-in-chief,
to whom he made known his plans. His next step was to issue an order
commanding each regiment to furnish one hundred and fifty men to be
drilled after the manner of European soldiers. The friends of Mahmoud
asked: 'Is he mad?' The soldiers exclaimed: 'Bismillah! he wants to make
infidels of us. Does he think we are no better than infidel dogs?' The
Janissaries reversed their kettles (the signal of revolt) in the
Byzantine hippodrome, and calling upon their patron saint, proceeded to
attack the royal palace. But Mahmoud was prepared to receive them. All
his other troops, artillery, marines, and infantry, were under arms and
at his command. The ulemas pronounced a curse of eternal dissolution
upon the insurgents. Mahmoud unfurled the sacred standard of the
prophet, and called on his people for assistance. A hundred cannon
opened fire upon their barracks, and in an hour twenty-five thousand
Janissaries were mowed down by grapeshot and scimitars. Their bodies
broke the lingering fast of the hungry dogs, or were cast into the
Bosphorus, and hurried by its rapid currents into the Sea of Marmora.
The annihilation of the Janissaries took place in 1826.

It is more than probable that Mahmoud could have effected a salutary
reform in the military system without resorting to extreme violence. He
was naturally of a cruel disposition, and was also deficient in prudence
and moderation. He gave the Janissaries cause to revolt; he made
frivolous innovations in their long-cherished customs, by commanding
them to shave their beards and forbidding them to wear the turban, a
beautiful headdress, an ornament at once national and religious. These
measures excited the disgust of all 'true believers,' while his enemies
called him an infidel, and his warmest supporters and the strongest
advocates of reform despaired of success. Innovations are expedient only
when they remove evil, and when men are prepared to receive them.
Command a Turk to shave his beard--by which he swears--the idol of his
life. As well bid him cut off his right arm or pluck out an eye--he
would obey one as soon as the other. The impolicy of changing the
customs and dress of a half-civilized, warlike nation, has been made
obvious in many instances--none more impressive than the mutiny of the
Anglo-Indian army at Velore in 1806.

Mahmoud in destroying the Janissaries took for his model Peter the
Great. Never were two sovereigns more unlike each other. Peter, generous
and humane, leaving his throne and travelling in disguise to educate
himself, stands in bold contrast with the parsimonious and cruel sultan.
Moreover, Mahmoud's was a more difficult undertaking. The Strelitzes
whom the czar annihilated were unsupported, were famous by no
illustrious victory, and had not an enthusiastic religious feeling. The
Janissaries, on the other hand, had strong family interests; they, too,
had decided the fate of the empire at the battle of Varna, where their
bravery established the Ottoman power, whose brightest triumphs were
clustered around their names; they had fought many a bloody battle, and
had never turned their backs to the foe; their leader was chosen from
their own ranks, and no nobility controlled their ambition or prevented
them from receiving the honor due to enterprise and valor; they held the
sultan in check; the ulemas gave sanction to their laws, and they in
turn sustained the authority of the ulemas with their swords. As long as
they experienced no change in their discipline and customs they were
invincible. But they too had participated in the universal degeneracy.
Like the Praetorian bands of Rome, they had become the absolute masters
of the empire. They pulled down and set up sultans at their will; their
valor had departed, but their unconquerable pride remained as part of
their heritage. Their ranks were filled with crowds of Greeks, Jews, and
Moslems, without discipline and without order. Many who had purchased
the privilege of being numbered in this formidable body, lived outside
of the barracks, and assembled only on pay day or in times of tumult and
rebellion. They despised all laws, civil and religious, and were a
constant source of annoyance to the people, whose lives and property
were at their mercy. Such were the subjects upon whom Mahmoud was to
operate. In the destruction of the Strelitzes and the Janissaries, Peter
and Mahmoud may be compared to two physicians: one practises on a
healthy savage, while the other attempts to cut out a malignant cancer
reaching the vitals, from the pampered sensualist. In annihilating these
troops, as in his other reforms, Mahmoud began where he should have
ended his labors; he mistook the end for the means.

Had he stopped with this act of violence, his supporters might defend
him on the doubtful ground of expediency; but he did not stop here. For
centuries the tyranny of the sultans had been restrained by the
derebeys, or lords of the valleys. They had been confirmed in the
possession of their lands by Mohammed II, from which time they had
continued to pay tribute to the sultan, and furnished him with quotas of
troops. The sultan had no control over their lives or property. The
subjects who tilled the productive lands of the valleys were suitably
rewarded for their labor. The happiest and wealthiest peasants of the
empire were found among the vassals of the beys, to whom they showed
great devotion. These feudal lords, at a moment's warning, could summon
twenty thousand men before their palace gates. They furnished the
greater part of the sultan's cavalry force in war; and, unlike the
pashas, had never raised the standard of rebellion; they had never
wished for revolutions, and had never sanctioned insurrections. The
possession of their property was guaranteed to them by inheritance, and
they had no need of money with which to bribe the Sublime Porte.

Mahmoud was bent on depriving them of their wealth and curtailing their
privileges. They were rich, did not bribe him, and held hereditary
possessions. These were unpardonable crimes in the sight of this
exemplary reformer. The beys, who never dealt in treachery, were
unsuspicious of others, and fell an easy prey. The peasants ceased to
cultivate the lands from which they could no longer profit; and many of
the wealthiest possessions became desolate. We must not think it
strange, therefore, that the military power was prostrated, when, after
having annihilated the Janissaries, Mahmoud deprived the derebeys of
their ancient authority; for the military power of the empire rested
chiefly in these two bodies. These innovations were made in the midst of
a destructive Greek war, and at a time when the Danube and the Balkan
were no longer formidable barriers to the Muscovite descendants of Ivan
the Terrible, who brought back memories of the past, and threatened to
avenge deeply treasured wrongs. Even at this critical period, when his
army was annihilated, his fleet defeated, and the legions of Russia
within a few days' march of Constantinople, Mahmoud threatened to feed
his horses at the high altar of St. Peter's, and proclaim the religion
of the prophet in the Muscovite capital. A threat that savored more of
the seraglio than of the throne!

His next step was to assail the privileges of the great provincial
cities, the inhabitants of which elected from their own number ayans, or
magistrates, distinguished for their wisdom and virtue. These
magistrates had much influence among the people; they had always
resisted exorbitant taxes and unjust decrees; their protection was
extended to Mussulmans and Christians without distinction. Their power
of veto was almost as effective as that of the _tribuni plebis_ of Rome;
they could point back to Solyman, the Solon of his time, as the author
of their protective system. But their power originated with the people.
To this Mahmoud would not submit. All power must emanate from him, the
all-wise and innovating sultan, who raised the low and humbled the
great, not as they were honest or corrupt, but as they fawned upon him,
or refused to yield implicit obedience to his nod.

In their endeavors to institute a new financial system, the predecessors
of Mahmoud reduced the standard of money gradually, in order not to
produce a panic. But he wished to accomplish in one day the work of
years. He issued a decree commanding the people to bring all their coin,
gold and silver, to their respective governors--where they would receive
less than half its value! He threatened the refractory with death. The
capital resounded with the dreaded cry of rebellion; and the exasperated
multitude that had surrounded the royal palace was not appeased until it
witnessed the public execution of the mint officers, whose only crime
was obedience to their master. This impolitic measure in the financial
department impoverished the people, and left the treasury still empty.
Foreign speculators bought the money--the circulation of which had
become illegal--and resold it to the sultan for sterling value!

Shortly after this he expelled about thirty thousand Christians from the
capital, which they had embellished and enriched by their labor. Their
fidelity had never been doubted. For this despicable act--their
expulsion--Mahmoud could adduce no better reason than that 'it was
solely on political grounds.' Strange politics this, for a sovereign,
who professed to have the magnanimity of Christian rulers! On the
expulsion of the Christians, Russia commenced hostilities, and a war
followed, in which the sultan paid dearly for his rashness.

In short, Mahmoud could not have given a better lesson to his subjects
than by reforming himself. He was cruel beyond measure--if the grand
seignior can ever be so called, who is taught that he may lop off a
score of heads each day 'for divine inspiration.' Still if he had been
as thoroughly skilled as he professed to have been, he should have shown
himself a humane as well as an innovating sovereign. Those who assisted
him in his reforms, he rewarded with the bowstring. His character was
blackened by ingratitude, an instinctive vice in oriental rulers.
Obstinate as he was suspicious, deceitful as he was cunning, he could
not rule his own passions, much less could he control the corrupt morals
of his people. He was to an extraordinary degree avaricious, a quality
everywhere odious, but especially in a land where generosity measures
love--where in the highest and in the lowest stations liberality is the
moving spring. While he mistook parsimony for economy, he did not
scruple to make war on trifling pretexts and waste his amassed treasures
in a hopeless cause.

In every attempted reform he wounded Ottoman pride and prejudice. Unlike
his cousin, he did not humor the faults of the people while making
innovations; he neither amused them with imposing shows, nor flattered
them by the pompous spectacle of his appearance in public--in one word,
he wanted the tact of a reformer. Selim, while he increased the navy and
established manufactories, built gorgeous palaces, and by his
magnificence dazzled the people, who were blind to his real designs;
they even permitted him to set up printing presses in the large cities,
on receiving assurance that the Koran would not be submitted to the
unholy process of squeezing!

Mahmoud thought, or pretended to think, that he could reform the empire
by imitating only the vices of Christianity, and manifesting a contempt
for Moslem virtues. While he drank wine--and in many other breaches of
the teachings of the sacred book provoked the faithful--his
proclamations breathed a most orthodox and fanatical spirit. He was a
sceptic; neither Mussulman nor Christian, but surprisingly inconsistent
and capricious. His, we fear, were 'hangman's hands,' and 'not ordained
to build a temple unto peace.'

Under Solyman the Magnificent, at once the most warlike monarch and
munificent patron of literature and art, the constitution of the
Janissaries was wise and effective. The children of Christians, taken by
the Turks in war or in their predatory incursions, were exposed in the
public markets of Constantinople, whence any person was at liberty to
take them into his service, on making a contract with the government to
return them at the demand of the sultan. These children were instructed
in Islamism, and were trained by manly exercise and labor, calculated to
strengthen the body and give elasticity to the spirits. From these hardy
orphans the ranks of the Janissaries were recruited. They came eagerly
to the camp; for they had been taught to regard it as the theatre of
their future glory. From earliest infancy they looked forward with joy
to the time when they should be numbered among those brave soldiers,
whose arms had maintained for a long series of years the supremacy of
the crescent. There was no rank, no dignity in the Turkish army to which
a Janissary could not aspire--a strong incentive to the display of
bravery. Such was the constitution of the army when it was the most
powerful in Europe: then it gained its victories, not by force of
numbers, but by superior military discipline and valor. In the middle of
the nineteenth century the capture of Christian children was abandoned.
The land forces degenerated into a wretchedly organized army of less
than three hundred thousand men, drafted from the lowest classes.
Mothers put their children to death that they might be spared the pangs
of seeing them torn away to pass their days in scenes of shame and
dissipation.

Not till the army had become a laughing stock to the weakest European
power did the sultans perceive the necessity of military reform. Selim
III established a school for artillery and naval officers, and engaged
Europeans, especially Frenchmen, as instructors in military science. We
can readily comprehend the degeneracy of the Turkish army, when we
remember that since the establishment of the school at Sulitzi for
engineers, the Turks have learned from foreign teachers military tactics
of which their own ancestors were the inventors, and which had been
forgotten, although full accounts of them lay hidden in musty volumes in
their military archives.

Foreign officers were at first regarded with contempt by Turkish
soldiers, whose unconquerable pride has ever proved a great impediment
to the regeneration of the empire. Moslem talent was not equal to the
exigencies that arose from the impolitic measures of Mahmoud. We find a
parallel case in Russia. Had Peter trusted to Muscovite genius to form
and command the troops which superseded the Strelitzes, Charles XII
would have quartered in the Kremlin.

Kutchuk Husseyin, the relative and favorite of Selim, made valuable
additions to the navy in which his master took such pride. Husseyin, who
had the welfare of his country at heart, was liberal and disinterested.
Vested with the office of captain pasha, he sent to Greece for
architects and engineers, with whose assistance he fortified Stamboul,
Sinope, and Rhodes; he built arsenals and extensive docks, which he
supplied with the necessary equipments of a powerful fleet. In a short
time, twenty sail of the line, constructed on the newest European
models, rode at anchor within sight of his palace. He also erected
barracks for the troops, and greatly improved the naval school. The
sudden death of Selim paralyzed the navy, which soon resumed its
accustomed languor.

The events of 1821, in which the Turkish fleet was defeated by armed
merchant vessels of Greece, gave a fresh impulse to the navy.
Experienced officers were placed in command, who, as they grew in
strength, grew in confidence, and trusted more to their own resources
than to the protection of Allah. Six years after the defeat, the navy
was in a state of greater practical efficiency than at any other time.
After a protracted struggle of five years it had gained the undisputed
supremacy of the Archipelago; and had it not been for the disastrous
defeat at Navarino, it would have proved equal, if not superior, to the
Russian fleet in the Black sea. The Turkish navy, to-day, numbers about
sixty war vessels, six of which are ships of the line, and six steam
frigates, built partly at London and Toulon.

The standing army in times of peace consists of 150,000 regulars; 60,000
auxiliaries (such as the Egyptian forces); and those of the northern
provinces, 110,000; with a corps de reserve of 150,000--an aggregate of
470,000 men. The army is recruited by lot and conscription (as in
France), and not as formerly, by arbitrary compulsion. Christians are
excluded from service in the infidel ranks, but pay a military tax.
Partial infringements, however, have been made in this exclusion, by
employing Armenians in the marine service and at the arsenals. Active
service in the army continues for a period of seven years; and the
discharged soldiers belong to the reserved force for five years more.
The organization of the corps de reserve is the same as that of the
regular army. Their arms and equipments are kept in the state arsenals,
and are produced only when the soldiers are called out, which takes
place once a year, after the harvest season. During one month, the
members of this corps de reserve lead a military life, and receive
regular pay.

The army is divided into six divisions of 25,000 each. The artillery is
modelled after the most approved Prussian system, while the infantry and
cavalry drill according to French tactics, and use French accoutrements
and arms. Thus, Turkey, with a standing army of 150,000 men, can muster
a force of nearly 500,000 at a few hours' notice; provided, however, she
has money to pay the troops, for the religious prejudices of the
Osmanlee do not tolerate the system of loans. So that Turkey, though she
has neither the formidable land force of France nor the navy of England,
is not crushed by the weight of a public debt, the principal of which
can never be paid. This military system is the result of the labors of
Rija Pasha and Redschid Pasha, by turn rivals and colleagues, disputing
on matters of secondary importance, but ever cordially cooperating in
the regeneration of the empire.

More attention has been given to military than to political reforms. The
intolerant Moslem spirit manifests direct opposition to all innovation
in the administration. As their fathers were, so they wish to be. Before
the time of Selim no reform movements of importance had been made in the
administrative branches. For five centuries the sultans had received, as
an aphorism in their political education, that the subjects existed for
the good of the sultan, and not the sultan for the welfare of the
people. Selim proclaimed the rights of his subjects and their supremacy;
and his words were confirmed by his deeds.

The administrative system was purely oriental, and bore scarcely any
analogy to that of any other country. From the reign of Solyman to that
of Selim--the protector (from whom there is no appeal) was kept closely
confined in the seraglio walls; indeed, he was a state prisoner from his
cradle to the day when he girt around him the imperial sabre. As the
sultan reigned by divine commission, no education was considered good
enough for him. Moreover, since his power was absolute, it had been
received as a recognized principle of state policy that he should be as
ignorant as possible, in order that he might prove more faithful to the
will of Allah. Selim banished these antiquated notions, and instituted a
new system--not that he lessened his own power, but established
representative bodies to assist him in making laws, and tribunals to
pass judgment upon and execute them.

The sultan is assisted by a divan; or council of ministers, and others,
who are nominated to that dignity by himself. The grand vizier presides
over this body, and is responsible for all measures adopted by it.

The legislative as well as the military system is borrowed from the
French; but the sultan is the source of all law, civil and military; he
is the summit, while the municipal institutions are the base, of the
political fabric. In theory at least, these institutions are established
on the broadest principles of freedom. Each community, like the communes
of France, sends an aga, or representative, to the supreme council. By
the famous ordinance of Gulhana, Mussulmans, Jews, and Christians are
represented, without distinction, in proportion to their number.

The administration of the interior belongs to the prime minister, who
appoints civil governors to take charge of the general administration.
The pashas had hitherto been both civil and military officers; purchased
their appointments at extravagant prices, and repaid themselves by
extortions practised upon the unfortunate subjects over whom they ruled.
The appointment of civil governors removed this old abuse, and left the
pashas vested only with military power. Each of the military chiefs has
command of one of the six divisions of which the army is composed. All
these officers receive a fixed salary; and the people, no longer subject
to their avarice and tyranny, pay regular rates of taxation.

The reforms I have mentioned, great as they were, were only preliminary
to the publishing of the hatti-scheriff of Gulhana, the magna charta and
bill of rights of Turkey. The son of Mahmoud, Abdul Medjid, on ascending
the throne, published this ordinance, which was to effect a reform in
the internal administration more beneficial than any other, either
before or after the destruction of the Janissaries. The ulemas, state
officers, foreign ambassadors, and a vast multitude of subjects had
assembled on the plains of Gulhana. The illustrious writings (as the
name signifies) were read aloud in the presence of this solemn assembly
by Redschid Pasha. The sultan, 'under the direct inspiration of the Most
High and of his prophet,' desired to look for the prosperity of the
empire in a good administration. The ulemas addressed a thanksgiving to
heaven amid the acclamations of the assembled thousands. These reforms
were threefold: The first guaranteed security to life, honor, and
property; the second is a new system of taxation; the third, a
remodelled plan for levying soldiers, and defining their time of
service. The subject can best be illustrated by quoting a few extracts
from the hatti-scheriff itself:

     'The cause of every accused person shall be adjudged publicly, in
     conformity to our divine law, after due inquiry and investigation;
     and as long as sentence shall not have been regularly pronounced,
     no one shall, either publicly or privately, cause another to perish
     by prison or any other deadly means.'

     'It shall not be permitted to any one to injure another,
     _whosoever_ he may be.'

     'Every man shall possess his own property, and shall dispose of it
     with the most entire liberty. Thus, for example, the innocent heirs
     of a criminal shall not be deprived of their legal rights, and the
     goods of the criminal shall not be confiscated.'

     'The imperial concessions extend to _all_ subjects, whatever may be
     their religion or sect; they shall reap the benefit of them without
     exception.'

     'As to the other points, since they must be regulated by the
     concourse of enlightened opinion, our council of justice, with whom
     shall assemble, on certain days to be fixed by us, the notables of
     the land, shall meet together to lay down guiding laws on the
     points that affect the security of life, honor, and fortune, and
     the assessment of imposts.'

     'As soon as a law shall be defined, in order to render it valid and
     binding, it shall be laid before us to receive our sanction, which
     we Will write with our imperial hand.'

     'As these present institutions have no other object than to give
     fresh life and vigor to religion, the government, the nation, and
     the empire, we pledge ourselves to do nothing to counteract them.
     Whoever of the ulemas or chief men of the empire, or any other sort
     of person, shall violate these institutions, shall undergo the
     punishment awarded to his offence, without respect to his rank, or
     personal consideration and credit.'

     'As all the functionaries of the government receive at the present
     day suitable salaries, and as those that are not sufficient shall
     be increased, a vigorous law shall be enacted against traffic in
     posts and favors, which the divine law reprobates, and which is one
     of the principal causes of the decline of the empire.'

As a pledge of his promise, the sultan, after having deposited the
documents in the hall that contains the 'glorious mantle' of the
prophet, in the presence of the ulemas and chief men, swore to them in
the name of God, and administered the same oath to the priests and
officers. The hatti-scheriff was published in every part of the empire,
and was well received, except by a few of the retrograde party, who
lived by the old abuses, and vigorously resisted all attempts at
reformation.

By this ordinance, the sources of the revenue consist of the frontier
customs, the tithes, and a property tax. In two of these three sources
of revenue there are great abuses. In collecting the taxes, the tax
gatherers make exhorbitant demands, for which (owing to the partiality
of justice) there is no redress, The salguin, or land tax, is also the
cause of constant complaint. It presses equally upon the richest and the
poorest provinces; in consequence of which many of the most fertile
districts have been deserted. The government is not ignorant of these
facts. Abdul Medjid, a short time previous to his death, ordered a new
registration of property to be made, which will, in a great measure,
remedy this evil. This new registration caused not a little astonishment
and fear among the peasants, who could not approve of persons taking an
inventory of their property and their flocks. We must not be surprised
at this, for a parallel case is close at hand. When the Emperor Joseph
endeavored to introduce the mode of distinguishing houses in the
principal streets of _Vienna_, by numbers instead of the antiquated mode
by printed signs, the people were impressed with the idea that the
numbers were affixed for the purpose of more conveniently collecting a
new house tax!

The new system of farming the revenue proved especially beneficial to
the Christians. Under the old regime the Turks had been greatly favored.
The poll tax formerly levied on all who were not professed followers of
the prophet, has been abolished.

The empire is wealthy--immensely wealthy; but the money is in the hands
of the few. If we except the province of Servia, feudal lords, and tax
collectors, the whole Turkish population consists of peasants, who till
the soil on an equality of wretchedness. Yet it is to these same
suffering peasants, the bone and sinew of the land, that reformers must
look for support. It was the peasantry of Servia, headed by George the
Black, that in 1800-1812, rose in rebellion, and whose success infused
life and vigor into the more passive provinces. They, too, were
peasants--those brave and resolute men who expelled from the provinces
the robber princes, and almost gained a national existence. Many of
these same peasants, men in whose breasts still lingered the valor that
made their ancestors famous, joined the Grecian army in the successful
struggle for independence; even Moslem peasants left their ploughs in
the furrow and their herds unattended, to join the insurgents, to whose
success they greatly contributed. The heroes of all Turkish rebellions
have been peasants--the men of strong arms and unswerving energy. They
are naturally of a passive disposition, but when once roused to action
by religion or patriotism, they are as firm and unyielding in their
purpose as their own

                       'Pontic sea,
   Whose icy currents and compulsive course
   Ne'er feels returning ebb, but keeps due on
   To the Propontic and the Hellespont.'

In the hands of the peasantry lies the destiny of the empire, its
regeneration or its fall. By ameliorating their condition and gaining
their good will, the sultans cannot fail to succeed in their reforms. By
working in opposition to them and exciting their enmity, success is
impossible.

The social system introduced by the victorious Othmans among the
conquered nations was not as oppressive as is generally believed. The
Turks, unlike the Germanic nations, the Huns and Normans, did not take
forcible possession of private property and divide it among their
conquering hordes. From those who acknowledged themselves subject to
their rule, the Turks exacted tribute, but protected their liberties and
political institutions. The conquerors introduced their laws into the
country, but not forcibly. To those who still adhered to the Christian
religion, they extended the rights of self-government, subject, however,
to a military tax. This was very far from degrading the cultivators of
the soil to servitude; this did not deprive them of their possessions,
inherited or purchased. But by a gradual change in the government this
civil equality and liberty in the possession of property was superseded
by an aristocratic and almost absolute despotism. The Ottomans came in
contact with a people ruling under Byzantine law, of which (as of the
feudal system) they had but a confused knowledge. The feudal system
having taken root in Greece, and having been already introduced into
Albania, had necessarily much influence on the contiguous provinces of
Moldavia and Wallachia, Servia and Bulgaria. Here the Greek emperors,
with correct notions of right and wrong, had governed wisely and justly
in a simple administration, which gave place to a complicated system of
laws and refinements, as unintelligible as they were useless and
ineffective. In the double heritage of Greece and Rome, the conquerors
imitated only their faults, moral and intellectual, and thus made more
prominent the fall of the two countries. The Turks were not sufficiently
enlightened to understand the laws and customs of the Greeks and Romans,
and profit thereby; nor could they resist the charm thrown around
aristocracy and venality, but succumbed to their baneful influences. The
degeneracy of the laws caused the misery of the peasantry, and paralyzed
the energies of the empire. The pashas gained almost unlimited power,
founded on the ruins of civil liberty. They did not scruple to persecute
the suffering peasant, even in the sanctuary of his family--held in the
highest veneration by the Turk. The peasants in many instances had no
other alternative than to fly to the mountains for safety, and lead a
wretched existence by rapine and murder. Some left Turkey to settle in
Russia and Austria, in search of that liberty and protection which was
denied them at home.

The Turkish peasants are not insensible to the degradation in which they
are languishing. But accustomed, in suffering and privation, to find
consolation in fatalism--which teaches implicit acquiescence in and
obedience to the will of Allah--they drag out their days in passive
submission. Seditions are almost always excited by unbelievers, who feel
their wrongs more deeply. The devout Turkish peasant seeks no better
fortune than the means wherewith to build a little cabin, with windows
and doors religiously closed to vulgar eyes. He finds comfort in the
words of his holy book: 'He is the happiest of mortals to whom God has
given contentment.' He performs his daily labor, makes his prostrations,
smokes his chibouk, and lives oblivious of care. He is far from being
indifferent to reforms, but is loth to take the initiative in political
innovations and social wars. His heart is with the cause, but here also
he is resigned: 'God is great--His will be done.' This same spirit of
resignation and submission to the divine will, from being a virtue
becomes his greatest curse.

The Servians, a hardy and vigorous race, who pride themselves on their
victories over the Moslems, stand in the van of the reform movement. By
the new constitution given to Servia in 1838, there exists no longer any
distinction of classes. All pay taxes, in proportion to the value of
their property, to the municipal and general government. All the
peasants are proprietors, and all the proprietors are peasants. The
Servians and Albanians have never refused foreign aid. They gave a kind
welcome to the legions that Nicholas sent across the Pruth, and worked
in concert with the brave warriors of the north, in the hope of gaining
a nationality and a recognized name.

The moral condition of the Bulgarians does not differ essentially from
that of the Servians; but there is a wide difference in their political
organization. The Bulgarians are yet only peasants, unprotected against
the violence and exactions of the sultan. They are more enterprising
than the Servians, and, could they enjoy an equitable legislation, would
soon vie with them in wealth and prosperity. They envy the national and
democratic institutions of the Servians, who are related to them by
blood, by religion, and a common tongue. They are eager for reforms,
both social and political, which shall give them a constitution similar
to that of Servia. In this they must ultimately succeed. The two people
are one in their sympathies: one cannot enjoy privileges without
exciting the jealousy of the other. Unless concessions are made, the day
is not far distant when the Bulgarians will revolt, as the Servians did
under Tzerny George, and gain the right of self-government.

The Illyrian peasants have not as promising a future. They are divided
among themselves, both in politics and religion; the several clans and
parties are engaged in ceaseless strife and bickering. On the most
trivial pretence a community will rise in arms and carry ruin and
desolation to its neighbor. The face of the country everywhere shows
signs of the terror under which it groans. In many districts the
humblest dwellings are fortified citadels, gloomy and threatening;
observatories are stationed in trees and on high cliffs, to guard
against surprisals; the streets of the towns and villages are traversed
by gloomy figures of athletic savage warriors, with fierce and sinister
expression of countenance, and their right hand resting on a belt
garnished with its brace of pistols. They are in such a deplorable state
of ignorance, and so blinded by mutual hatred, that they are incapable
of perceiving their wants and obtaining their rights by concerted
action.

The Servians and Bulgarians, although by nature not less warlike than
the Illyrians, are more pacific. This quality is, to a certain degree,
attributable to a better government; but their great advantage consists
in their being friends of labor. They are not divided by internal
factions; their pistols serve for ornaments, not offensive weapons;
their rude exterior hides within a gentle, childlike nature. Though
laborious, they seek not to amass wealth; kind to each other, to
strangers they are hospitable and generous. They are extremely courteous
and polite, and theirs is not the humility of the Austrian peasant, who
kisses the scornful hand of his superior; it is the deference and
respect that youth bears to age, or the attention which the host gives
to a welcome guest.

In Servia and Bulgaria, Christianity has gained the ascendancy; the
light of the gospel imparts comfort and happiness to all; but the
Illyrians, through a blind zeal in their social dissensions, have
debarred themselves from its vivifying and soothing influence.

During the early part of the last century, the peasants of the
Moldo-Wallachian provinces were enfranchised, but have not yet obtained
the right of property legislation. Being contiguous to Poland and
Hungary, their attention is naturally called to all the noise of reform
and to all the social questions that agitate the two countries. Unless
concessions are made, unless the peasant is recognized as proprietor of
the soil of which to-day he is but the farmer, a revolution will take
place, in which the Sublime Porte will lose these provinces as
effectually as it did the pashalies. It is not absolutely necessary,
though it would be judicious, to give Moldavia and Wallachia the same
political organization as Servia enjoys. The question now, is not of
rulers, whether they shall be sent from the divan or chosen from the
people; but is of property legislation and municipal institutions.

In all his reforms, the sultan should remember that the material upon
which he is to operate lies in the peasantry.

The empire, however, cannot be thoroughly reformed merely by
enfranchising the peasants, by introducing European customs, by
organizing new armies, building barracks, and establishing custom
houses. These improvements are the sign of a vigorous national impulse
and prosperity; they are the result, not the rudiments of civilization.
The fact that the sultan wears French boots and supplies his seraglio
with the latest Parisian modes signifies nothing.

In its palmy days, Turkey relied for success on its courage and love of
military glory; now its welfare and very existence depend upon the
peaceful arts of civilized life. The prosperity of the people measures
the condition of the empire. But how can an ignorant people prosper? The
time has come when a reform in the educational system of Turkey is
emphatically demanded. There must be intelligence among the people, and
educated men in the cabinet as well as brave men in the field. The
innovating sultans of the last century have done much for the
reconstruction of the broken political fabric of the empire; they have
organized a new and powerful army and navy; they have facilitated
commercial intercourse, but have done scarcely anything for the
diffusion of knowledge among their subjects.

All the knowledge in the empire is concentrated in the ulemas and
lawyers. The members of the Sublime Porte and other state officers, with
but few exceptions, are unlettered men, who owe their elevation, to
partiality or bribery. Under Mahmoud, beauty of person was the best
recommendation to favor and promotion!

But Turkey has had her golden age of letters as well as her age of
military glory. Her libraries and archives are filled with unread, musty
manuscripts, comprising treatises on philosophy and metaphysics,
histories, biographies, and poems, rich in the classic erudition of the
Orient. In 1336, Sultan Orkan found leisure from war and conquest to
establish, at Brusa, a literary institution, which became so famous for
its learning, that Persians and Arabians did not disdain to avail
themselves of its instruction. But with the death of its founder its
glory passed away. It was no longer the fountain head of learning in the
East.

The Turks, forgetful of the fact that antiquity is the youth of the
world, still follow Aristotle as their guide in philosophy and
metaphysics, and Ptolemy in geography! Missionaries have succeeded in
introducing modern text books into some of the schools, but owing to the
peculiar system of Turkish education, the result has not been so
favorable as was anticipated.

To each mosque is attached a school, where the pupils devote several
years in acquiring the rudiments of reading, writing, and arithmetic;
which completes their education. But few foreign instructors are
employed to teach in the schools, because the government is unwilling to
pay a suitable salary. While on state officers wealth is lavished with
the prodigality of oriental munificence, instructors receive only a
nominal recompense, often not exceeding six cents a day!

A few favored youths receive a European education, especially in French
and Austrian colleges. The oriental academy, established at Vienna by
Maria Theresa for the education of diplomatists to conduct intercourse
with the Porte, has formed many illustrious Turkish scholars. It is a
singular but not unpleasant commentary on the vicissitudes of fortune,
that Turkey should send her sons to be educated at Vienna, which only
two centuries ago a sultan besieged at the head of an army of two
hundred thousand men, and before whose gates he was defeated by the
combined Christian forces, who recovered eighty thousand Christian
captives, among whom were fourteen thousand maidens, and fifty thousand
children of both sexes!

The Christian subjects of the empire have made visible progress in their
educational system, although it is yet in a very imperfect state. In the
middle of the last century a body of Armenian monks formed a society for
promoting the educational interests of their countrymen. These pious and
benevolent men dwell alone on the little island of San Lazzaro, and
publish works on literature, science, and religion, which are
distributed among the Turkish Armenians.

Printing presses have lately been set up in the large cities, and books
are rapidly multiplying. In Constantinople several newspapers are
printed in French, Turkish, and Arabic; they are read in every coffee
house and barber shop, the common lounging places of the Ottoman, where
he smokes his pipe and discusses politics. Their columns are chiefly
devoted to the discussion of state affairs, and notices of public
functionaries. The sultan is the virtual editor, and consequently the
papers are popular, as containing opinions on state policy _ex
cathedra_. These presses were established with the reluctant sanction of
the ulemas, and the vigorous opposition of the scribes, an influential
body, protesting against the introduction of machinery, which was to
supersede the use of their fingers.

The council of public instruction at Constantinople has established a
medical and polytechnic school; in both, French, English, and German
teachers are employed. To the medical college is attached a botanical
garden and a natural history museum. The medical library consists
chiefly of French works. The implements used to experiment in the
physical sciences were made at Paris, London, and Vienna, and are of the
most approved kind. The number of students in attendance, on an average,
is seven hundred, comprising Turks, Greeks, Armenians, and Jews, all of
whom not only pay no tuition, but receive pecuniary assistance from the
government. As science cannot well be taught in Turkish, French is the
language of the school.

It should be borne in mind that Turkey, in her reform movement,
commenced this century, four hundred years behind Europe. When we
consider this, her advance in educational reformation appears in a
better light. The present law makes it a penal offence in a Turkish
parent not to send his children to school.

The universities, as well as the mosques and hospitals, are under the
control of the ulemas, who have always been a privileged and a
sanctioned order, and by their sanctity and great wealth are rendered
the most formidable body in the empire. Selim and his successors
somewhat lessened their power. By the innovations of 1854 an important
change was effected in the vacoof, or church property. The church had
hitherto held enormous possessions; and had not a check been placed on
the system, in the course of a few centuries all the lands would have
belonged to the priests. The property annexed to the mosques is held
sacred by all, both high and low. True believers, Greeks, Armenians, and
Jews, alike, by a reversion of their property on failure of male issue,
transferred it to the ulemas. The decree above mentioned restricted this
privilege of the priests. The entire system will soon be abolished.

As before stated, the ulemas have charge of the schools connected with
the principal mosques. The average number of scholars in each school, in
the reign of Mahmoud, was four hundred. They were, for the most part,
worthless, indolent fellows, and entirely under the control of the
ulemas, who used them as tools, and made them figure conspicuously in
all tumults and revolts. Their attempted assassination of Abdul Medjid
was their death warrant. Each ulema was restricted to four, in place of
four hundred scholars. This measure caused not a little ill feeling
among those opposed to reform; but as the most successful attempt at
restricting the despotic power of the religious order, the decree was of
vital importance, and gave the ulemas to understand that the power on
the throne was paramount to theirs.

The ulemas--whose functions do not differ materially from those of the
old doctors of the law among the Hebrews--have always claimed and
enjoyed both magisterial and ecclesiastical authority; and, indeed,
since the Mussulman's law and religion are convertible terms, we would
expect priests to be vested with the same powers, and performing the
same duties. Mohammed designed it should be so, and as long as war was
waged in the name of religion, as long as the Koran and the sword went
hand in hand together, the two professions were not incompatible; but
when Islamism had gained undisputed ascendency, there arose an obvious
discrepancy between the peaceful adoration of Allah and the settlements
of disputes between man and man. Priest and jurist, each had distinct
and qualified duties to perform. Before justice can be administered
properly the religious and legal professions must be separated; the
statutes must be distinct from the Koran and Sunnah, in the obscurities
of which they are at present involved. The sheik-ul-Islam (pontifex
maximus) is the head of the church and the bar; he appoints the bishops
and the judges; and in his twofold character of minister and lawyer, he
is the expounder of the Koran, the source of all laws, civil and
religious; his decisions serve as precedents, and are as
incontrovertible as the Koran itself.

By the late reforms, Christian testimony is admitted in courts of
justice. But this is merely a nominal privilege; for what avails it that
Christian evidence is received, if the Koran and Sunnah are to
constitute the law, and a Mussulman judge is to be the expounder? Is it
not evident that the 'true believer,' whether right or wrong, will be
shielded by the strong arm of prejudice at the expense of the Christian?
The purity of Turkish justice may be understood from the following
humorous account given by Dr. Hamlin:

     'I once had a case of law with a Turkish judge. It was tried nine
     times, and each time decided against me. After the ninth trial, the
     judge sent me word that if I gave him 9,000 piastres (about $800),
     he would decide the case in my favor, for all the world knew that
     justice was on my side!'

I look, however, upon the religious toleration extended to Christians in
1854 as the most important of all reforms; it is the keystone of the
arch. Christianity has been on a gradual increase in Turkey; and it may
not be deemed extravagant to hope that when a few generations shall have
passed away, its supremacy will be acknowledged. As Constantine, finding
the Christian element predominant in the Roman empire, made the religion
of Christ that of his people, so some Selim or Abdul Medjid, urged by a
power behind the throne, and more potent than the throne itself, will
substitute the Bible for the Koran!

The fall of Islamism does not imply the downfall of Turkish rule. The
one is religious, the other a civil power; the one may wane, the other
rise.

The wars which brought the European powers in Turkish waters made a deep
impression upon the Turks, and convinced them that they had been rescued
from annihilation by foreign arms. This led to an important measure,
viz.: the promulgation of the imperial edict of 1850, which was
translated into all the languages of the empire, and read in all the
mosques and churches. Besides securing the freedom of conscience and the
equality of rights, it grants the right of apostasy, which had hitherto
been a capital offence: 'As all forms of religious worship are and shall
be freely professed in the empire, no person shall be hindered in the
practice of the religion which he professes; nor shall he in any way be
annoyed in this kind: in the matter of a man _changing_ his religion,
and _joining_ another, no force shall be applied to him.' The decree
bore directly upon Islamism. Turks, both private and official, now
discuss freely the doctrines of the New Testament. The Bible, to-day, is
widely circulated among the Turks. About seven thousand copies are sold
annually to Mohammedans, while ten years ago they would not have been
accepted as gifts. By all classes of people the Bible is purchased,
read, and made the subject of discussion. The sultan himself reads it.
Discussion leads to investigation, and investigation to the
establishment of truth. This is one of the causes that have been
silently at work, destined to effect the fall of Islamism.

In all parts of the empire, the Christian element is growing stronger
and stronger; the Mohammedan weaker. Even in Asia, the chosen abode of
the faithful, we find Christian cities and villages prosperous, and
Mohammedan cities falling to decay. In another century the Sublime Porte
will depend chiefly on the Christian element for its influence. To-day,
the Mussulman mosque, the pagoda of the Hindoo, the fire temple of the
Parsee, the Roman and Greek churches, meet together.

The adoration and prostrations of the Turk afford an imposing sight even
to the Christian. 'Praises be to God, for He is great,' resounds at
sunrise and at sunset, from ship to ship at sea, from kiosk to minaret
on land.

According to the Koran, there is a paradise for all true believers. This
paradise, Al Janat, signifies a pleasure garden, from which flows a
river, the river of life, whose water is clear as crystal, cold as snow,
and sweet as nectar. The believer who takes a draught shall thirst no
more. Even the oriental imagination fails to describe the glories of
this paradise--its fountains and flowers, pearls and gems, nectar and
ambrosia, all in unmeasured profusion. To crown the enchantment of the
place, to each faithful Moslem is allotted seventy-two houris,
resplendent beings, free from every human defect, perpetually renewing
their youth and beauty. Such is the Mohammedan conception of the future
world.

The Turks, in common with other Mohammedans, believe in angels, and in
the prophets Adam, Noah, Moses, and _Jesus_. One might suppose that such
a belief would assist missionaries in converting the infidel; but far
from assisting, its tendency is to make more difficult the inculcation
of Christian doctrines. When asked to accept the religion of Christ, the
Turk's ready answer is: 'We believe in Jesus! we believe in him already;
you know only a part of the true faith; Mohammed has superseded Jesus.'
Notwithstanding this, many Turks in Europe and Asia believe that in a
long series of years, Jesus will return to earth, reanimate their faith
and ancient valor, and with one unbroken religion, give them dominion to
the end of the world. They, in short, expect Jesus--the same Jesus whom
Christians worship--in the fullness of time to accomplish the work which
their prophet only began. Christian missionaries should avail themselves
of this remarkable belief, and turn it to the spiritual advantage of
those who entertain it.

     'Let the Turkish Government remain, if by her standing Islamism may
     fall! that we may carry back a purer literature to the land of
     Homer, a purer law to the land of Moses, and the Gospel of Christ
     to the land of the apostles.'

It only remains for me to say one word in regard to the now reigning
sovereign. The ulemas--who have become what the Janissaries were, the
hotbed of fanaticism--in their endeavors to overthrow the late sultan,
Abdul Medjid, looked upon the present sultan as their champion. If he
permits himself to become a tool in their hands, Turkey will lose
during his reign what she gained in a century. If, on the other hand, he
has the energy of Mahmoud, the humanity of Selim, and practises the
conciliatory policy of his brother, a glorious future awaits the empire.




FALSE ESTIMATIONS.


   As one, who under pay of priest or pope,
   Painteth an altar picture boldly bad,
   Yet winning worship from the common eye,
   Is less than one, who faltering day by day
   Before the untouched canvas, dreams, and feels
   An unaccomplished greatness: so is he
   Who scrapes the skies and cleaves the patient air
   For rhyming ecstasies to cheat the crowd,
   That sees not in the stiller worshipper
   The truer genius, who, in heights lone lost,
   Forgets to interpret to a lesser sense.

   O there do dwell among us minds divine,
   In which th' etherial is so subtly mixed,
   That only matter in its outward mien
   To the observer shows. Such ever live
   Unto themselves alone, in sweet still lives,
   And die by all men misinterpreted.

   Within a churchyard rise two honored urns
   O'er graves not far removed. The one records
   The 'genius of a Poet,' whose fitter fame
   Lies in the volumes which his facile pen
   Filled with the measure of redundant verse:
   Before this urn the oft frequented sod
   Is flattened with the tread of pensive feet.
   The other simply bears the name and age
   Of one who was 'a Merchant,' and bequeathed
   A fair estate with numerous charities:
   Before this urn the grass grows rank and green.

   I knew them both in life, and thus to me
   They measured in their lives their effigies:
   He who the pen did wield with facile power,
   Created what he wrote, and to the ear
   With tact, not inspiration, wrought the sounds
   To careful cadence; but the heart was cold
   As the chill marble where the sculptor traced
   Curious conceits of fancy. Let him pass,
   His name not undervalued, for his fame
   Shall in maturer ages lie as still
   As doth his neighbor's now.

                              Turn we to him.
   He was a man to whom the general eye
   Bent with the confidence of daily trust
   In things of daily use: a man 'of means,
   --Sagacious, honest, plodding, punctual,--
   Revolving in the rank of those whose shields
   Bear bags of argent on a field of gold,
   His life, to most men, was what most men's are,--
   Unceasing calculation and keen thrift;
   Unvarying as the ever-plying loom,
   Which, moving in same limits day by day,
   Weaves mesh on mesh, in tireless gain of goods.
   But I, that knew him better than the herd,
   Yet saw him less, knew that in him which lives
   Still gracious and still plentiful to me
   Now he hath passed away from me and them.
   This man, whose talk on busy marts to men
   Teemed with the current coin of thrifty trade,
   --Exchanges, credits, money rates, and all,--
   Hath stood with me upon a silent hill,
   When the last flush of the dissolving day
   Fainted before the moonlight, and, as 'twere
   Unconscious of my listening, uttered there
   The comprehensions of a soul true poised
   With elemental beauty, giving tongue
   Unto the dumbness of the blissful air.
   So have I seen him, too, within his home,
   When, newspaper on knee, his earnest gaze
   Seemed scanning issues from the money list;
   But comments came not, till my curious eye
   Led out his meditation into words,
   Thought-winding upward into sphery light,
   So utterly unearthly and sublime,
   That all the man of fact fled out of sense,
   And visual refinement filled the space.
   Oft hath he told me, nothing was so blind
   As the far-seeing wisdom of the world,
   And none within it knew him, save himself,
   And that so scantily, that but for faith
   In a redeeming knowledge yet to come,
   He would lie down and let his weakness die
   In self-reclaiming dust.

                           After his death,
   I searched his papers, vainly, for a scrap
   Whereon some dropped memento might record
   His inner nature; but he nothing left--
   Nothing of that deep life whose wondrous light
   Guided him onward through the realms of sense,
   And in a world of practical self-need
   Sustained him with a glory unexpressed.

   And thus it is that round the Poet's urn,
   The sod is beaten down with pensive feet:
   And thus it is that where the Merchant lies,
   The grass, untrodden, groweth rank and green.




THE BLUE HANDKERCHIEF.


I had passed my last examinations, and had received my diploma
authorizing me to practise medicine, and I still lingered in the
vicinity of Edinburgh, partly because my money was nearly exhausted, and
partly from the very natural aversion I felt from quitting a place where
three very happy and useful years had been spent. After waiting many
weeks--for the communication between the opposite shores of the Atlantic
were not then so rapid as now--I received a large packet of letters from
'home,' all of them filled with congratulations on my success, and among
them were letters from my dear father and a beloved uncle, at whose
instance (he was himself a physician) my father had sent me abroad to
complete my medical education. My father's letter was even more
affectionate than usual, for he was highly gratified with my success,
and he counselled me to take advantage of the peace secured by the
battle of Waterloo to visit the continent, which for many years (with
the exception of a brief period) had been closed to all persons from
Great Britain; he enclosed me a draft on a London banker for a thousand
pounds. My uncle's letter was scarcely less affectionate; my Latin
thesis (I had sent my father and him a copy) had especially pleased him;
and after urging me to take advantage of my father's kindness, he added
that he had placed a thousand pounds at my disposition, with the same
London banker on whom my draft was drawn. A letter of introduction to a
French family was enclosed in the letter, and he engaged me to visit
them, for they had been his guests for a long time when the first
Revolution caused them to fly France, and they were under other
obligations to him; which I afterward learned from themselves was a
pecuniary favor more than once renewed during their residence with him.
Ten thousand dollars was a good deal of money to be placed at the
disposition of a young man as his pocket money for eighteen months, even
after a large deduction had been made from it for a library and
professional instruments.

Before I quitted Edinburgh, I received a letter from the gentleman to
whom my uncle had given me an introduction; he acquainted me that my
uncle had informed him that I was about visiting France, and that he had
taken the liberty of introducing me to him. The Marquis de ---- (such
was his title--his name I omit for obvious reasons) expressed with
great warmth his delight at having it in his power to exhibit the
gratitude he felt to my uncle, and urged me with the most pressing terms
to come at once to his home, and pass away there at least so much time
as might accustom me to the _spoken_ French language (I could easily
read it), that my visit to Paris might be more profitable and
agreeable--and it should be both, he was so good as to say, at least as
far as it depended on himself and his friends. I wrote him by the return
mail to thank him for his kindness, and to inform him that I should at
once set out for his hospitable home. I shall never forget the six
months I passed away in the Chateau de Bardy: the happiness of those
days was checkered only by my departure and by the incident I shall
presently relate. And even after I quitted that noble mansion, the
kindness of its inmates still watched over me, and opened homes to me
even in that great Maelstrom of life--Paris.

It was toward the end of the month of October--the most delightful month
of the seasons in France--as I was returning on foot from Orleans to the
Chateau de Bardy, from a rather prolonged pedestrian exploration in that
interesting neighborhood, where I had accurately examined all of the
curiosities, thanks to an ample memoir of my noble host (in those days
'Handbooks' were unknown, and Murray was busy publishing Byron and
Moore), when I thought I caught a glimpse of some soldiers. I was not
mistaken: on the road before me a Prussian regiment was marching. I
quickened my pace to hear the military music, for I was extremely
partial to it; but the band ceased playing, and no sound was heard
except an occasional roll of the kettle-drum at long intervals to mark
the uniform step of the soldiers. After following them for a half hour,
I saw the regiment enter a small plain, surrounded by a fir grove. I
asked a captain, whose acquaintance I had made, if his men were about to
be drilled.

'No,' said he, 'they are about to try, and perhaps to shoot, a soldier
of my company for having stolen something from the house where he was
billeted.'

'What,' said I, 'are they going to try, condemn, and execute him, all in
the same moment?'

'Yes,' said he, 'those are the provisions of the capitulation.'

This word 'capitulation' was to him an unanswerable argument, as if
everything had been provided for in the capitulation, the crime and the
punishment, justice and humanity.

'And if you have any curiosity to see it,' added the captain, 'I will
place you where you may see everything. It won't be long.'

It may be from my professional education, but the truth is, I have
always been fond of witnessing these melancholy spectacles; I persuade
myself that I shall discover the solution of the enigma--death--on the
face of a man in full health, whose life is suddenly severed. I followed
the captain. The regiment was formed in a hollow square; in the rear of
the second rank and near the edge of the grove, some soldiers were
digging a grave. They were commanded by the third lieutenant, for in the
regiment everything was done with order, and there is a certain form
observed even in the digging of a man's grave. In the centre of the
hollow square eight officers were seated on drums; a ninth officer was
on their right, and some distance before them, negligently writing
something, and using his knees as his desk; he was evidently filling up
the forms simply because it was against the 'regulations' that a man
should be killed without the usual forms. The accused was called up. He
was a tall, fine-looking young man, with a noble and gentle face. A
woman (the only witness in the cause) came up with him. But when the
colonel began the examination of the woman, the soldier stopped him,
saying:

'It is useless asking her any questions. I am going to confess
everything: I stole a handkerchief in that lady's house.

THE COLONEL. What! Piter! You have been stealing! We all thought _you_
incapable of such a thing!

PITER. It is true, Colonel, I have always tried to pass as an honest
man, and a good fellow. Oh! I tell you, it wan't for me I stole the
handkerchief. 'Twas for Mary.

THE COLONEL. Who is Mary?

PITER. Mary? Oh! she lives yonder.... at home.... just outside of
Areneberg.... don't you remember the big apple-tree?.... Oh! I shall
never see her again....

THE COLONEL. I don't understand you, Piter; explain yourself.

PITER. Why, Colonel.... but read this letter.

He gave the colonel a letter, which the latter read aloud, and every
word of which was engraved on my mind, and still is as present to my
memory as though I heard them an hour ago. It was as follows:

MY DEAR, DEAR PITER:--I take advantage of recruit Arnold's leaving, for
he has enlisted in your regiment, to send you this letter, and a silk
purse I have made for you. Oh! I have hidden from father to work it, for
he is always scolding me for loving you so much, and is always telling
me that you will never come back. But you will come back, won't you!
Even if you never come back, I will always love you just the same. I
promised myself to you the day you picked up my blue handkerchief at the
Areneberg dance, and brought it to me. Oh! when shall I see you again?
The only pleasure I have is to hear that your officers esteem you, and
your comrades love you. Everybody says you are an honest man and a good
fellow. But you have still two years to serve. Serve them quickly,
because then we shall be married. Good-by, dear, dear Piter, and believe
me, your own dear

     MARY.

P.S. Try to send me, too, something from France, not because I'm afraid
I shall forget you, but I want something from you to carry always about
me. Kiss what you send me. I know I shall find at once where you kissed
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the colonel finished reading the letter, Piter said:

'Arnold gave me this letter last night when I received my billet paper.
For my life's sake I could not sleep; I lay awake all night long,
thinking of home and of Mary. She asked for something from France. I had
no money. I drew three months' advance last week to send home to my
brother and my cousin. This morning, when I got up to go, I opened my
window. A blue handkerchief was hanging on a clothes line; it looked
like Mary's; it was the same color, the same white lines; I was so weak
as to take it, and put it in my knapsack. I went out into the street; I
was sorry for what I had done; I was going back to the house with it
just when this lady ran after me. The handkerchief was found in my
knapsack. This is all the truth. The capitulation orders me to be shot.
Shoot me, but don't despise me.'

The judges could not conceal their emotion; but when the balloting took
place, he was unanimously condemned to death. He heard his sentence with
sang-froid; after it was passed on him, he went up to his captain and
asked him to lend him four francs. The captain gave them to him. I then
saw Piter go to the woman to whom the blue handkerchief had been
restored, and I heard him say:

'Madame, here are four francs; I don't know whether your handkerchief is
worth more, but even if it is, I pay dear enough for it to engage you to
knock off the rest.'

Taking the handkerchief from her, he kissed it, and gave it to the
captain.

'Captain,' said he, 'in two years you'll be returning home; when you go
toward Areneberg, ask for Mary; give her this blue handkerchief, but
don't tell her how dearly I purchased it.'

Piter then kneeled and prayed fervently; when his prayers were ended, he
arose and walked with a firm step to the place of execution. I forgot
that I was a scientific man, and I walked down into the woods to avoid
seeing the end of this cruel tragedy. A volley of musketry soon told me
that all was over.

I returned to the fatal spot an hour afterward; the regiment had marched
away; all was calm and silent. While following the edge of the grove,
going to the highway, I perceived at a short distance before me traces
of blood, and a mound of freshly heaped earth. I took a branch from one
of the fir trees, and made a rude cross.

I placed it at the head of poor Piter's grave, now forgotten by every
body except by me, and perhaps by Mary.




GOLD.


Gold, next to iron, is the most widely diffused metal upon the surface
of our globe. It occurs in granite, the oldest rock known to us, and in
all the rocks derived from it; it is also found in the veinstones which
traverse other geological formations, but has never been found in any
secondary formation. It is, however, much more common in alluvial
grounds than among primitive and pyrogenous rocks. It is found
disseminated, under the form of spangles, in the silicious,
argillaceous, and ferruginous sands of certain plains and rivers,
especially in their junction, at the season of low water, and after
storms and temporary floods. It is the only metal of a yellow color; it
is readily crystallizable, and always assumes one or more of the
symmetrical shapes, such as the cube or regular octahedron. It affords a
resplendent polish, and may be exposed to the atmosphere for any length
of time, without suffering any change; it is remarkable for its beauty;
is nineteen times heavier than water, and, next to platinum, the
heaviest known substance; its malleability is such, that a cubic inch
will cover thirty-five hundred square feet; its ductility is such, that
a lump of the value of four hundred dollars could be drawn into a wire
which would extend around the globe. It is first mentioned in Genesis
ii, 11. It was found in the country of Havilah, where the rivers
Euphrates and Tigris unite and discharge their waters into the Persian
gulf.

The relative value of gold to silver in the days of the patriarch
Abraham was one to eight; at the period of B.C. 1000, it was one to
twelve; B.C. 500, it was one to thirteen; at the commencement of the
Christian era, it was one to nine; A.D. 500, it was one to eighteen;
A.D. 1100, it was one to eight; A.D. 1400, it was one to eleven; A.D.
1613, it was one to thirteen; A.D. 1700, it was one to fifteen and a
half; which latter ratio, with but slight variation, it has maintained
to the present day. Gold was considered bullion in Palestine for a long
period after silver had been current as money. The first mention of gold
money in the Bible is in David's reign (B.C. 1056), when that king
purchased the threshing floor of Oman for six hundred shekels of gold by
weight. In the early period of Grecian history the quantity of the
precious metals increased but slowly; the circulating medium did not
increase in proportion with the quantity of bullion. In the earliest
days of Greece, the precious metals existed in great abundance in the
Levant. Cabul and Little Thibet (B.C. 500) were abundant in gold. It
seems to be a well ascertained fact, that it was obtained near the
surface; so that countries, which formerly yielded the metal in great
abundance, are now entirely destitute of it. Croesus (B.C. 560) coined
the golden _stater_, which contained one hundred and thirty-three grains
of pure metal. Darius, son of Hystaspes (B.C. 538), coined _darics_,
containing one hundred and twenty-one grains of pure metal, which were
preferred, for several ages throughout the East, for their fineness.
Next to the _darics_ were some coins of the reigns of the tyrants of
Sicily: of Gelo (B.C. 491); of Hiero (B.C. 478); and of Dionysius (B.C,
404). Specimens of the two former are still preserved in modern
cabinets. _Darics_ are supposed to be mentioned in the latter books of
the Old Testament, under the name of _drams_. Very few specimens of the
_daric_ have come down to us; their scarcity may he accounted for by the
fact that they were melted down under the type of Alexander. Gold coin
was by no means plenty in Greece until Philip of Macedon had put the
mines of Thrace into full operation, about B.C. 360. Gold was also
obtained by the Greeks from Asia Minor, the adjacent islands, which
possessed it in abundance, and from India, Arabia, Armenia, Colchis, and
Troas. It was found mixed with the sands of the Pactolus and other
rivers. There are only about a dozen Greek coins in existence, three of
which are in the British Museum; and of the latter, two are _staters_,
of the weight of one hundred and twenty-nine grains each. About B.C.
207, gold coins were first struck off at Rome, and were denominated
_aurei_, four specimens of which are in the institution before alluded
to. Their weight was one hundred and twenty-one grains. Gold coins were
first issued in France by Clovis, A.D. 489; about the same time they
were issued in Spain by Amalric, the Gothic king; in both kingdoms they
were called _trientes_. They were first issued in England A.D. 1257, in
the shape of a penny. Florins were next issued, in 1344, of the value of
six shillings. The guinea was first issued in 1663, of Guinea gold. In
1733 all the gold coins--nobles, angels, rials, crowns, units, lions,
exurgats, etc., etc., were called in and forbidden to circulate. The
present sovereign was first issued in 1817.

From the commencement of the Christian era to the discovery of America,
the amount of gold obtained from the surface and bowels of the earth is
estimated to be thirty-eight hundred millions of dollars; from the date
of the latter event to the close of 1842, an addition of twenty-eight
hundred millions was obtained. The discovery and extensive working of
the Russian mines added, to the close of 1852, six hundred millions
more. The double discovery of the California mines in 1848, and of the
Australia mines in 1851 has added, to the present time, twenty-one
hundred millions; making a grand total of ninety-three hundred millions
of dollars. The average loss by wear and tear of coin is estimated to be
one-tenth of one per cent, per annum; and the loss by consumption in the
arts, by fire and shipwreck, at from one to three millions per annum.

A cubic inch of gold is worth (at L3 17_s._ 10-1/2_d._, or $18.69 per
ounce) two hundred and ten dollars; a cubic foot, three hundred and
sixty-two thousand eight hundred and eighty dollars; a cubic yard, nine
millions nine hundred and seventeen thousand seven hundred and sixty
dollars. The amount of gold in existence, at the commencement of the
Christian era, is estimated to be four hundred and twenty-seven millions
of dollars; at the period of the discovery of America, it had diminished
to fifty-seven millions; after the occurrence of that event, it
gradually increased, and in 1600, it attained to one hundred and five
millions; in 1700, to three hundred and fifty-one millions; in 1800, to
eleven hundred and twenty-five millions; in 1843, to two thousand
millions; in 1853 to three thousand millions; and at the present time,
the amount of gold in existence is estimated to be forty-eight hundred
millions of dollars; which, welded into one mass, could be contained in
a cube of twenty-four feet. Of the amount now in existence, three
thousand millions is estimated to be in coin and bullion, and the
remainder in watches, jewelry, plate, etc., etc.

The Russian gold mines were discovered in 1819, and extend over one
third of the circumference of the globe, upon the parallel of 55 deg. of
north latitude. Their product, since their discovery to the present
time, has amounted to eight hundred millions of dollars. The California
gold mines were discovered by William Marshall, on the ninth day of
February, 1848, at Sutter's Mill, upon the American Fork, a tributary of
the Sacramento, and extend from 34 deg. to 49 deg. of north latitude. Their
product, since their discovery to the present time, has amounted to one
thousand and forty-seven millions of dollars. The Australia gold mines
were discovered by Edward Hammond Hargraves, on the twelfth day of
February, 1851, in the Bathurst and Wellington districts, and extend
from 30 deg. to 38 deg. of south latitude. Their product, since their discovery
to the present time, has amounted to nine hundred and eleven millions of
dollars. The finest gold is obtained at Ballurat, and the largest nugget
yet obtained weighed twenty-two hundred and seventeen ounces, valued at
forty-one thousand dollars. In shape it resembled a continent with a
peninsula attached by a narrow isthmus. The annual product of gold at
the commencement of the Christian era is estimated at eight hundred
thousand dollars; at the period of the discovery of America it had
diminished to one hundred thousand dollars; after the occurrence of that
event it gradually increased, and in 1600 it attained to two millions;
and in 1700, to five millions; in 1800, to fifteen millions; in 1843, to
thirty-four millions; in 1850, to eighty-eight millions; in 1852, to two
hundred and thirty-six millions; but owing to the falling off of the
California as well as the Australia mines, the product of the present
year will not probably exceed one hundred and ninety millions.

Since 1792 to the present time, the gold coinage of the United States
mint has amounted to seven hundred and forty millions of dollars, of
which six hundred and fifty-five millions have been issued since 1850.
The gold coinage of the French mint, since 1726, has amounted to
eighty-seven hundred millions of francs, of which fifty-two hundred and
fifty millions have been issued since 1850. The gold coinage of the
British mint, since 1603, has amounted to two hundred and eighty
millions of pounds sterling; of which seventy-five millions have been
issued since 1850. The gold coinage of the Russian mint, since 1664, has
amounted to five hundred and twenty-six millions of roubles, of which
two hundred and sixty millions have been issued since 1850. The
sovereign of England contains one hundred and twelve grains of pure
metal; the new doubloon of Spain, one hundred and fifteen; the half
eagle of the United States, one hundred and sixteen; the gold lion of
the Netherlands, and the double ounce of Sicily, one hundred and
seventeen grains each; the ducat of Austria, one hundred and six; the
twenty-franc piece of France, ninety; and the half imperial of Russia,
ninety-one grains. A commissioner has been despatched by the United
States Government to England, France, and other countries of Europe, to
confer with their respective governments upon the expediency of adopting
a uniform system of coinage throughout the world, so that the coins of
one country may circulate in any other, without the expense of
recoinage--a consummation most devoutly to be wished.

The fact that the large amount of gold which has been thrown into the
monetary circulation of the world within the last fourteen years, has
exercised so little influence upon the money market or prices generally,
is at variance with the predictions of financial writers upon both sides
of the Atlantic. The increase in the present production of gold,
compared with former periods, is enormous; and it would not be
surprising if, in view of the explorations which are going on in Africa,
Japan, Borneo, and other countries bordering upon the equator, the
product of the precious metals within the next decade should be a
million of dollars _daily_. The price of gold has not diminished,
although the annual product has increased fivefold within twenty years.




LAST WORDS.


I am at last resolved. This taunting devil shall possess me no longer.
At least I will meet him face to face. I have read that the face of a
dead man is as though he understood the cause of all things, and was
therefore profoundly at rest, _I_ will know the cause of my wretched
fate, and will be at rest. My pistols lie loaded by my side--I shall die
to-night. To-morrow, twelve awestruck and trembling men will come and
look at me. They will ask each other: 'What could have been his motive
for the rash act.' Rash! my face will be calmer than theirs, for my
struggles in this life will be over; and I shall have gained--perhaps
knowledge, perhaps oblivion, but certainly victory. And to-night, as the
clock strikes twelve, there will be shrieks and horror in this room. No
matter: I shall have been more kind to those who utter them than they
know of, for they will not have known the cause until they have read
these lines.

And yet most people would esteem me a happy man. I am rich in all that
the world calls riches. I sit in a room filled with luxuries; a few
steps would bring me into the midst of guests, among whom are noble men
and women, sweet music, rare perfumes, glitter and costly show. My life
has been spent amid the influences of kind friends, good parents, and
culture in all that is highest and worthiest in literature and art; and
I can recall scenes as I write, of days that would have been most happy
but for the blight that has been upon me always. I think I see now the
pleasant parlor in the old house at home. Here sits our mother, a little
gray, but brisk and merry as a cricket; there our father, a
well-preserved gentleman of fifty, rather gratified at feeling the first
aristocratic twinges of gout, and whose double eyeglass is a chief
feature in all he says; there is Bill, poring over Sir William Napier's
'Peninsular War;' there is Charles, just rushing in, with a face the
principal features in which are redness and hair, to tell us that there
is another otter in the mill stream in the meadow; there is my little
sister, holding grave talk with dear Dollie, and best (or worst) of all,
there is cousin Lucy--cousin Lucy, with her brown hair, and soft, loving
eyes and quiet ways. Where are they all now? Charley went to London, was
first the favorite of the clubs, next a heartless rake, and finally,
being worn out, and, like Solomon, convinced that all was vanity, went
into the Church to become that most contemptible of all creatures, a
fashionable preacher; my father and mother are laid side by side in the
aisle of the old church on the hill, where their virtues are sculptured
in marble, for the information of anxiously curious mankind; sister Mary
no longer talks to dolls, though a flock of little girls, who call her
mother, do. Bill, poor Bill, lies far away in the Crimea, with the
bullet of a gray-coated Russian in his heart. And Lucy--but it is to her
I owe what I am, and what I am about to do.

I loved her--love her still. Will she _know_ what these words mean, when
she finds them here? I cannot tell. They are enough for me. Not for you
are they written, ball-room lounger, whispering of endless devotion
between every qaudrille; not to you, proud beauty, taking and absorbing
declarations as you would an ice; not for you, chattering monkey of the
Champs Elysees, raving of your _grande passion_ for Eloise, so
_charmante_, so _spirituelle_; nor for you, Eloise aforesaid, with your
devilish devices, stringing hearts in your girdle as Indians do scalps;
not for you, dancing Spaniard, with your eternal castagnets, whispering
just one word to your dark-eyed senorita, as you hand her another
perfumed cigarette; not for you, lounging Italian, hissing intrigues
under the shadow of an Athenian portico, or stealing after your veiled
incognita, as her shadow flits over the place where the blood of Caesar
dyed the floor of the Capitol, or where the knife of Virginius flashed
in the summer sun--not for one of you, for I have seen and despise you
all. To you all love is a sealed book, which you shall never open--a
tree of knowledge that will never turn into a curse for you--a beautiful
serpent that, as you gaze upon its changing hues, will never sting you
to the death.

I never told her. I would wait for hours to see her pass, if she went
out alone--but I never told her. I would trace her footsteps where she
had taken her daily walk; I would wait beneath her window at night, to
see but her shadow upon the blind, until she put out her lamp, and left
the stars and myself the only watchers there--but I never told her. I
would lay flowers in her way, happy if she wore them on her bosom, or
wreathed them in her hair, as she sometimes would--but she never knew
from whom they came. I sickened at my heart for her; I pined, oh! how I
pined for her, and worshipped her as a saint, the hope, the glory, the
heaven of my life--but I never told her.

Did she love me? No. And, while I loved, I feared her. She never made me
her companion, never took my arm; would always sit opposite me in the
carriage instead of by my side; if in a game of forfeits, I forced the
embrace I had won, she would struggle with tears of anger, though she
had given her cheek to William with a blush but a few minutes before. If
I had not been her abject slave, I could have torn her in pieces. Alas!
alas! we were but boys, and she a girl still. How many, long years I
have suffered since then!

One night I could not sleep, but sat up in my room thinking. Why should
she not love me? I am esteemed well-looking and intelligent, thought I,
looking into the glass, as if to confirm my satisfactory judgment of
myself. I gazed long and earnestly. Yes, certainly handsome, said I with
my lips, but--fool! fool! said my mocking eyes; for at that moment there
came out of their depths--there came a devil! Yes, a devil that glared
at me from the glass! a devil that was, and yet was not, myself! a devil
that had my form, and looked out of my face, but with its own cruel,
mocking eyes! And he and I confronted each other in that horrible glass.
I know not how long, but they told me afterward that I was found next
morning making ghastly faces at myself.

And then I was carried by spirits into a land of visions, where for a
hundred years, or for a moment of time, I was flying through space, and
clouds, and fire!--groping through dark caverns, millions of miles
long, crying wildly for light and air; now a giant, entangled in myriads
of chains that I could not break; now a reptile, writhing away from
footsteps that made the earth reel and tremble beneath their tread; and
at last waking, as if out of sleep, a poor, puny thing, with limbs like
shadows, laughing or crying by turns for very feebleness.

       *       *       *       *       *

As I arose from that bed I knew that I was changed. It was a secret
thought, a secret that I have kept till now. I was not quite sure at
first, but it thus fell out that I knew it well:

One day William and I had been sitting for some time in the library, he
reading and I looking at the faces that glowed in the red-hot coal, and
thinking of Lucy and him.

'Where is Lucy?' said I, at length,

'Gone out into the village,' he answered, without looking from the book;
'first to buy gloves, then to see Miss Trip, the dancing mistress, who
is ill, then to Hurst Park to tea, whence I am to fetch her at nine
o'clock.'

'You seem to know all her movements,' I said, with a sneer.

'Certainly, he rejoined, 'she told me all that I have told you.'

'You always _are_ in her confidence,' said I, very angrily, as my blood
rose.

'I believe so,' said he, calmly; though he looked at me with some
surprise.

'And I never,' said I, between my teeth.

'That,' he said, 'is a matter with which I have no concern.'

I ground my teeth, but I kept quiet. I kept quiet, though every nerve in
my body tingled with rage, and my boiling blood rushed into my eyes till
I could hardly see. 'Do you know,' I shouted, 'do you know that I love
her--would die a thousand deaths for her?'

He clasped his hands with a quick motion, as he said in a low voice,
'And so do I; and so would I.'

'Beast, fiend!' I screamed, 'does she--does she----' I could not get out
the accursed words.

'We have been engaged,' he answered, divining what I would have asked,
'we have been engaged for some time, and----'

He did not finish the sentence, for I sprang at him, crushed him to the
floor, squeezed his throat till his face grew black and the froth oozed
out from his lips, beat his head upon the hearthstones till he lay still
and bleeding, and then sought my knife. It was up stairs. I flew to get
it. It lay upon my dressing table before the glass, and I snatched at
it. Great God! as I did so, another arm was thrust forth--not mine, I
swear, if I live a thousand years; and as I recoiled, I saw in that
glass a fiend step back. Not me, not me!--but a fiend with bloody hands,
and a foul leer upon its face, and a fierce, cruel laugh in its
glittering eyes. It was he, it was he! It was the devil that had
possessed me before, come back again. And as I shuddered and gasped, and
turned away, and then looked again into those eyes that pierced _me_
through, and saw the cold, bitter smile that was on the face before me,
I knew that the fiend would leave me never more, and that I was mad!

What was a quarrel with my brother now? I stole back, and, lifting him
up, carried him to his room, where I washed the blood from his face.
When he came to himself I fell at his feet and besought his pardon, and
that he would keep what had happened a secret. He forgave me. And I
believe the only lie he ever told in all his life was when he told Lucy
that he had cut his head by falling on a jagged stone.

Oh, how often after that my fingers itched to be at his throat again;
but I always quailed before his steady eye.

I pass over the next few years, except to say that I went to college,
where I was shunned by all, though never alone: was a dunce, and plucked
twice. Perhaps it was I who shunned others, for had I not society in
the constant presence of my Familiar? I was of course a dunce, for my
brain was never steady enough to carry me over the _Pons Asinorum_, or
to make a Latin verse with even decent correctness. I went away in
disgust. I think if I had stayed longer I should have torn somebody, or
else myself.

I went next into the army. It was a new era in my life, and, strange to
say, my devil left me for a while, so that I was able to master the
details of my profession, and to be esteemed a good and careful officer.
There was hope, too, of active service; for the Russian Eagle was slowly
unfolding his vast wings for a new descent into the plains of Europe.
William, married to Her now, who was a lieutenant in the Foot Guards,
wrote to me to say that he hoped we should be really brothers, now that
we were to meet before an enemy; and the next day out came the
declaration of war. When I had read it, I drew my sword, and, as I ran
my eye along its cold, sharp blade from hilt to point, I thought how
strange was its power to let out a man's life, and turn him, in a
moment, into a heap of inanimate carrion.

Of course I am not going to tell the history of the great siege in the
Crimea, for every child knows by heart the tale of the clambering fight
up the Alma's steeps, of the withering volley that suddenly crashed out
of the gray twilight on the hill of Inkerman, of the long months of
starvation, of the final _feu d'enfer_, beneath which the Russian host
crowded over the narrow bridge that saved them from their foe. But of
the fatal charge of the Six Hundred I must speak, for I was one of them,
and I have cursed its memory a thousand times.

I well remember that day--how restless I was the night before, and how I
listened to the dropping shots on either side, hoping almost that one
would find its way to my heart.

We were brigaded by daylight. Some manoeuvres on an extensive scale
were to be attempted, I believe, one of which was to outflank some
batteries of field artillery by which we had suffered much loss. They
were drawn up at the side and end of the valley of Balaklava, and we
were at the other end, and were ordered, it has since been said in
error, to charge down the valley upon them.

How beautiful the sun rose that day! The dewy odors from a thousand
flowers came floating up from that green valley as he rolled away the
mists from the mountain tops, and showed us the dusky masses far below,
from which the shot came whizzing every now and then. Gods! how we
exulted at the sight. Along our line rose a wild cheer, as our horses
tugged and strained at their bits, and every man's bridle was drawn
tight. Soon a puff of smoke came from a hillock near, and the stern
command 'draw swords' ran along from troop to troop, as the bright steel
flashed in the sunshine like a river of light. Then out pealed the
trumpets, and away we went, amidst a storm of ringing harness, and
clashing scabbards, and flying banners, and thundering hoofs that made
the ground shake. On we dashed, straight across the valley, in front of
a point-blank fire, that emptied many a saddle as we flew along,
straight upon the mass of smoke and flame which hid those fatal
batteries--straight at the gunners, dealing out wild blows upon them,
while they fought with swords, or axes, or clubbed muskets, or gun
spongers, or anything that could cut or strike a blow.

As for me, I only know that I was in the first line, and among the first
in the melee; where my first blow lighted upon the bare head of a
Russian, whose blood spouted high as I cut at him with all my force; for
after that a mist came over my eyes, and I fought in the dark, and then
came oblivion.

When I awoke to consciousness, which I did not for several days, I found
that I was wounded, and had been in danger of my life, though I should
most probably recover. As soon as I was strong enough to talk much, I
was told that my bravery had been very conspicuous, and that I had been
honorably mentioned in the order of the day. Four Russians, it seemed,
had died by my hand, and being at last cut on the head by a sabre, I was
with difficulty held on my horse when the retreat was sounded. I had
raved, it also appeared, incessantly; but now the fever had left me.
Good. It was fever, they thought, which had held possession of me. But
those who said so did not know what power it was that nerved my arm, and
then, having worked his devilish wile, flung me away like a broken toy.
Fever! They did not know that it was a 'fever' that had cursed me for
twelve long years.

But I got well, as those who were about me said, and, having been
reported fit for duty, made my appearance at parade, and afterward, the
same day, at mess.

My brother was dead. One day, while I lay ill, he and a party of his
brother officers were idly chatting in one of the more advanced
trenches, when a minie ball struck him, and he died without a word or
groan. They carried him out, and he lies at the little graveyard at
Scutari, with thousands of others who fell in the Great Siege. His sword
and other relics had been kept for me, and among them was a portrait of
Cousin Lucy, which he had worn next his heart. I should have to take it
to her. The general in command had already written to her, with the news
of her bereavement.

I was saying that I rejoined the mess. All my comrades congratulated me
but one. He was a young fellow, recently exchanged from another
regiment, who would one day wear the strawberry leaf upon his coronet--a
cold, supercilious, prying puppy, whom I hated at once. When we were
introduced, our mutual bow was studied in its cold formality--on his
side so much so as to be almost insulting, considering the place and
circumstances. To this day I believe that he, the only one of all there,
had suspected me, and I felt that I must be perpetually on my guard
against his curious glances. I was sure that one day we should have to
strive for the mastery. And we did--sooner than I expected; for, as the
colonel filled his glass, and, calling upon the rest to follow his
example, drank a welcome to me back among them, this knave, sitting
opposite at the time, fixed his eyes upon me as he lifted his glass to
his lips, and did not drink. As our looks met, I knew that he mocked me,
and I flung my wine in his face, and raved.

Those present forced me away, and took me to my tent, where they made me
lie down. I was supposed to be delirious from weakness and the effects
of my wound, and I heard them say, 'He has come out too soon; that wine
he drank at dinner was too much for him.' Good again! It was the wine!
'But,' thought I, 'as soon as this arm shall be able to strike or
thrust, I will have the life of that sneering devil, or he mine.' And I
kept my word. I met him within ten days afterward, walking at some
distance from the camp, quite alone, as I was myself.

'Good morning,' said he; 'you are about again, as I am glad to see.'

I said to him, 'Do you forget the time when I was out before?'

'Surely not,' said he; 'but I knew that you had been ill, and was not
master of yourself.'

'And so forgave me?' I rejoined, in a passion.

'And so forgave,' said he; 'why not?'

'Then learn,' said I, 'that I _was_ master of myself; that I am now;
that you insulted me grossly; that the only words I have for you
are--draw, sir, draw!'

'Stop!' he cried, as I drew my sword; 'pray come back with me to the
camp. You are ill; pray, come back; I have no quarrel with you, believe
me.'

But I struck him on the breast with my swordhilt, so that he nearly
fell. Then he recovered himself, and, still crying out that he had no
quarrel with me, drew and stood upon his guard, while I rushed upon him.

He was cool, and I furious. I believe he could have killed me easily if
he had wished, but he only parried my rapid blows. At last, however, as
I pressed him more closely, he grew paler, and began to fight in
earnest. What _then_ could he do against a madman? I bore him back, step
by step, till a mass of rock stopped him; and there I kept him, with the
hissing steel playing about his head, until he dropped upon one knee and
his sword fell from his hand. Then I paused, waiting to see him die as I
would a wounded hare, as die I knew he must, for I had pierced him with
twenty wounds. He knelt thus, and looked, not at me, but at the setting
sun; and then his head drooped and he rolled over, and was dead.

And as I wiped my sword on the grass, I shouted with glee.

Of course, I told no one. It was but another secret added to the many
that had torn my heart and brain. Nor, when the body was found, stripped
by camp followers, and supposed to be killed by a reconnoitring party of
the enemy, did I betray myself by word or look.

At last the war was over, and we were ordered home. I bade farewell to
the blue hills of the Crimea with secret joy, and as the shore faded
from my sight, the memory of all that had happened to me during the
Great Siege faded from my memory like a dream.

Upon our landing, I went as soon as possible home. How green the hedges
were, how sweet the scent of the violets, how soft the grass, how grand
the arching oaks and giant elms, as I journeyed along on foot. Surely I
have suffered enough, I said to myself, as I passed through meadow, and
copse, and lane, and over stiles, and to the old park at last. Surely I
have suffered enough, I said, as I came to the lodge gate, where the
keeper's wife looked curiously at my uniform and bronzed face, and the
crape on my arm, and then ran into the lodge to tell her husband that
here was Master Horace come back. Surely there was peace in that old
house, with its pointed gables, and moss-clad turrets, and ivied walls,
and little gothic windows--where the old butler grasped my hand; and the
maids came peeping out; and the old dog licked my face; where poor Lucy
wept upon my breast--wept for that I had come back alone; and then put
her little girl into my arms, to kiss dear Uncle Horace, come home once
more.

But, when I went to bed that night, in the same glass that showed me my
Enemy years before, I saw him looking at me, with his cruel smile,
shining out of my own eyes.

What more remains to be told? But little; for it was but the old story.
It is enough to say that I struggled on, hoping against hope; that I
cheated myself with the maddest hope of all--that she might be brought
to love me; that I one day prayed her to become my wife, and that she
broke from me with terror and loathing; that I fled her presence, and
was once more a wanderer over the earth; that my weary feet dragged me
over the snows of Siberia, where the furred noble and the chained serf
worked side by side; over the burning sands, where the brown Arab
careers along upon his steed, his white burnous fluttering in the hot
wind; over the broad prairies of America, where the Indian prowls with
his trusty rifle, waiting for the wild beast; over the paths of the
trackless deep; over the still wilder deserts and still more lonely
deeps of revelry and vice;--what more than that I have come back again;
that many guests are here to do honor to my return; that these are the
last words which I shall ever write!




PARTING

   When 'mid the loud notes of the drum
     And fife tones shrilling on the ear,
   The music of our nation's hymns
     Rose 'neath the elm trees loud and clear;
   When on the Common's grassy plain
     The city poured her countless throng,
   And blessings fell like April rain
     On each one as he marched along;

   We parted,--hand close clasped in hand,
     Telling the thoughts tongue could not speak;
   Was it unmanly that our eyes
     O'erflowed with love upon the cheek?
   I hear thy cheery voice outspeak,
     'Courage, the months will quickly fly,
   And ere November chill and bleak
     We meet at home, Ned, you and I.'

   A livelier strain came from the band,
     'God bless you' went from each to each;
   A gazing eye, a waving hand,
     Where hearts were all too full for speech.
   He marched, obeying duty's call,
     Of noblest nature, first to hear;
   I, bound by fond domestic thrall,
     In path of duty lingered here.

   Slowly the summer months rolled on,
     October harvested the corn,
   November came with shortening days,
     Passed by in mist and rain,--was gone,--
   Yet still he came not; winter's snow
     In feathery vesture clothed the trees,
   Or, iceclad in a jewelled glow,
     They sparkled in the chilly breeze.

   Spring glowed along Potomac vales,
     While north her footsteps tardier came,
   For him the golden jasmine trails
     O'er bright azaleas all aflame;
   Still upon Yorktown's trampled fields,
     O'er grassy plain and wooded swell,
   Her sunny wealth the summer yields,
     And still the word comes, 'All is well.'




A MERCHANT'S STORY.


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


CHAPTER XII.

In the afternoon the exercises at the meeting house were conducted by
Preston, who publicly catechized the <DW64>s very much in the manner
that is practised in Northern Sunday schools. When the services were
over, and the family had gathered around the supper table, I said to
him:

'I've an idea of passing the evening with Joe; he has invited me. Would
it be proper for you and Mrs. Preston to go?'

'Oh, yes; and we will. I would like to have you see his mother. She is a
wonderful woman, and, if in the mood, will astonish you.'

'I think you told me she is a native African?'

'Yes, she is. She was brought from Africa when a child. She has a dim
recollection of her life there, and retains the language and
superstitions of her race,' replied Preston, rising from the table. 'I
think you had better go at once, for she retires early; Lucy and I will
follow you as soon as we can.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Joe's cabin was located nearly in the centre of the little collection of
<DW64> houses, and a few hundred yards from the mansion. It was of logs,
a story and a half high, and had originally been only about twenty feet
square. To the primitive structure, however, an addition of the same
dimensions had been made, and as it then stretched for more than forty
feet along the narrow bypath which separated the two rows of <DW64>
shanties, it presented quite an imposing appearance. A second addition
in its rear, though it did not increase its dignity in the eyes of
'street' observers, added largely to its proportions and convenience.

The various epochs in Joe's history were plainly written on his
dwelling. The original building noted the time when, a common field
hand, he had married a wife, and set up housekeeping; the front addition
marked the era when his industry, intelligence, and devotion to his
master's interest had raised him above the dead level of black
servitude, and given him the management of the plantation; and the rear
structure spoke pleasantly of the time when old Deborah, disabled by age
from longer service at 'the great house,' and too infirm to clamber up
the steep ladder which led to Joe's attic bedrooms, had come to doze
away the remainder of her days under her son's roof.

The cabin was furnished with two entrance doors, and suspecting that the
one in the older portion led directly into the kitchen, I rapped lightly
at the other. In a moment it opened, and Joe ushered me into the living
room.

That apartment occupied the whole of the newer front, and had a
cheerful, cosy appearance. Its floor was covered with a tidy rag carpet,
evidently of home manufacture, and its plastered walls were decorated
with tasteful paper, and hung with a number of neatly framed engravings.
Opposite the doorway stood a large mahogany bureau, and over it,
suspended from the ceiling by leathern cords, was a curiously contrived
shelving, containing a score or more of well-worn books. Among them I
noticed a small edition of 'Shakespeare,' Milton's 'Poems,' Goldsmith's
'England,' the six volumes of 'Comprehensive Commentary,' Taylor's 'Holy
Living and Dying,' the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' a 'United States
Gazetteer,' and a complete set of the theological writings of
Swedenborg. Neat chintz curtains covered the small windows, a number of
brightly burnished brass candlesticks ornamented a plain wooden mantle
over the broad fireplace, and a yellow-pine table, oiled and varnished,
on which the 'tea things' were still standing, occupied the centre of
the apartment.

Through an open door, at the right of the bureau, I caught a glimpse of
the dormitory of the aged Africaness. As on the exterior of the building
a brief epitome of Joe's history was written, so in that room a portion
of his character was traced. Its comfortable and almost elegant
furnishings told, plainer than any words, that he was a devoted and
affectionate son. With its rich Brussels carpet, red window hangings,
cosy lounge, neat centre table, and small black-walnut bureau, it might
have been mistaken for the private apartment of a white lady of some
pretensions.

It was a little after nightfall when I entered the cabin, but a bright
fire, blazing on the hearth, gave me a full view of its occupants. Aggy,
a tidily clad, middle-aged yellow woman, was clearing away the supper
table, and Joe's mother was smoking a pipe in a large arm chair, in the
chimney corner.

The old negress wore a black levantine gown, open in front, and gathered
about the waist by a silken cord; a red and yellow turban, from
underneath which escaped a few frosted locks, and a white cambric
neckerchief that fell carelessly over her shoulders, and almost hid her
withered, scrawny neck. She was upward of seventy, but so infirm that
she appeared nearly a hundred. One of her lean, skinny arms, escaping
from the loose sleeve of her dress, rested on her knee; and her bowed,
bony frame leaned against the arm of her chair, as if incapable of
sitting upright. Her features, with the exception of her nose, which
curved slightly upward, were thin and regular; and her eyes were large,
deep, and densely black, and seemed turned inward, as if gazing with a
half-wondering stare at the strange mechanism which held together her
queer frame-work of bones and gutta percha.

She was the old woman who had greeted Preston so affectionately on our
arrival.

Turning to her as he tendered me a chair, Joe said:

'Mudder, dis am Mr. Kirke.'

Making a feeble effort to rise, and reaching out her trembling hand she
exclaimed, in a voice just above a whisper:

'You'm welcome yere, right welcome, sar.'

'Thank you, aunty. Pray keep your seat; don't rise on my account.'

'Tank _you_, massa Kirke, fur comin' yere. It'm bery good ob you. Ole
missy lub you, sar; you'm so good ter massa Robert. He'm my own chile,
sar!'

This was undoubtedly a figure of speech, for the old woman's skin was
altogether too black not to have given a trifle of its shading to the
complexion of her children. It was not only black, but blue black, and
of that peculiar hue which is seen only on the faces of native Africans.

Seeing that she had relinquished smoking, I said:

'Never mind me, aunty; I smoke myself sometimes.'

'Tank you, sar,' she replied, resuming her pipe, and relapsing into her
previous position; 'ole wimmin lub 'backer, sar.'

The low tone in which this was said made me conclude that further
conversation would be exhausting to her, so turning to Joe and Aggy--the
latter had hurried through her domestic employments, and taken a seat
near the fire--I entered into a general discussion of the old worthies
that occupied Joe's book shelves.

I found the <DW64> had taxed them for house room. He had levied on their
best thoughts, and I soon experienced the uneasy sensation which one
feels when he encounters a man who can 'talk him dry' on almost any
subject. On the single topic of the business to which I was educated, I
might have displayed, had it not been Sunday night, a greater amount of
information; but in the knowledge of every subject that was broached,
the black was my superior.

The conversation had rambled on for a full half hour, the old negress
meanwhile puffing steadily away, and giving no heed to it; when suddenly
her pipe dropped from her mouth, her eyes closed, her bent figure became
erect, and a quick, convulsive shiver passed over her. Thinking she was
about to fall in a fit, I exclaimed:

'Joe! See! your mother!'

'Neber mind, sar,' he quietly replied; 'it'm nuffin'. Only de power am
on her.'

A few more convulsive spasms succeeded, when the old woman's face
assumed a settled expression; and swaying her body back and forth with a
slow, steady motion, she commenced humming a low chant. Gradually it
grew louder, till it broke into a strange, wild song, filling the room,
and coming back in short, broken echoes from the adjoining apartments.
Struck with astonishment, I was about to speak, when Joe, laying his
hand on my arm, said:

'Hush, sar! It am de song ob de kidnap slave!'

It was sung in the African tongue, but I thought I heard, as it rose and
fell in a wild, irregular cadence, the thrilling story of the stolen
black; his smothered cries, and fevered moans in the slaver's hold; the
shriek of the wind, and the sullen sound of the surging waves as they
broke against the accursed ship; and, then--as the old negress rose and
poured forth quick, broken volumes of song--the loud mirth of the
drunken crew, mingling with what seemed dying groans, and the heavy
splash of falling bodies striking the sea.

As she concluded, with a firm, stately step--showing none of her
previous decrepitude--she approached me:

Seeing that I regarded her movements with a look of startled interest,
Joe said:

'Leff har do what she likes, sar. She hab suffin' to say to you.'

Taking a small bag[1] from her bosom, and placing it in the open front
of my waistcoat, she reached out her long, skinny arm, and placing her
skeleton hand on the top of my head, chanted a low song. The words were
mostly English, and the few I caught were something as follows:

   'Oh, bress de swanga buckra man;
   Bress wife an' chile ob buckra man.'
   Bress all dat b'long to buckra man;
   Barimo[2] bress de buckra man;
   De good Lord bress de buckra man;
   Bress, bress de swanga buckra man.'

As she finished the invocation, she took both my hands in hers, and
leaning forward, and muttering a few low words, seemed trying to read
the story imprinted on my palms. Her eyes were closed, and thinking she
might be troubled to see me without the use of those organs, I looked
inquiringly at her son.

'She don't need eyes, sar,' said Joe, answering my thought; 'she'll tell
all 'bout you widout dem.'

As he said this, she dropped one of my hands, and raising her right arm,
made several passes over my head, then resting her hand again upon it,
she began chanting another low song:

'What der yer see, mudder?' asked Joe, leaning forward, with a look of
intense interest on his face.

'A tall gemman-de swanga gemman--in a big city. De night am dark an'
cole--bery cole. Pore little chile am wid him, an' he cole--bery cole;
him cloes pore--bery pore. Dey come to a big hous'n--great light in de
winders--an' dey gwo in--swanga gemman an' pore chile. A great room
dar, wid big fire, an' oh! sweet young missus. She jump up-swanga gemman
speak to har, an' show de pore chile. She look sorry like, an' cry; den
she frow har arm 'roun' de pore chile; take him to de fire, an' kiss
him--kiss him ober an' ober agin.'

It was the scene when Kate first saw Frank, on the night of his mother's
death. I said nothing, but Joe asked:

'Any more, mudder?'

'Yas. I sees a big city, anoder city, in de daytime. In dark room,
upstars, am swanga gemman an' anoder buckra man--he bad buckra man.
Buckra angel dar, too, a standin' 'side de swanga gemman, but swanga
gemman doan't see har. She look jess like de pore chile. De swanga
gemman git up, an' 'pear angry, bery angry, but he keep in. Talk hard to
oder buckra man, who shake him head, an' look down. Swanga gemman den
walk de room, an' talk fasser yit, but bad buckra man keep shakin' him
head. Den swanga gemman stan' right ober de oder buckra man, an' de
strong words come inter him froat. Him 'pears gwine to curse de buckra
man, but de angel put har han' ober him moufh, an' say suffin' to him.
Swanga gemman yeres, dough he doan't see har. Den he say nuffin' more,
but gwo right 'way.'

It was the scene in Hallet's office, when I told him of his victim's
death, and entreated him to provide for, if he did not acknowledge his
child. The words which flashed upon my brain, and stayed the curse which
rose to my lips, were those of the dying girl: 'Leave him to GOD!'

'Go on. Tell me what she _said_,' I exclaimed.

'Mudder doan't _yere_; she only see de pictur ob what hab been. Listen!'
said Joe; and the old woman again spoke:

'I sees a big city--de fuss city, an' great hous'n--de fuss hous'n. De
young missus am dar, wid de pore chile, an' a little chile dat look jess
like she do; an' dar'm anoder bery little chile dar, too. Dey'm upstars
in a room, wid a bed an' a candle burnin'. Dey'm gwine to bed. Young
missus kneel down wid de two chil'ren, an' pray. An' side de pore chile,
an' kneelin' down wid har arm roun' him neck, am de buckra angel. She
pray, too. Swanga gemman in anoder room yere dem aprayin', an' he come
an' look. He say nuffin', but he stan' dar, an' de big tear run down him
cheek. De time come back to him when _he_ wus a little chile, an' he
pray like dem. He doan't pray 'nuff now!'

It was the last night I had passed at home. A feeling of indescribable
awe crept over me, and I rose halfway from my seat.

'Sit still, sar,' said Joe, almost forcing me back into the chair.
'You'll break de power.'

'You know the past, old woman,' I exclaimed. 'Tell me the future!'

'Hush!' she replied, with an imperious tone. 'Dey'm comin'.'

During all this time she had stood with her hand on my head, as
immovable as a marble statue. Her voice had a deep, strong tone, and her
face wore a look of calm power. Nothing about her reminded me of the
weak, decrepit old woman she had been but an hour before.

'Dey'm yere!' she said; and in another moment the door opened, and
Preston and his wife entered.

Without rising or speaking, Joe motioned them to two vacant chairs. As
they seated themselves, I exclaimed:

'She has told me all things that ever I did!'

'She has strange powers,' replied Preston.

'Hush, Robert Preston! De swanga gemman ax fur de future!'

Shading then her closed eyes with one hand, and leaning forward, as if
peering into the far distance, the old negress laid her other hand again
on my head, and continued:

'I see a deep, wide riber flowin' on to de great sea. De swanga gemman,
in strong boat, am on it; an' de young missus, an' de pore chile, an'
one, two oder chile, am wid him. De storm strike de riber, an' raise de
big wave, but de boat gwo on jess de same. De swanga gemman he doan't
keer fur de storm, or de big wave, fur he got 'em all dar! An' I see
anoder riber--not so deep, not so wide--flowin' on 'side de big riber,
to de great sea; an' you' (looking at Preston), 'an' de good missus, an'
one, two, free, four chile am dar. De wind blow ober dat riber an' raise
de big wave, but de swanga gemman reach out him hand, an' de wave gwo
down. An' I see a little riber flow out ob de big riber, an' de pore
chile in a little boat am on it. An' a little riber come out ob de oder
riber an' gwo into de oder little riber, an' a chile am on dat, too. De
two little boats meet, an' de two chile gwo on togedder, but--de storm
come dar, an'--de great rocks--oh! oh!' and, covering her face with her
hands, she turned away.

'What more do you see? Tell me, Deborah!' exclaimed Preston, bending
forward with breathless eagerness.

She raised her head, and seemed to look again in the same direction;
then, in a low tone, said:

'I sees no more.'

'What of the other river? What of that?' he exclaimed, with the same
breathless anxiety.

'I sees--de boat '<DW41> de rocks--de great rocks--an' you--dar--all by
you'seff--all by you'seff--an'--O Barimo!' and, giving a low scream, she
started back as if palsied with dread.

Springing to his feet, Preston seized her by both arms, and screamed
out:

'What more! Tell me WHAT MORE!'

Drawing her tall form up to its full height, and looking at him with her
closed eyes, she said, in a voice inexpressibly sad and tender:

'I sees de great rocks--de great fall--de great sea!' then pausing a
moment, and pointing upward, she added: 'Robert Preston! Trust in GOD!'

Overcome with emotion, she staggered back to her seat. A few convulsive
shudders passed over her; her eyes slowly opened, and--she was the same
weak, old woman as before.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning I bade adieu to my kind friends, and started again on
my journey. Preston accompanied me as far as Wilmington, where we
parted; he going on to Whitesville, in search of the new turpentine
location; and I, proceeding by the Charleston boat, southward.


CHAPTER XIII

On my return to my home, a few weeks after the events narrated in the
previous chapter, in pursuance of a promise made to Preston, I inserted
an advertisement in the papers, which read somewhat as follows:

     'WANTED, a suitable person to go South, as governess in a planter's
     family. She must be thoroughly educated, and competent to instruct
     a boy of twelve. Such a one may apply by letter;' etc., etc.

A score of replies flowed in within the few following days, but being
excessively occupied with a mass of personal business, which had
accumulated in my absence, I laid them all aside, till more than one
week had elapsed. Then, one evening I took them home, and Kate and I
opened the batch. As each one was read by my wife or myself, we
commented on the character of the writers as indicated by the
handwriting and general style of the epistles. Rejecting about two
thirds as altogether unworthy of attention, we reserved the remaining
half dozen for a second inspection. Among these, the one with the
cramped, precise chirography was thought to come from an old maid.
Another, whose five lines of rail fence covered a sheet nearly as large
as a ten-acre lot, was the production of a strong-minded woman. A third,
on tinted paper, and dotted with blots and erasures, was from a fat
lady, who wore her shoes down at the heel, and got up too late for
breakfast. 'But here, Kate,' I exclaimed, as I opened the fourth
missive, 'this one, in this firm yet lady-like hand--this one will do.
Hear what it says:

     SIR:--I think I can answer your requirements. A line addressed to
     Catharine Walley, B----, N.H., with full particulars, will receive
     immediate attention.

'That's the woman, Kate. A business man in petticoats! _She_ can manage
a boy of twelve!'

'Or a man of twice that age,' said Kate, quietly reading the letter. 'I
wouldn't have that woman in _my_ house.'

'Why not? She has character--take my word for it. Her letter is as short
and sweet as a 'promise to pay.''

'She has too much character, and not of the right sort. There is no
womanliness about her.'

'You women are always hard on your own sex. She'll have to manage Joe,
and she'll need to be half man to do that. I think I had better write
her to come here. I can tell what she is when I see her. I can read a
woman like a book.'

There was a slight twinkle in my wife's eyes when I said this, and she
made some further objections, but I overruled them; and, on the
following morning, dispatched a letter, inviting Miss Walley to the
city.

Returning to my office from ''Change,' one afternoon, a few days
afterward, I found a lady awaiting me. She rose as I entered, and gave
her name as Miss Walley. She was prepossessing and lady-like in
appearance, and there was a certain ease and self-possession in her
manner, which I was surprised to see in one directly from a remote
country town. She wore a plain gray dress, with a cape of the same
material; a straw hat, neatly trimmed with brown ribbon, and, on the
inside, a bunch of deep pink flowers, which gave a slight coloring to
her otherwise pale and sallow but intellectual face. Her whole dress
bespoke refinement and taste. She was tall and slender, with an almost
imperceptible stoop in the shoulders, indicative of a studious habit;
but you forgot this seeming defect in her easy and graceful movements.
Her brown hair was combed plainly over a rather low and narrow forehead;
her face was long and thin, and her small, clear gray eyes were shaded
by brown eyebrows meeting together, and, when she was talking earnestly,
or listening attentively, slightly contracting, and deepening her keen
and thoughtful expression. Her nose was long and rather prominent; and
her mouth and chin were large, showing character and will; but their
masculine expression was relieved by a short upper lip, which displayed
to full advantage the finest set of teeth I ever saw.

Referring at once to the object of her visit, she handed me a number of
credentials, highly commendatory of her character and ability as a
teacher. I glanced over them, and assured her they were satisfactory.
She then questioned me as to the compensation she would receive, and the
position of the family needing her services. Answering these inquiries,
I added that I was prepared to engage her on the terms I had named.

'I have been in receipt of the same salary as assistant in a school in
my native village, sir,' she replied; 'but what you say of the family of
Mr. Preston, and a desire to visit the South, will induce me to accept
the situation.'

'When will you be ready to go, madam?' I asked.

'At once, sir. To-day, if necessary.'

Surprised and yet pleased with her promptness, I said:

'And are you entirely ready to go so far on so short notice?'

'Yes, sir. The cars leave in the morning, I am told. I will start
then.'

'And alone?'

'Yes, sir. We Yankee girls are accustomed to taking care of ourselves.'

'I admire your independence. But you pass the night in town; you will, I
trust, spend it at my residence?'

'Thank you, sir.'

Ordering a carriage and stopping on the way at a hotel to get the single
trunk which contained her wardrobe, I conveyed her at once to my
residence.

After supper we all gathered in the parlor, and I set about entertaining
our guest. I had to make little effort to do that, for her conversation
soon displayed a knowledge of books and people, and a wit and keenness
of intellect, as decidedly entertained me. She was not only brilliant,
but agreeable; and in the course of the evening made some pleasant
overtures to the children. Frank, with a book in his hand, had drawn his
chair off to another part of the room, and showed, at first, uncommon
reserve for a lad of his warm and genial nature; but gradually, as if in
spite of himself, he edged his chair nearer to her. Our little 'four
year old,' however, resisting the offered temptation of watch and chain,
and even sugar-plums, repelled her advances, and hid his curly head only
the more closely in the folds of his mother's dress. Kate listened and
laughed, but I caught occasionally, as her eyes studied the visitor
attentively, a troubled expression, which I well understood. After a
while the lady expressed a readiness to retire that she might obtain the
rest needed for an early start by the morning train, and Kate conducted
her to her apartment.

I felt highly delighted with the idea of being able to send Mrs. Preston
so agreeable a companion, and not a little vexed with my wife for not
sharing my enthusiasm. When she returned to the parlor, I said:

'Kate, why do you not like her?'

'I can hardly tell _why_,' she replied, 'but my first impression is
confirmed. I would not trust her. Why does she go South for the same
salary she has had in New Hampshire?'

'Because she wants to see the world; she's a stirring Yankee woman.'

'No; because you told her of Mr. Preston's position in society; and
because she hopes to win a plantation and a rich planter.'

'Nonsense,' I replied. 'You misjudge her.'

'I tell you, Edmund, she is a cold, selfish, sordid woman; all
intellect, and no heart. If I had never seen her face, I should have
known that by her voice, and the shake of her hand.'

But it was too late--I had engaged her; and at seven o'clock on the
following morning she was on her way to the South.

I soon received information of her safe arrival at her destination, and
the warm thanks of Preston for having sent him so agreeable a person,
and one so well fitted to instruct his children.

       *       *       *       *       *

The turpentine location was soon secured, and early in the following
spring, Joe, with about a hundred 'prime hands,' commenced operations in
the new field. Constantly increasing shipments soon gave evidence of the
energy with which the <DW64> entered upon his work; and by the end of the
year, Preston had not only paid the advances we made on receiving the
deed of the land, but also the note I had given for the purchase of
Phyllis. For the first time in five years he was entirely out of our
debt.

The next season he hired a force of nearly two hundred <DW64>s, and
generously gave Joe a small interest in the new business, with a view to
the black's ultimately buying his freedom. His transactions soon became
large and profitable both to him and to us. Shortly afterward he paid
off the last of his floating debt, and his balances in our hands grew
from nothing till they reached five and seven and often ten thousand
dollars.

But heavy affliction overtook him in the midst of his prosperity. His
wife and two eldest daughters were stricken down by a prevailing
epidemic, and died within a fortnight of each other. A letter which I
received from him at this time, will best relate these events. It was as
follows:

     MY DEAR FRIEND:--I have sad, very sad news to tell you. A week ago
     to-day I followed the remains of my beloved wife to the grave.
     Overcome by watching with our children, and grief at their loss,
     about three weeks since she took their disease, and sinking
     rapidly, soon resigned her spotless spirit to the hands of her
     MAKER. Overwhelmed by this treble affliction, I have not been able
     to write you before. Even now I can hardly hold a pen. I am
     perfectly paralyzed; I can neither act nor think--I can only
     _feel_.

     You, who have seen her in our home, can realize what she was to my
     family, but none can know what she was to me: companion, friend,
     guide! My stay and support through long years of trial, she is
     taken from me just as prosperity is dawning on me, and I was hoping
     to repay, by a life of devotion, some part of what she had borne
     and suffered on my account. Another angel has been welcomed in
     heaven, but I am left here alone--alone with my grief and my
     remorse!

     My son is inconsolable, and even little Selly seems to realize the
     full extent of her loss. The poor little thing will not leave me
     for a moment. She is now the only comfort I have. Miss Walley has
     been unremitting in her kindness and attention, taking the burden
     of everything upon herself. Indeed, I do not know what I should
     have done without her.

     Time may temper my affliction, but _now_, my dear friend, I am not

          ROBERT PRESTON.



Nothing worthy of special mention occurred to the persons whose history
I am relating till about a year after the death of Mrs. Preston. Then,
one day late in the autumn, I received information of her husband's
approaching marriage with the governess. In the letter which invited me
to be present at the ceremony, Preston said: 'No one can ever fill the
place in my heart that is occupied, and ever will be occupied by the
memory of my sainted wife; but Miss Walley has rendered herself
indispensable to me and my family. My studious habits and ignorance of
business made me, as you know, even in my full health and strength, a
poor manager; and during the past year, grief has so broken my spirits
that I have been utterly unfitted for attending to the commonest duties.
But for Miss Walley, everything would have gone to waste and ruin. With
the efficiency of a business man, she has attended to my household,
overseen my plantation, and managed my entire affairs. In the first
moments of my bereavement, when grief so entirely overwhelmed me that I
saw no one, I did not know to what censurious remark her disinterested
devotion to my interests was subjecting her; but recently I have
realized the impropriety of a young, unmarried woman occupying the
position she holds in my household. Miss Walley, also, has felt this,
and some time since notified me, though with evident reluctance, that
she felt it imperatively necessary to leave my service. What, then,
could I do? My people needed a mistress; my children a mother. She was
both. Only one course seemed open, and after mature deliberation I
offered her my hand, frankly stating that my heart was with the angel
who, lost to me here, will be mine hereafter. Satisfied with my
friendship and esteem, she has accepted me; and we are to be married on
the 26th inst.; when I most sincerely trust that you, my dear friend,
and your estimable wife, will be present.

That night I took the letter home to my wife. She read it, and laying it
down, sadly said:

'Oh, Edmund! He is, indeed, 'among the rocks!''

       *       *       *       *       *

Two years went by, and I did not meet Preston, but our business
relations kept us in frequent correspondence, and his letters
occasionally alluded to his domestic affairs.

Very soon after his marriage with the governess, his son went to live
with his uncle, Mr. James Preston, of Mobile, a wealthy bachelor, who
long before had expressed the intention of having the boy succeed to his
business and estate. 'Boss Joe' continued in charge of the turpentine
plantation, and had built him a house, and removed his wife and aged
mother to his new home. On one of my visits to the South I stopped
overnight with him, and was delighted with his model establishment. Two
hundred as cheerful-looking <DW54>s as ever swung a turpentine axe, were
gathered in tents and small shanties around his neat log cabin, and Joe
seemed as happy as if he were governor of a province.

His operations had grown to such magnitude that Preston then ranked
among the largest producers of the North Carolina staple, and his
'account' had become one of the most valuable on our books. Though we
sent 'account currents' and duplicates of each 'account sales' to his
master, our regular 'returns' were made to Joe, and no one of our
correspondents held us to so strict an accountability, or so often
expressed dissatisfaction with the result of his shipments, as he.

'I thinks a heap of you, Mr. Kirke,' he said at the close of one of his
letters about this time; 'but the fact am, thar's no friendship in
trade, and you _did_ sell that lass pile of truck jess one day too
sudden.'


CHAPTER XIV.

Two more years rolled away. Frank was nearly sixteen. He had grown up a
fine, manly lad, and never for one moment had Kate or I regretted the
care we had bestowed on his education and training. He was all we could
have wished for in our own son, and in his warm love and cheerful
obedience we both found the blessing invoked on us by his dying mother.

His affection for Kate was something more than the common feeling of a
child for a parent. With that was blended a sort of half worship, which
made him listen to her every word, and hang on her every look, as if she
were a being of some higher order than he. They were inseparable. He
preferred her society to that of his young companions, and often, when
he was a child, seated by her knee, and listening, when she told of his
'other mother' in the 'beautiful heaven,' have I seen his eye wander to
her face with an expression, which plainly said: 'My heart knows no
'other mother' than you.' Kate was proud of him, and well she might be,
for he was a comely youth; and his straight, closely knit, sinewy frame;
dark, deepset eyes; and broad, open forehead, overhung with thick, brown
hair; only outshadowed a beautiful mind, an open, upright, manly nature,
whose firm and steady integrity nothing could shake.

About this time I received a letter from his father, which, as it had an
important bearing on the lad's future career, I give to the reader:

   BOSTON, _September 20th, 185-._

DEAR SIR:--A recent illness has brought my past life in its true light
before me. I see its sin, and I would make all the atonement in my
power. I cannot undo the wrong I have done to one who is gone, but I can
do my duty to her child. You, I am told, have been a father to him. _I_
would now assume that relation, and make you such recompense for what
you have done, as you may require. I am too weak to travel, or indeed,
to leave my house, but I am impatient to see my son. May I not ask you
to bring him to me at once? Then I will arrange all things to your
satisfaction.

I need not tell you, after saying what I have, that I should feel
greatly gratified to once more possess your confidence, and regard.

   I am, sincerely yours,
        JOHN HALLET.


In another hand was the following postscript:

MY DEAR BOY:--John is sincere. Thee can trust him. He has told me _all_.
He will do the right thing. Come on with the lad as soon as thee can.
Love to Kate. Thy old friend,

   DAVID.


After conferring with my wife, I sent the following reply to these
communications:

   NEW YORK, _September 22d, 185-._

DAVID OF OLD;--Thou man after the Lord's own heart. I have Hallet's
letter, seasoned with your P.S. He is shrewd; he knew that nothing but
your old-fashioned hand would draw a reply from _me_, to anything
written by _him_.

I've no faith in sick-bed repentances; and none in John Hallet, sick or
well:

   'When the devil was sick,
   The devil a monk would be;
   When the devil got well,
   The devil a monk was he.'


However, as Hallet is capable of cheating his best friend, even the
devil, I will take his letter into consideration; but it having taken
him sixteen years to make up his mind to do a right action, it may take
me as many days to come to a decision on this subject.

Frank is everything to us, and nothing but the clearest conviction that
his ultimate good will be promoted by going to his father, will induce
us to consent to it.

I do not write Hallet. You may give him as much or as little of this
letter as you think will be good for him.

Kate sends love to you and to Alice; and dear David, with all the love I
felt for you when I wore a short jacket, and sat on the old stool,

   I am your devoted friend.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a dingy old sign. It had hung there in sun and rain till its
letters were faint and its face was furrowed. It had looked down on a
generation that had passed away, and seen those who placed it there go
out of that doorway never to return; still it clung to that dingy old
warehouse, and still Russell, Rollins & Co. was signed in the dingy old
counting room at the head of the stairway. It was known the world over.
It was heard of on the cotton fields of Texas, in the canebrakes of
Cuba, and amid the rice swamps of Carolina. The Chinaman spoke of it as
he sipped his tea and plied his chopsticks in the streets of Canton, and
the half-naked <DW64> rattled its gold as he gathered palm oil and the
copal gum on the western coast of Africa. Its plain initials, painted in
black on a white ground, waved from tall masts over many seas, and its
simple 'promise to pay,' scrawled in a bad hand on a narrow strip of
paper, unlocked the vaults of the best bankers in Europe. And yet it was
a dingy old sign! Men looked up to it as they passed by, and wondered
that a cracked, weather-beaten board, that would not sell for a dollar,
should be counted 'good for a million.'

It was a dingy old warehouse, with narrow, dark, cobwebbed windows, and
wide, rusty iron shutters, which, as the bleak October wind swept up old
Long Wharf, swung slowly on their hinges with a sharp, grating creak. I
heard them in my boyhood. Perched on a tall stool at that old desk, I
used to listen, in the long winter nights, to those strange, wild cries,
till I fancied they were voices of the uneasy dead, come back to take
the vacant seats beside me, and to pace again, with ghostly tread, the
floor of that dark old counting room. They were a mystery and a terror
to me; but they never creaked so harshly, or cried so wildly, as on that
October night, when for the first time in nine years I turned my steps
up the trembling old stairway.

It was just after nightfall. A single gas burner threw a dim, uncertain
light over the old desk, and lit up the figure of a tall, gray-haired
man, who was bending over it. He had round, stooping shoulders, and
long, spindling limbs. One of his large feet, encased in a thick,
square-toed shoe, rested on the round of the desk; the other, planted
squarely on the floor, upheld his spare, gaunt frame. His face was thin
and long, and two deep, black lines under his eyes contrasted strangely
with the pallid whiteness of his features. His clothes were of the
fashion of those good people called 'Friends,' and had served long as
his 'Sunday best' before being degraded to daily duty. They were of
plain brown, and, though not shabby, were worn and threadbare, and of
decidedly economical appearance. Everything about him, indeed, wore an
economical look. His scant coat tails, narrow pants, and short waistcoat
showed that the cost of each inch of material had been counted, while
his thin hair, brushed carefully over his bald head, had not a lock to
spare; and even his large, sharp bones were covered with only just
enough flesh to hold them comfortably together. He had stood there till
his eye was dim and his step feeble, and though he had, for twenty
years--when handing in each semiannual trial balance to the head of the
house--declared that was his last, everybody said he would continue to
stand there till his own trial balance was struck, and his earthly
accounts were closed forever.

As I entered, he turned his mild blue eye upon me, and, taking my hand
warmly in his, exclaimed:

'My dear boy, I am glad to see thee!'

'I am glad to see _you_, David. Is Alice well?'

'Very well. And Kate, and thy babies?'

'All well,' I replied.

'Thee has come to see John?'

'Yes. How is he?'

'Oh, better; he got out several days ago. He's inside now,' and opening
the door of an inner office, separated from the outer one by a glass
partition, he said, 'John, Edmund is here.'

A tall, dark man came to the door, and, with a slightly flurried and
embarrassed manner, said:

'Ah, Mr. Kirke! I'm glad to see you. Please step in.'

As he tendered me a chair, a shorter and younger gentleman, who was
writing at another desk, sprang from his seat, and slapping me
familiarly on the back, exclaimed:

'My dear fellow, how are you?'

'Very well, Cragin; how are _you_?' I replied, returning his cordial
greeting.

'Good as new--never better in my life. It's good for one's health to see
you _here_.'

'I have come at Mr. Hallet's invitation.'

'Yes, I know, Hallet has told me you've a smart boy you want us to take.
Send him along. Boston's the place to train a youngster to business.'

The last speaker was not more than thirty, but a bald spot on the top of
his head, and a slight falling-in of his mouth, caused by premature
decay of the front teeth, made him seem several years older. He had
marked but not regular features, and a restless, dark eye, that opened
and shut with a peculiar wink, which kept time with the motion of his
lips in speaking. His clothes were cut in a loose, jaunty style, and his
manner, though brusque and abrupt, betokened, like his face, a free,
frank, whole-souled character. He was several years the junior of the
other, and as unlike him as one man can be unlike another.

The older gentleman, as I have said, was tall and dark. He had a high,
bold forehead, a pale, sallow complexion, and wore heavy gray whiskers,
trimmed with the utmost nicety, and meeting under a sharp, narrow chin.
His face was large, his jaws wide, and his nose pointed and prominent,
but his mouth was small and gathered in at the corners like a rat's;
and, as if to add to the rat resemblance, its puny, white teeth seemed
borrowed from that animal. There was a stately precision in his manner
and a stealthy softness in his tread not often seen in combination,
which might have impressed a close observer as indicative of a bold,
pompous, and yet cunning character.

These two gentlemen--Mr. Hallet and Mr. Cragin--were the only surviving
partners of the great house of Russell, Rollins & Co.

'Have you brought him with you?' asked Hallet, his voice trembling a
little, and his pale face flushing slightly as he spoke.

'No, sir,' I replied; 'I thought I would confer with you first. I have
not yet broached the subject to the lad.'

Some unimportant conversation followed, when Hallet, turning to Cragin,
asked:

'Are all the letters written for tomorrow's steamers?'

'Yes,' said Cragin, rising; 'and I believe I'll leave you two together.
As you've not spoken for ten years, you must have a good deal to say.
Come, David,' he called out, as he drew on his outside coat, 'let's go.'

'No, don't take David,' I exclaimed; 'I want to talk with the old
gentleman.'

'But you can see him to-morrow.'

'No, I return in the morning.'

'Well, David, I'll tell Alice you'll be home by nine.'

'Oh, that's it,' I said, laughing. 'It's Alice who makes you leave so
early on steamer night.'

'Yes, _sir_; Alice that _is_, and Mrs. Augustus Cragin that is _to
be_--when I get a new set of teeth. Good night,' and saying this, he
took up his cane, and left the office.

When he was gone, Hallet said to me:

'Do you desire to have David a witness to our conversation?'

'I want him to be a _party_ to it. We can come to no arrangement without
his cooperation.'

Hallet asked the bookkeeper in. When he was seated, I said:

'Well, Mr. Hallet, what do you propose to do for your son?'

'To treat him as I do my other children. Do all but acknowledge him.
That would injure _him_.'

'That is not important. But please be explicit as to what you will do.'

'David tells me that his inclinations tend to business, and that you
have meant to take him into your office. I will take him into _mine_,
and when he is twenty-one, if he has conducted himself properly, I will
give him an interest.'

'I shall be satisfied with no _contingent_ arrangement, sir. I know
Frank will prove worthy of the position.'

'Very well; then I will agree definitely to make him a partner when he
is of age.'

'Well, Mr. Hallet, if Frank will consent to come, I will agree to that
with certain conditions. I told his mother, when she was dying, that I
would consider him my own child; therefore I cannot give up the control
of him. He must regard me and depend on me as he does now. Again, I
cannot let him come here, and have no home whose influence shall protect
him from the temptations which beset young men in a large city. David
must take him into his family, and treat him as he treated me when I was
a boy, and--this must be reduced to writing.'

Hallet showed some emotion when I spoke of Frank's mother, but his face
soon assumed its usual expression, and he promptly replied:

'I will agree to all that, but I would suggest that the fact of his
being my son should not be communicated to him; that it be confined to
us three. I ask this, believe me, only for the sake of my family.

'I see no objection to that, sir, and I think, Frank, for his own sake,
should not know what his prospects are.'

Hallet signified assent, and turning to David, I asked:

'David, what do _you_ say? Will you take him?'

'I will,' said the old bookkeeper, showing in his expenditure of breath
the close economy which was the rule of his life.

'Nothing remains but to arrange his salary and the share he shall have
when he becomes a partner,' I remarked to Hallet.

'Will an average of seven hundred a year, and an eighth interest when
he's twenty-one, be satisfactory?'

'Entirely so. An eighth in your house will be better than a quarter in
ours. As it is now all understood, let David draw up the papers. We will
sign them, and leave them with him till I see Frank.'

'Very well. David, please to draw them up,' said Hallet; and then, his
voice again trembling a little, he added, 'All is understood, Mr. Kirke,
but the compensation I shall make you for your fatherly care of my much
neglected son. Money cannot pay for such service, but it will relieve me
to reimburse you for your expenditures.'

'I have had my pay, sir, in the love of the boy. I ask no more.'

Hallet was sensibly affected, but without speaking, he turned to the
desk, and took down his bankbook. In a few moments he handed me a check.
It was for five thousand dollars. I took it, and, hesitating an instant,
said:

'I will keep this, sir; not for myself, but for Frank. It may be of
service to him at some future time.'

'Keep it for yourself, sir, not for him. He will not need it. He shall
share equally with my other children.'

'I am glad to see this spirit in you, sir. Frank will be worthy of all
you may do for him.'

'It is not for _his_ sake that I will do it,' replied Hallet, his voice
tremulous with emotion; 'it is that I may have the forgiveness of the
one I--I--' He said no more, but leaning his head on his hand, he wept!

If there is joy among the angels over one that repents, was there not,
then, forgiveness in _her_ heart for _him_?

No one spoke for some minutes; then David rose, and handing me one of
the papers, laid the other before Hallet.

'This appears right,' I said, after reading it over carefully.

'Yes,' replied Hallet, taking up a pen and signing the other. Passing it
to me, he added: 'Keep them both--take them now.'

'But Frank may not wish to come.'

'Then I will find some other way of helping him. He is my son! Take the
papers.'

'Well, as you say,' I replied. 'David, please to witness this.'

Hallet pressed me to pass the night at his house, but I declined, and
rode out to Cambridge with the old bookkeeper. With many injunctions to
watch carefully over Frank, I left him about twelve o'clock, rode into
town with Cragin, and the next morning started for New York.

That night, as I recounted the interview to Kate, I said:

'I never did believe in these double-quick conversions; but Hallet _is_
an altered man.'

'Then, indeed, can the leopard change his spots.'

As usual, her womanly intuitions were right; my worldly wisdom was
wrong!


CHAPTER XV.

Not long after the events I have just related, the mail brought me the
following letter from Preston:

MY VERY DEAR FRIEND:--Circumstances, which I cannot explain by letter,
render it _imperatively_ necessary that I should provide another home
for my daughter. Her education has been sadly neglected, and she should
be where she can have experienced tutors, and good social surroundings.
With her delicate organization, and sensitive and susceptible nature,
she needs _motherly_ care and affection, and I shrink from committing
her to the hands of strangers. I should feel at rest about her only with
_you_. You have been my steadfast friend through many years; you have
stood by me in, sore trials--may I not then ask you to do me now a
greater service than you have ever done, by receiving my little daughter
into your family? I know this is an unusual, almost presumptuous
request; but if you knew her as she is--gentle, loving, obedient--the
light and joy of all about her, I am sure you, and your excellent lady,
would love her, and be willing to make her the companion of your
children. She is my only earthly comfort, and it will rend my heart to
part with her, but--I _must_.

Write me at once. You are yourself a father--_do not refuse me_.

       *       *       *       *       *

To this, on the next day, I sent the following reply:

MY DEAR FRIEND:--I would most cheerfully take your daughter into my
family, did my wife's health, which has been failing all the summer,
allow of her assuming any additional care.

I think, however, I can provide Selma with a home equally as good as my
own; one where good influences will be about her, and she will have the
best educational advantages. I refer to the family of Mr. David Gray, of
Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was my father's friend. The years I was a
boy with Russell, Rollins & Co., I was an inmate of his house, and my
adopted son, Frank, is now in his care. His daughter Alice is a most
suitable person to have charge of a young girl. She is like a sister to
me, and to oblige me, would no doubt take Selma.

Please advise me of your wishes; and believe, my dear friend, I will do
all in my power to serve you.

I was sitting down at supper, one evening, about a fortnight after
sending this letter, when a gentleman was announced as wishing to see
me. I rose and went into the parlor. It was Preston, and with him was
Selma, then a beautiful little girl of about eleven years.

Asking Preston to lay aside his outside coat, I was struck by his
altered appearance. It was four years since we had met, but looking at
him, I imagined it might be ten. His eyes were sunken, deep furrows were
about his mouth, and his brown hair was thickly streaked with gray.

'My dear friend,' I exclaimed, as I grasped his hand a second time, 'you
are not well!'

'I am as well as usual, Kirke. Time has not done this!'

Fatigued with the long journey, Selma had retired, and our own little
ones were in bed, when Kate joined us in the parlor.

'You _do_ look ill, Mr. Preston,' she said, seating herself beside him.
'You must stay a while with us, and rest.'

'I would be glad to stay here, madam--anywhere away from home.'

'The care of two plantations, such as yours, must be a burden!'

'It is not that, madam; Joe relieves me entirely from oversight of one
of them. My difficulty is at home--mine is not what yours is.'

Kate's sympathizing words soon drew him out (she has a way of winning
the confidence of people, and is the depositary of more family secrets
than any other woman in the State); and he told us what his home had
become since his union with the governess.

Within two months after the marriage her real character began to display
itself, and she soon developed into a genuine Xantippe. Getting control
of Mulock, who had been made overseer, she had the <DW64>s dreadfully
whipped and overworked; she treated young master Joe so badly that the
lad rebelled, and in his father's absence ran away to his uncle at
Mobile; and locking Selma up in a dark room without food, or beating her
till her back was actually discolored, she made the child's home
intolerable to her.

After master Joe went away, no one dared complain; and shut up in his
library, brooding over his still fresh grief for the death of his wife,
Preston knew nothing of the real state of affairs till more than a year
had elapsed. Then one day he found Selma in tears. He questioned her,
and learned the whole. A scene followed, in which Mrs. Preston asserted
her rights as mistress of the plantation, and defied him. She had run
into all sorts of extravagance, the yearly bills which had come in a
short time previous were appallingly large, but to secure peace, Preston
consented to buy and furnish a winter residence at Newbern. To that she
had removed, but with the coming spring she would return to the
plantation, and in the mean time Selma must be provided with another
home.

'Feel no anxiety about her, sir,' said Kate, as he concluded; 'if Alice
Gray will not take her, we will.'

'I thank you, madam; I cannot thank you enough for saying that,' replied
Preston, his eyes filling with tears.

I wrote at once to David, and soon received a letter from Alice
consenting to take charge of the little girl. Thanksgiving, at which
time Kate made annual visits to her early home, was approaching, and it
was decided that Selma should accompany her to Boston.

This being arranged, Preston, at the end of a fortnight, took leave of
us, and returned to the South. The parting between the father and the
child gave evidence of what they were to each other. Preston wept like a
woman; but as Kate brushed back the brown curls from the broad forehead
of little Selly, she raised her eyes to my wife's face, and while her
thin nostrils dilated, and her sensitive chin slightly quivered, said;

'I must not cry for poor papa's sake--it is so _very_ hard for him to go
home alone; and he will miss his little girl _so_ much.'

'You are right, dear child,' said Kate, and, as if looking into the far
future of the woman, and feeling that such a nature must suffer as well
as enjoy keenly, she inwardly thanked God that with her delicate
organization He had given her the unselfish and brave heart which those
words expressed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Four years had wrought great changes in David's quiet home. Alice had
become Mrs. Augustus Cragin, and a little Alice tottled about the floor;
but after supper, David still found his evening cigar on the oak stand,
his needle-work slippers--wrought by Alice's own hand--in their place
before the fender, and his big armchair rolled up close to the gas
burner in the little back parlor at Cambridge.

Frank was twenty, and had fulfilled all the promises of his boyhood. His
father, after the honeymoon of his repentance was over, showed no great
interest in him, but Cragin, who knew nothing of my arrangement with
Hallet, had given him all the advantages in his power.

Selma was only fifteen, but, like the flowers of her own South, she had
blossomed early, and was already a woman. Preston had visited her every
summer, but she never returned with him, having preferred passing her
vacations at my house.

In David's loving household nothing had occurred to disturb her peaceful
life. Beloved by her teachers and schoolmates, she everywhere received
the homage due to her beauty and her goodness; and in the gay world into
which her joyous nature often led her, she was the acknowledged and
_unenvied_ queen! Her father had spared no pains in her education; the
best tutors had trained her fine ear and sweet voice, and taught her to
give form and coloring to the pictures her glowing imagination created;
and, whether her fingers ran over the keys of a musical instrument, or
wielded the brush, there was a delicacy and yet _spirit_ in her touch
which were the wonder and admiration of all.

I was not surprised, when visiting Boston about this time, to have Frank
tell me that he loved her, and ask my consent to his regarding her as
his future wife.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kate and I were to leave for home the following day, and, calling at the
office in the afternoon, I said to Frank:

'I have tickets for the opera, including Selma; of course you'd like to
have her go.'

'Yes, father; she has never been, and I have promised to take her this
winter. She'll be able now to appreciate it.'

The box I had selected was at a happy distance from the stage, and we
gave Selma a front seat, that she might see to the best advantage. She
was in high spirits; indeed, she was radiant in her beauty. She wore a
dark blue dress of silk, fitting closely to her neck, and its short
sleeves allowed the plump, fair arms to half disclose themselves from
beneath the scarlet mantle Which fell around her shoulders. Her hair
fell over her neck in the same simple fashion as in her childhood,
except that the thick curls, which had lost their golden tint, and were
darker and longer, were looped back from her broad brow, with a few
simple flowers. There was the same contour of face and feature, but
ennobled by thought and culture; the same sensitive mouth, only that the
lips were fuller and of a deeper color; and as she talked or listened,
the same rose tint deepened and faded beneath her rich, soft, dark skin,
as sunlight shifts and fades across the evening sky. Her eyes, in whose
dark depths the soul was reflected, met a stranger's calmly, but took a
soft look of loving trust when meeting Frank's. They were shaded by long
lashes, as black as the night; and when the lids fell suddenly, as they
often did, and her face became quiet, and almost sad, you felt that she
was communing with the angels.

The overture burst forth, and with glowing face, and eyes fixed upon the
stage, Selma seemed lost to all but the enrapturing sounds; even Frank's
whispered words were unheeded. As the opera--'Lucia di
Lammermoor'--proceeded, I saw that every eye was attracted to our box,
and, bending forward to catch Selma's expression, I called Kate's
attention to her. With her head thrown slightly back, a bright spot
burning on either cheek, her breath suspended, the large tears coursing
from her eyes, and motionless as a statue, she sat with her small hands
clasped on the front of the box, as if entranced, and all unconscious of
the hundred eyes that were fixed upon her. I thought of the pictures I
had seen in the old galleries of Europe, but I said, 'Surely, art cannot
equal nature!'

When it was over, she took Frank's arm; I turned to question her, but
Kate said:

'Let her alone; she cannot talk now.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The transactions of Russell, Rollins & Co. extended the world over; but,
since the death of Mr. Rollins, which occurred prior to Frank's going
with them, they had cultivated particularly the Southern trade, and
their operations in cotton had grown to be enormous. They bought largely
of that staple on their own account, and for some extensive
manufacturing establishments in England. Their purchases were mainly
made in New Orleans, and, to attend to this business, Hallet had passed
the winters in that city for several years.

His wealth had grown rapidly, and at the date of which I am writing, he
ranked among the 'solid men' of Boston. Cragin was not nearly so
wealthy. Being on intimate terms with the latter, I remarked, as we were
enjoying a cigar together one evening at David's, on the occasion of
the visit to which I have referred in the last chapter:

'How is it, Cragin, that you pass for only a hundred thousand, when
Hallet is rated at a million?'

'Because, Ned, I'm not worth any more.'

'But how is that, when you have two fifths of the concern?'

'Well, Hallet went into cotton like the devil some eight years ago; and
I told him I wouldn't stand it; I like to feel the ground under me.
Since then he has speculated on his own account--he and old Roye go it
strong, and I guess they've made some pretty heavy lifts.'

'That's uncertain business.'

'Yes, devilish uncertain; but somehow they manage always to hold winning
cards. Hallet has told me his New Orleans operations have netted him
five hundred thousand.'

'And that, with what he got by his wife, has rolled him into a
millionaire before he's forty-five! He's a lucky fellow.'

'Lucky! I wouldn't stand in his boots. What goes up _may_ come down. He
has no peace. His wife's a hyena. She makes home too hot for him; and
somehow he's never easy. He walks about as if treading on torpedoes.

'If you dislike speculation, why don't you increase your legitimate
business?'

'Hallet's away so much, I can't do it. I'm glued to the old office. I
should have been in Europe half of the time the last three years, but I
haven't been able to get away.'

'Why not send Frank? He's old enough now.'

'I mean to, in the spring, and I'm d--d if he shan't be a partner soon,
and take some of this load off my shoulders. But do you know that Hallet
has a decided dislike to him?'

'No! On what account?' I exclaimed. I had met Hallet only twice during
four years, but on both occasions he had spoken favorably of his son.
Frank himself had never alluded in other than respectful terms to his
father.

'Well, I don't know, and it makes no difference. I'm captain at this end
of the towline, and I swear he shall go in.

'As you feel so kindly toward Frank, I'll give him a chance to
conciliate Hallet. I'll take him South this winter, and introduce him to
our correspondents. With his address he ought to do something with them.
Will you let him go?'

'Yes, and be right down glad to have him. When do you start?'

'About the middle of December.'

A fortnight afterward, with Selma and Frank, I again visited Preston's
plantation.


CHAPTER XVI.

It was Christmas morning when we rode up the long, winding avenue, and
halted before the doorway of 'Silver Lake'--the new name which the
Yankee schoolmistress, aping the custom of her Yankee cousins, had
bestowed on Preston's plantation. The day was mild and sunshiny, and the
whole population of the little patriarchate was gathered on the green in
front of the mansion, distributing Christmas presents among the <DW64>s.
When we came in sight, from behind the thick cluster of live oaks which
bordered the miniature lake, the whole assemblage sent up a glad shout,
and hurried up to welcome us. And such a welcome! As she sprang from the
carriage, Selma was caught in her father's arms, then in 'master Joe's,'
and then, encircled by a cloud of dark beauties, each one vieing with
the others in boisterous expressions of affection, she was the victim of
such a demonstration as would have done the heart of Hogarth good to
witness. In the midst of it a slight, delicate woman rushed from the
house, and, crowding into the thick group around Selma, threw her arms
about her neck, and, nearly smothering her with kisses, exclaimed:

'My chile! my chile! I sees you at last!'

'Yes, Phylly!' said Selma, returning her caresses; 'and haven't I grown?
I thought you wouldn't know me.'

'Know you! Ain't you my chile--my own dear chile!' and pressing Selma's
cheeks between her two hands, and gazing at her beautiful face for a
moment, she kissed her over and over again.

My arms had been nearly shaken off, when I noticed 'Boss Joe' limping
toward me, his head uncovered, and his broad face shining from out his
gray wool like the full moon breaking through a mass of clouds.

'How are you, old gentleman?' I exclaimed, grasping him warmly by the
hand.

'Right smart! right smart, massa Kirke. Glad you'm come, sar.'

'And you're home for Christmas?'

'Yes, sar. I'se come to see massa Robert, an' to tend to hirin' a new
gang. But <DW54>s 'am high dis yar, sar.'

'How much are they?'

'Well, dey ax, round yere, one fifty, an' 'spences dar an' back; an'
it'm a pile, when you tink we hab used up 'most all de new trees.'

'But you must have many second-year cuttings.'

'Yas, right smart; but No. 2 rosum doan't pay at sech prices fur
<DW54>s.'

Turning to Preston in a moment, I said:

'Do not let us interfere with the 'doin's'--it's just what we want to
see.'

'Well, come, you folks,' said Joe, hobbling back to the green; 'leff us
gwo on now.'

Preston, Selma, and Phylly went into the house, but the rest of us
followed the grinning group of Africans to the centre of the lawn, where
several large packing boxes, and a long table, something like a
carpenter's bench, were piled high with a miscellaneous assortment of
dry goods and groceries.

'Now, all you dat hab heads, come up yere,' shouted Joe, seating himself
on the bench; 'but don't all come ter onst.'

One by one the men and boys filed past him, and, selecting a hat or cap
from a couple of boxes near, he adjusted a covering to each woolly
cranium that presented itself; interspersing the exercise with humorous
remarks on their respective phrenological developments:

'Pomp, you's made fur a preacher, shore. Dat dar head ob your'n gwoes up
jess like a steeple. I'll hab ter gib you a cap, Dave; you'm so big
ahind de yeres none ob dese hats'll fit, nohow. Jess show de back ob
you' head to any gemman, an' he'll say you'm one ob de great ones ob de
'arth. None ob dese am big 'nuff fur you, Ally,' he continued, as a
tall, well-clad mulatto man stepped up to him. 'You' bumps hab growed so
sense you took to de swamp, dat nuffin'll cober you 'cept massa Robert's
hat, or de gal Rosey's sunshade.'

The yellow man laughed, but kept on trying the hats. Finding one at last
of suitable dimensions, he turned away to make room for another
candidate for cranial honors. As I caught a full view of his face, I
exclaimed:

'Why, Ally, is that you?'

'Yas, massa; it'm me,' he replied, making a respectful bow.

'And you live here yet?'

'Yas, massa. Hope you's well, massa?'

'Very well; and your mother--how is she?'

'Oh, she'm right smart, sar.'

'Yas, massa, I'se right smart; an' I'se bery glad ter see 'ou, massa,'
said a voice at my elbow. It was Dinah, no longer clad in coarse
osnaburg, but arrayed in a worsted gown, and a little grayer and a
little bulkier than when I saw her eight years before.

'Why, Dinah, how well you look!' I exclaimed, giving her my hand. 'And
you've come up to spend Christmas with Ally?'

'No, massa, I _libs_ yere. I'se FREE now, massa!'

'Free! So you've made enough to buy yourself? I'm glad to hear it.'

'No, massa. Ally--de good chile--he done it, massa.'

'Ally did it! How could he? He's not more than twenty now!'

'No more'n he hain't, massa; but he'm two yar in massa Preston's swamp,
wid a hired gang. Massa Preston put de chile ober 'em, an' gib him a
haff ob all he make, an' he'm doin' a heap dar, massa.'

'And with his first earnings he bought his mother!'

'Yas, massa; wid de bery fuss.'

'Ally, give me your hand,' I exclaimed, with unaffected pleasure;
'you're a man! You're worthy of such a mother!'

'Yas, he am dat, massa! He'm wordy ob anyting, an' he'm gwine to hab a
wife ter day, massa. Boss Joe am gwine ter marry 'em, an' ter gib 'em
him own cabin fur dar Chrismus giff.'

'Well, Joe _is_ a trump. I'll remember him in my will for that, aunty,
sure.'

'Dat'm bery good ob 'ou, massa; but I reckon 'ou can't tink who Ally'm
gwine ter hab, massa,' said the old woman, her face beaming all over.

'No, I can't, Dinah. Who is she?'

'It'm little Rosey, dat 'ou buy ob de trader, massa; an' she'm de
pootiest little gal all roun' yere; ebery one say dat, massa.'

'Indeed! And they are to be married to-day?'

'Yas, massa, ter day--dis evenin'. 'Ou'll be dar, woan't 'ou, massa?'

'Yes, certainly I will.'

The old woman and Ally then mingled with the crowd of <DW64>s, and I
turned my attention once more to Joe's operations. The men had been
supplied with head gear, and the women were receiving their
turbans--gaudy pieces of red and yellow muslin.

'Now, all you boys an' gals,' shouted Joe, as he dealt out a
handkerchief to the last of the dusky demoiselles, 'you all squat on de
groun', an' shovel off you' shoes.'

Down they went in every conceivable attitude, and, uncovering their
feet, commenced pelting each other with the cast-off leathers. When the
sport had lasted a few minutes, Joe sang out:

'Come! 'nuff ob dat; now ter bisness. Yere, you yaller monkeys (to
several small specimens of copper and chrome yellow), tote dese '<DW41>
'em.'

The young chattels did as they were bidden, and, as each heavy brogan
was fitted to the pedal extremity of some one of the <DW54>s, the
newly-shod individual sprang to his feet, and commenced dancing about as
if he were the happiest mortal in existence.

'Dat'm it,' shouted Joe; 'frow up you' heels; an' some ob you gwo
an' fotch de big fiddle. We'll hab a dance, an' show dese Nordern
gemmen de raal poker.'

'But we hain't hed de dresses--nor de soogar--nor de 'backer--nor none
ob de whiskey,' cried a dozen voices.

'Shet up, you brack crows! You can't hab anudder ting till ye'se hed a
high ole heel-scrapin'. Yere, massa Joe; you come up yere, an' holp me
wid de 'strumentals,' said Boss Joe, grinning widely, and getting up on
the carpenter's bench.

In a few moments, the 'big fiddle,' one or two smaller fiddles, and
three or four banjoes were brought out, and the two Joes, and several
ebony gentlemen, seating themselves on the boxes of clothing, began
tuning the instruments. Soon 'Boss Joe' commenced sawing away with a
gusto that might have been somewhat out of keeping with his gray hairs,
his sixty years, and his clerical profession. 'Massa Joe' and the others
striking in, the male and female <DW54>s paired off two by two, and to a
lively air began dancing a sort of 'cotillion breakdown.' Other dances
followed, in which the little <DW64>s joined, and soon the air rang with
the creak of the fiddles and the merry shouts of the <DW64>s. In the
midst of it my arm was touched lightly, and, turning round, I saw Rosey
and Dinah.

'I'se got de little gal yere, massa,' said the latter, looking as proud
as a hen over her first brood of chickens. 'She glad to see 'ou, massa.'

I gave Rosey my hand, and made a few good-natured compliments on her
beauty and her tidy appearance. She had a simple, guileless expression,
and met my half-bantering remarks with an innocent frankness that
charmed me. She was only sixteen, but had developed into a beautiful
woman. Her form was slight and graceful, with just enough _embonpoint_
to give the appearance of full health; and her thin, delicate features,
large, wide-set eyes, and clear, rosy complexion bore a strong
resemblance to Selma's. It was evident they were children of the same
father; and yet, one was to be the wife of a poor <DW64>, the other to
marry the son of a 'merchant prince.'

As the dancing concluded, Boss Joe's fiddle gave out a dying scream,
and, turning to me, he sang out:

'War dar eber sprightlier nigs dan dese, massa Kirke? Don't dey beat
you' country folks all holler?'

'Yes, they do, Joe. They handle their heels as nimbly as elephants.'

I spoke the truth; most of them did.

The distribution of the presents was resumed; and, as each <DW64>
received his full supply of flour, sugar, tea, coffee, molasses,
tobacco, and calico, grinning with joy over his new acquisitions, he
staggered off to his quarters. When the last box was nearly emptied,
with young Preston and Frank, I adjourned to the mansion.

The exterior of the 'great house' was unchanged, but its interior had
undergone a complete transformation. The plain oak flooring of the hall
had been replaced by porcelain tiling, and the neat, simple furniture of
the parlors by huge mirrors; rosewood and brocatelle sofas and lounges;
velvet tapestry carpets, in which one's feet sank almost out of sight;
and immense paintings, whose aggregate cost might have paid off one half
of the mortgage that encumbered the plantation.

Selma and her father were engaged in earnest conversation when we
entered the drawing room, and, being unwilling to interrupt them, I was
about to retire, but he rose, and said:

'Come in, Kirke; I will call Mrs. Preston. She will be glad to see you.'

The lady soon entered. It was eight years since we had met, but time had
touched her gently. Her face wore its old, decided, yet quiet
expression, and her manner showed the easy self-possession I had noticed
at our first interview. She was richly dressed, and had on a heavy satin
pelisse, and a blue velvet bonnet, as if about to ride out.

When the usual greetings were over, she remarked:

'You have been here some time, sir?'

'Yes, madam; we arrived about two hours ago; but I met some old friends
outside, and the pleasure of seeing them has made me a little tardy in
paying my respects to you.'

'The <DW64>s, you mean, sir,' she replied, with a slight toss of the
head, and a look of cool dignity which well became her.

'Yes, madam. I have many friends among the blacks. On many plantations
they look for my coming as they do for Christmas.'

'It is quite rare to find a white gentleman so fond of <DW64>s,' she
rejoined, with an air slightly more supercilious.

I remembered her as the humble schoolmistress, whose entire possessions
were packed in one trunk; and, forgetting myself, said, in a tone which
bore a slight trace of indignation:

'More rare, I fear, than it should be; and you and I, madam, who are
Yankees, and have 'worked for a living,' surely cannot despise the
<DW64>s because they are _compelled_ to work for theirs.'

'Oh! no, sir! not by any means! But you must excuse me; the carriage is
waiting to take me to church;' and, rising, she bowed herself stiffly
out of the door.

'Ah, you hit her there!' exclaimed Joe, springing to his feet in great
glee, and striding to the window. 'See here, Mr. Kirke! See what a
turnout the Yankee 'schulemarm' has worried out of father!'

'My son, you must not speak so; she is your mother!' said Preston.

'No, I'm d--d if she is! Call her anything but that, father; that's
an--'he checked himself; but I thought he would have added--'insult to
my dead mother!'

Preston made no reply.

Looking out of the window, I saw Mrs. Preston being handed into a
magnificent barouche by one of the black gentry she so much despised.
Another one in gaudy gold livery sat on the box, and a mounted outrider,
also bound up in gold braid, stood behind the carriage.

'There's a two-thousand-dollar turnout, and two fifteen-hundred-dollar
<DW65>s, to tote a woman who ought to go afoot. It's a poor investment,
I swear,' said Joe, turning away from the window.

Preston made no reply; but I laughingly remarked:

'Come, Joe, she isn't _your_ wife. Let your father spend his money as he
pleases; he can afford it.'

'He _can't_ afford it; that woman is running him to the devil at a
two-forty gait. You have more influence with him than any one, Mr.
Kirke--_do_ try to stop it!'

The young man spoke in a decided but regretful tone, and his manner
showed more respect to his father than his words implied. Unwilling to
interfere in such an affair, I said nothing; but Preston, in a moment,
remarked:

'It is true, Kirke! Her extravagance has ruined my credit at home, and
forced me to use Joe's indorsements; besides, I have had to borrow ten
thousand dollars of him to keep my head above water.'

[Mr. James Preston--the Squire's uncle--had died the year before, and
the young man had succeeded to his large property and business.]

I was thunderstruck; but, before I could reply, Joe said:

'I don't care a rush for the money. Father can have every dollar I've
got; but I _do_ want to see him rid of that woman. I've been here sick
for two months, and I've seen the whole. She is worrying the very life
out of him. She's made him an old man at forty.'

It was true. His face was lean and haggard, and his hair already thickly
streaked with white.

Preston rose, and, walking the room, said:

'But what am I to do? You yourself, Joe, would not have all this made
public. You've as much pride about it as I have.'

'I've not a bit of pride about it, father; and it's public now.
Everybody knows it, and everybody says you ought to cut her adrift.'

'What had I better do? Tell me, my friend,' said Preston, still walking
the room.

'I cannot advise, you, Preston. An outsider should express no opinion on
such matters.'

In a moment Preston said:

'Well, Joe, no more of this now. I'll do what is right, however much it
may wound my pride.'

The conversation turned to other subjects, till Mrs. Preston's return
from church, shortly after which dinner was announced. The lady presided
at the table with as much ease and grace as if she had been born to the
position; and in her charming conversation, I almost forgot the
revelations of the morning. The rest of the day I spent with Joe and
Frank, strolling over the plantation and mingling among the <DW64>s,
who, freed from work, were enjoying themselves in a very 'miscellaneous
manner.' Preston remained at the house with Selma.


CHAPTER XVII.

It was nearly dark when we returned to the mansion. Looking in at the
parlor, and not finding his father there, Joe led the way at once to the
library. The door was ajar, and, as we entered the passage way, loud
voices were issuing from it.

'I tell you, Mr. Preston, I am mistress of this plantation. He shall NOT
go!'

'Pardon me, madam, he _shall_, and to-night,' returned a mild but
decided voice, which I recognized as Preston's. Being unwilling to
overhear more, I turned away, but Joe caught me by the arm, exclaiming:

'If you are my father's friend, go in. If you don't, he will back down;
he has done so forty times.'

Preston was a man of more than ordinary firmness, but his wife had the
stronger will. She seemed possessed of a sort of magnetic power, which
enabled her to control others almost arbitrarily.

Reluctantly I followed the young man into the room. Preston was seated
before the fire; and Selma, with her arm around his neck, was standing
near him. Mulock, better clad than when I witnessed his purchase by the
'fast' young planter, and wearing a sullen, dogged expression, was
leaning against the centre table; and Mrs. Preston, gesticulating
wildly, and her face glowing with mingled rage and defiance, stood
within a few feet of her husband. Not heeding our entrance, she
exclaimed:

'I _will_ have my way. If you send him off, I will never darken your
doors again.'

'That is as you please, madam,' replied Preston. 'Mr. Kirke and Frank,
pray be seated.'

Stung by her husband's coolness, the lady turned fiercely upon Joe, and,
shaking her clenched hand in his face, cried out:

'This is _your_ work. I will teach you better than to meddle with my
affairs.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Madam, you act well,' said the young man, taking a step toward the
door. 'Pray come out to the quarters; poor as they are, every <DW64> will
give a bit to see _you_ play.'

In uncontrollable rage, she struck him a smart blow in the face, and
rushed from the room.

When she had gone, Preston turned to Mulock:

'Now go. The amount due you I shall retain to offset, in part, what you
have tempted the <DW64>s to steal. You can come here once a week--on
Sunday--to see Phylly; but if you have any more dealings with the hands,
I will prosecute you on the instant.'

Mulock rose, put on his slouched hat, and, a dull fire burning in his
cold, snake-like eyes, slowly said:

'Wall, Squire, I'll gwo, but 'counts 'tween you an' me ain't settled
yit.'

As he went, Selma leaned forward, and, kissing Preston's cheek, said;

'O father! I'm so glad _you_ didn't speak harshly to her.'

Preston put his arm about her, and replied:

'You helped me, my child. I should be a better, happier man, if you were
with me.'

'And I will be, father; I won't go away any more.'

'But Frank?' said Preston, again kissing her.

'Oh, you know we're not to be married for a good while yet. I'll stay
with you _till then_, father.'

'Ah! there she goes,' said Joe, looking out at the window, which
commanded a view of the _porte cochere_; 'she can't get to Newbern till
ten, but the night air won't hurt _her_.'

'Then she makes Newbern her home now?'

'Yes, she spends the winters there; she came here only yesterday.'


CHAPTER XVIII.

Ally and Rosey were to be married[3] in the little church, and, directly
after supper, we all went to the wedding. The seats had been removed
from the centre of the building, for, though duly consecrated to the use
of the saints, the sinners were to exercise their heels in it after the
ceremony was over. At its farther extremity, the carpenter's bench of
which I have spoken, elongated at both ends, and covered with a white
table cloth, was piled high with eatables; indicating that a time of
'great refreshment' was at hand. The bounteous supply of ham, chicken,
wild duck, roast pig, fish, hoecake, wheat bread, tea, coffee, milk, and
pumpkin and sweet-potato pies under which the bench groaned, showed that
some liberal hand had catered for the occasion.

Black Joe, dressed in his 'Sunday best,' was seated on the rustic settee
at the back of the desk, and Phyllis and Dinah occupied chairs inside
the low railing, which faced the pulpit. Phyllis looked careworn and
sad, but Ally's mother was as radiant as a brass kettle in a blaze of
light wood. She wore a white dress, stiffly starched and expanded by
immense hoops, and a crimped nightcap, whose broad border flapped about
like the wings of a crowing rooster; and she looked, for all the world,
like a black ghost in a winding sheet, escaped from below, and bound on
a 'good time generally.' Two 'shining lights,' on either side of the
pulpit, held aloft blazing torches of pine, which illuminated the sea of
grinning darkness, and sent up a smoke like that arising from the pit
which is said to be bottomless. About a hundred <DW54>s were present;
and the number of glossy coats, fancy turbans, gaudy bonnets, red
shawls, and flaming dresses, which the light disclosed, was amazing. The
poor worm that grubbed in the earth, had appeared ('for that occasion
only') as a butterfly; and Lazarus, rid of his rags, had come forth
dressed like a Broadway dandy.

Any person of sensitive olfactories would have halted in the doorway;
but I elbowed through the woolly gathering, and followed Frank and Selma
to the family pew. Tittering, laughing, and flaunting their red and
yellow kerchiefs, the black people were enjoying themselves amazingly,
when 'Dar dey comes,' 'Dar'm de happy pussons,' went round the
assemblage, and the bride and groom, attended by two sable couples,
entered the building. After some ludicrous mistakes, they got 'into
position' in front of the railing, and Black Joe took a stand before
them.

Rosey was dressed in white, with a neat fillet of pink and blue ribbon
about her head; and Ally wore a black frock coat, with white vest, and
white cotton gloves. One of the groomsmen--a rustic beau from a
neighboring plantation--wore an immensely long-tailed blue coat with
brass buttons, a flaming red waistcoat, yellow woollen mittens, and a
neckerchief that looked like a secession flag hugging a lamp-post. Both
of these gentry had hats of stove-pipe pattern, very tall, and with
narrow brims; and--they wore them during the ceremony.

'Silence in de meetin',' cried Joe.

The boisterous sea of black wool subsided to a dead calm. Those not
already standing rose, and Joe commenced reading the marriage service of
the Episcopal Church.

The parties immediately interested appeared to have conned their lessons
well; for they made all the responses with great propriety; but some of
the congregation seemed less familiar with the service. When Joe
repeated the words, 'If any man kin show cause why dese folks should not
be lawfully jined togedder, leff him now speak, or else foreber hole
his peace,' Dinah turned to the audience, and cried out:

'Yas, jess leff him come out wid it _now_. I'd like ter see de man dat's
got onyting agin it.'

No one appeared to have 'onyting agin it,' and Joe proceeded to read the
words: 'I require and charge you, if either of you know any impediment,'
etc. In the midst of it a voice called out:

'Dar ain't no 'pedimen', Boss Joe; I knows dat. Gwo on, sar!' 'Dat's so,
brudder,' said another voice. 'Dat's de Lord's trufh,' echoed a third.
'Doan't be 'sturbin' de meetin'; de young folks want de 'splicin' done,'
cried a fourth; and 'Amen,' shouted a dozen.

'Shet up, all on you,' yelled Joe, turning on them with an imperious
gesture; 'ef you hain't no more manners dan dat, clar out.'

Silence soon ensued, and Joe went on without interruption to the place
where the minister asks the bride-groom: 'Wilt thou have this woman to
thy wedded wife?' Then Dinah, unable to contain herself longer, joyfully
exclaimed:

'Ob course he will--ony youn' feller'd be glad to hab _har_.'

[Never having gone through the ceremony herself, the poor woman could
not be expected to know what was appropriate to the occasion.]

No further interruption occurred, and soon the happy couple were 'bone
of one bone, and flesh of one flesh.' The assemblage still standing, Joe
then turned to Ally and Rosey, and, with a manner so solemn and
impressive that he seemed altogether a different person from the merry
<DW54> who had entered so heartily into the 'high ole heel scrapin'' of
the morning; he spoke somewhat as follows:

'My chil'ren, love one anoder; bar wid one anoder; be faithful to one
anoder. You hab started on a long journey; many rough places am in de
road; many trubbles will spring up by de wayside; but gwo on hand an'
hand togedder; love one anoder; an' no matter what come onter you, you
will be happy--fur love will sweeten ebery sorrer, lighten ebery load,
make de sun shine in eben de bery cloudiest wedder. I knows it will, my
chil'ren, 'case I'se been ober de groun'. Ole Aggy an' I hab trabbled de
road. Hand in hand we hab gone ober de rocks; fru de mud; in de hot,
burnin' sand; ben out togedder in the cole, an' de rain, an' de storm,
fur nigh onter forty yar, but we hab clung to one anoder; we hab loved
one anoder; and fru eberyting, in de bery darkest days, de sun ob joy
an' peace hab broke fru de clouds, an' sent him blessed rays down inter
our hearts. We started jess like two young saplin's you's seed a growin'
side by side in de woods. At fust we seemed way 'part, fur de brambles,
an' de tick bushes, an' de ugly forns--dem war our bad ways--war atween
us; but love, like de sun, shone down on us, and we grow'd. We grow'd
till our heads got above de bushes; till dis little branch an' dat
little branch--dem war our holy feelin's--put out toward one anoder, an'
we come closer an' closer togedder. And dough we'm old trees now, an'
sometime de wind blow, an' de storm rage fru de tops, and freaten to
tear off de limbs, an' to pull up de bery roots, we'm growin' closer an'
closer, an' nearer an' nearer togedder ebery day. And soon de old tops
will meet; soon de ole branches, all cobered ober wid de gray moss, will
twine round one anoder; soon de two ole trunks will come togedder and
grow inter _one_ foreber--grow inter one up dar in de sky, whar de wind
neber'll blow, whar de storm neber'll beat; whar we shill blossom an'
bar fruit to de glory ob de Lord, an' in His heabenly kingdom foreber!

'Yas, my chil'ren, you hab started on a long journey, an' nuffin' will
git you fru it but _love_. Nuttin' will hole you up, nuffin' will keep
you faithful to one anoder, nuffin' will make you bar wid one anoder,
but love. None ob us kin lib widout it; but married folks want it most
ob all. Dey need it more dan de bread dey eat, de water dey drink, or de
air dey breafe. De worle couldn't gwo on widout it. De bery sun would
gwo out in de heabens but fur dat! An' shill I tell you why? You hab
heerd massa Robert talk 'bout de great law dat make de apple fall from
de tree, de rock sink in de water; dat bines our feet to de round 'arth
so we don't drop off as it gwo fru de air; dat holes de sun an' de stars
in dar 'pointed places, so dat, day after day, an' yar after yar, dough
dey'm trabblin' fasser dan de lightnin' eber went, dey'm right whar dey
should be. He call it 'traction, an' all de great men call it so; but
dat ain't de name! It am LOVE. It am GOD, fur GOD am love, an' love am
GOD, an' love bines de whole creashun togedder! An' shill I tell you how
it do it? Does you see dis hand? how I open de fingers; how I shet'm up;
how I rise de whole arm? Does you see dis foot, dat I does wid jess de
same? Does you see dis whole body, how I make it, in a twinklin', do
jess what I like? Now what am it dat make my hand move, an' my whole
'body turn round so sudden, dat I'se only to say: 'Do it,' an' it'm
done? Why, it am ME. It'm _me_, dat libs up yere in de brain, an' sends
my _will_ fru ebery part--fru ebery siner, an' ebery muscle, an' ebery
little jint, an' make'm all do jess what I like. Now man am made in de
image of GOD, an' dis pore, weak ole body am a small pattern ob de whole
creashun. Eberyting go on jess as _it_ do. Eberyting am held togedder,
an' moved 'bout, jess as _it_ am--but it'm GOD dat move it, not me! He
libs up dar in de sky--which am His brain--wid de stars fur His hands,
de planets fur His feet, an' de whole univarse fur His body; an' He
sends His will--which am love--fru ebery part ob de whole, an' moves it
'bout, an' make it do jess as He likes. So you see, it am my will sent
fru ebery muscle, an' ebery little siner, dat moves my body; so it am
_His_ will sent fru what de'stronomers an' de poets call de heabenly
ether, dat moves _His_ body--which am de 'arth, an' de sun, an' de
stars, an' you an' me, an' ebery libin' ting in all creashun! His will
move 'em all; AN' HIS WILL AM LOVE! An' don't you see dat you can't do
widout His love? Dat it am de bery breaf ob life? Dat, ef it war tooken
'way from you, fur jess one moment, you'd drop down, an' die, an' neber
come to life agin--no, not in dis worle, nor in any oder worle? It am
so, my chil'ren; an' de more you hab ob dat love, de happier you'll be;
de more you'll love one ander; de easier you'll gwo fru you' life--de
more joyfuller you'll meet you' deafh--de happier you'll be all fru de
long, long ages dat'm comin' in de great Yereafter! Den, O my chil'ren!
Love God, Love one anoder! You can't be happy widout you love GOD, an'
you can't love Him widout you love one anoder!'

When Joe had concluded, he saluted the bride in a manner that many
another sooty gentleman present would have been glad to imitate, and
then took a stand at the head of the supper table. An immense tureen,
filled with steaming oysters, was soon brought in and placed before him,
and looking up, he said grace, in which he thanked Him who feedeth the
ravens for putting it into his master's heart to feed His other black
creatures, the <DW54>s present on that occasion. He asked for his master
many a happy 'Chrismus down yere,' and an eternal 'Chrismus in heaben,'
and he added: 'An' knowin' dat dou hatest long prayers, an' long faces,
an' dose folks dat gwo 'bout grumblin', as ef dy happy 'arth war nuffin'
but a graveyard; may we enjoy dis feast an' dis day as dy true
chil'ren--de chil'ren ob a good Fader, who am all joy an' all
gladness--an' while we'm eatin' an' drinkin' an' dancin', may we make
merry in our hearts to _Thee_. Amen.'

When he concluded, Preston stepped to his side, and taking the big
ladle from his hand, said:

'Stand aside, Joe, you have done work enough for to-night;' and turning
to 'we white folks' in the family pew, he added: 'If any man among you
would be master, let him now be the servant of all. Let him try his hand
at the waiter business, and see if he can't throw these shady people
into the _shade_.'

Selma, Frank, 'massa Joe,' and I went forward, and tying the <DW64>s'
aprons about our waists, took appropriate places around the table.

'Now all of you find seats,' cried Preston; and amid a hurricane of
giggling and merry laughter, the black people seated themselves on the
floor, on the platform, and on the row of benches ranged along the
walls. Preston proceeded to fill up the bowls with the savory stew, and
we dispensed the eatables among them, and for half an hour I witnessed
as much enjoyment as often falls to the lot of black sinners in this
'vale of tears.'

'Now, ef dis doan't beat all,' exclaimed old Dinah, as I handed her a
huge chunk of gingerbread; 'ef 'ou ain't right smart at waitin', massa
Kirke, I'd like ter know it.'

'Keep dark, ole 'ooman,' shouted Black Joe; 'doan't you say nuffin'
'bout dat, or de traders'll be a hole ob him. He'd sell fur a right
likely hand, _shore_.'

'I woan't do nuffin' but keep dark, Boss Joe,' rejoined Dinah, grinning
till her face opened from ear to ear. 'I'll hab 'ou know, sar, dat none
but white ladies paints!'

'Good fur you, ole lady,' cried the preacher. 'After dat you'll gib me
de pleasure ob your hand in de fuss dance.'

'Ob course, I will, _mister_ Joe; an' ef 'ou'm tired ob de ole 'ooman,
I'll gib 'ou my han' in anoder dance.'

'No, you woan't, I doan't gwo fur second marridges,' rejoined Joe,
looking slyly at Preston; 'dey ain't made in heaben.'

'No more' dey ain't,' said the old woman, heaving a long sigh, and also
looking at Preston.

'You ain't a gwine to leff dese folks dance in de church, am you, Boss
Joe?' asked a prim, demure-looking <DW54>, in a black suit, with a white
neckerchief and stiff shirt collar; probably some neighboring preacher.

'I reckon so,' replied Joe, dryly.

'An' _I_ reckons so, too, mister I scare-you-out (Iscariot),' cried the
old negress. 'Ain't de planets de Lord's feet, an' doant dey dance! I
reckons we ain't no better dan de Lord is; an' ef He mobes him feet,
'ou'd better mobe 'our'n. _We_ b'lieve in sarvin' HIM wid our han's an'
our feet, too; we does, mister I-scare-you-out.'

She did scare him out, for the 'pious gemman' left suddenly.

When about all of the eatables had found their way down the
cavernous--and ravenous--throats of the <DW54>s, Boss Joe rose and
called out:

'Yere, you massa Joe, you pull off you' apern, an' take de big
fiddle--I'm 'gaged fur de fuss dance.'

Young Preston seated himself on the platform, and several sable
gentlemen with banjoes and fiddles took places beside him.

'Now all you men folks s'lect you' pardners,' cried the preacher, taking
Dinah by the hand, and leading her out to the middle of the floor.

They all paired off, the fiddles broke into a merry tune, and soon the
little church, which had so often echoed with the groans of the saints,
shook with the heels of the sinners. When the first dance was over, Boss
Joe again called out:

'Now, massa Joe, strike up de waltz--Dinah an' I am gwine to show dese
folks some highfalutin dancin'.'

The waltz struck up, and off they whirled; Dinah went into it as if she
were working for pay, and as Joe held her closely in his arms, her wide
hoops expanded till she looked like a topsail schooner scudding under
bare poles.

As Joe was wiping the perspiration from his face, at the end of the
waltz, an old <DW64> entered, and whispered something in his ear. Joe's
countenance fell in an instant, and, without saying a word, he left the
room.

'Massa Joe,' relinquishing the big fiddle, then took the floor with
Rosey, and gave the audience a genuine breakdown. His heels bobbed
around like balls at a cricket match, and Rosey's petticoats fluttered
about like the contents of a clothes line caught out in a hurricane. A
better-looking couple were never seen in a ball room.

'He's a natural born <DW54>,' said his father, laughing; 'he takes to
dancing as a duck takes to water.'

A general dance followed. In the midst of it the old <DW64> who had
called Joe out, again came in, and making his way to where Preston and I
were standing, said, in a low tone:

'Massa Robert, Ole Jack am dyin'; will 'ou come?'

'Dying!' exclaimed Preston. 'Yes, I'll be there at once. Kirke, you
remember the old man--come with me.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: This was the conjuror's bag of the Africans. It is called
'waiter,' or 'kunger,' by the Southern blacks, and is supposed to have
the power to charm away evil spirits, and to do all manner of
miraculously good things for its wearer. Those that I have seen are
harmless little affairs, consisting only of small pieces of rags sewed
up in coarse muslin.]

[Footnote 2: The name of the African god.]

[Footnote 3: Usually there is no marriage performed at the union of
slaves. They simply agree, tacitly or otherwise, to live together till
death or their master parts them.]




THE CAPTAIN OF '63 TO HIS MEN.


   Come to the field, boys, come!
   Come at the call of the stirring drum--
             Come, boys, come!
   Yonder's the foe to our country's fame,
   Waiting to blot out her very name--
   Where is the man that would see her shame?
             Come, boys, come!

   Form, my brave men, form!
   Stand in good order to 'meet the storm'--
             Form, men, form!
   Sacred to us is our native land!
   Shrivelled for aye be each traitor hand
   Lifted to shatter so bright a band--
             Form, men, form!

   Charge, my soldiers, charge!
   From the steep hill to the river's marge,
             Charge! charge! charge!
   Think of our wives and mothers dear;
   Think of the hopes that have led us here;
   Think of the hearts that will give us cheer--
             Charge, boys, charge!

   Die with me, boys, die!
   There's a place for all in yon bannered sky,
             If we die, boys, die!
   Think of the names that are shining bright,
   Written in letters of living light!
   Rather than give up the sacred Right,
     Let's die, boys, die!




THE VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL.


   'Tis the soft twilight. 'Round the shining fender,
     Two at my feet and one upon my knee,
       Dreamy-eyed Elsie, bright-lipped Isabel,
       And thou, my golden-headed Raphael,
         My fairy, small and slender,
           Listen to what befel
             Monk Gabriel,
     In the old ages ripe with mystery--
   Listen, my darlings, to the legend tender.

     A bearded man, with grave, but gentle look--
         His silence sweet with sounds
   With which the simple-hearted Spring abounds:
   Lowing of cattle from the abbey grounds,
     Chirping of insect, and the building rook,
   Mingled like murmurs of a dreaming shell;
     Quaint tracery of bird and branch and brook
       Flitting across the pages of his book,
       Until the very words a freshness took--
             Deep in his cell,
           Sate the Monk Gabriel.

             In his book he read
     The words the Master to His dear ones said:
             'A little while and ye
                   Shall see,
               Shall gaze on Me;
             A little while, again,
             Ye shall not see Me then.'
                 _A little while!_
         The monk looked up--a smile
   Making his visage brilliant, liquid-eyed:
             'O Thou, who gracious art
             Unto the poor of heart,
           O Blessed Christ!' he cried,
               'Great is the misery
               Of mine iniquity;
             But would _I_ now might see,
               Might feast on Thee!'
             The blood, with sudden start,
             Nigh rent his veins apart--
       (O condescension of the Crucified!)
             In all the brilliancy
             Of His Humanity,
           The Christ stood by his side!

   Pure as the early lily was His skin,
         His cheek out blushed the rose,
             His lips, the glows
     Of autumn sunset on eternal snows:
           And His deep eyes within,
     Such nameless beauties, wondrous glories dwelt,
     The monk in speechless adoration knelt.
   In each fair hand, in each fair foot, there shone
     The peerless stars He took from Calvary:
     Around His brows, in tenderest lucency,
   The thorn-marks lingered, like the flush of dawn;
     And from the opening in His side there rilled
     A light, so dazzling, that the room was filled
   With heaven: and transfigured in his place,
           His very breathing stilled,
   The friar held his robe before his face,
         And heard the angels singing!
     'Twas but a moment--then, upon the spell
   Of this sweet Presence, lo! a something broke:
   A something, trembling, in the belfry woke,
       A shower of metal music flinging
   O'er wold and moat, o'er park and lake and fell,
     And, through the open windows of the cell,
       In silver chimes came ringing.

             It was the bell
         Calling Monk Gabriel
           Unto his daily task,
     To feed the paupers at the abbey gate.
             No respite did he ask,
     Nor for a second summons idly wait;
       But rose up, saying in his humble way:
             'Fain would I stay,
             O Lord! and feast alway
   Upon the honeyed sweetness of Thy beauty--
       But 'tis _Thy_ will, not mine, I must obey;
           Help me to do my duty!'
         The while the Vision smiled,
   The monk went forth, light-hearted as a child.

     An hour thence, his duty nobly done,
             Back to his cell he came.
   Unasked, unsought, lo! his reward was won!
     Rafters and walls and floor were yet aflame
       With all the matchless glory of that Sun,
     And in the centre stood the Blessed One--
           (Praised be His Holy Name!)
   Who, for our sakes, our crosses made His own.
           And bore our weight of shame!
       Down on the threshold fell
           Monk Gabriel,
   His forehead pressed upon the floor of clay;
   And, while in deep humility he lay,
   Tears raining from his happy eyes away,
   'Whence is this favor, Lord?' he strove to say.
         The Vision only said,
         Lifting its shining head:
   'If thou hadst staid, O son! _I_ must have fled!'

        PHILADELPHIA




THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS.

CONTAINING A FEW COMMENTS ON THE WORK OF THAT NAME, PUBLISHED BY THE
MARQUIS OF WORCESTER, IN 1663.


There is nothing which the world dreads so much as an unpitying truth.
The history of ideas is that of men trying to persuade themselves that
special miracles of amiability are ever being worked, from the cradle to
the grave, in their favor. Of the tremendous inconsistency and
destructiveness which such miracles imply, they take no heed. The most
unpalatable fact in physics is that of the Struggle for Life.

Ideas once born may never die, but it is worth noting how many men must
die ere their ideas can live. The Indo-Germanic race has always been
blessed with many of those self-cursed martyrs, the Anticipators, or the
men who have outstripped their age. Like the advance guard of the summer
swallows, they have generally died by frosts and lived in fables.

Germany is very proud of her Berchthold Schwartz, and in her pride has
made a proverb declaring that his invention was the proof of supreme
wisdom. When they describe a fool, they say there that he did not
discover gunpowder. But 'the first handful of gunpowder' did not, as
Carlyle claims, drive Monk Schwartz's pestle through the ceiling. Long
before Schwartz, lived Bacon; and a century or so before Bacon, there
were in existence Norman-Latin recipes, says Palsgrave--who had seen
them--_ad faciendum le crake_, for making firecrackers--at least, for
making gunpowder which would crack merrily when fired. Stained glass
windows, according to the cheap and easy explanations of those who used
to send us to natural scenery for every origin in architecture, were
suggested by beholding the winter sunset lines of the sky through the
bare gothic-window tracery of a leafless forest. Recent research finds
the stained window in the antique burning East, where no studies were
made by frost or forest light--nay, the leaves carved by
tradition-loving Gothic Free Masons in churches often keep a peculiar
Eastern form.

I am not, however, lecturing of Lost Arts in the strain which sings
'there is nothing new under the sun,' and which in a chilling manner
benumbs the faith in progress by shaking with a grin before the wearied
inventor some skeleton puppet of buried ages, which resembles his great
thought as a hut resembles a palace. On the contrary, I find in this
strange frequency of anticipation among Indo-Germanic races, and in its
premature failures, a vast proof of inventive vitality and of promise of
great rising truths into all future ages. 'Steam power is nothing new,'
say the advocates of the genius of the past. Hero of Alexandria invented
a steam toy--as he who can read his _Spiritalia_ published by the
Jesuits in 1693 may learn for himself. But the power now roaring and
whizzing all over the world, and which would build every pyramid and
every monument of Egypt now extant in twenty-four hours, is no toy. When
I think of this, there is no ingenious trifle for amusement which does
not inspire a droll awe. Possibly those walking dolls now performing
their weary pilgrimages on level glass-pane floors in Broadway
windows--gravely lifting those enormous gilded boots, which remind me of
Miss Kilmansegg and Queen Berta _a grands pies_, in one--have a good
reason for their dignity of gait. For may they not be golden-footed and
solemn, like her who rose from the waves of old to prophesy to her
son?--and if she was _silver_-footed, it makes no difference, for so are
some of the _autoperiper_--nay, _that_ word finishes me, and I go no
further. Such a block of Greek would bring even a German sentence down
with a crash to a verbless conclusion. What I would have said was, that
it may be that these dolls are heralds of greater dolls yet to come,
which shall be wound up to fetch and carry, to sew on buttons--nay, it
is even possible (in the wildest of dreams) that they may be made to
boil potatoes properly. And I have been told that a recent improvement
in boys' rocking horses, by means of which a trotting motion is given to
the legs of those docile animals, has suggested to a mechanic of this
city the construction of a very good automatic steed, whose only fault
is slowness. May I suggest that a very great improvement indeed may yet
be made on that horse, and that the two-forty of a coming generation may
be the result, not of oats and hay, but of steel springs and cylinders?
The first wooden horse burnt Troy--what will the last do?

I have been reminded of the strange tendency in man--but more especially
of the Indo-Germanic or Aryan man--to anticipate by invention the wants
of an age, sometimes centuries beforehand--by turning over that very
curious work, the 'Century of Inventions,' by the Marquis of Worcester,
in which, as in the commonplace book of an author, one may find jotted
down many an undeveloped idea of great promise. In this connection we
may be allowed to borrow somewhat from a biography by Charles F.
Partington, published in 1825.

Edward Lord Herbert, the sixth earl and second Marquis of Worcester, was
born at Ragland near Monmouth; and his family, long distinguished for
the most devoted loyalty, possessed the largest landed estate of any
then attached to the British court. What this was in those times is set
forth by the fact that in 1628 the father of the marquis had a revenue
of upward of twenty thousand pounds. In 1642, the year in which his son
was created marquis, the young heir raised, supported, and commanded an
army of 1,500 foot and near 500 horse soldiers.

He had a stormy life before him, this young marquis, with many more
scenes, adventures, and changes than are to be found in Woodstock and
Peveril of the Peak. How he fought well, recapturing Monmouth among
other things from the Puritan General Massey, how he was appointed, in
consequence of his daring cavaliering raids, by Charles II to negotiate
with the Irish Catholics; how the king often visited him at Ragland, is
all a fine story, well worth reading. We can get glimpses of that REGAL
life--as Mr. Partington admiringly small-caps his climax, from the 'list
of the Ragland household' with the earl's order of dining--castle gates
closed at eleven o'clock in the morning, the entry of the earl with a
grand escort, 'the retiral of the steward'--the advance of 'the
Comptroller, Mr. Holland, attended by _his_ staff'--'as did the sewer,
the daily waiters, and many gentlemen's sons, with estates from two to
seven hundred pounds a year, who were bred up in the castle, and my
lady's gentlemen of the chamber.' Therein, too, we see the rattling of
trenchers, and hear the gurgling of bottles, at the first table, of the
noble family, and such stray nobility as came there; at the second
table, of knights and honorables--at the second 'first table' in the
hall of 'Sir Ralph Blackstone, Steward; the Comptroller, the Master of
the Horse, the Master of the Fish Ponds, my Lord Herbert's Preceptor,'
and such gentlemen as were under degree of a knight--these all being
'plentifully served with wine.' Of the second table there is no note of
much wine, but it still had 'hot meats from my Lord's table,' and at it
sat the Sewer with gentlemen waiters and pages to the number of
twenty-four--and even now we are not yet come to the vulgar. For at the
_third_ table sat my Lord's Chief Auditor, his Purveyor of the Castle,
Keeper of the Records--Ushers of the Hall--Clerk--Closet Keeper--Master
of the Armory--and below these divers Masters of the Hounds--Twelve
Master Grooms of the Stables, Master Falconer--Keepers of the Red Deer
Park--and below these yet one hundred and fifty 'footmen, grooms, and
other menial servants.'

Bright gleams vanish--the stately dinner parties grow dim, Masters of
Horses and Hounds go to battle, the plate is melted down, and all is sad
and sere. The young lord is sent by King Charles abroad, and
Parliamentary Fairfax comes thundering at the gate, where admittance is
refused by the venerable old marquis. Fairfax besieges boldly and is
gallantly attacked by repeated sallies. I had rather the Puritans, with
whom all my head goes, and with it half my heart, had behaved better
than they did on this occasion. For after the venerable old marquis had
fought nobly and surrendered on honorable terms, I am sorry to say he
was most dishonorably treated, the conditions of capitulation being
disgracefully violated, and the old marquis put in close prison, where
he soon died in his eighty-fifth year.--Well, well--there was abundance
of such false faith and dark villany on both sides ere the war was over.
Be it remembered that these same nobles had kept the honor too closely
to themselves, and ridiculed it out of life quite too sharply in the
'base mechanicals' to fairly expect mastery in gentility from them. And
in these same Partingtonian Biographies, I am often inclined to suspect
that the lions do some of their own carving.

Puritans sequestered and smashed the estate right and left--lead sold
for six thousand pounds, woods cut down and sold for one hundred
thousand more. 'Pity!' do you say? Reader mine, there is enough land in
parks at this present day in broad England to feed that wretched one
eighth of her population who are now buried at public expense. That
dis-parking business was at any rate not badly done.

Little more is seen of the young lord through the war. In 1654 he is at
King Charles's court in France--is sent to London to procure supplies of
money for the king--is caught and Towered, where he rests for several
years, sorrowfully poor, if we may judge from a letter to Colonel
Copley, in which he declares that 'I am forced to begge, if you could
possible, eyther to helpe me with tenne pownds to this bearer, or to
make vse of the coache and to goe to Mr. Clerke, and if he could this
daye helpe me to fifty pownds then to paye yourself the five pownds I
owe you out of them.' A melancholy letter, after all that glittering
Arthur's-court splendor of first, second, and third tables of nobility,
Masters of Robes and Records--a letter in which there seems some trace
of getting money by 'projects' and 'bubbles'--whether of doing little
bills or by Notable Inventions, I will not say. Prison does not, it is
true, last forever, but its doors open on a scene of baseness blacker
than that which brought the brave old marquis with sorrow to his grave.
The tale is told in a paragraph:

     'On the king's restoration, the Marquis of Worcester was one of the
     first to congratulate his Majesty on the happy event, though the
     situation of the unfortunate nobleman was little bettered by the
     change; indeed it appeared but as the signal for new persecutions,
     as one of the earliest public acts of the ungrateful monarch may be
     characterized as an insidious attempt to set aside the claims of
     his earliest and best friend.'

'Put not thy trust in princes.' To contrast this treatment of poor
Worcester with the fervent written promises of the ungrateful 'C. R.' or
Carolus Rex, might have shook the faith of Dr. Johnson in his beloved
'merry monarch.' The earlier letters of the king to the marquis, when
something was expected of the 'gallant cavalier,' and the latter had
'money to lend,' are painfully amusing:

     OXFORD, _Feb. 12._ * * 'I am sensible of the dangers yu will
     undergo, and ye greate trouble and expences you must be at, not
     being able to assist yu who have already spente aboue a Million of
     Crowns in my Service, neither can I saye more then I well remembr
     to have spoke and written to you that allready words could not
     expresse your merits nor my gratitude: and that next to my wife and
     children I was most bound to take care of you, whereof I have
     besides others, particularly assured yor Cosin Biron as a person
     deare unto you. * * And rest assured, if God should crosse me wth
     your miscarrying I will treate your Sonne as myne owne, and that
     yw labour for a deare friende as well as a thankfull Master when
     tyme shall afforde meanes to acknowledge how much I am

         'Yor most assured real constant
                   and thankfull friend
                           'CHARLES R.'



There are other letters from Charles R., very little to his credit as
regards the keeping of promises, and likewise several strange papers of
the Worcester people, showing that they had their clouds and humors,
like other families. Of our marquis--the reader will readily pardon me
all that I have digressed to say of his early history--it must suffice
to tell that, after the Restoration, he appears as a poor inventor, and
that on the 3d April, 1663, a bill was brought into Parliament for
granting to him and his successors the whole of the profits that might
arise from the use of a water-raising engine, described in the last
article in the 'Century' of Inventions. The 'Century' itself had been
presented to the king and commons some months previously. This
invention, coupled with its penultimate and antepenultimate ninety-ninth
and ninety-eighth inventions, may indeed be justly considered as the
wonder of the 'Century,' since, when united with the sixty-eighth, they
appear, in Partington's opinion, to suggest all the data essential for
the construction of a modern steam engine. The injustice which he
encountered during life, seems to have followed Worcester for two
centuries after death; for Lord Orford declares that the bill granting
the marquis such advantages as his invention might give birth to, was
passed on a simple affirmation of the discovery that he (the marquis)
had made. 'His lordship's want of candour in this statement will be
apparent when it is known that there were no less than seven meetings of
committees on the subject, composed of some of the most learned men in
the house, who, after considerable amendments, finally passed it on the
12 May.'

It is touching to see the absolute, extreme, life-giving faith in the
merit of his invention which inspired the marquis--and in this strange
faith, like a prophecy, even more than in his invention itself,
considering the way in which he probably came by it, do we recognize
that Genius which rises here and there in the past history of the Aryan
races, and that so all-sidedly and confidingly as to seem miraculous. I
confess that when I look closely and deeply into the knowledge of Dante
and Lionardo da Vinci, of Fiar Bacon, and the Cavalier Marquis of
Worcester, an awe comes over me. All of them seem to have been so
great, some of their order so _unearthly_ great; and they held the keys
to so many mysteries, and to doors of science which were not unlocked
for long centuries after their death; and there was in all of them such
a strange sympathy and knowledge with the other great men as yet unborn,
who were to come after them, and for whom they seem to have labored, and
to whom they talked with the confidence of friends. I never pause before
a certain passage in Dante's 'Inferno,' without the feelings of one
standing before a great prophet--some marvellous earthly ancient of
days, who foresaw all to come:

   'Di la fosti cotanto quant'io scesi:
   Quando mi volsi, tu possasti 'l punto
   Alqual si troggon d'ogni parte i pasi.'

   'Thou wast on the other side so long as I
   Descended; when I turned thou didst o'erpass
   That point to which from every part is dragged
   All heavy unbalance!'

It was well thought by Monti that, had this passage been noted by
Newton, it might have given him a better hint than the falling apple.
Perhaps it did, for Newton was no poet, and it is the poetic,
associative-minded men of genius who have always preceded the greatest,
strictly scientific minds, and far surpassed the latter in the
comprehensiveness of their views. Bear with me, ye men of Induction, for
I believe in the coming age, at whose threshold we even now stand, when
ye and the poets shall be one.

The Marquis of Worcester was not like the indifferentist philosopher, so
well set forth by Charles Woodruff Shields in his _Philosophia
Ultima_,[4] as one who would not invade, but only ignore the province of
revelation, regarding its mysteries as matters entirely too vague to be
taken into the slightest account in his exact science. For our good Lord
Herbert thought Heaven had a great deal to do with his inventions, as is
proved by his 'ejaculatory and extemporary Thanksgiving Prayer, when
first with his corporeal eyes he did see finished a perfect trial of his
Water-commanding Engine, delightful and useful to whomsoever hath in
recommendation either knowledge, profit, or pleasure.' And--never mind
the delay, reader--we will even look at that prayer, in which this world
and the next blend so strangely;

     'Oh! infinitely omnipotent GOD! whose mercies are fathomless, and
     whose knowledge is immense and inexhaustible; next to my creation
     and redemption I render thee most humble thanks from the very
     bottom of my heart and bowels, for thy vouchsafing me (the meanest
     in understanding) an insight in soe great a secret of nature,
     beneficent to all mankind, as this my water-commanding engine.
     Suffer me not to be puffed up, O Lord, by the knowing of it, and
     many more rare and unheard off, yea, unparalleled inventions,
     tryals, and experiments. But humble my haughty heart, by the true
     knowledge of myne owne ignorant, weake, and unworthy nature; proane
     to all euill. O most merciful Father my creator, most
     compassionatting Sonne my redeemers, and Holyest of Spiritts the
     sanctifier, three diuine persons and one God, grant me a further
     concurring grace with fortitude to take hould of thy goodnesse, to
     the end that whatever I doe, unanimously and courageously to serve
     my king and country, to disabuse, rectifie, and convert my
     undeserved yet wilfully incredulous enemyes, to reimburse
     thankfully my creditors, to reimmunerate my benefactors, to
     reinhearten my distressed family, and with complacence to gratifie
     my suffering and confiding friends, may, voyde of vanity or selfe
     ends, be only directed to thy honour and glory everlastingly.
     _Amen!_'

How this great invention faded and was forgotten till the days of Watt
and Fulton, is hardly worth surmising. It had been born and died long
before. Was it not in 1514 that Blasco de Garay set a steamboat afloat
on the Tagus? Sometimes, as in the case of John Fitch, it seems to have
grown spontaneously from the instinctive impulse to create, as Fichte
calls art. I have seen old men, who had known Fitch: their account of
his severely won improvements, and more recently his 'Life,' make me
believe that he owed nothing to precedent. But the marquis, I am sorry
to say, notwithstanding his prayer and his bold claim to originality,
cannot come off with so clear a record, so far as invention is
concerned. He certainly gave a good, plausible account of the discovery,
or it was given for him, and this went current for many years in books
of inventions. It was said that the marquis, while confined in the Tower
of London, was preparing some food in his apartment, and the cover of
the vessel, having been closely fitted, was, by the expansion of the
steam, suddenly forced off and driven up the chimney. 'This
circumstance, attracting his attention, led him to a train of thought,
which terminated in the completion of his 'water-commanding engine.''

_E ben trovato._ Unfortunately, within a few years, and since Partington
published the 'Century of Invention,' there was unearthed from the
gossiping letters of a gay French court-belle, who little dreamed what
ill service she was doing her gallant, and what good service to history,
a chance bit of trifling, as she probably deemed it, which sends the
marquis's story exploding up the chimney after the lid of his apocryphal
kettle. It seems that when the marquis was in France, he, in accordance
with the elegant and refined custom which prevailed there and in
England, as the reader may gather from Boswell's 'Johnson'--went with
this lady to visit the madmen confined in the public prison.

I have already digressed so widely in this article, that a sin more or
less, of the kind, need not be noted too severely. Reader, if you are
one of those who think that mankind do not progress in heart, what think
you of this pretty custom of the last century, according to which
gentlemen and ladies of the highest rank, 'persons of quality,' made up
parties to visit public madhouses, which, by the way, were common shows,
at one penny entrance fee, and where the young gentlemen poked the mad
people with sticks, and pelted them, shook their chains, and jeered
them, till they foamed and raved, and the young misses giggled and gave
pretty screams, and cried, 'Oh, fie!' and 'lor!' and then the visitors
all laughed together? Then Miss ----, a little bolder, hissed at the
lunatics herself, and poked them with a stick--and then there was a
fresh storm of tears and howls and blasphemy and obscenity; and the
keepers, rushing in with heavy cudgels, beat the 'patients' right and
left like cattle--and it was all 'so horrible!' _Bad_, think you? These
were the ladies and gentlemen of the old school--the Grandisons and
Chesterfields and their dames. At the present day there are still vulgar
people who haunt insane asylums and prisons, and scenes of domestic
affliction and courts, for the sake of gratifying a gross love of
excitement, which they disguise to themselves under various ingenious
pretences. But the tendency of the age is to discourage such meddling
and prying into the mysteries and miseries of humanity. It is low, it is
mean, and the better nurtured and higher minded leave it to boors--be
they of Peoria or the Fifth avenue.

Well, our marquis, then the first gentleman in Great Britain, one of
'the barons of England who fought for the crown,' when in France as
particular friend of His Majesty Charles II, went one day on such a
party of pleasure, and somewhat annoyed his pretty companion by
persisting in listening to the drivelling talk of a madman--one Solomon
de Caus--who, while he rattled his chains, talked of a great invention
he had made, whereby chariots were to go by steam, and weights be
raised, and all manner of brave work be effected, at small cost or labor
to man. And the marquis talked to the madman, and the lady laughed, and
the chains rattled, and the straw rustled, and--well, it _has_ been made
the subject of a very good picture--which you, reader, may have seen,
either in original or engraving.

I will not pretend to say how far what is known of the life of this
French inventor is reconcilable with this story of the madhouse. It is
certain that Solomon de Caus, a French engineer, architect, and author,
died about 1635, that he was born probably at Dieppe, and devoted
himself to mathematics. The marquis might have met him in a better place
than a bedlam, since in 1612 De Caus went to London, where he was
attached to the Prince of Wales, and afterward to Charles I. From 1614
to 1620 he lived in Heidelberg at the court of the Elector Frederic V,
and returned to France in 1624, where he received the title of royal
engineer and architect. More than this, he wrote books on mechanics, in
one of which, _Les Raysons des Forces Mouvantes_, he speaks of the
expansion and condensation of steam in a manner which has been supposed
to suggest the alternate action of the piston, the principle of the
steam engine, and, finally, 'the great discovery' of and to the Marquis
of Worcester. How far all this may be supposed to contradict the lady's
story, I will not say. Certain it is, that many a man who has done quite
as well in worldly honors, has, after all, come to misery and madness
through unfortunately making an invention.

Inventors have, on the whole, a little easier time of it in these
days--and yet not so very much easier, as the reader who has chanced,
like myself, to study law in an office where there are many 'patent
cases,' will bear witness. Eighteen hundred years ago, the inventor was
crucified--lest his malleable glass should injure Ephesian or other
silversmiths. During the middle ages, they burnt him alive. In the times
of Worcester he seldom escaped prison, for to be a 'projector' was a
charge which greatly aggravated that of treason; while in France, where
they managed these things better, according to the views of the day,
they simply cast him into a dungen among madmen. In America in the
nineteenth century he has indeed occasionally better luck, and yet in
most cases not so much better as most think. For, apart from the fact
that he must generally sell his invention to richer men endowed with
business faculty, who get nearly all the profits, and, not unfrequently,
by clapping their names to the project, all the credit, he must also
wage a weary, heart-breaking legal war on infringers of patents and
other thieves; so that by the time his time has expired, he has seldom
much to show for his brain-work.[5] 'Serves him right, he has no
business capacity,' cry the multitude. We need not look far for
examples. I am not sure that Eli Whitney, when he fell with his cotton
gin among the thieves of the South, did not fare quite as badly and
suffer quite as much as Solomon de Caus. For to be clapped fair and
square into a dungeon is at all events a plain martyrdom, with which one
can grapple philosophically or go mad _a discretion_, while to be only
half honored and nine-tenths plundered, dragged meanwhile through courts
and newspapers, may be better or worse, according to one's measure.
After all, the good old Roman plan of putting a man to death for
inventing malleable glass had its advantages--it was at least more
merciful from a Christian point of view, and would, at the present day,
save a vast amount of yards of Patent Law red tape.

_Artis et Naturae proles_, 'the offspring of Nature and of Art.' Such is
the motto with which the Marquis of Worcester prefaced his 'Century of
the Names and Scantlings of such inventions as he could in the year 1663
call to mind,' and which he presented to Government in the bold hope
that by their purchase or other disposition he might even out-go the six
or seven hundred thousand pounds already sacrificed for the king, as he
asserts, but rather meaning, I imagine, that he might get some portion
of it back again. Let no one laugh at the character of many of these
'Scantlings.' Science was young then; thaumaturgy, or the working of
mere wonders, was still the elder sister of art; astrology might be
found in every street; alchemists still labored in lonely towers all
over England; and witches were still burned to the glory of GOD. The
'Mathematicall Magick, or the Wonders that may be performed by
Mechanicall Geometry'--now by chance open before me--by Bishop Wilkins,
the brother-in-law of Cromwell, with its disquisitions on 'Perpetuall
Motion,' 'Volant Automata,' and 'Perpetuall Lamps,' passed for sound
sense, and with it passed much occult nonsense of a darker dye. Manners
and morals were as yet badly organized. Gambling was a daily amusement
with all the gentry, and its imitators; for the Revolution, though it
had very promptly driven out of England the very little merriment and
cheerfulness which the Reformation had spared, had by no means taken
away vice, and to cheat at cards was a part of all play in the best
society--which it had not been in the olden time. Political plots were
still rife, and cipher alphabets, signals by knots and signs, deadly
secret weapons, and devices to escape prison were in daily demand, just
as patent apple-parers and ice-cream freezers are at the present day.
The marquis, who had lived well through his times, knew what would be
popular, and, though a man of honor as times went, and a pious
Christian, never dreamed that he did not play his part as a good citizen
in supplying such grotesque wants.

First among his Inventions is one which, revived in modern times, meets
the eye of every one daily on the face of every letter. As he designed
it, it was, however, very elaborate, embracing 'several sorts of seals,
some showing by screws, others by gauges, fastening or unfastening all
the marks at once: others by additional points and imaginary places,
proportionable to ordinary escutcheons and seals at arms, each way
palpably and punctually setting down (yet private from all others but
the owner, and by his assent) the day of the month, the day of the week,
the month of the year, the year of our Lord, the names of the witnesses,
and the individual place where anything was sealed, though in ten
thousand several places, together with the very number of lines
contained in a contract, whereby falsification may be discovered and
manifestly proved.' Upon these seals, too, one could keep accounts of
receipts and disbursements, from one farthing to millions, and, finally,
as a climax to their mystery, by their means any letter, 'though written
but in English, may be read and understood in eight several languages,
and in English itself, to clear contrary and different sense, unknown to
any but the correspondent, and not to be read or understood by him
neither, if opened before it arrive unto him.'

It is believed that the secret of these seals is simply this: a number
of movable metallic circles are made to slide within each other, on one
common centre, the whole being enclosed in an outer frame. Within these
circles may be placed either movable types, or letters and figures may
be engraved on the circles themselves, and these, according to a key, of
which the corresponding parties must possess a duplicate. To fully
understand the secret of the composition of a sentence 'in eight several
languages,' we must have recourse to invention No. 32 of the 'Century,'
teaching 'how to compose an universal character, methodical and easily
to be written, yet intelligible in _any_ language .... distinguishing
the verbs from the nouns, the numbers, tenses, and cases, as properly
expressed in their own language as it was written in English.' Such a
system was composed by the Bishop Wilkins already referred to; Bacon
had busied himself with a 'pasigraphy' long before; Leibnitz, Dalgaru,
Frischius, Athanasius Kircher, Pere Besnier, and some twenty others have
done the same. The most practical solution of the problem seems to have
been that of John Joachim Becher, who in 1661 published a Latin folio,
which, apart from its main subject, is valuable from its observations on
grammar, and on the affinities existing between seven of the ancient and
modern tongues. With this he gives a Latin dictionary, in which every
word corresponds with one or more Arabic numerals. 'Every word is
assumed as distinctive, or denoting the same word in all languages; and
consequently nothing more is required than to compose a dictionary for
each, similar to that which he has given for the Latin.' Certain
determinate numbers being given for the declensions and conjugations,
and the cases, moods, tenses, and persons, the whole grammar becomes
extremely easy of acquisition. Let us suppose that a Frenchman wishes to
write to a German: _La guerre est un grand mal_--'War is a great evil.'
He seeks in his index _guerre_, and finds 13. The verb _etre_, 'to be,'
is 33. _Grand_, or 'great,' is 67; and _mal_, or 'evil,' is 68. The
sentence then reads:

   13. 33. 67. 68.

The sentence might be understood by these four numbers, but the author
perfects it. _Guerre_, or 'war,' is the nominative case, and is
appropriately designated by the Arabic numeral 1. The third person,
singular, present tense, of the indicative mood of a verb, is
characterized by 15. _Grand_ and _mal_ being each in the nominative
case, also require the figure 1. He will therefore write:

   13. 1 | 33. 15 | 67. 1 | 68.1

--the numbers being separated by a vertical dash, to avoid confusion.
The German, inverting the process, turns to _his_dictionary, and finds
_Der Krieg ist ein grosses Uebel_.

If the world were to be persuaded to adopt these dictionaries, and with
them some uniform oral system of counting, such as might be learned in a
day, who shall say in what conversation might result! Fancy an orator
counting '83.1--10.16--225.2'--interrupted by enthusiastic cries of
'2.30' and '11.45!' Fancy a lover breathing his tender passion in
'837.25--29.1,' and extracting a reluctant '12' from his adored. Fancy a
drunken Delaware Democrat--a SAULSBURY--flourishing a revolver, and
gurgling out '54.40' to the Sergeant-at-Arms in particular, and decency
in general, as a proof of his fitness to be regarded as a mate for his
Southern colleagues. Fancy Brignoli singing '1.2.3,' as he reminds us by
his good singing and wooden acting of a nightingale imprisoned in a
pump--

Or fancy the appearance of a page of Shakspeare or Homer thus
metamorphosed.

     'He lisped in numbers for, the numbers came.'

It is something to the marquis's credit that he evidently, to judge from
the sixth article of his 'Century,' had discovered the telegraph, an
invention not much used in Europe until the commencement of the French
Revolution. It had indeed been understood in a rude form by the
ancients. 'Polybius describes a method of communication which was
invented by Cleoxenus, which answered both by day and night,' but that
of Worcester's is thought to have been far superior to anything known
before his time. The following paragraphs all indicate inventions
greatly in advance of his age:

     'No. IX.--An engine portable in one's pocket, which may be carried
     and fastened in the inside of the greatest ship, _tanquam aliud
     agens_, and at any appointed minute, though a week after, either of
     day or night, it shall irrecoverably sink that ship.'

A bombshell filled with gunpowder, a gunlock, and a small clock, have
been suggested as forming the components of this invention. I am
satisfied however, that several very dangerous detonating powders were
well known to the alchemists; and the condensed pocket size of the
machine described, would evidently require some such preparation.

     'No. X.--A way from a mile off to dive and fasten a like engine to
     any ship so as it may punctually work the same effect either for
     time or execution.'

Precisely the same experiment has within a week of the time at which I
am now writing, been made at Washington, as it was by Mr. Fulton half a
century ago with his Torpedo-harpoon. If the marquis contemplated simply
human agency as the aid to apply his portable powder-machine, it must be
admitted that he had at least contemplated a more effective diving bell
than any known to modern times. Submarine transit was indeed a subject
to which he had devoted special study.

     'No. XI.--How to prevent and safeguard any ship from such an
     attempt by day or night.

     'No. XII.--A way to make a ship not possible to be sunk, though
     shot at an hundred times between wood and water by cannon, and
     should she lose a whole plank, yet, in half an hour's time, should
     be made to sail as fit as before.'

It is thought that a great number of airtight compartments was the
secret here hinted at; but the spirit of positive confidence with which
the marquis speaks, and the great number of successful shots which he
defies, seems to hint at something like the Ericsson Monitor of these
days. Not without interest is the following:

     'No. XIII--How to make such false decks as in a moment should kill
     and take prisoners as many as should board the ship, without
     blowing the real decks up, or destroying them from being reducible;
     and in a quarter of an hour's time should recover their former
     shape, and to be made fit for any employment, _without discovering
     the secret_.'

The words italicized set forth the startling marvel of the whole. It is
said that a false deck of thick plank may be easily blown into the air,
when a number of small iron boxes, open at the top, and filled with
gunpowder, are placed beneath. How this could be done and yet kept
secret is indeed a wonder, and we must therefore conjecture that the
marquis had some other device in his mind. Certain it is, that the idea
of converting vessels into traps of destruction, or of so defending them
as to destroy assailants after boarding the decks, has not been very
extensively developed.

     'No. XVI.--How to make a sea castle or a fortification _cannon
     proof_, capable of a thousand men, yet sailable at pleasure to
     defend a passage, or in an hour's time to divide itself into three
     ships, as fit and trimmed to sail as before; and even whilst it is
     a fort or castle, they shall be unanimously steered, and
     effectually be driven by an indifferent strong wind.'

It is to be regretted that Parliamentary or other inducements were not
employed to obtain from the marquis, at least the publication of his
views as regards making vessels cannon proof. From the general character
of his inventions, and from comparison of them, it appears he had full
faith in cannon-proof floating batteries as a means of defence, and, we
may consequently and justly infer, as superior to the latter. Among his
inventions there are but two in reference to 'fortifications,' and both
of these are after a manner a transfer of the floating battery to land,
or an application of the principle of mobile defences. These are as
follows:

     'No. XXIX.--A portable fortification, able to contain five hundred
     fighting men, and yet, in six hours' time, may be set up and made
     cannon proof, upon the side of a river or pass, with cannon mounted
     upon it, and as complete as a regular fortification, with halfmoons
     and counterscarps.

     'No. XXX.--A way in one night's time to raise a bulwark, twenty or
     thirty foot high, cannon proof, and cannon mounted upon it; with
     men to overlook, command, and batter a town, for though it (the
     bulwark) contain but four pieces, they shall be able to discharge
     two hundred bullets each hour.'

There can be but little question, from all I have cited, that the
Marquis of Worcester was singularly in advance of his age as regarded
the great principles of warfare. We have found him thus far, in all
probability, acquainted with the construction of permutable seals, and
indeed of the grand principle of permutation applied to technology in
several respects (vide "Century" Nos. III, IV, V,) of the telegraph, of
sinking vessels by torpedoes, and, finally, of floating batteries and
cannon-proof vessels. In No. 30, we have, however, a hint that the
marquis had studied the principles of revolving firearms, when he
speaks of four cannon discharging two hundred bullets each hour. That he
had, theoretically, at least, anticipated Colt, appears from

     'No. LVIII.--How to make a pistol discharge a dozen times with one
     loading, and without so much as once new priming requisite, _or to
     change it out of one hand into the other_, or stop one's horse.'

I call attention to the words which I have italicized. It is well known
that the mere principle of revolving barrels in firearms was already
old, even when Worcester wrote. I have seen guns of the kind over three
hundred years old, and they are not uncommon in foreign museums. But it
would appear that the marquis was acquainted with the principle of the
self-cocking pistol. How else could he propose to discharge a gun a
dozen times, without changing it from one hand to another? And this, I
believe, was not known before his day. But how this could have been
conveniently carried out, without some application of detonating powders
in place of flint, steel, and gunpowder, I do not understand. That he
was very probably familiar with the application of such chemical
detonating agents has already been suggested. In another number, he
suggests the application of this principle to 'carbines.' So in No.
LXII, he proposes 'a way for a harquebuss, a crock, or ship musket, six
upon a carriage, shooting with such expedition as, without danger, one
may charge, level, and discharge them sixty times in a minute of an
hour, two or three together.' To which he adds the following:

     'No. LXIV.--A seventh, tried and approved before the late king (of
     ever blessed memory), and an hundred lords and commons, in a cannon
     of eight inches and half a quarter, to shoot bullets of sixty-four
     pounds weight, and twenty-four pounds of powder, twenty times in
     six minutes; so clear from danger, that after all were discharged,
     a pound of butter did not melt, being laid upon the cannon britch,
     nor the green oil discoloured that was first anointed and used
     between the barrel thereof, and the engine having never in it, nor
     within six foot, but one charge at a time.'

Several improvements of this kind are suggested in the 'Century,' which
evidently involve different principles from that of the modern revolver,
in reference to which difference we are informed in a 'note by the
author,' that 'when I first gave my thoughts to make guns shoot often, I
thought there had been but one only exquisite way inventible; yet, by
several trials, and much charge, I have perfectly tried all of these.'

I cannot venture in a single article to exhaust the suggestions in the
Century, and must refer my reader to the volume himself, assuring him
that he will there find many curious hints, several of which have, since
its publication, been very practically realized. It is worth noting,
however, that the author seems to have fully anticipated a very
remarkable modern invention, in declaring that 'a woman even may with
her delicate hand, vary the ways of coming to open a lock ten millions
of times, beyond the knowledge of the smith that made it, or of me who
invented it.' From this, as I have already suggested, it appears that he
had, far in advance of his age, mastered a very great principle in
mechanics; and as he appears to have understood, in theory at least,
several others, it is no more than justice to rank him far above those
mere charlatans of science, and hunters for marvels by means of
isolated observation and experiment, with whom many would place him.
That the 'Century' contains much which would be very discreditable to
any man of science at the present day, is very true. Perpetual motion,
perfect aerostation, devices for idle tricks and mere thaumaturgy,
appear in company with schemes to take unfair advantages at card
playing, and for the construction of false dice boxes--of which latter
it is indignantly observed by honest Partington, that, there are few who
profess the science of cheating at cards or dice, or to be encouragers
of those who do; and it may fairly be conceded that there are not two
periods in our regal annals, in which this detestable meanness had
become fashionable enough to sanction a nobleman in inscribing to a king
and his parliament a method by which it might be advantageously
effected! We may, however, believe that a second period has at the
present dawned over England, not much inferior as regards 'detestable
meanness,' to that of Charles the Second. A recent transaction has shown
that noblemen and their friends in the year 1862, are not above
ascertaining from Johnson's Dictionary, the obsolete spelling of a word,
such as _rain_-deer, betting a hundred pounds with an American as to its
true orthography, and agreeing with him to abide by Johnson's authority;
a piece of swindling quite as detestable in its meanness as the using of
loaded dice. Neither can I see that the conduct of a majority of the
British people, in fomenting Abolition for many years, and then giving
her aid and countenance to our Southern rebels, on the flimsy, and, at
best, brazenly selfish plea of the Morrill Tariff, is less detestable or
less mean. We may regret to see a vice in individuals tolerated in high
places; but when the blackest inconsistency, and the most contemptible
avarice are elevated by a Christian nation into principles of conduct
toward another nation struggling to free the oppressed, we may well
doubt whether another period has not approached in England, over which
the future historiographer may not sigh as deeply as over that of
Charles the Second.

I attach no serious value to the efforts of the Marquis of Worcester,
save as illustrating the principle with which I prefaced this article:
that according to the mental peculiarities of the most vigorous of
races--the Indo-Germanic above others--there is a tendency in certain
active minds to generalize and draw practical conclusions, not
unfrequently centuries in advance of the wants of their age. The partial
and premature forcing of these principles into practice, is sometimes
quoted in after years as derogatory to the merit due to modern
inventors, and as illustrating to a degree never contemplated by him who
uttered it, the maxim that there's 'nothing new under the sun.'
_Nothing?_ Why, _everything_ is new under the sun when it first assumes
fit time and place. Were this not true, we might as well return to
'Nature's Centenary of Inventions,' as set forth by a pleasant pen in
_Household Words_:

     'Before the first clumsy sail was hoisted by a savage hand, the
     little Portuguese man-of-war, that frailest and most graceful
     nautilus boat, had skimmed over the seas with all its feathery
     sails set in the pleasant breeze; and before the great British
     Admiralty marked its anchors with the Broad Arrow, mussels and
     pinna had been accustomed to anchor themselves by flukes to the
     full as effective as the iron one in the Government dockyards. The
     duck used oars before we did; and rudders were known by every fish
     with a tail, countless ages before human pilots handled tillers;
     the floats on the fishermen's nets were pre-figured in the bladders
     on the sea weed; the glowworm and firefly held up their
     light-houses before pharas or beacon-tower guided the wanderer
     among men; and, as long before Phipps brought over the diving bell
     to this country as the creation, spiders were making and using
     airpumps to descend into the deep. Our bones were moved by tendons
     and muscles long before chains and cords were made to pull heavy
     weights from place to place. Nay, until quite lately--leaving these
     discoveries to themselves--we took no heed of the pattern set us
     in the backbone, with the arching ribs springing from it, to
     construct the large cylinder which we often see now attaching all
     the rest of a set of works. This has been a very modern discovery;
     but, prior even to the first man, Nature had cast such a cylinder
     in every ribbed and vertebrate animal she had made. The cord of
     plaited iron, too, now used to drag machinery up inclined planes,
     was typified in the backbone of the eels and snakes in Eden;
     tubular bridges and hollow columns had been in use since the first
     bird with hollow bones flew through the wood, or the first reed
     waved in the wind. Strange that the principle of the Menai Straits'
     railway bridge, and of the iron pillars in the Crystal Palace,
     existed is the Arkite dove, and in the bulrushes that grew round
     the cradle of Moses! Our railway tunnels are wonderful works of
     science, but the mole tunnelled with its foot, and the pholas with
     one end of its shell, before our navvies handled pick or spade upon
     the heights of the iron roads: worms were prior to gimlets,
     ant-lions were the first funnel makers, a beaver showed men how to
     make the milldams, and the pendulous nests of certain birds swung
     gently in the air before the keen wit of even the most loving
     mother laid her nursling in a rocking cradle. The carpenter of
     olden time lost many useful hours in studying how to make the
     ball-and-socket joint which he bore about with him in his own hips
     and shoulders; the universal joint, which filled all men with
     wonder when first discovered, he had in his wrist; in the jaws of
     all flesh-eating animals his huge one-hinge joint; in the
     graminivora and herbivora the joint of free motion; for grinding
     millstones were set up in our molars and in the gizzards of birds
     before the Egyptian women ground their corn between two stones; and
     the crushing teeth of the hyena make the best models we know of for
     hammers to break stones on the road. The tongue of certain shell
     fish--of the limpet, for instance--is full of siliceous spines
     which serve as rasp and drill; and knives and scissors were carried
     about in the mandibles and beaks of primeval bees and parrots.

Yes, they were all there--and if the undeveloped germ may be taken for
the great fruit-bearing tree, there is nothing new under the sun, labor
and effort are of no avail, and it is not worth while for man to live
threescore years and ten, since a much less time would suffice to show
his utter worthlessness. But the bee and the wild bird, the pearly
nautilus driving before the fresh breeze, and the reed waving in the
wind, should teach us a higher lesson. They teach us that life is
beautiful and to be enjoyed, that infinite laws and infinite ingenuity
were not displayed to be called idle and vain, and that, as the insect
works according to his instinct, man should labor, from the dictates of
reason, with heart and soul to do his best to turn to higher advantage
the innumerable advantages afforded him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: _Philosophia Ultima_, CHARLES WOODRUFF SHIELDS.
Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott, 1861.]

[Footnote 5: One of the greatest inventors of this or of any age, and
one whom the world regards as 'successful,' is said to have advised an
ingenious friend, never in any case or under any circumstances to take
out a patent for an invention. He 'had been through the mill,' and knew
what it cost.]




THE LADY AND HER SLAVE.

A Tale.

LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MY SISTERS IN THE SOUTH.

   'Nor private grief nor malice holds my pen,
   I owe but kindness to my fellow men.
   And, South or North, wherever hearts of prayer
   Their woes and weakness to our Father bear,
   Wherever fruits of Christian love are found
   In holy lives, to me is holy ground.'

   --WHITTIER.


   My young mistress! frown not on me! come! my heart is beating low!
   Softly raise the quilt--my babe! Ah, smile on her ere I go!

   Yes, the smile comes warm as sunshine, and it falls on my sick heart
   As if Heaven were shining through it, and new hopes within me start.

   Your clear eyes shine blue upon me through the clouds of sunny curls,
   Sadder now, but still as kindly, as when we were little girls.

   Your poor slave and you, fair mistress, were born in the same hour,
   As if God himself had marked me from my birth to be your dower.

   Oft have I laid my dusky hand upon your neck of snow,
   To see it sparkle through the jet--how long that seems ago!

   So long! before young master came to woo Virginia's daughter,
   And tempt her to the cotton fields on Mississippi's water.

   I could not leave you, mistress, so I followed to the swamp,
   Where fevers fire the burning blood and the long moss hangs damp.

   I left poor Sam, he loved me well, but you were my heart's god;
   My mother's tears fell hot and fast--I followed where you trod.

   Sin and sorrow fell upon me! and soon you felt it shame
   To have lost Amy near you, and you blushed to hear her name.

   Reared near virgin purity, you could not understand
   How I could break from virtue's laws, and form a lawless band.

   Then you questioned kindly, sternly,--but you could not make me tell;
   I would not wring your trusting heart with tales scarce fit for hell!

   You deemed me hardened, sunk in vice; I choked down every moan,
   Turned from your breast the poisoned dart to bury in my own.

   Driven from your presence, mistress, in agony and shame
   I bore a wretched infant--she must never know her name!

   How I crawled around your windows when your joyous boy was born,
   To hear your voice, to catch a glimpse,--the sun rose fair that morn.

   Ah! not mine to hold your darling! not mine to soothe his cries
   When the stern death-angel seized him and bore him to the skies!

   Then judgment came--the fever fell--young master gasped for breath--
   God's hand was on him--vain were prayers,--how still he lay in death!

   I heard you shriek--I rushed within--I held you in my arms
   That frenzied night when sudden woe had wrought its worst of harms.

   When reason dawned on you again, sweet pity stirred within,
   You heard my cough, my labored breath, and saw me ghastly, thin.

   Then you took my hand so kindly, gazing on my faded face:
   'Speak, and tell me truly, Amy, how you fell in such disgrace.'

   If he had lived, sweet mistress, I had borne it to the grave;
   I would not mar your happiness, child, self or race to save.

   Say! must I speak of one you loved now sleeping 'neath the sod?
   Your 'yes' is bitter; but we owe the naked truth to God!

   The truth to God, for guiltless you must stand before His face,
   Nor wrong my pallid baby, nor scorn my suffering race.

   Am I too bold? Death equals all--my heart beats faint and low;
   Turn not away, sweet mistress, hear the truth before I go!

   Gaze upon my shivering baby, scan the little pallid face,
   Mark the forehead, eyes of azure--Ha! you do the likeness trace!

   Nay, start not in horror from me! Oh, it was no fault of mine;
   I would have died a thousand deaths ere wronged a thought of thine.

   He came at midnight to my hut--abhorrent to my sense--
   Force--threats of shame--foul violence--a slave has no defence!

   Wronged--soiled--and outraged--sick at heart--what right had I to feel?
   He deemed his chattel honored,--God! how brain and senses reel!

   We're women, though our hair is crisped, and though our skin be black:
   Men, ask your virgin daughters what's the maiden's deadliest rack!

   I scorned myself! I hated him! but felt a living goad
   Writhe and crawl beneath my bosom--shameful burden! sinful load!

   Sick and faint, I loathed my master, loathed his inant, loathed my life
   Till its flame burned dim within me, choked by shame, rage, hate, and strife.

   Better feelings woke within me when the helpless girl was born;
   Mother's love poured wild upon her: how love conquers rage and scorn!

   But my tortured heart was broken, and a slave girl ought to die
   When a tyrant master wrongs her, and she dreads her mistress' eye:

   Dreads one she loves may read in her, in spite of silence deep,
   That which would blight all happiness, and pale the rosy cheek:

   Dreads that a wife may shuddering read a husband's naked heart--
   Humbled and crushed by treachery, may into madness start.

   But Amy dies: she has forgiven--forgive with her the wrong!
   Smile on the helpless baby--make her truthful, pure, and strong.

   Let her wait upon you, mistress; twine your ringlets golden still;
   Take her back to old Virginia, to the homestead by the hill.

   My heart clings to you with wild love--wherefore I scarce dare whisper--
   Forgive--I am your father's child! pity your ruined sister!

   The hot white blood in my baby's veins, though mixed with duskier flow,
   Will make her wretched if a slave; let her in freedom go!

   Oh make her free, sweet mistress, that such a fate as mine
   Blanch not her cheek with agony, nor blast her ere her prime!

   You smile--I need no promise; angel-like to me you seem;
   Will you open heaven for me? bring the seraphs? how I dream!

   I go to God. He made me. All His children, black and white,
   Will meet in heaven if pure and true, clad in the eternal Light.

   I die--God bless you, mistress!'... Sigh, and gasp--then all is o'er!
   And the lady kneels beside a corpse upon the cabin floor.

   Her thoughts are busy with the past, with love in falsehood spoken,
   While her dusky sister's faithful heart had in silent anguish broken.

   She takes the cold hand in her own: 'Poor Amy, can it be
   That thou wert of a race accursed, unworthy to be free?

   Man's falsehood! God! Thy right hand rests upon the dusky brow;
   Thou starr'st it round with virtues brighter than our boasted snow!

   I have learned a bitter lesson; to my slave I've been to school;
   God has humbled me, but chastened; I will keep His Golden Rule.

   Slaves and chattels! God forgive us! they are men and women--Thine!
   If Christ may dwell within them, shall I dare to call them _mine_?

   No woman must be outraged, nor owned by man, if we
   Would hold _our_ sanctity intact--all women must be free.

   Sacred from every touch profane, yes, holy things and pure;
   A wrong to one is wrong to all; we must the weak secure.

   United we must strike the shame; if known aright our power,
   Slavery and crime would perish: Sisters, peal their final hour!

   Mothers, maidens, wives, no longer aid your dusky sisters' shame!
   Strike for our common womanhood, uphold our spotless fame!

   Its majesty is in your hands, trail it not in the dust,
   Nor keep your shrinking slaves as prey for lovers', husbands' lust!

   All womanhood is holy! it shall not be profaned!
   Our sanctity is threatened: Men! it shall not thus be stained!

   Break up your harems! free our slaves! we will not share your shame!
   O mothers of the living, chaste must be life's sacred flame!

   Fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands, their chains must be untwined!
   Touch not the ark where purity in woman's form is shrined!

   Poor Amy! love has conquered! the veil is raised, I see
   Sister spirits 'neath the dusky hue; thy people shall go free!'

   The lady rose with high resolve upon her pale sad face;
   And moved among the slave girls, the angel of their race.

   Angel of freedom, charity, she breathes, and fetters melt,
   And the holy might of Purity in Southern heart is felt.

   Ah! the stars upon our banner, driven apart and dimmed with blood,
   Might again in glory cluster through a perfect womanhood!




FOR AND AGAINST.


When his father called Fred Fontevrault, then a boy of fifteen, into his
sick chamber, and made him subscribe to the whimsical conditions of the
will, the female _gendarmerie_, so well versed in my affairs, declared
that my husband had wretchedly repented his early marriage, and
resolving his son should walk into fate with eyes unbandaged, forbade
his alliance before the age of twenty-six. Though Mr. Fontevrault was
fifty and I sixteen when I married him, he was not unhappy. He occupied
himself in looking after his money, and making a collection of mosaics.
We never had any matrimonial disturbances. I think they are vulgar. Any
woman can do as she pleases without a remonstrant word, provided she has
mind enough. It is the brainless women who scold. But scolds do not
rule.

Fred was unreasonably fond of his father, and assented to his wishes
without demur, even when the great Fontevrault estates hung on his
fidelity to a useless oath. Then he died, and I settled into the blank
stupidity of my widowhood. I, who had known no master but my own sweet
will, now found myself in a hundred ways restricted. I was ruled through
Fred. He must graduate at Harvard; the great establishment, splendid but
tedious, must be maintained. So our residence in Boston was
necessitated. I shut myself up in the legitimate manner, and--mourned of
course. If it had not been for novels, worsted work, and my beauty, I
should have gaped myself out of existence the first year. What nonsense
it is to say the prime of a woman's loveliness passes before the
thirties! For, look at me, am I old or faded? Would you believe that
Fred, so tall and splendidly developed, was my son? From me he took his
wealth of nature, for Mr. Fontevrault was one of those dried, wrinkled
old men, women like me often marry; not because of the settlements only,
but because of the foil. My figure was moulded like the Venus they
copied in the colder marble from Pauline. Shoulders and arms, delicious
in their curves, shining with a rosy fairness. A creamy skin, with a
faint coralline tinge in the cheeks. The forehead is too low, some say;
and yet artists have praised its bend, and the Greek line of the nose;
not intellectual, but womanly, you know. Hair of a bright brown, feeling
like floss silk. Eyes, I believe, few people ever fairly saw. Men are
bewitched by them, women cannot understand their charm. Perhaps you have
seen Wilson's portrait of me, the one with the grayish green background;
you notice that the eyes were turned from the spectator, and half shaded
by white lid and gilded lash. He could not catch the flitting spark that
made them mine, and refused to paint them at all. My son promises to be
as perfect in his way as I in mine. Just now a student, he is too
Raphael-angel-like to suit me; but the very fellow to bewilder girls and
set the boarding schools crazy. Luckily he is bound against inthralment.

By and by the house grew so lonely that I was fain to send for Leonora
to make durance less vile. It was positively refreshing to hear her
voice sing through the solemn old hall. Very warm was the welcome she
received from both Fred and me. He had often said she was the only woman
he could talk to without suppressing a yawn. It was ungallant of him,
but I could sympathize with the sentiment. Women usually weary me. I
told Leonora she must make up her mind to stay with me, as long as she
remained unmarried.

Fred, holding her hand, laughingly made her promise never to take a
husband without his consent. While I passed on, he drew her back; the
mirror above the door framed a picture prettier than I liked to see.

'There is but one man I will authorize you to marry,' said my son.

Then it suddenly flashed on my mind that Fred was of the age of Scott's
heroes, and would be sure to fall in love with a woman older than
himself. The love did not matter so much, but marriage would be an
absurdity. I expected to have a daughter-in-law some day or other; but
it was never to be Leonora. In a hundred ways she had resisted me, and
overcome me. I was as resolutely opposed to her, as if she had been my
enemy. She was a connection of the family, independent, yet in some sort
alone in the world. If it had been conferring a favor on her, to ask her
to stay with me, be sure I never would have uttered a persuasive word.
But it was asking her to leave gay society, and the incense of
admiration, to bury herself in a dull house. Then she was 'ornamental;'
I liked to see her about; she was satirical, and pleased me by a little
spicy abuse. They called her handsome. She _was_ too small, I think, too
slight, perhaps; and then her complexion was almost swarthy. But her
hair was fine, her eyes large and brilliant, and her mouth mobile and
sweet. The face was nothing to me; but her companionship was enlivening.

The young lady professed herself glad of a winter of exclusion, and when
I saw how she set herself at work with books and embroidery, I confess I
was astonished at her resignation. Then I saw her look at my son, and
perceived she did not find it so _very_ stupid after all. Slowly she
snarled him in her meshes.

One time my husband had a friendless youth for his secretary, called
Denis Christopher. His name attracted me before his person. Mr.
Fontevrault became so deeply interested in his character and talents,
that he used his extensive influence, and gave Mr. Christopher an
enviable lift over the world's rough places. Fontevrault was like a
grieved child when he left us. I was sorry, but concealed it. One of the
young man's agreeable privileges had been to attend me in public, thus
relieving Mr. Fontevrault. I assure you he was more knightly than his
master, whose stiff protection I never missed while under Launcelot's
tender care. I never fully admitted to myself the power I found in the
hitherto unknown fascination of a _young_ man's society; nor how much
pleasure I took in touching those hidden chords that only respond to a
woman's touch. That he adored me, I saw in his eyes. I liked it well,
and the strange, unwonted feeling that shivered through me, now, when by
chance my hand touched his.

Well--people began to talk, as people will, and Mr. Fontevrault sent him
to Malaga. He came to bid me good-by; 'forever,' he thought; ah me! It
was forever in one sense. Fred was a mere boy then, who heard and saw
everything. I had hard work to get him out of the house that morning. I
wanted Denis's last look all to myself. Before he left me, Christopher
offered me a bracelet of cornelians, cut rarely as seals. Each gem bore
an exquisite device. On one were a few words in Latin. When I was alone,
I pressed the seal on a drop of hot wax, and read his dedication.

All that was years ago; he is here again, and I am free. I sat before
the glass long the day I expected him, threading my brown hair, and
longing to wear his color--blue. But then the widow's cap suited me
divinely, and the folds of crape set off my peculiar tints as nothing
else can. I came before him; he started forward to seize both hands, and
gaze in my face, to find no change. Then he pressed his lips to my warm
white fingers. A new boldness became his, a new timidity mine.

Fresh from lessons of my own, I could read a change in Leonora, and
perceive mischief in the air. Her extreme quietness when my son entered
the apartment, the faint shade of shyness in his manner of addressing
her attracted me curiously. He began to linger in our haunts so long and
on such frivolous pretexts, that I began seriously to think what was to
be done with such a lovesick page. To oppose Fred would be worse than
useless. Opposition determined him. If I could have sent her away,
solitude would be my bane; for not one of the Fontevraults could I
endure. Then as I pondered, I laughed at the absurdity of the whole
thing. Not only was Leonora older than the student, a woman in society,
but she had been engaged (with that fact I resolved to frighten Fred),
nor would she wait five years for him to declare his passion. And his
flickering fancy the slightest breath of doubt would change: a nature
easily moulded by the inexorable. I resolved to let affairs take their
own course, and trust her common sense, and my own gentle diplomacy.

What memorable meetings had we four during those sharp winter days! I
lived as in an Arabian dream. There was Denis Christopher, with his
brown face and thrilling eyes; Fred lackadaisical, but handsome as
Antinous; Leonora, and I.

A very orderly company, but what hot feeling repressed, what romantic
possibility, what fates unfulfilled lay under the courteous
conventionality of the time! Fred leaned over Leonora at the piano.
Their voices sounded well together, and if he could not declare his
admiration of her, no doubt he conveyed it to her in some tender refrain
or serenade. Their blended, passionate voices often moved me in a
strange excitement, for I was not musical. I had no way of relieving
myself, as these singers and painters have, who crystallize an emotion
or a sorrow into a picture or a cadence. I can only gnaw the bedpost, or
tear up something, in the mere need of expression. Denis watched them
awhile, and then it became a trio instead of a duet. Mr. Christopher
brought Spanish music. Light, rippling airs, dances, whose strange
swaying rhythm had been borne to his ears in the Malaga nights.

My son grew jealous, therefore unreasonable. He would not play
subordinate, so left Leonora no choice but to lend herself gracefully to
Denis's companionship. These two were sure to misunderstand one another.
Fred was contradictory. With intense and variable feeling, he possessed
the traits of slower natures. A kind of natural prudence retarded him.
He puzzled Leonora. One moment he cooed over her, the next became
Horatian. Painfully sensitive, and proud withal, she was never sure of
his opinion of her. Having little faith in the firmness of any man's
admiration of _her_, she believed less than was avowed. And Fred,
exacting much, was too inexperienced to understand her. They were
drifting apart, I thought; but in avoiding Scylla, had I not plunged
into Charybdis?

I had been a widow a year when Mr. Christopher left Spain. Another had
now passed, and with it my seclusion. While Denis had talked to me, I
had cared to hear no other man speak; but now, in a kind of thirst, I
drank deep of pleasure. I played with the warm avowals of men past the
reasoning age, and made Fred's classmates melancholy. Denis did not even
disapprove. He was often near me now, but silent as a shadow.

How it stormed the night of the seventh of February, and like the
whirling snow I danced! Christopher led me through the last Lancers, and
then we stopped to rest. Hanging on his arm, and heedless of to-morrow,
was I not happy? We passed through the long rooms, while the soft waltz
music began to swell, and the untiring dancers took the floor.

I remember he asked for Leonora, and then if Fred meant to marry her. I
would not say no, but would acknowledge that his fancy was heated.

'She will be a pleasant vision of boy-love a few years hence,' I said.
'Leonora has too much good sense to marry him, Mr. Christopher.'

'I don't know,' said he, meditatively, and drew my hand through his arm.
The cornelian bracelet slipped into view. 'Mrs. Fontevrault,' uttered
he, in a ceremonious tone--my warm pulse grew still--'do you never
forget?'

'Do you desire it?' I answered, gaily:

   ''If to remember, or forget,
   Can give a longing, or regret,

command me.'

He smiled, and, stopping at a side table, poured out two glasses of
wine.

'Here's to the past,' said he, eagerly; 'drink Lethe.'

We drained the glasses. Then I understood he withdrew his claim.

I wanted to go home after _that_; so Mr. Christopher summoned the
carriage. The walks were white, and I trembled--was it with cold?--as he
handed me in, and bade me good night.

The house at midnight was silent and warm. I went up stairs, and stood
in the threshold of the library. The sleet driving against the window
panes prevented their hearing me, I suppose. They seemed to be
translating something or other. Fred's arm lay over the back of her
chair. Very fast and earnestly he was talking. Marginal notes suggested
by the text of Sismondi?

'What, home so early!' was his exclamation, on discovering me.

Leonora looked, up with a deep rose in her dark cheeks, a dangerous fire
melting in her eyes. I had left her pale, with a headache.

'You are better, I conclude. I expected to find you among your pillows,'
said I, accusative.

'I have cured her,' said Fred, coming forward and clasping my hands in
his firm, cool hold. 'What ails you, mamma? You look as if you had a
fever, and wickedly handsome. What have you been about?' He slipped off
my ermine cloak, and kissed me with a mixture of pride and love. The boy
bewildered me.

As fate would have it, Fred was right. I felt very ill. I believe I
_resisted_ a fever, for I have a sensation of struggle connected with
that sickness. But I cannot separate the pictures of my distempered
fancy from the actualities of the time. Leonora took devoted care of me.
Night after night Fred sat by me, and they relieved each other. Like one
bound in an enchantment, I lay unable to prevent their mutual
confidence, and the return of her young lover's adoring regard.

He sat beside her as the fire burned low; his blonde hair touched her
dusky cheek as he bent over her.

'Leo, darling, I wish I was sick, like mamma.'

'Hush!' said she.

'Then you would soothe me, and part my hair with your soft fingers, that
refuse to touch mine now. You would be sorry for me, and give me a
little caressing, and I should be so happy I would not get well.'

'Don't talk so, Fred. You used to be an even-tempered, comfortable kind
of young man to know. But now you are really teasing.'

'Do I really annoy you?'

'Very much.'

'And you don't believe in me. Sometimes a dumb kind of philosophy
possesses me, and I say to myself, let her think of me as she will. I
cannot be frank, and must take the consequences. Then again----'

Here she rose, and he put both arms around her. Audacious boy!

'Fred!' was uttered in a stifled voice.

'Promise me to send off Christopher,' ejaculated the young man.

The corners of the room seemed to stretch away indefinitely. A heavy
perfume suffocated me. I groaned. In another moment Leonora was beside
me, and the fresh air was blowing in from a window my son had opened.

I made haste to get well. The physicians say my constitution and good
nursing saved me; but it was all resolution. My _will_ was stronger than
the disease. As soon as I could sit up and see him, Denis Christopher
was admitted. I used to hear a dulcet strain on the stairs, formed by
her delicate note and his melodious base, and then he would follow
Leonora in to pay his respects to me; always bringing something to
brighten up my boudoir, and render her imprisonment less unendurable.
Afterward he would never be exiled to the drawing rooms. Fred frowned at
the ease with which he invaded our retirement, but only frowned. He and
I began to wonder if Christopher would win her. Valiantly but cautiously
was he wooing. Fred went off on a boating excursion, and I grew weary. I
wished I had died. The secret of my good looks was confessed. Perfect
health had kept my beauty undimmed. But colorless and hollow-eyed the
fever left me. I could look at myself no more; so I looked at Leonora.
She was pretty, with a charm that did not depend on tint or outline. Her
new friend was penetrated by her real graces and his ideal rendering of
them; but would he conquer? I was sure not. Because separation is sure
alienation at a certain age, I resolved on Fred's speedy withdrawal from
the scene. Why not go abroad immediately after his graduation, which was
to occur in a few weeks? On his return I suggested it. He gloomily
consented.

'Will you come, too, mamma?'

'Not yet; in the course of a year perhaps;' and I looked over to the
corner where Leonora was winding worsted from Mr. Christopher's fingers.

'Come, now,' said he, 'take Leonora, and we will set up housekeeping in
the easy continental style.'

'She has her hands full just now.' Literally as well as figuratively
true, for she had wound two enormous green balls.

'Perhaps she will go over with Mr. Christopher. Would you like a call
from the bride and groom?'

My young Fontevrault looked at me.

'Do you speak as you know, mamma?'

'Look for yourself, my hoodwinked Cupid. Girls are all alike, Fred. He
can ask her to marry him, and has that advantage over you.'

So it was decided that Fred should go to Paris, and be happy. Mrs.
Blanchard gave him a farewell party, and all the young ladies were at
their sweetest. Fred behaved with sullen dignity, as a lion should. He
refused to be comforted by Adelaide and Rose, walking about with one or
another, and looking at Leonora, at whom all mankind were gazing that
night. She was in dashing spirits, a glorious color diffused her cheeks,
her eyes fairly danced. Her dress was of feathery black tulle, and a
broad silver ribbon, like an order, went over her shoulders. In the
shining black braids glistened fern leaves of silver filigree.
Fortunately, Fred and I discovered them--Leonora and her inseparable
cavalier, Denis, I mean--in an alcove of roses and jessamines. She
admiring the flowers, and he talking with a fervor very easy to read.
She listening, as women always listen when the pleader is eloquent. But
in her downcast face I read only pain, while my son translated the deep
blush differently. When we were at home, and I waited to bid him good
night, he took me in his strong arms:

'You love me, mamma, don't you?'

He was all I had in the world, so I told him.

Then followed a week we long remembered--the first week of Denis's
absence. Leonora was gloomy and _distraite_; Fred cool as a peak of the
Andes, and about as unapproachable; I immersed in the hurry and
confusion of my son's departure. He had a suite of rooms over mine,
and, the night before he went away, leaned over the ballusters, and
called, as in old time:

'Leonora!'

She gave a glad start, and ran up to him. So I followed, of course. I
wanted to put some flannels into his trunk, which stood in his bedroom.
The doors were open between us. He had a bundle of her letters tied up
in a bulky packet, and began to talk with great discretion.

'I have been putting my affairs in order,' said the systematic young
man. 'I may never come back, and at any rate, my absence will be long. I
thought it would be better to give you these, lest they fall into alien
hands.'

'Why not burn them?' suggested his listener.

'I could not, Leo.'

'I am not so sentimental,' she returned, taking up the packet. 'They
shall blaze directly. Do you want your own?'

'Oh, Fred, what a bungler you are!' I thought.

'You misunderstand,' he began, in a desperate tone.

'Fred!' I screamed, as if I were twenty rods distant, 'do come and open
this bureau drawer. I can't move it.'

He came, pulling it open, with such needless strength, that all the
toilette bottles garnishing the top were shaken off, and lay in
fragments on the floor. She followed to note the disaster, and I took
her down stairs, and watched over her like a dragon all that evening. I
would not let Leonora go to the steamer with us, but compelled him to
say farewell in my presence, I _like_ a scene. He held her hand long,
uttering some incoherent sentences. Admirable was the self-composure she
showed! The delicate muscles about the mouth were as steady as if she
did not love him. She never raised her eyes until the last. As I saw
their sad beauty, a pang seized me, and I turned away. He came after,
hurried me into the carriage, and off we whirled.

'Are you going to write to her?' I asked.

'She says no,' Fontevrault answered, and looked vigorously out of the
window.

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening, two years after my son left me, we were sitting round the
library fire. Christoper, now a captain in one of the famous
Massachusetts regiments, sat near me, a little older and a little graver
than when I saw him last. We were talking with flushed cheeks and
beating hearts of the subject nearest our hearts just then--war.

A familiar foot pressed the stair. All the color left Leonora's lips;
she knew who was coming. In another moment I was in my darling's arms.
He shook hands with Leonora, but neither of them spoke a word; then
turned to Cristopher, who welcomed him with the hearty cordiality men
use.

'You have come home to fight, I know, Fontevrault.'

'So I have,' answered my son. 'Every true-hearted American should be
striking his blow. I couldn't travel fast enough. Mother, are you a
Spartan?'

He looked at Leonora. What did she think of this magnificent-mustached
Saxon? Not much like the fair-cheeked student we remembered.

'Let us be army nurses,' said Leonora, when they had gone to Washington.
Indeed we could not stay where we were, nor flit off to Newport to
banish care. I grew sleepless, and a sudden sound would send the blood
to my heart. Leonora maintained an undaunted front, but she grew thin in
spite of her cheerfulness. At last I said:

'We will follow the army; I shall die to live in this way.'

So, just before the battle of Antietam, we were in Washington.

Just after--ah me!--a singular scene occurred. We four had met again,
not as in the happy nights long gone. Denis, the veteran of seven
battles, still stood unscathed; but my boy could fight no more.
Manfully he bore his affliction; I only wept.

This morning of which I write, he was so bright, that we admitted Denis
at once, who came to bid us farewell before leaving to join his
regiment.

'Stop a minute,' said Fred. 'Leonora.' She came toward him with a face
of gentle inquiry.

'To-day is my birthday,' prefaced the soldier. 'I am twenty-six, and a
free man to say I love you.' Denis minced and motioned to withdraw his
hand. (Not so fast, old fellow.) This I say because I have been waiting
years to speak my mind on this day. But now, I have nothing to offer
you. I have no future. I am a <DW36>; even my love for you has been a
cheat to you; and now is selfishness in me. Here stands a man as true to
you as I; I know how he loves you. Which of us will you marry, Leonora?'

While he was speaking, the lost carnation came back to her cheeks. The
soft eyes kindled to a languid fire. She never looked at Denis, who
stood in his erect strength, his worshipping eyes on her face. She came
to Fred's bedside, and knelt down there. Denis dropped his hand.

'You do not answer,' Fred whispered; 'I cannot bear suspense.'

How did she satisfy him? I do not know. In emotion that almost
overmastered me, I snapped the bracelet--Denis's bracelet; it lay upon
the floor. He passed me without a word, without a look. His heavy heel
ground the enchased seal to rosy dust. I heard the door swung loudly to,
and then the clatter of his horse's hoofs, as he rode rapidly away.




EUROPEAN OPINION.


We are indebted to an accomplished gentleman in Philadelphia for the
following translation from the _Revue Nationale_ of M. Laboulaye. Any
extended comment from our pen would only serve to weaken the effect of
this eloquent and truthful passage. We may, however, express our
gratification to find that some generous spirits in Europe still remain
superior to the jealousies and the malevolence which have so largely
affected the ruling classes there, and led them so generally to hope for
and to predict the downfall of our suffering country. Hitherto we have
indeed recognized the truth that 'the opinion of Europe is a power;' but
we have felt it chiefly in its worst influence, against us, and in favor
of the rebellion. Now, however, in this the darkest hour of our mortal
struggle, it affords real relief to hear the most enlightened men of
that continent proclaiming that 'the arguments of the South are
beginning to fail,' and 'that all the ingenuity in the world cannot lift
up its fallen cause.' Nor is it at all difficult to give entire credence
to these statements, for there is evidently an altered tone even in
those organs of European opinion which have been, and still are
consistently hostile to us. It was perhaps unavoidable that
misunderstanding should prevail in the outset, and that the ear of
Europe should have been complacently open to the representations of the
plausible South, urged as they were by the ablest and most unscrupulous
of her advocates. But truth was destined certainly to make its way in
the end. It was only doubtful whether the triumph of right would take
place soon enough to bring the force of European opinion to bear on the
contest and to deprive the South of that moral support which alone has
enabled her to prolong the hopeless struggle to the present time. But,
according to M. Laboulaye, the 'fatal service' which its advocates have
done the South, is just now about to bear its appropriate fruit; for the
delusive promise of support which has thus far sustained the rebel cause
is utterly gone, and with it, all possibility of ultimate success.

Seldom have we read a nobler passage than that in which this
accomplished writer appeals to the French sentiment of national unity to
justify our Northern people in their mighty struggle to subdue this
'impious revolt.' Americans themselves, though fully imbued with the
instinctive feeling which it defends, could not more forcibly have
presented the point. And, indeed, if we may believe the statements now
prevalent, attributing to eminent statesmen and large parties a
disposition to accede to the separation of the sections, the very
sentiment of nationality has lost it force among us, and we would be
compelled to acknowledge our obligations to this eminent Frenchman for
stimulating our expiring patriotism and awakening us to the vital
importance of our national unity and to the shame and disgrace of
surrendering it. If any American has ever, for a moment, admitted the
idea of consenting to a separation of the Union, let him read the
burning words of this enlightened and disinterested foreigner, and blush
for his want of comprehension of the true interests and glory of his
country. It is not a mere sentimental enthusiasm which leads us to
combat disunion and to cherish the greatness and oneness of our country.
Our dearest rights and our noblest interests are alike involved, and we
would be craven wretches, unworthy of our high destiny, if we did not
risk everything and sacrifice everything to preserve them. 'The North
only defends itself,' says M. Laboulaye. 'It is its very life that it
wishes to save.'

Briefly, but with the hand of a master, does this article point out the
consequences of disunion. The touches by which the sketch is drawn, are
few and rapidly made; but they faithfully portray the great features of
the case, and present a true and living picture to the mind of every
thoughtful man. The jealousies, the rivalries, the antipathies of the
sections; the foreign intrigues and eventual foreign domination among
our fragmentary governments; the large standing armies, and the
competing naval forces; and finally, 'the endless war and numberless
miseries' which will inevitably result--all these mighty evils will not
only afflict our own unhappy country, but 'peace will be exiled from the
world.' The interests of mankind are involved in this tremendous
struggle.

But we no longer keep our readers from the perusal of this interesting
extract. Let it be remembered that it comes from the quarter understood
to be most unfriendly to us, where the wily emperor of the French is
supposed to be plotting for the destruction of our nationality and
power. The appeal to the interests of France against the ambition of
England is striking and powerful. Whatever disposition the emperor may
cherish against us, the French people ought to be our friends; they have
a common interest in maintaining the freedom of the seas, and
we have yet to complain that any port of France has sent out cruisers to
assail our commerce on the ocean.

Let us take courage, even in this hour of disaster. Noble spirits abroad
are still watching us with generous sympathy and praying for the success
of our sacred cause. Let us be true to ourselves and to our country, and
the hour of final triumph will soon be at hand. Though dissensions tend
now to distract and weaken us, and though darkness, more impenetrable
than ever before, seems lately to have gathered around us, we already
discern the first glimmerings of the dawn in the east. The full day will
soon break upon us, and we shall rejoice in the splendor of returning
peace and renewed prosperity.


REASONS WHY THE NORTH CANNOT PERMIT SECESSION.

(_From the French of_ EDOUARD LABOULAYE, _published in the_ 'Revue
Nationale,' _December 10th, 1862._)

The civil war which has been dividing and ruining the United States for
two years also affects us in Europe. The scarcity of cotton causes great
suffering. The workmen of Rouen and Mulhouse are as severely tried as
the spinners and weavers of Lancashire; entire populations are reduced
to beggary, and to exist through the winter they have no resource and no
hope save in special charity or assistance from the government. In so
severe a crisis, and in the midst of such unmerited sufferings, it is
but natural that public opinion should become restless in Europe, and
condemn the ambition of those who prolong a fratricidal war. Peace in
America, peace is a necessity at any price, is the cry of thousands of
men among us who are suffering from hunger, innocent victims of the
passions and madness which steep the United States in blood.

These complaints are only too just. The civilized world is at present,
so bound together, that peace is one great condition of the existence of
modern industrial nations; unhappily, although it is easy to point out
the remedy, it is almost impossible to apply it. Just now it is by war
alone that ending of the war may be looked for. To throw herself armed
between the combatants would be an attempt in which Europe would exhaust
her strength; and to what purpose? As Mr. Cobden has justly said, it
would be less costly to feed the work people who are ruined by the
American crisis _on game and champagne_. To offer to-day our friendly
mediation is not only to expose ourselves to a refusal, and perhaps so
exasperate one of the parties as to push it to more violent measures,
but to diminish the chances of our mediation being accepted at a more
favorable moment. Thus we are forced to remain spectators of a
deplorable war, which is the cause of infinite evil to us; thus forced
to offer up prayers that exhaustion and misery may appease these mortal
enemies and oblige them to accept either reunion or separation. A sad
situation, doubtless, but one which neutrals have always occupied, and
from which they cannot depart without throwing themselves among unknown
dangers.

If we have not the right to interfere, we can at least complain, and try
to discover those who are really wrong in this war, which so affects us.
The opinion of Europe is a power. It can hasten matters and restore
peace better than arms can. Unfortunately, for two years opinion has
wandered from the proper path, and by taking the wrong side of the
question, prolongs instead of stopping resistance. The South has found
many and clever advocates in England and in France, who have presented
her cause as that of justice and liberty. They have proclaimed the right
of secession, and have not feared to apologize for slavery. Their
arguments to-day are beginning to fail. Thanks to those publicists who
do not traffic with humanity; thanks to M. de Gasparin, above all, the
light has made things clear; we know now how things stand as to the
origin and character of the rebellion. To every disinterested observer,
it is evident that the South is wrong in every way. It needs not a
Montesquieu to understand that a party not menaced in the least, which,
through ambition or pride, tears its country to pieces and destroys its
national unity, has no right to the sympathies of the French. As to
declaring slavery sacred, that is a work which must be left to the
preachers of the South. All the ingenuity in the world cannot lift up
this fallen cause. Had the confederates a thousand reasons for complaint
and for revolt, there would always rest on their rebellion an indelible
stain. No Christian, no liberal person will ever interest himself for
men who, in this nineteenth century, insolently proclaim their desire to
perpetuate and extend slavery. Though it is still permitted to the
planters to listen to theories that have infatuated and lost them, such
sophistries will never cross the ocean.

The advocates of the South have done it a fatal service; they have made
it believe that Europe, enlightened or seduced, would range itself on
its side and finally throw into the balance something more than empty
promises. This delusion has and still maintains the resistance of the
South, it prolongs the war, and with it our sufferings. If, as the North
had a right to expect, the friends of liberty had, from the first,
boldly pronounced against the policy of slavery, if the advocates of
peace upon the seas, if the defenders of the rights of neutrals had
spoken in favor of the Union and rejected a separation, which could only
profit England, it is probable that the South would have been less
anxious to start on a journey without visible end. If, in spite of the
courage and devotion of its soldiers; if, in spite of the ability of its
generals, the South fails in an enterprise which, in my opinion, cannot
be too much blamed, let it lay the fault on those who have so poor an
opinion of Europe as to imagine that they will subject _its_ opinion to
a policy against which patriotism protests, and which the gospel and
humanity condemn.

We will grant, they may say, that the South is altogether wrong;
nevertheless it wishes to separate, it can no longer live with the
people of the North. The war alone, whatever may be its origin, is a new
cause of disunion. By what right can twenty millions of men force ten
millions (of those ten millions there are four millions of slaves whose
will is not consulted in the least) of their countrymen to continue a
detested alliance, to respect a contract which they wish to break at any
price? Is it possible to imagine that after two or three years of
fighting and misery, conquerors and conquered can be made to live
harmoniously together? Can a country two or three times the size of
France be subjugated? Would there not always be bloodshed between the
parties? Separation is perhaps a misfortune, but now it is an
irreparable one. Let us grant that the North has law, the letter and
spirit of the Constitution on her side; there always remains an
indisputable point--the South wishes to govern itself. You have no right
to crush a people that defends itself so valiantly. Give it up!

If we were less enervated by the luxury of modern life and by the
idleness of a long peace, if there still lingered in our hearts some
remnant of that patriotism which, in 1792, urged our forefathers to the
banks of the Rhine, the answer would be simple; to-day I fear it will
not be understood. If the south of France should revolt to-morrow and
demand a separation; if Alsace and Lorraine should wish to withdraw,
what would be, I will not say our right only, but our duty? Would we
count voices to see if a third or a half of the French had a right to
destroy our nationality, to annihilate France, to break up the glorious
heritage our sires bought for us with their blood? No! we would shoulder
our muskets and march. Woe to the man who does not feel his country to
be sacred, and that it is a noble act to defend it, even at the price of
extreme misery and every danger!

'America is not like France; it is a confederation, not a nation.' Who
says this? It is the South, and to justify its faults; the North asserts
the contrary, and for two years she has declared, by numberless
sacrifices, that the Americans are one people, and that no one shall
divide their country. This is a grand and noble sentiment, and if
anything astonishes me, it is that France can witness this patriotism
unmoved. Is not love of country the crowning virtue of the Frenchman?

What is this South, and whence does it derive this right of secession it
proclaims so loudly? Is it a conquered nation which resumes its
independence, as Lombardy has done? Is it a distinct race which will not
continue an oppressive alliance? No! it is a number of colonies,
established on the territory of the Union by American hands. Take a map
of the United States. Except Virginia, the two Carolinas and Georgia,
which are old English colonies, all the rest of the South is situated on
lands purchased and paid for by the Union. This proves that the North
has sustained the greatest part of the expense. Ancient Louisiana was
sold to the Americans, in 1804, by the first consul at a price of
fifteen millions of dollars; Florida was bought from Spain, in 1820, for
five millions; and it required the war with Mexico, a payment of ten
millions, and heavy losses besides, to acquire Texas. In a few words, of
all the rich countries which border on the Mississippi and Missouri,
from their sources to their mouths, there is not one inch of ground for
which the Union has not paid, and which does not belong to her. The
Union has driven out or indemnified the Indians. The Union has built
fortifications, constructed shipyards, light-houses, and harbors. It is
the Union that has made all this wilderness valuable and rendered its
settlement possible. It is the men of the North as well as those of the
South who have cleared and planted these lands, and transformed them
from barren solitudes to a flourishing condition. Show us, if you can,
in old Europe, where unity is entirely the result of conquest, a title
to property so sacred, a country which is more the common work of one
people! And shall it now be allowed to a minority to take possession of
a territory which belongs to all, and, moreover, to choose the best
portion of it? Shall a minority be permitted to destroy the Union, and
to imperil those who were its first benefactors, and without whom it
would never have existed? If this does not constitute an impious revolt,
then any whim that seizes a people is just and right. It is not only
political reasons that oppose a separation; geography, the positions of
places force the United States to form a single nation. Strabo,
meditating on this vast country now called France, said, with the
certainty of genius, that, to look at the nature of the territory, and
the course of the waters, it was evident that the forests of Gaul,
inhabited by a thinly scattered people, would become the abode of a
great people. Nature has disposed our territory to be the theatre of a
great civilization. This is also true of America, which is really but a
double valley, whose place of separation is imperceptible, and which
contains two large water courses, the Mississippi, and the St. Lawrence.
There are no high mountains which isolate and separate the people, no
natural barriers like the Alps and Pyrenees. The West cannot live
without the Mississippi; it is a question of life and death to the
Western farmers to hold the mouth of the river. The United States felt
this from the first day of their existence. When the Ohio and
Mississippi were yet but streams lost in the forest, when the first
planters were only a handful of men scattered in the wilderness, the
Americans already knew that New Orleans was _the key of the house_. They
would not leave it either to Spain or France. Napoleon understood this;
he held in his hands the future greatness of the United States; he was
glad to cede this vast territory to America, with the intention, he
said, 'to give to England a maritime rival which sooner or later would
lower the pride of our enemies.' (Here the author refers to his
pamphlet, entitled, _Les Etats Unis et la France_, and to _L'histoire de
la Louisiane_, by Barbe Marbois.) He could have satisfied the United
States by only giving up the left bank of the river, which was all they
asked for then; he did more (and in this I think he was very wrong),
with a stroke of his pen he ceded a country as large as the half of
Europe, and renounced our last rights on this beautiful river which we
had discovered. Sixty years have quickly passed since this cession. The
States which are now called Louisiana, Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa,
Minnesota, Kansas, Oregon, and the territories of Nebraska, Dacotah,
Jefferson and Washington, which will soon become States, have been
established on the immense domain abandoned by Napoleon. Without
counting the slaveholding population which wishes to break up the Union,
there are ten millions of free citizens between Pittsburg and Fort
Union, who claim the course and mouth of the Mississippi as having been
ceded to them by France. It is from us that they hold their title and
their possession. They have a right of sixty years, a right consecrated
by labors and cultivation, a right which they have received from a
contract, and, better still, from nature, and from God.

See what it is they are reproached for defending; they are, forsooth,
usurpers and tyrants, because they wish to hold what is their own,
because they will not place themselves at the mercy of an ambitious
minority. What would we say, if, to-morrow, Normandy, rising, should
pretend to hold for herself alone Rouen and Havre, and yet what is the
interest of the Seine compared to that of the Mississippi, which has a
course of two thousand two hundred and fifty miles, and which receives
all the waters of the West?

To possess New Orleans is to command a valley which embraces two thirds
of the United States.

They say 'we will neutralize the river.' We know what such promises are
worth. We have seen what Russia did at the mouth of the Danube; the war
of the Crimea was necessary to give to Germany the free use of her great
river. If a new war were to break out between Austria and Russia, we
might be sure that the possession of the Danube would be the stake
played for. It could not be otherwise in America, from the day the
Mississippi would flow for more than three hundred miles between two
foreign servile banks: the effect of the war has already been to prevent
the exportation of wheat and corn, the riches of the West. In 1861 it
was necessary to burn useless harvests, to the great prejudice of
Europe, who profited by their exportation. The South itself feels the
strength of its position so well that its ambition is to separate the
valley of the Mississippi from the Eastern States, and to unite itself
to the West, consigning the Yankees of New England to a solitude which
would ruin them. With the Mississippi for a bait, the Confederates hope
to reestablish to their profit, that is, to the profit of slavery, the
Union which they have broken for fear of liberty[6]. We now see what is
to be thought of the pretended tyranny of the North, and if it is true
that it wishes to oppress and to subjugate the South. On the contrary,
the North only defends itself. In maintaining the Union, it defends its
rights, and it is its very life that it wishes to save.

Thus far I have only spoken of the material interests--interests which
are lawful, and which, founded on solemn titles, give sacred rights; but
if we examine moral and political interests which are of a superior
order, we will understand better still that the North cannot give up
without destroying itself. The United States is a republic, the most
free, and at the same time the mildest and most happy form of government
the world has ever seen. Whence comes this prosperity of the Americans?
Because they are alone upon an immense territory; they have never been
obliged to concentrate their power and enfeeble liberty in order to
resist the jealousy and ambition of their neighbors. In the United
States there was no standing army, no naval force; the Americans
employed the immense sums which we expend to avert or to sustain war, in
opening schools, and in giving to all their citizens, poor or rich, that
education and that instruction which form the moral greatness and the
true riches of the people. Their foreign policy was comprised in this
maxim: 'Never to mingle in the quarrels of Europe on the sole condition
that Europe will not interfere with their affairs, and will respect the
liberty of the seas.' Thanks to these wise principles, which Washington
left them in his immortal testament, the United States have enjoyed, for
eighty years, a peace which has only been disturbed by Europe when, in
1812, they were forced to resist England and sustain the rights of
neutrals. We must count by hundreds of millions those sums that we have
used during the last seventy years in the upholding our liberty in
Europe; these hundreds of millions the United States have employed in
improvements of every description. Here is the secret of their
prodigious fortune; it is their perfect independence which makes their
prosperity.

Let us now suppose the separation finally accomplished, and that the new
confederation comprises all the Slave States; the North has at once lost
both its power and the foundations of that power. The Republic has
received a mortal blow. There are in America two nations, side by side,
two jealous rivals who are always on the point of attacking each other.
Peace will not remove their antipathies; it will not efface the memory
of the past greatness of the Union now destroyed; the victorious South
will, without doubt, be quite as friendly toward slavery, and as fond of
domination as ever. The enemies of slavery, now masters of their own
policy, will certainly not be soothed by the separation. What will the
Southern confederacy be to the North! It will be a foreign power
established in America, with a frontier of one thousand five hundred
miles, unprotected on every side, and consequently continually
threatening or menaced. This power, hostile, because of its vicinity
alone, and still more so by its institutions, will possess a very
considerable portion of the New World; it will have half the coasts of
the Union; it will command the Gulf of Mexico, an inland sea one third
the size of the Mediterranean; it will be the mistress of the mouths of
the Mississippi, and can ruin at its pleasure the inhabitants of the
West. The fragments of the old Union will have to be always ready to
defend themselves against their rivals. Questions of customs and of
frontiers; rivalries, jealousies, in fact all the scourges of old Europe
will overwhelm America at once and together; she will have to establish
custom houses over an extent of five hundred leagues; to build and arm
forts on this immense frontier, to keep on foot large standing armies,
to maintain a naval force; in other words, she will have to renounce her
old Constitution, to weaken her municipal independence by the
centralization of power. Farewell to the old and glorious liberty!
Farewell to those institutions which made America the common refuge of
all who could not exist in Europe! The work of Washington will be
destroyed; the situation will be full of dangers and difficulties. I
understand how the prospect of such a future can delight those who have
never been able to forgive America her prosperity and greatness; history
is full of such sad jealousies. Still better I understand and approve of
this, that a people accustomed to liberty should risk its last man and
give its last dollar to preserve the inheritance of its fathers. I do
not understand why there are persons in Europe who believe themselves
liberal when they reproach the North for its generous resistance by
advising her disgracefully to relinquish her rights. War is certainly a
frightful evil, but from war a durable peace may issue, the
South may tire of a struggle which exhausts its strength, the old Union
may again arise in its glory, and the future may be saved. What but
endless war and numberless miseries can result from a separation? This
dismemberment of a country is an irreparable evil; no people, no nation,
will submit to such a calamity until it no longer has any power to
resist.

Up to this time I have reasoned in the supposition that the South would
remain an independent power. But unless the West joins the confederates,
and the Union reestablishes itself against New England, this
independence is a chimera: it might last for some time; but in ten or
twenty years, when the free population of the West would have doubled or
trebled itself, how would the South, necessarily much enfeebled by slave
culture, compare with a people, thirty millions in number, enclosing it
on two sides? To resist successfully, the South would be forced to rely
on Europe; it could only live when protected by a great naval power, and
England is the only one in a condition to guarantee for it its
sovereignty. Here is a new danger for free America and for Europe. The
South has no commercial marine, nor with slavery ever will have; England
will at once seize the monopoly of cotton, and will furnish capital and
vessels to the South. In two words, the triumph of the South is the
reinstatement of England on the continent, whence the policy of Louis
XVI and Napoleon has driven her; it is enfeebled neutrality; it is
France plunged anew into all the questions concerning the liberty of the
seas, which have already cost her two centuries of struggles and
suffering. In defending its own rights, the American Union assured the
independence of the ocean. The Union once destroyed, the English will
again resume their preponderance, peace will be exiled from the world,
and a policy will return which has only benefited our rivals.

This is what Napoleon felt; this is what is forgotten to-day. It would
seem that history is but a collection of frivolous tales, good enough,
perhaps, to amuse children; it would seem that no one wishes to
understand the lessons of the past. If the experience of our fathers
were not lost on our ignorance, we would see that, while fighting for
her independence, while upholding her national unity, the North is
defending our cause as well as her own. All our prayers should be for
our old and faithful friends. The weakness of the United States will be
our weakness, and on the first quarrel with England, we will too late
regret having abandoned a policy that for forty years has been our
security.

In writing these pages, I do not expect to convert those persons who
have in their hearts an innate love of slavery; _I_ write for those
honest souls who allow themselves to be captivated by the grand visions
of national independence which are continually shown to them in order to
dazzle and mislead. The South has never been menaced, and at this late
hour can return to the Union even with her slaves [the reader will
remember that this article was published in December, 1862], and is only
required not to destroy the national unity, and not to ruin political
liberty. It cannot be repeated too often that the North is not an
aggressor--it only defends what every true citizen will defend--the
national compact, the integrity of the country. It is very sad that it
should have found so little sympathy in Europe, and, above all, in
France. It counted on us, its hopes were in us; we have forsaken it, as
if those sacred words Country and Liberty no longer found an echo in
our breasts. Where is the time when all France cheered the young
Lafayette giving his sword to serve the Americans? Who has imitated him?
Who has recalled this glorious memory? Have we become so old that our
memory has failed?

It is impossible to foresee what will be the issue of this war. The
South may succeed; the North may split up, and wear itself out in
internal struggles. Perhaps the Union is already but a great memory.
But, whatever fortune may have in the future, it is the plain duty of
every man who has not allowed himself to be carried away by present
successes, to sustain and encourage the North to the last, to condemn
those whose ambition threatens the most beautiful and patriotic work the
world has ever beheld, to remain faithful until the end of the war, and
even after defeat, should it come, to those who will have fought to the
last for the right and for liberty.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: This point of view has been thoroughly exposed by one of
the wisest citizens of America, EDWARD EVERETT, in 'The Questions of the
Day,' New York, 1861.]




THE HUGUENOTS OF VIRGINIA.


The warmer climes of the South induced many Huguenots to settle in the
colony of Virginia, and their neat little cottages, covered with French
grapevines, and the wild honeysuckle, might be seen scattered along
James river, not far above Richmond. One writer of that day, says: 'Most
of the French who lived at that town (_Monacan_) on James river, removed
to Trent river, in North Carolina, where the rest were expected daily to
come to them, when I came away, which was in August, 1708.' In 1690,
King William sent to Virginia many of the Huguenot Refugees, his
followers, who had taken shelter in England. Here they were naturalized
by an especial act in 1699. Six hundred more came over, conducted by
their pastor, Philip de Richebourg, locating themselves, about twenty
miles above Richmond, on lands formerly occupied by a powerful tribe of
Indians. There is a church now near the spot, retaining its Indian name
to this day. In 1700, the Virginia assembly exempted these French
settlers from taxation, and fully protected their rights.

We have seen a curious relic of the Huguenots in Virginia, which was
found in the family of a descendant. It is entitled: 'A register,
containing the baptisms made within the church of the French Refugees,
in the Manakin town, in Virginia, within the parish of King William, in
the year of our Lord 1721, the 25th of March. Done by Jacques Soblet,
clerk.' This manuscript contains about twenty-five pages of foolscap
paper, and remains a standing evidence of the fidelity of the Virginia
Huguenots to their Christian duties and ordinances. As a specimen of
their entries, we copy the following, literally, not even correcting
their orthography:

     'Jean Chastain fils de Jean ett de Marianne Chastain les pere et
     mere nee le 26 Septembre, 1721, est baptise le 5 Octobre, par M.
     Fountaine. Ils ava pour parun et marene Pierre David et Anne sa
     femme le quels ont declaree que cest enfan nee le jour et an que
     deshus.

          Segnee
             JACQUE SOBLET,
                Clerk.'

     John Chastain, son of John Chastain and of Marianne Chastain, the
     father and mother, born the 26th of September, 1721, was baptized
     the 5th of October, by Mr. Fontaine. He had for godfather and
     godmother Peter David and Anne, his wife, who have declared that
     this infant was born the day and year aforesaid.

          Signed, JACQUE SOBLET, Clerk.

Two or three of the pages contain records of deaths. Here is one:

     'Le 29 de Janvier, 1723-4, morut le Sieur Authonoine Trabue, agee
     danviron sinquaint six a sept annees fut en terree le 30 du meme
     moy.

          J. SOBLETT, Clerk.'

     Jan. 29th, 1723-4, died Sir Anthony Trabue, aged about fifty six or
     seven years. He was buried the 30th of the same month.

          J. SOBLETT, Clerk.



Huguenot names found in this old register of baptism:

     'Chastain, David, Monford, Dykar, Neim, (_Minister_) Dupuy, Bilbo,
     Dutoi, Salle, Martain, Allaigre, Vilain, Soblet, Chambou, Levilain,
     Trabu, Loucadon, Harris, Gasper, Wooldridge, Flournoy, Amis,
     Banton, Ford, Laisain, Lolaigre, Givodan, Mallet, Dubruil,
     Guerrant, Sabbatie, Dupre, Bernard, Amonet, Porter, Rapine, Lacy,
     Watkins, Cocke, Bondurant, Goin, Pero, Pean, Deen, Robinson,
     Edmond, Brook, Brian, Faure, Don, Bingli, Reno, Lesuer, Pionet,
     Trent, Sumpter, Moiriset, Jordin, Gavain.

     Names of <DW64>s: Thomberlin (Northumberland), Ivan, Jaque, Janne,
     Anibal, Guillaume, Jean, Pierre, Olive, Robert, Jak, Julienne,
     Francois, Susan, Primus, Moll, Chamberlain, Dick, Pegg, Nanny,
     Tobie, Dorole, Agar, Agge, Pompe, Frank, Caesar, Amy, Joham, Debora,
     Tom, Harry, Cipio, Bosen, Sam, Tabb, Jupiter, Essek, Cuffy, Orange,
     Robin, Belin, Samson, Pope, Dina, Fillis, Matilda, Ester, Yarmouth,
     Judy, and Adam.'

We find in Beverly's 'History of Virginia,' a very interesting account
of the Manakin French Refugees: 'The assembly was very bountiful to
those who remained at this town, bestowing on them large donations,
money and provisions for their support; they likewise freed them from
every public tax for several years to come, and addressed the governor
to grant them a brief to entitle them to the charity of all
well-disposed persons throughout the country, which, together with the
king's benevolence, supported them very comfortably, till they could
sufficiently supply themselves with necessaries, which they now do
indifferently well, and begin to have stocks of cattle, which are said
to give abundantly more milk than any other in the country. I have heard
that these people are upon a design of getting into the breed of
buffaloes, to which end they lay in wait for their calves, that they may
tame and raise a stock of them; in which, if they succeed, it will in
all probability be greatly for their advantage; for these are much
larger than other cattle, and have the benefit of being natural to the
climate. They now make many of their own clothes, and are resolved, as
soon as they have improved that manufacture, to apply themselves to the
making of wine and brandy, which they do not doubt to bring to
perfection.' The Rev. J. Fontaine, a Calvinistic clergyman, first
preached to his Refugee French brethren in England and Ireland (1688).
Then his sons emigrated to Virginia, and became settled ministers. From
this stock alone, including his son-in-law, Mr. Maury, have descended
hundreds of the best citizens of that commonwealth--ministers, members
of the bar, legislators, and public officers. The Rev. Dr. Hawks
estimates the relations of these Fontaine families, in the United
States, at not less than _two thousand_.

A few years ago, he found in a family under his parochial charge, a
manuscript autobiography of one of its ancestors. This was a James
Fontaine, who was a persecuted Huguenot, and endured much for the sake
of his religion. The work has been translated and published, and is full
of interest--'A Tale of the Huguenots; or, Memoirs of a French Refugee
Family, with an Introduction, by F. L. Hawks, D.D.'

M. Fontaine was a noble example of a true Huguenot. In his early life,
he was accustomed to the enjoyments of wealth, education, and refined
society; but, for conscience' sake, he was stripped of them all, and
forced to leave his native land. An exile in England, ignorant of its
language, and unaccustomed to labor, he soon accommodated himself to his
altered circumstances. He became a skillful artisan, and worked
successfully at his trade; at first he opened a little store, with a
school also, to teach the French language, and he says: 'We were in
great hopes, that with both together we should be able to pay our way.'
M. Fontaine next undertook the manufactory of worsted goods, which he
profitably carried on for some time, but became tired of the business.
He was anxious to unite with a French church, and, knowing that there
were many Refugees in the land, went to Cork in 1695.

At first he preached in the English church, after its regular pastor had
finished his services. Next, the French Refugees obtained the court room
for their worship, and, finally, he gave up a large apartment on the
lower floor of his own house, which was properly arranged with a pulpit
and seats for religious meetings. M. Fontaine writes at the time: 'I was
now at the height of my ambition; I was beloved by my hearers, to whom I
preached gratuitously. Great numbers of zealous, pious, and upright
persons had joined our communion. This state of things was altogether
too good to last. My cup of happiness was now full to overflowing, and,
like all the enjoyments of this world, it proved very transitory.'
Dissensions grew up; M. Fontaine was a Presbyterian, and some of his
hearers required him to receive Episcopal ordination, and this
circumstance produced discussion, until he felt it his duty to resign
his charge. In answer to his request, his elders gave a reluctant and
sorrowful consent, thanking him most humbly for the service he had
rendered to this church, during two years and a half, without receiving
any stipend or equivalent whatsoever for his unceasing exertions. '...
We have been extremely edified by his preaching, which has always been
in strict accordance with the pure Word of God. He has imparted
consolation to the sick and afflicted, and set a bright example to the
flock of the most exemplary piety and good conduct.'

Our French Refugee next removed to Bear Haven, and entered largely into
the fishing business; and now he became a justice of the peace, exerting
himself to break up the contraband traffic, which he found generally
carried on 'between the Irish robbers and the French privateers,' then
swarming the Irish coast. From eight to ten of these desperate
characters were sent to Cork for trial at every assize of Bear Haven.
They swore vengeance upon the upright magistrate; and in the year
1704, a French privateer hove in sight--soon anchoring, he faced M.
Fontaine's house. The vessel mounted ten guns, with a crew of eighty
seamen. The Huguenot mustered all his men, amounting to twenty, and,
sending the <DW7>s away, he supplied the Protestants with muskets. This
reduced his force to seven men, besides himself, wife, and children, and
four or five of these were of but little use.

Fontaine posting himself in a tower over the door, the rest of the party
occupied the different windows. The lieutenant now landed with twenty
men, and, approaching the dwelling, he took aim and fired at M.
Fontaine, but missed him. The Huguenot then discharged a blunderbuss,
with small leaden balls, one of which entered the neck of the
privateersman, and another his side, when his men carried him back
wounded to the ship. This unexpected resistance from a minister made the
captain furious, when he sent to the attack twenty more men, under
another commander, with two small cannons. 'I must acknowledge,' he
says, 'that being unaccustomed to this sort of music, I felt some little
tremors of fear when the first cannon ball struck the house; but I
instantly humbled myself before my Maker, and having committed myself,
both soul and body, to His keeping, my courage revived, and I suffered
no more from fear. I put my head out of the window to see what effect
the ball had produced on our stone wall, and when I perceived it had
only made a slight scratch, I cried out for joy, 'Courage, my dear
children, their cannon balls have no more effect on our stone walls than
if they were so many apples.'

The wife of M. Fontaine displayed the greatest self-possession and
bravery on this trying occasion, carrying ammunition, acting as surgeon,
and encouraging all by her words and actions. 'Courage, my children,'
said she, 'we are in the hands of God, and it is not fear that will
insure our safety; on the contrary, God will bless our courage. If you
cannot fire yourselves, you can load the muskets for your father and
others who are older and stronger than you are; drive away all fear, if
you can, and leave the care of your persons to God.' The fight continued
from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, without
intermission. Only two of the Huguenot family were wounded--a man, and
one of the children slightly in his finger. The pirates finally
withdrew, with three men killed and seven wounded. During the whole
action the Huguenot minister did not permit any one 'to taste a drop of
wine or spirits, or strong beer.' A second attack was feared, but soon
the privateer weighed anchor and sailed away; when the pious family
returned thanks to God for their 'glorious deliverance.'

A full account of this bold and courageous affair was transmitted to
Lord Cox, then chancellor of Ireland, and the Duke of Ormond, the lord
lieutenant. Fontaine recommended to them that a fort should be built
there, when 'it would be a great place for the settlement of French
Refugees, and would also prove a safeguard to the commerce of the whole
kingdom.' In the year 1704, he himself erected a fortification at the
back of his house, purchased some six-pounders, which had been obtained
from a vessel lost on the Irish coast, and the Government supplied him
with powder and balls. The Council of Dublin also voted him L50, and
Queen Anne, in 1705, granted him a pension of five shillings a day for
his services, and as a French Refugee.

From this daring defence, the name of M. Fontaine and wife became known
and famous throughout all Europe. The French corsairs especially
remembered it, and threatened another attack. Indeed, the family
constantly apprehended such a visit, and it did take place in 1704.
Leaving their vessels at midnight, the enemy soon reached the dwelling
of the Huguenot, and, firing the outbuildings and stacks of grain, in
less than half an hour the whole were completely enveloped in flames. On
this occasion, the entire garrison consisted of the two parents,
children, with four servants, two of whom were cowboys. By two o'clock
in the afternoon, the pirates had made a breach through the wall of the
house; but the children, protected by a mattress, in front of the
opening, fired one after another at the assailants as they possibly
could. The Huguenot leader, having overcharged his musket, it burst,
throwing him down, and broke three of his ribs and right collar bone.
For a short time he was insensible, but remarks: 'I had already done my
part, for, during the course of the morning, I had fired five pounds of
swan shot from my now disabled piece. Notwithstanding this unfortunate
accident, an incessant fire was kept up on both sides, until a parley
took place. Life and liberty were then guaranteed to the family, as the
terms of capitulation, while the pirates were to have the plunder; and
they swore to these conditions as Frenchmen and men of honor. When the
officer and men entered the dwelling, and, looking anxiously around, saw
only five youths, and four cowherds, they suspected that an ambush had
been laid for them.

'You need not fear anything dishonorable from me,' said the French
preacher; 'you see all our garrison.'

'Impossible!' he replied; 'these children could not possibly have kept
up all the firing.'

The house was then stripped of everything, not excepting the coats,
which had been thrown off in the heat of the action; and the booty
filled six boats. When they departed, M. Fontaine with his two eldest
boys and two servants were taken away as prisoners. In vain did the
brave good man protest that this was an infraction of the treaty. The
remonstrance availed nothing with the freebooters. In a few days, the
children with the servants were set ashore, but he was detained, when
orders were given to raise the anchor. During all these severe trials,
his noble and pious companion did not sit down, quietly lamenting her
misfortunes. She first went to the parish priest, who was under great
obligations to her husband, entreating him for his liberation. But he
positively refused. Perceiving the privateer under sail, she resolved to
follow it along the shore, as long as she could, and, reaching a
promontory, she made a signal with her apron, on the top of a stick. A
boat came near the shore, and she carried on a conversation with its
crew through a speaking trumpet. After much bargaining, they agreed to
set M. Fontaine at liberty, upon the payment of L100 sterling. Of this
sum the excellent lady could only borrow L30, and the captain of the
privateer consented to take this amount, with one of her sons as a
hostage, until the remaining L70 were paid, calling her at the same time
'a second Judith.'

Mrs. Fontaine repaired forthwith to Cork, for the purpose of raising the
sum wanted, and could easily have obtained it, but the merchants of that
city objected to any payment of the kind. The privateer hovered about
the Irish coast for some time, expecting the ransom money; but when the
governor of Brest heard the circumstances, he condemned the captain
strongly for bringing a hostage away with him, contrary to the law of
nations. The difficulty did not terminate here. As soon as he was able,
the French preacher visited Kinsale, and made an affidavit of the
outrage he had suffered. At this place were a government officer and a
prison, and immediately all the French officers who had been taken in
the war then existing were ironed. Numbers of the same description were
treated in a similar manner. These retaliatory measures excited great
public feeling against the captain of the privateer, and he was summoned
to appear before the governor of Brest, who imprisoned and even
threatened to hang him. Upon his promising to set at liberty the young
hostage, and convey him to the place from whence he had been taken, the
officer was liberated.

M. Fontaine now determined to live in Dublin, and support his family by
teaching the Latin, Greek, and French languages; and in the mean time
the grand jury of Cork awarded him L800 for his losses at Bear Haven. In
his new abode he was able to give his children an excellent education;
one became an officer in the British service, and three entered college.
The former was John Fontaine, and the family determined that he should
visit America for information; and after travelling through
Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, and Maryland, he purchased a
plantation in Virginia. Peter, another brother, received ordination from
the bishop of London, and with Moses, who studied law, both embarked for
Virginia in 1716. Francis, the last son, remained at college.

There were two daughters in his family. The eldest, Mary Anne, married
Matthew Maury, a Protestant Refugee from Gascony, in 1716, and the next
year he joined his relations in this country. His son was the Rev. James
Maury, of Albemarle, Virginia, a very estimable and useful clergyman of
the Church of England. James was another son of the French preacher who
made America his home, bringing with him his wife, child, mother-in-law,
and thirteen servants, in 1717. Francis, in 1719, was ordained by the
Bishop of London, on the particular recommendation of the Archbishop of
Dublin, and then also sailed for Virginia. He became a very eloquent and
popular preacher, and settled in St. Margaret's parish, King William
county.

In the year 1721, Mr. Fontaine lost his most faithful, exemplary, and
pious companion. 'A melancholy day,' he records in his autobiography,
'it was, that deprived me of my greatest earthly comfort and
consolation. I was bowed down to the very dust; but it made me think of
my own latter end, and made preparations to join her once more.' At the
conclusion of his memoirs, he uses the following remarkable language:

     'I feel the strongest conviction, that if you will take care of
     these memoirs, your descendants will read them with pleasure; and I
     here declare that I have been most particular as to the truth of
     all that is herein recorded.

     'I hope God will bless the work, and that by His grace it may be a
     bond of union among you and your descendants, and that it may be an
     humble means of confirming you all in the fear of the Lord.

          I am, dear children,
            'Your tender father,
              'JAMES FONTAINE.'



Little did the faithful Huguenot preacher imagine that a century after
he wrote thus kindly to his own children, myriads who have been born
from the same noble and holy ancestry would be animated, cheered, and
profited by his useful life and example. Though dead he yet speaketh.

We have dwelt thus at length upon the heroic history of this Huguenot
minister and his family; for where can we find an example so worthy of
imitation? He was a Huguenot in its fullest sense, bearing himself, at
all times, with a noble spirit of the true man, for the work before him.
Never losing trust in God, nor proper confidence in himself, he proved
that, when thus true, no man need ever despair. His long line of
descendants in the United States may well cherish and honor his memory.

As we have said before, we dwell more particularly upon the character
and history of Mr. Fontaine, as a striking example of a true Huguenot;
and how truth and the right will finally triumph over all obstacles.
Wherever the French Protestants settled in America, they exhibited this
same excellent trait; and among their families of Virginia were those
who distinguished themselves as brave soldiers and able magistrates in
the councils of the then young Republic.




TO-MORROW!

[G. H. BOKER.]


   'The sun is sinking low,
   Upon the ashes of his fading pyre;
   The evening star is stealing after him,
   Fixed, like a beacon on the prow of night;
   The world is shutting up its heavy eye
   Upon the stir and bustle of _to-day_;--
   _On what shall it awake?_'




MONTGOMERY IN SECESSION TIME.


In the beginning of the year 1860, there existed in the city of
Montgomery, Alabama, a strong, active, and apparently indestructible
Union party. Three months after the close of the year there remained in
the city no trace of Union sentiment. To show how this feeling was
destroyed, sinking slowly, and with many reactions, under influences in
themselves insignificant, and to narrate, as they fell under personal
observation, that short train of events which make up the historic
period of this first capital of the Southern confederacy, will be the
object of the present sketch.

Early in the summer of 1860 it became evident to every dispassionate
observer in the South that the country was swiftly approaching a great
crisis. So dexterously had politicians managed the excitement which
arose on the discovery of the plot of John Brown, that at the very
beginning of the year a small and united party had been formed, having
for its aim the immediate separation of the States. This party,
following this well-defined object, was the only fixed thing in Southern
society during the year. In the midst of all changes it was permanent.
Even before the presidential election, when men's minds wavered about
things so permanent as party lines and party creeds, about old political
dogmas associated with favorite political leaders, it remained
unaffected. The presence of this restless and determined insurrectionary
element in the party politics of the time gave to the struggle preceding
the presidential election a character of unusual intensity. The city of
Montgomery, as the home of Mr. Yancey, and consequently of his warmest
admirers, and most bitter opponents, felt the full influence of this
excitement, and soon became one of the natural centres of the growing
struggle of opinions.

From causes difficult then to trace, there appeared early in the year in
the money market of the South an unusual condition of prostration. Banks
were unaccountably cautious. Money was scarce. Debts of more than a
year's standing were unpaid, and business of all kinds languished. Not
even were the customary advances made by the banks in the East for the
purchase of cotton, nor did the money scattered through the country by
those sales which did take place relieve the financial pressure under
which everything labored. In October capitalists refused to venture
their funds on anything which did not promise the most immediate return.

In these signs, in the inexplicable shrinking of capital to its hiding
places, and in the universal darkening of business, it would seem that
all might have discovered the approach of that storm which has since
burst with such fury upon the land. But this was not the case. Although
every one looked forward with anxiety to the time of election, it was
only a portion of the so-called BRECKINRIDGE party who saw with any
distinctness the point toward which all things were tending. Nor did
these men make public the extent of their hopes.

They were satisfied at first to do nothing more than familiarize the
minds of the people with the idea of secession. They spread the doctrine
that the only hope of Union lay in the defeat of Mr. Lincoln. Expressing
the worst fears of all, this doctrine was thought to be peculiarly
calculated to increase the numbers of the Union or Bell party, and was
therefore readily adopted by those who would at first have repelled with
patriotic horror the alternative it suggested.

It is impossible to estimate the influence of this lurking fallacy. Not
merely were multitudes of well-meaning, but unreasoning men, who were
confident of the success of their party, brought to acquiesce in a
proposition utterly false in its base, but the whole conservative
element in society was placed in a position from which it would be
thrown by defeat into a most dangerous reaction. Thus consciously or
unconsciously all parties were using every effort in their power to
prepare the popular mind for the question of secession.

But the period was not without its traits of patriotism. In October
strong efforts were made in the States of Alabama and Georgia to unite
the three parties in the South on one of the three candidates; thus
securing a President to the South, and the certainty of the Union. The
Breckinridge Democrats, however, contemptuously refused to be party to
every arrangement of the kind. The insurrectionary element, gathering to
itself the excitable and disaffected spirits of every class, had now
gained the command of this party, and no longer attempted to conceal its
revolutionary intentions. At the head of this element, exercising a vast
influence over all its movements, and embodying in himself, more than
any other man (except, perhaps, Mr. Yancey), the fierceness of its
spirit, stood Mr. Toombs, of Georgia. He was now invited to speak in
Montgomery. As a man of large political experience, some statesmanship,
and master of a grave and sonorous eloquence, it was expected that he
would influence a class of men who had hitherto held themselves
studiously aloof from the insurrectionary ranks--that calm, conservative
class, which is recognized by all as the basis of every society which
has acquired, or having acquired, hopes to retain, stability of
government and security of morals. The sentiments of the speaker were
too well known to admit of any doubts as to the probable character of
his address. He appeared as the undisguised advocate of secession. No
form of appeal or argument was neglected which could have had weight
with a people peculiarly susceptible to the influence of oratory.
Setting aside the question of the approaching election, to which he
scarcely alluded, the orator strove only to show that it was an
imperative social necessity that the South should have a vast and
constantly increasing slave territory; that in the path of this
necessity the only obstacle was the Federal Union, and that the time for
its destruction had now come. These were the representative arguments of
his party before the election, and he did not speak to an unsympathizing
audience. For when toward the close, raising his voice until it broke
almost in a scream, he exclaimed, 'Let the night which decides the
election of Mr. Lincoln be ushered in by the booming of the hostile
cannon of the South,' the hall rang again and again with the shouts of
his excited hearers. But _nemo repente turpissimus semper fuit_. These
were not the sentiments of all. There was a large class present who did
not applaud--but neither did they hiss. They seemed for the time
overawed by the energy of the spirit which had suddenly sprung up among
them.

In the following week, however, a singular, though, unfortunately, but
momentary check was given to the progress of insurrectionary sentiments
in the vicinity of the city. Senator DOUGLAS, who had been slowly
advancing, in his oratorical tour, down the coast, was about this time
announced to speak in Montgomery. Since his speech in Norfolk, where he
was thought to have expressed himself too clearly against secession, a
strong prejudice had grown up in the South against him, and it now
threatened to manifest itself in acts of positive violence. Such was the
state of popular feeling, that for a time it seemed uncertain whether it
would be desirable for him to attempt to speak. Hints of peculiar
personal outrages were thrown out by men of a certain class; and
threats were made of something still more ominous in case he should
attempt to repeat the sentiments of his Norfolk speech.

He arrived in the evening, and was met at the cars by a large crowd, and
a procession formed from a coalition, for the occasion, of his party
with that of Mr. Bell. It was feared that the short ride to the hotel
would not be accomplished without some act of violence on the part of
the excited throng by which his carriage was surrounded. A few eggs were
thrown, but otherwise the ride was performed without interruption. From
further outrages the crowd restrained itself until something positive
should appear on the part of the orator himself. Unintimidated, however,
by these unmistakable evidences of the public feeling, Mr. Douglas on
the following morning presented himself on the steps in front of the
capitol, where it had been announced that his speech would be delivered.
The city was filled with strangers, who had come from all parts of the
country to be present at the State fair which was held there that week.
On Capitol Hill, therefore, an immense throng was early assembled, which
coldly awaited the arrival of the orator. Everything was chilly and
unfavorable. But the spirit of the obstinate debater seemed to rise with
the difficulties by which he was surrounded. At first even his manner of
speaking operated to his disadvantage. The sharp, syllabic emphasis,
which he was accustomed to adopt in addressing large assemblages in the
open air, grated harshly on ears accustomed to the smooth and carefully
modulated elocution of Mr. Yancey. Beginning, however, by enunciating
general principles of government, in which all could agree, he gradually
conciliated, by an unexpected appearance of moderation, the favorable
attention of his audience. As he advanced upon his customary sketch of
the history of the different political parties during the past few
years--a work which a hundred repetitions enabled him to perform with a
dramatic energy of style and expression singularly effective--he was
occasionally interrupted by exclamations of acquiescence. As he
described the various successes of the Democratic party, these became
frequent, and before he had finished the _resume_, his voice was drowned
amid the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd.

It was a triumph of oratory. He repeated every sentiment of his Norfolk
speech, and the men who in the morning had thrown out dark hints of
'stoning,' joined in the applause. He accepted as a certainty the
election of Mr. Lincoln, but caused the crowd to shout with exultation
at the prospect of tying all his activity by the constitutional check of
a Democratic majority in Congress. In short, he came amid general
execration, and departed amid universal regret. I had heard Mr. Douglas
before, but never when he gave any evidence of the wonderful power which
he exhibited on this occasion. With few tricks of rhetoric, with no
extraordinary bursts of eloquence, he accomplished all the results of
the most impassioned oratory. The qualities of a great debater--unshaken
presence of mind, tact in adapting himself to his audience, the power of
arranging facts in a form at once simple and coherent, and yet most
favorable to his own cause, the strange influence by which one mind
compels from others the recognition of its supremacy--have long been
conceded to the late Senator from Illinois, but never did he exhibit
these qualities with greater effect than before the excited populace of
Montgomery.

This was the last strictly Union speech which was delivered in that
city. No one after this was found bold enough to stand up in the defence
of the cause that from this day began slowly to succumb to the fierce
spirit to which it was opposed. For several days the effects of the
speech were visible in the moderate tone of 'popular feeling;' but they
were soon lost in the tumultuous excitement attending the return of Mr.
Yancey from his tour in the North, and the still more intense feeling
produced by the election which immediately followed.

It was impossible in these last hours of distinct political
organizations not to be struck with the differences that characterized
the opposing parties--differences which, both before and since, have had
much to do with the progress of the rebellion. The Union gatherings were
easy, jovial, fond of speeches adorned with the quips and turns of
political oratory, and filled with the spirit 't'will all come right in
the end.' In the Breckinridge--or, as they had now practically
become--the secession meetings, a different spirit prevailed. It was the
spirit of insurrection, fierce, stormy, unrestrained. It was the spirit
of hatred; hatred of the North, hatred of the Union, hatred of Mr. Bell,
whose success would deprive them of their only weapon for the
destruction of that Union.

But with the 4th of November came a change. Three days after election
there remained in Montgomery no trace of party organizations. All the
widely divergent streams of public opinion seemed suddenly to have
joined in one, and that running fiercely, and unrestrained toward
disunion. The election of Mr. Lincoln united the people. On all sides
prevailed the deepest enthusiasm in favor of secession. Mass meetings,
attended by all parties, were held, and passed resolutions advocating in
the strongest terms immediate disunion. Secessionists were astonished at
the change, and in their anxiety to avoid anything which might shock the
newly awakened sentiment, appeared in many cases the most conservative
members of the community. But indeed nothing was too violent for the
state of public feeling. War committees were appointed, and active
measures taken to put the State in a position to maintain her
independence as soon as the ordinance of secession should have received
the sanction of the convention. Troops were despatched to take
possession of the arsenal, and agents were sent North to purchase
additions to the already large supply of arms in the State. Immediate
secession seemed to be the desire of every class. But this condition of
things was not always to continue. The reaction which had carried the
Unionists from a state of perfect confidence in the success of their
candidate, to one of deep disappointment, and of rage at the section to
which they attributed their defeat, having at length spent itself, signs
of a returning movement began to make their appearance. At first these
were not strongly marked. All were yet in favor of secession, but a
large party, composed of most of the former partisans of Mr. Bell,
together with the conservative element of every class, began at length
to object to a too great precipitancy, and finally to demand that the
action of Alabama should be made to depend upon the decision of the
other Southern States. This movement was understood by the secessionists
to have for its ultimate object the defeat of their hopes of disunion;
and such, unquestionably, was its aim; for whatever may have been the
plans of some of the leaders of the cooperationists, as this party was
called, it is certain that the great body of the party had no other end
in view, and was sustained in its action by no other hope than the
perpetuation of the Union.

At the caucus meetings which preceded the election of delegates to the
State convention the two parties, as now formed, first came into
conflict. At once important differences became apparent. Although nearly
equal in numbers, in spirit the two parties were signally unequal. While
the secessionists were bold, vigilant, and uncompromising, the
cooperationists were timid and passionless, though full of a passive
confidence that the Union would in some way be preserved. A knowledge
of this difference explains many things, in themselves apparently
inexplicable. It shows how it was possible that a State so confessedly
loyal that it would have rejected the ordinance of secession if it had
been submitted directly to the people, could yet, on this very issue,
elect a convention with a majority in favor of disunion. The whole
question was decided in the caucus meetings. The secessionists of all
parts of the State were bound together by watchful associations, and
were everywhere on the alert. In counties where by their number they
were entitled to no representative, attending the caucus meeting in
force, they effected--as they easily could while there was no distinct
party organization--a union of the tickets, and thus secured to
themselves one of the two candidates. So frequently was this repeated in
different parts of the country, that it was afterward estimated that by
this simple expedient of a union ticket the whole question of the
secession of this State was decided.

From these political struggles, however, the interest of the community
was suddenly withdrawn by an event which instantly absorbed all
attention, and struck terror into every household. In the little town of
Pine Level, a village situated a few miles from Montgomery, traces were
discovered of a plot having for its object a general uprising of the
<DW64>s on the evening preceding Christmas.

In the progress of the investigations which were immediately begun, it
came to light that the plot was not simply local, but extended over many
counties, including in its circuit the city of Montgomery, and involving
in its movements many hundred <DW64>s. Further examination revealed all
the horrible details which were to attend the consummation of the
plot--the butchery of the whites, the allotment of females, the division
of property. The whole surrounding country was alive with excitement.
Active measures were taken to crush at once the spirit of insurrection.
The ringleaders and some of the poor whites, with whom the plot is said
to have originated, were seized and, after a brief trial, immediately
hung. In Montgomery feeling was such as to demand the adoption of the
most stringent precautionary measures. Military companies were called
out and placed in nightly guard over the capitol and arsenal. On
Christmas eve the plot was to go into execution, and as the time
approached, the anxiety became painfully intense. It was whispered that
one of Mr. Yancey's slaves had been detected in an attempt to poison her
master. The police was doubled, soldiers with loaded muskets were
stationed in all the prominent streets, while mounted guards ranged the
thinly inhabited section of the outskirts. The night, however, passed
without alarm, and the excitement from that time slowly subsided.

It is scarcely worthy of notice, perhaps, that with the returning sense
of security came also the flippant confidence which had been for a time
put to flight. The blacks were again a timid and affectionate race, and
it was soon not difficult to find multitudes who declared themselves
willing to meet alone a hundred insurrectionary slaves. Sitting in this
evening calm, listening to such remarks, it was difficult to accept as
real the events of the hot and excited day which had gone before. Surely
they were dreams--the hurried trials, the hangings, the nightly tread of
soldiers, the brooding terror that whitened the lips of mothers. A home
guard, however, was immediately formed, including all citizens,
irrespective of age or station, capable of bearing arms, and not in
other military organizations.

On the 7th of January, the convention met. South Carolina had already
passed her ordinance of secession; but what others would follow the
example of this excitable State was yet uncertain. All eyes were now
anxiously directed toward Alabama, upon whose decision would to a great
degree depend that of the two great conservative States, Louisiana and
Georgia. Nor was this anxiety diminished by the accounts given of the
composition of the convention of this State. Both sides claimed a
majority; and it was evident that, without some unexpected defection,
the two parties would narrowly escape a tie. This singular uncertainty
was soon, however, to cease. Immediately on convening, it became evident
that the command of the body lay with the secessionists. It was found by
secret estimates that the two parties were divided by ten votes. Of the
hundred delegates, fifty-five were in favor of disunion. Although this
majority gave the secessionists power to carry their wishes into instant
effect, it was not thought politic to do so while the difference between
the two parties remained so small. The passage of the ordinance was,
therefore, for several days delayed, while the cooperationists were
plied with arguments to induce them to acquiesce in that which it was
now impossible for them to prevent. At length, after four days of
deliberation, it became evident that all of this party had succumbed
whom it seemed possible to change, and on the morning of the 11th of
January it was publicly announced that the ordinance of secession had
passed the convention by a vote of sixty-one in the affirmative against
thirty-nine in the negative.

By the insurrectionists the announcement was received with transports of
joy, but by the Unionists it was met with demonstrations of grief, which
they made no efforts to conceal. Women wept, and houses were closed as
for a day of mourning. In the northern part of the State the
manifestations of disappointment were still more unmistakable.
Indignation meetings were held, and one of the delegates received a
telegram from his constituents, charging him with having betrayed them
on the very issue for which he was elected, and demanding explanations.
At length the loyal feeling of the State seemed aroused, and had the
ordinance of secession been now submitted to the people, all admitted
that it would have been rejected by an unquestionable majority. But the
ordinance was not submitted to the people, and the Union sentiment,
which had already, within the interval of a few weeks, passed through
two complete oscillations--vibrating from the loyalty which preceded the
presidental election through all the changes of the strong disunion
reaction which followed--was now again in the ascendant. But from this
point it soon began to recede, descending slowly along an arc of which
no eye can see the end, with a momentum that permits no prediction as to
the time of its return.

A multitude of influences began at once to weaken the energy of the
Union sentiment. From the first, it had been the policy of the disunion
leaders to represent the question of secession as lying wholly with the
South. In case this section should decide upon disunion, there would be
little reason, it was said, to fear any prolonged opposition on the part
of the North--least of all a war. Nothing appeared on the part of the
Federal Executive to refute these assertions. It was by a large class
believed, therefore, that the leaders were right when they said that the
secession would be a mere withdrawal of the Southern States, for the
formation of a government perfectly friendly to the North, with which,
indeed, a board of commissioners would soon arrange the terms of a
peaceful international trade. After the passage of this ordinance,
however, a slight modification of this argument became necessary. Peace
was conditioned upon unanimity. Unionists were now called upon to render
their support to the new government in order to secure peace. If it was
clear that the State was united in favor of the changed condition of
things, there would be no difficulty, it was said, to procure, amid the
divisions of the North, a peaceful recognition of the confederacy. The
factions of the Northern States would never allow the Federal Government
to attempt to coerce a united people. Thus the very weapons which
loyalty had used to arm herself were here wrested to her own
destruction. To insure peace, men became insurrectionists.

It is useless now to surmise what would have been the result if the
action of the Federal Government in reference to the question of
secession at the beginning of the rebellion, had been less ambiguous. It
is enough to know, what was for many weeks so painfully realized by
every Northerner in the South, that had the Southern people, by any
means, been brought to understand that Federal laws were protected by
sanctions, and that an attempt at disunion would certainly be followed
by war, the question of secession would never have become a formidable
issue. But while men believed, as many of the Unionists did, that
secession was an experiment, attended with no danger to themselves, and
which would more than likely result, after a few years, in a peaceful
reconstruction of the Union on terms more favorable to the South, there
is little occasion for wonder that the cause of disunion met with no
very earnest, or, at least, prolonged opposition.

The passage of the ordinance of secession gave to the disunionists an
incalculable advantage. It is true, the Union feeling was deep, and in
many places strongly aroused, but the State had seceded, the new
government was quietly and apparently solidly forming itself, profitable
offices were in its gift, and, added to all, the conservative spirit
whispered its old motto, _quieta non movere_, and the hands which had
been raised in weak resistance fell harmlessly back.

In the mean while, at the capitol, another work was going on. The
convention, having established by ordinance the independence of the
State, was now engaged in tearing down and remodelling to meet the petty
wants of the Republic of Alabama the august structure of the Federal
Constitution. The work was soon completed, and on the 29th of January
this body, which in a brief session of three weeks had carried through
measures involving some of the most stupendous changes possible to a
civil State, adjourned to meet again on the 4th of March, cutting off,
by this, all possibility of any of the questions which it had discussed
being brought before the people by a new election. On the week following
the adjournment of the convention, the confederate congress assembled in
Montgomery.

This body immediately showed a fine appreciation of the state of public
feeling, and drew to itself the confidence of the people by selecting
for president and vice-president of the temporary government men who
were thought to represent the more conservative element in community.
Mr. Davis, at the time of his election, was in Mississippi, but on
receiving the official announcement of the event, started at once for
Montgomery, passing through Southern Tennessee, then a loyal State,
along a path nearly parallel to the one in which Mr. Lincoln was at the
same time moving a little farther north.

He reached the city in the night, but a large crowd was awaiting his
arrival at the depot. A procession of carriages, filled with members of
the confederate congress, led the way to the hotel. It was preceded by a
military band, and at regular intervals rockets were discharged,
announcing to the distant beholder the progress of the procession. All
felt that by attention to these honorary details they were assisting to
give dignity to the newly formed confederacy. On arriving at the hotel,
Mr. Davis was announced to speak from the balcony. The crowd pressed
curiously forward. Two candles threw a faint, yellow light over a
spare, angular form, rather below the medium height, lighting up, at the
same time, the sunken cheeks and strongly marked jaws of a face now
working with the emotions which the unusual events of the evening were
so well calculated to excite.

The ceremonies of inauguration were postponed to the beginning of the
following week. Early on Monday morning, however, the hill before the
capitol was covered with a vast throng, collected from all parts of the
new confederacy. For the accomodation of the members of congress, a
temporary platform had been erected in front of the capitol. Standing on
this, and glancing over the city, the eye rested on the rich valley of
the Alabama, stretching away many miles to the north, broken here and
there by the dark green foliage of the pine forests, which now twinkled
in the soft light of a day mild even for the latitude. At the extreme
rear of the platform, behind a small table, was seated the chairman of
the congress, Howell Cobb. Corpulent even to grossness, he formed a
curious contrast to the small and wasted forms of the two presidents
elect, who sat at his side. The events of this day have given to every
trait of these men a lasting and unenviable interest. Neither looked
like a great man, neither like a man thoroughly bad. All the impressions
produced by the first appearance of Mr. Davis were strengthened, without
being changed, by a farther acquaintance. To a physique by no means
imposing, he joins a manner too reserved to make him at any time a
favorite of the populace. His whole bearing, in fact, declares him a
stranger to that deep and contagious enthusiasm which has so often in
enterprises like this drawn to a leader the admiration and unconquerable
fidelity of the common people. Nor, on the other hand, is there anything
in his appearance to indicate the presence of the broad and
comprehensive energy which, in the mind of the thoughtful, can take the
place of such an enthusiasm. Still, he is in many respects peculiarly
suited to take the head of the rebellion. Elected at a time when State
distinctions were lost sight of in the warmth of the first formation of
the confederacy, he soon lost his sectional character, and represents,
as no one now elected could, the people alike of Virginia and those
along the Gulf. He is shrewd, cautious, determined. But his caution may
easily become scarcely distinguishable in its results from timidity. His
determination is never far removed from stubbornness. Mr. Stevens, who
sat, or, rather, had sunk, in his chair by the side of Mr. Davis, was a
thin, sickly looking man, whose small round face was characterized by
the pallid self-concentrated expression peculiar to invalids. On rising
at the administration of the oath, which he did with the laborious
movement of one to whom weakness had become a habit, he revealed a form
of about the medium height, but broken, as by some physical
disfigurement. During most of the ceremonies, he wore the air of an
uninterested spectator, amusing himself with the head of a slight and
rather jaunty cane, which he held between his knees. Although greatly
inferior, so far as mere physical appearances are concerned, to his
colleague, there is yet something in the expression and bearing of Mr.
Stevens which suggests a depth and comprehensiveness of intellect for
which one searches in vain the face of Mr. Davis. On the platform were
gathered nearly all those restless spirits which have, during the past
twenty years, disturbed the peace of the country. Conspicuous among them
appeared the bristling head of Mr. Toombs. He sat during the whole
ceremony, with his face, wearing the imperious expression which had
become habitual to it, turned upon the people. With uncovered heads, and
in perfect silence, the crowd listened to the oath of office.
Immediately on the completion of this ceremony the two presidents and
the congress withdrew to the senate chamber.

A levee was announced for the evening. The hall which had been selected
for this gathering was a large, low room in the upper story of a
building near the centre of the city.

Some efforts had been made by the ladies to conceal the rudeness of the
apartment, but it was expected that every deficiency of this kind would
be forgotten in the presence of that courtly society which had hitherto
given all the attractiveness to occasions like this on the banks of the
Potomac. It is but fair to suppose that these expectations were
disappointed, for early in the evening the hall was crowded with a
throng of men and boys, who, standing with uncovered heads, talking
loudly of the hopes of the new confederacy, or moved uneasily about,
seeking a favorable position from which to watch the 'president shake
hands.' This was the ambition of the evening. Every standing point in
the vicinity of Mr. Davis was taken advantage of. Chairs and benches
served as footstools to elevate into positions of prominence long rows
of men dressed in the yellow jeans of the country, who stood, during all
the long hours of the evening, watching with unchanging countenances the
multiplied repetitions of the short double shake and spasmodic smile
which Mr. Davis meted out to each of the constantly forming column that
filed before him. The platform was filled with the same class, and even
the arch of evergreen, under which it was intended that Mr. Davis should
stand, was pushed aside, to give place to those unwinking faces which
pressed to every loophole of observation. The ladies, who appeared here
and there in the crowd, sparkling with jewels, and dressed in the rich
robes naturally suited to the occasion, only increased by their presence
the rude incongruities of the gathering. Men were surprised at the
manifestations on every hand of a vulgarity and coarseness which they
had been accustomed to think the natural products and exclusive
characteristics of a state of society farther north. To the eyes of the
fastidious, a new class had suddenly arisen in their midst. Perhaps the
lesson was not a new one. Many nations before, when in the midst of
revolutions, have been called mournfully to learn that there are grades
in every society, that rebellions are not always tractable, and that the
class which guides their opening rarely controls their close. But if the
scene of the evening had any prophecies of this kind--and I do not say
that it had--it wailed them, like Cassandra, to ears divinely closed.

From this time the ferment of public opinion disappeared. A tangible
government existed, against which to speak was treason, and the friends
of the Union--and in spite of all changes, the number of these was yet
considerable--now for the first time ceased from the expression of those
objections by which they had hitherto indicated the direction of their
sympathies. All classes of men were longing for something permanent, and
eagerly grasped at these appearances of a settled government, as
promising to supply that which they so much desired. The establishment
of a calm and united state of public feeling seemed, therefore, the
almost instant effect of the inauguration of Mr. Davis. As might be
expected, the events which have been related had not taken place in the
South without affecting the condition of the Northern stranger who
chanced to be within the gate. To him every change had been for the
worse. During the fluctuations of public opinion in the early part of
the season, his position, though unpleasant, had still some relieving
circumstances; the condition of the country was not yet utterly
hopeless, and the vanity of being stable in the midst of universal
change, ministered a mild though secret pleasure, which, in the painful
anxieties of the period, was not without its consolatory value. But when
the tide of public opinion had turned strongly in one direction, and
that in favor of secession, all those pleasures, so mild and spiritual,
were at once destroyed. Nor was this a condition without change. Every
week added some new restraints to those by which the Unionist was
already surrounded. But never was the pressure of these restraints felt
to be so great as in this singular calm, which followed the inauguration
of Mr. Davis. The loyal spirit seemed extinct. Union sentiments were no
longer expressed in even the private circles. Now, however, hints were
occasionally dropped of the possibility of a future reconstruction, and
in this direction it was evident the small remnant of the Union party
was now turning its hopes.

Notwithstanding the general appearance of unanimity, one thing remained
which seemed to indicate a want of perfect confidence on the part of the
people generally in the permanency of the new order of affairs. This
was, the little interest which was manifested in the transactions of the
rebel congress. With nothing else to occupy their minds, the people
allowed the most important measures of public policy to pass almost
without remark. To the congress itself this apathy did not extend. There
appeared here, on the contrary, a germ even of the old State
antagonisms; for when Mr. Toombs, carrying out the former policy of his
State, introduced a bill imposing a tax on imports, declaring, at the
same time, that no government could ever be sustained without depending
chiefly upon this source of revenue, every member from South Carolina
was on his legs. After a warm debate, and against the strongest protests
of these members, the bill was carried and went into effect.
Notwithstanding this, many in England still secretly believe that the
Federal tariff was the real cause of the secession.

The astonishing promptness with which the rebel government, immediately
after the fall of Fort Sumter, equipped and placed upon the field an
enormous and fairly organized army, has given rise to a strong
impression concerning the energy put forth by the executive department
during the two months which intervened between this event and the
inauguration. No mistake could be greater. On the very day of the
election of Mr. Lincoln the South possessed a military establishment
quite equal, in proportion to its population, to that of either France
or Russia. At the time of the John Brown excitement, a rumor was spread
through the South that large bodies of men were gathering in different
parts of the North, having for their object an invasion of the Southern
States. Among all the reports which this excited period produced, none
was more sedulously diffused, and none more generally believed.

Whatever had been the original design of the story, its instant effect,
in the excited state of the public mind, was the formation of companies
in every county and village throughout the South for military drill.

These organizations, of which there were frequently several in a single
village, were equipped entirely at the expense of the individual
members. As they were under constant drill during the winter and summer,
they presented at the opening of the year 1861 the singular spectacle of
a great army, organized and equipped at its own expense, ready at any
moment to march at the command of the recognized government. This, it is
unnecessary to say, was the grand basis of that army which was afterward
placed upon the field; and thus it was that a secretary of war so
palpably inefficient as Mr. Walker was able, with an empty treasury, for
many months to surpass the North in the supply of troops, equipped, and
at once prepared for duty.

It was in full appreciation of this great armed mass that lay at his
hand in a condition to be easily formed into an organized and efficient
army, that Mr. Davis, after much entreaty, and repeated postponement,
reluctantly gave his assent to the first strong act of the executive
department, and ordered the attack upon Fort Sumter.

Without anticipating what were to be the effects of this act in the
North, which was, indeed, open to the conjecture of no man, Mr. Davis on
this occasion simply exhibited a hesitancy in venturing on extreme
measures, which will be found to be a characteristic feature of his
administration.

For several days the city was filled with rumors concerning the
anticipated attack, but early on Friday morning it was announced that
the bombardment had already begun. In the general excitement, business
was suspended. Crowds filled the streets. The war department was in
constant receipt of telegraphic messages announcing the progress of the
bombardment. But nothing came during the day to diminish the growing
anxiety. It was found that the fleet of war vessels said to be outside
the bar would take advantage of the night to come to the succor of the
fort. Sleep was impossible. Men who had gone to bed arose again and
joined the crowd which thronged the streets. At length, shortly after
midnight, Mr. Walker came forth and announced the last and most
favorable telegraphic report concerning the progress of the siege,
uttering at the same time the famous boast which has linked his name
with an indissoluble association of folly. Shortly past noon on
Saturday, the message came which announced the surrender of the fort.
The city was frantic with joy. For hours, no forms of manifestation
seemed adequate to express the excitement which filled all classes of
society. Standing on the housetop in the evening, a wild crowd could be
seen flitting before bonfires, or ranging the streets, and shouting in
the ecstasy of an excitement which none could control. Immediately on
the arrival of the despatch, messengers had started into the country
with the welcome tidings, and deep in the night the ear was startled by
the dull roar of the cannon announcing the arrival in some distant
village of the joyful intelligence.

'That will be the end of the war,' said a man of well known
conservatism, who stood by at the announcement in Montgomery of the
surrender of the fort. It was the last expression of that fatal fallacy
which had lured so large a class quietly to acquiesce in the fact of
secession in the hope of thus securing the peaceful recognition of the
North. In a few days more, the whole deception had passed away. But the
correction had come too late. The Union party was extinct. Twice, in the
course of that great change, by the progress of which, a people, in
majority loyal, was converted into one totally disloyal and
revolutionary, it lay within the power of the Federal Executive, by
firmness and a proper exhibition of its powers, to have sustained the
Union party in the South and crushed the rebellion--before the election
of Mr. Lincoln, and at the time of the strong Union reaction in the
election of delegates to the State convention. At both these periods the
Union feeling was strong and increasing, immediately after each; pressed
upon by arguments which the course of the Executive had failed to
answer, it slowly declined. But no great sentiment is destroyed at once.
There is reason to believe that, if left to itself, the tide of Union
feeling might again have flowed back, and the faint traces of a
reconstruction party which appeared in the short interval of quiet that
belonged to the rebel confederacy indicates, perhaps, the path along
which it would have returned. But the time for these things had passed.

The fall of Sumter brought the doctrines of secession into instant
popularity, and roused a spirit of military enthusiasm in the South
scarcely less intense than that which the same event excited in the
North. At once, in every direction, disappeared all those sober scruples
which, during the hottest excitement of the preceding months, had
quietly controlled the judgment of a small but influential class in
every community. The change in north Alabama and central Tennessee,
where the principles of secession had been steadily rejected by the
people, was almost instantaneous. The excitement and pride of a
sectional victory, and a false sympathy for the individuals who had
ventured their lives in a cause in itself, perhaps, objectionable,
effected what the most cunning fallacies of the leaders had been unable
to accomplish. As this movement of the popular feeling had many points
of resemblance with the revolution of feeling which took place just
after the election of Mr. Lincoln, there were some who believed that it
would be followed by a similar reaction. The excitement of the war into
which the whole country was immediately precipitated, cut off, however,
every chance of any such retrogressive movement. No reaction took place.
The surrender of Fort Sumter completed the change of opinion which had
been so long progressing in the South.

Those who look for an immediate restitution of Union feeling in the
South, as a result of Federal victories, will be disappointed. It will
be the result of a gradual movement--a movement resembling in every
important particular that by which the secession sentiment was
established in the interval between the election of Mr. Lincoln and the
surrender of Fort Sumter. Operating particularly upon that class in
society which is by nature passive rather than active, conservative
rather than headlong, the movement, as in that case, will be at first
slow and attended with many reactions, but the result will not be
uncertain. Already the progress of the war has destroyed nearly all the
motives by which the Union party of the South was formerly led to adopt
the cause of secession. This great party, therefore, stretching through
all parts of the South, forming an important element in the population
of every village and county which threatened at one time with its
passive resistance to overturn the whole scheme of the rebellion, stands
now exposed to the full influence of the reactionary tide which has now
begun to set back toward the Union. The change may not be at once, but
the same motive which led the Union man of Tennessee to return to
loyalty, will prove equally effective with his whole party, wherever
distributed.




SHAKSPEARE FOR 1863.


   'O England!--model to thy inward greatness,
   Like little body with, a mighty heart,--
   What might'st thou do, that honor would thee do,
   Were all thy children kind and natural!
   But see thy fault! the SOUTH in thee finds out
   A nest of hollow bosoms, which it fills
   With treacherous crowns! they would o'erthrow our country,
   And by their hands the grace of Freedom die,
   If hell and treason hold their promises.'

        _Henry V_, Act II, Scene i.




THE UNION.

V.

ILLINOIS AND MISSOURI COMPARED.


My previous numbers, comparing the progress, in the aggregate, of all
the Slave States, with all the Free States, of Massachusetts and New
Jersey, with Maryland and South Carolina, and of New York with Virginia,
demonstrate the fatal effect of slavery upon material advance, and moral
and intellectual development. In further proof of the uniformity of this
great law, I now institute a similar comparison between two great
neighboring Western States, Missouri and Illinois. The comparison is
just, for while Missouri has increased since 1810, in wealth and
population, much more rapidly than any of the Slave States, there are
several Free States whose relative advance has exceeded that of
Illinois. The rapid growth of Missouri is owing to her immense area, her
fertile soil, her mighty rivers (the Mississippi and Missouri), her
central and commanding position, and to the fact, that she has so small
a number of slaves to the square mile, as well as to the free
population.

The population of Illinois, in 1810, was 12,282, and in 1860, 1,711,951;
the ratio of increase from 1810 to 1860 being 13,838.70. (Table 1, Cens.
1860.) The population of Missouri in 1810, was 20,845, and in 1860,
1,182,012; the ratio of increase from 1810 to 1860 being 5,570.48. (Ib.)
The rank of Missouri in 1810 was 22, and of Illinois 23. The rank of
Missouri in 1860 was 8, and of Illinois, 4.

AREA.--The area of Missouri is 67,380 square miles, being the 4th in
rank, as to area, of all the States. The area of Illinois is 55,405
square miles, ranking the 10th. Missouri, then, has 11,975 more square
miles than Illinois. This excess is greater by 749 square miles than the
aggregate area of Massachusetts, Delaware, and Rhode Island, containing
in 1860 a population of 1,517,902. The population of Missouri per square
mile in 1810 exceeded that of Illinois .08; but, in 1860, the population
of Missouri per square mile was 17.54, ranking the 22d, and that of
Illinois, 30.90, ranking the 13th. Illinois, with her ratio to the
square mile and the area of Missouri, would have had in 1860 a
population of 2,082,042; and Missouri; with her ratio and the area of
Illinois, would have had in 1860 a population of 971,803, making a
difference in favor of Illinois of 1,110,239 instead of 529,939. The
absolute increase of population of Illinois per square mile from 1850 to
1860 was 15.54, and of Missouri 7.43, Illinois ranking the 6th in this
ratio and Missouri the 14th. These facts prove the vast advantages which
Missouri possessed in her larger area as compared with Illinois.

But Missouri in 1810, we have seen, had nearly double the population of
Illinois. Now, reversing their numbers in 1810, the ratio of increase of
each remaining the same, the population of Illinois in 1860 would have
been 2,005,014, and of Missouri, 696,983. If we bring the greater area
of Missouri as an element into this calculation the population of
Illinois in 1860 would have exceeded that of Missouri more than two
millions and a half.

MINES.--By Census Tables 9, 10, 13 and 14, Missouri produced, in 1860,
pig iron of the value of $575,000; Illinois, none. Bar and rolled
iron--Missouri, $535,000; Illinois, none. Lead--Missouri, $356,660;
Illinois, $72,953. Coal--Missouri, $8,200; Illinois, $964,-187.
Copper--Missouri, $6,000; Illinois, none. As to mines, then, Missouri
has a decided advantage over Illinois. Indeed, the iron mountains of
Missouri are unsurpassed in the world. That Illinois approaches so near
to Missouri in mineral products, is owing to her railroads and canals,
and not to equal natural advantages. The number of miles of railroad in
operation in 1860 was, 2,868 in Illinois, and 817 in Missouri; of
canals, Illinois, 102 miles; Missouri, none. (Tables 38, 39.) But if
Missouri had been a free State, she would have at least equalled
Illinois in internal improvements, and the Pacific Railroad would have
long since united San Francisco, St. Louis, and Chicago.

Illinois is increasing in a _progressive_ ratio, as compared with
Missouri. Thus, from 1840 to 1850 the increase of numbers in Illinois
was 78.81, and from 1850 to 1860, 101.01 per cent., while the increase
of Missouri from 1840 to 1850 was 77.75, and from 1850 to 1860, 73.30.
Thus, the ratio is augmenting in Illinois, and decreasing in Missouri.
If Illinois and Missouri should each increase from 1860 to 1870, in the
same ratio as from 1850 to 1860, Illinois would then number 3,441,448,
and Missouri, 2,048,426. (Table 1.) In 1850, Chicago numbered 29,963,
and in 1860, 109,260. St. Louis, 77,860 in 1850, and 160,773 in 1860.
(Table 40.) From 1840 to 1850 the ratio of increase of Chicago was
570.31, and from 1850 to 1860, 264.65, and of St. Louis, from 1840 to
1850, 372.26 per cent., and from 1850 to 1860, 106.49. If both increased
in their respective ratios from 1860 to 1870 as from 1850 to 1860,
Chicago would number 398,420 in 1870, and St. Louis, 331,879. It would
be difficult to say which city has the greatest natural advantages, and
yet when St. Louis was a city, Chicago was but the site of a fort.

PROGRESS OF WEALTH.--By Census Table 36, the cash value of the farms of
Illinois in 1860, was $432,531,072, and of Missouri, $230,632,126,
making a difference in favor of Illinois, of $201,898,946, which is the
loss which Missouri has sustained by slavery in the single item of the
value of her farm lands. Abolish slavery there, and the value of the
farm lands of Missouri would soon equal those of Illinois, and augment
the wealth of the farmers of Missouri over two hundred millions of
dollars. But these farm lands of Missouri embrace only 19,984,809 acres
(Table 36), leaving unoccupied 23,138,391 acres. The difference between
the value of the unoccupied lands of Missouri and Illinois, is six
dollars per acre, at which rate the increased value of the unoccupied
lands of Missouri, in the absence of slavery, would be $138,830,346.
Thus, it appears, that the loss to Missouri in the value of her lands,
caused by slavery, is $340,729,292. If we add to this the diminished
value of town and city property in Missouri, from the same cause, the
total loss in that State in the value of real estate, exceeds
$400,000,000, which is nearly twenty times the value of her slaves. By
Table 35, the increase in the value of the real and personal property of
Illinois from 1850 to 1860, was $715,595,276, being 457.93 per cent.,
and of Missouri, $363,966,691, being 265.18 per cent. At the same rate
of increase from 1860 to 1870, the total wealth of Illinois would then
be $3,993,000,000, and of Missouri, $1,329,000,000, making the
difference against Missouri, in 1870, caused by slavery, $2,664,000,000,
which is much more than three times the whole debt of the nation, and
more than twice the value of all the slaves in the Union. While, then,
the $20,000,000 proposed to be appropriated to aid Missouri in
emancipating her slaves, is erroneously denounced as increasing federal
taxation, the effect is directly the reverse. The disappearance of
slavery from Missouri would ensure the overthrow of the rebellion, and
the perpetuity of the Union, and bring the war much sooner to a close,
thus saving a monthly expenditure, far exceeding the whole
appropriation. But this vast increase of the wealth of Missouri, caused
by her becoming a free State, if far less than one billion of dollars,
would, by increasing her contribution to the national revenue, in
augmented payments of duties and internal taxes, diminish to that extent
the rate of taxation to be paid by every State, Missouri included.

The total wealth of the Union in 1860 exceeded $16,000,000,000. If this
were increased $1,000,000,000 in time, by the augmented wealth of
Missouri, and our revenue from duties and taxes should be $220,000,000,
as estimated by the Secretary of the Treasury, the increased income,
being one-seventeenth of the whole, would exceed $12,000,000 per annum;
or, if the increase of wealth should be only $200,000,000, then the
augmented proportional annual revenue would be $2,750,000, or nearly
one-eightieth part of the whole revenue, thus soon extinguishing the
principal and interest of the debt of $20,000,000, and leaving a large
surplus to decrease the percentage of taxation in every State, Missouri
included. The bill then might be justly entitled, _an act to restore the
Union, to advance the public credit, to hasten the overthrow of the
rebellion, to augment the national wealth, and_ DECREASE THE RATE OF
TAXATION. By overthrowing the rebellion, the taxes to pay the national
debt will be collected from all the States, instead of being confined to
those that are loyal. The rebel confederate debt, never having had any
existence in law or justice, but having been created only to support a
wicked rebellion, will of course be expunged by the reestablishment of
the Union. Indeed, by a new mathematical and philosophical principle,
far transcending the most sublime discoveries of Newton, Leibnitz, or La
Place, the rebel debt is redeemable six months _after the end of
eternity_, namely, six months after it is an _independent nation_, they
shall have ratified a _treaty_ of peace with us! All the rebel State
debts incurred since the revolt, for the purpose of overthrowing the
Government, will, of course, have no legal existence. Under the Federal
Constitution, no State Legislature can have any lawful existence, except
in conformity with its provisions, accompanied by a prior oath of every
member to support the Constitution of the United States. These
assemblages, then, since the revolt in the several States, calling
themselves State Legislatures, never had any legal existence or
authority, and were mere assemblages of traitors. Such is the clear
provision of the Federal Constitution, and of the law of nations and of
justice. It would be strange, indeed, if conventicles of traitors in
revolted States, could legally or rightfully impose taxes on the people
of such States, loyal or disloyal, to overthrow the Government. Indeed,
if justice could have her full sway, the whole debt of this Government,
incurred to suppress this rebellion, ought to be paid by the traitors
alone.

With a restoration of the Union, the prosperity of all sections will be
enormously increased. The South, with peace and with ports reopened,
relieved from rebel taxes and conscription, will again have a profitable
market for their cotton, rice, naval stores, sugar, and tobacco; the
West for breadstuffs and provisions; the North for commerce, navigation
and manufactures; and our revenue, from duties, would be vastly
augmented, soon justifying a reduction of internal taxation. There is
one item of almost fabulous value that must not be omitted. The cotton
now in the Confederate States, of the unsold crops of 1860-'61,
1861-'62, and 1862-'63, exceeds 5,000,000 of bales. This cotton, sold at
present prices, payable in federal paper, would be worth $1,800,000,000,
or $1,134,000,000 in gold. If we diminish this one-half, as cotton might
fall in price from time to time by the gradual reopening of our ports,
this cotton would still be worth $900,000,000 in our paper, and
$567,000,000 in gold. This cotton, while putting all our spindles and
those of the world into full operation, would turn the balance of
foreign trade at once immensely in our favor, and bring back streams of
gold to our shores. We would at once commence the liquidation of the
national debt, with a large sinking fund, as a sacred trust applicable
to that important subject.

Next to maintaining our finances and the public credit, followed by
decisive victories in the field, the speedy success of emancipation in
Missouri is most important. Missouri is larger by more than 6,000 square
miles than any State east of the Mississippi, and occupies a central
position between the North and the South, the East and the West. She is
larger by 16,458 square miles than England proper, containing a
population of nineteen millions. She is larger by 1,098 square miles
than New York, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Delaware. She
is larger by 5,264 square miles than all the New England States. She has
a greater white population than the aggregate numbers of North and South
Carolina and Florida, or of South Carolina, Georgia and Florida, or of
Arkansas, Louisiana and Mississippi, or of Florida, Arkansas, South
Carolina and Mississippi, or Louisiana; and a larger white population
than all Virginia, East and West. She had, if disloyal, by her position
and large white population, more power to imperil the Union than any of
the slaveholding States. She has been true--she has suffered much in our
cause, her fields and towns have been laid waste, thousands of her brave
sons now fill our armies, and thousands more have fallen in our cause,
and we will be recreant to truth and justice, to the safety of the
Union, and forfeit the nation's pledge, if we do not now aid her in
becoming a Free State. The southern boundary of Missouri (lat. 36 deg.) is
several miles south of Nashville, Tennessee; but, if we take altitude
also into consideration, then, according to well established
meteorological principles, the southern boundary of Missouri is at least
a degree south of Nashville, reaching the northern boundary of Alabama.
There is then a very large area of Missouri well calculated for the
production of cotton. To accomplish this, the levee system of the
Mississippi must be extended from the southern boundary of Missouri to
the first highlands in that State, above the mouth of the Ohio; and a
proper system of drainage adopted. These lands would thus be entirely
secured from overflow, and greatly improved in salubrity. With these
improvements, Missouri would contain an area of rich alluvial lands,
well adapted to the profitable culture of cotton, embracing an extent
capable of producing at least one million of bales of the great staple.
These lands, considering latitude and altitude, would possess a climate
similar to that of Middle Tennessee and North Alabama, where cotton is
already cultivated with great profit. If emancipation prevailed in
Missouri, these lands would soon be cultivated in cotton by free labor,
and its immense superiority over the servile system would soon be
demonstrated. Such a proof of the superiority of free over slave labor,
even in the culture of cotton, would soon have an immense effect in
reconciling the South to the disappearance of a system so fatal to her
own prosperity, and endangering so much the harmony and perpetuity of
the Union. This Missouri cotton would be nearer the North and Northwest
than that grown in any other part of the Southwest, and thus supplied at
a cheaper rate to our manufacturers, while opening new and augmented
markets for the provisions and breadstuffs of the Northwest. This cotton
would, in part, pass up the Ohio to Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, and
thence to New York, Philadelphia, and New England. It would also in part
pass through Indiana and Ohio by their railroads and canals. The great
central railroad of Illinois would carry large portions of it also from
Cairo to Chicago; but perhaps the largest portion eventually would pass
up the Mississippi and Illinois rivers and enlarged canals to Chicago,
and thence eastward. With the proposed enlargement of the canal
connecting the Illinois river with Lake Michigan, and the enlargement of
the locks of the great Erie canal, extended by a similar enlargement of
the Chenango branch, and down the Susquehanna to tide water, cotton
steam propellers would carry the great staple by this route to the
Hudson and New England, to Baltimore or Philadelphia, at a rate much
lower than any other Southwestern cotton. The Mississippi would thus
have a _quintuple_ outlet, as well into the lakes and the Hudson, the
St. Lawrence, the Delaware, and Chesapeake, as into the Gulf of Mexico,
and Missouri would be united by new ties with the North, and Northwest,
as well as with the Middle States. Cairo, St. Louis, Chicago,
Cincinnati, Cleveland, Pittsburgh and Buffalo would become considerable
cotton depots, and slave labor would cease to monopolize the cotton
culture. But there are other considerations still more momentous.
Missouri extends from the 36th parallel to 40-1/2, and from the 89th
meridian to the 96th, thus embracing four degrees and a half of
latitude, and seven degrees of longitude. She fronts for many hundred
miles upon the great Mississippi, and commands its western shore; she
commands also the mouth of the Missouri river, and both its banks for
several hundred miles, and all its tributaries. The Missouri river and
its tributaries are nearly double the length of the Mississippi and its
branches. Missouri by her position dominates the whole valley of her
great river, and commands Kansas and Western Iowa, and Nebraska, and
Colorado, Dacotah and New Mexico. If Missouri had joined the Southern
confederacy, and its power had ever been established, she would have
forced with her all the vast region to which we have referred,
containing, including Missouri, an area equal to twenty States of the
size of Ohio. To separate Missouri forever from the proposed Southern
confederacy, is to render the permanent establishment of such a
government impossible. It not only severs Missouri from them, but all
the vast region identified with the destiny of that great State. Secure
Missouri permanently and cordially to the Union, and the rebellion is
doomed to certain overthrow. With the fall of slavery in Missouri by her
consent, and her cordial cooperation and sympathy with the North and
Northwest, the days of the rebellion are numbered. With Missouri as a
Free State, Arkansas, adjacent, cannot retain the institution. Such a
result, aided by victories, and the reestablishment of our finances,
would soon give full effect to the edict of emancipation in Arkansas,
and Louisiana would soon follow. With Missouri as a Free State by her
consent, and her cordial cooperation and sympathy, slavery would soon
disappear from the whole region west of the Mississippi, and Louisiana
cordially be reunited to the Republic. With such a result, holding New
Orleans and the mouth of the Mississippi and all the region west of that
great stream, how could Tennessee or Mississippi remain in the Southern
confederacy? The truth is, Missouri is the pivot upon which the
rebellion turns. Had she gone with the South, and given to its cause a
cordial support, it would have been difficult to subdue the rebellion.
That she has gone with the Union is a momentous fact, and demands for
her our heartfelt gratitude. I have shown, it is true, how greatly it is
the interest of Missouri to become a Free State; but it is still more
the interest of the nation to secure this great result. Give her what is
needed to render emancipation certain, and we shall have secured the
perpetuity of the Union. Missouri had no participation in introducing
African slaves into this continent. The slaves that cultivate her soil
are the descendants of those who were forced here under the British
flag, or by the ships of the North, then in a state of colonial
dependence; and it is just, and the national honor demands, that she
should receive full compensation. As the existence of slavery in any
State is a great evil and reproach, and a source of much weakness to the
whole country, so should the nation compensate for any loss that may be
occasioned by the abandonment of the system in any loyal State. Not only
is this just, but the faith of the nation is solemnly pledged by
resolutions adopted by Congress at its last session to carry this policy
into full effect with the consent of any State. Twenty millions of
dollars to secure such a result should be regarded as of little moment.
Gladly would the nation pay a much larger sum for a single victory. But
the moral and geographical and strategical victory secured by
emancipation in Missouri by her consent, will be far more important than
any triumph yet achieved by our arms. It is a victory that relieves a
great State now and forever from the curse of slavery. It is a victory
that secures the whole valley of the mighty Missouri to the Union. It is
a triumph that sweeps slavery from Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas,
dissevers the Southern confederacy, and restores the whole Mississippi,
from its mouth to its source, to the Union.

The entire constitutionality of such a proceeding by _compact with a
State_, was demonstrated by me in the November number of the CONTINENTAL
MONTHLY, p. 575. Referring to the case of Texas, I there said: 'The
principle, however, was adopted of State action by irrevocable _compact_
with the Federal Government, by which provision therein was made for
abolishing slavery in all such States, north of a certain parallel of
latitude (embracing a territory larger than New England), as might be
thereafter admitted by the subdivision of the State of Texas. The power
of action on this subject, by compact of a State with the General
Government, was then clearly established, in perfect accordance with
repeated previous acts of Congress then cited by me. The doctrine rests
upon the elemental principle of the combined authority of the nation,
and a State, acting by compact within its limits.' When Missouri, with
her consent, shall have become a Free State, the leaders of the Southern
rebellion will feel that they have received a mortal blow. Especially
will this be the case in Arkansas, Louisiana, Texas, Tennessee,
Mississippi, and Alabama. We shall have cut the gordian knot of slavery,
and the death agonies of the hydra would soon be visible. The importance
of the result would be felt in the North also, and the wretched traitors
there, far more guilty even than those of the South, will shrink from
their atrocious conspiracy to dissolve this Union. The dark plot of
severing New England from the Republic and of reuniting the rest of the
States with the Southern confederacy, will be abandoned. That such a
scheme is contemplated by Northern traitors, and that it is tolerated in
the South, _on condition_ that all shall become Slave States, is beyond
controversy. New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and the Northwest are
to abandon their free institutions, become slaveholding States, and be
admitted as such into the Southern confederacy. I had supposed that
crime had achieved its climax when the Southern rebellion was
inaugurated; but something more base, more vile, more cowardly,
debasing, and pusillanimous, it seems, is now contemplated. It is that
New England shall be expelled, and that the rest of the Free States
shall come under the dominion of the Southern confederacy. But the
leaders of this scheme seem to have forgotten the fact, that New
England, to a vast extent, has peopled the Northwest, and carried there
their love of free institutions. The descendants of the pilgrims are
scattered throughout the Northwest, and churches, and free schools, and
love of liberty have gone with them. The scheme is as base and cowardly
as it is impracticable. No! New England can never be expelled from this
Union. There the grand idea of the American Union was first conceived;
there the cradle of liberty was first rocked, before as well as amid the
storms of the Revolution; there the first blood was shed, the first
battles fought, the first flag of Union and Liberty unfurled, and there
it shall float forever. There are Lexington, and Concord, and Bunker
Hill, and no traitor hand shall ever sever them from the American Union.
Not an acre of the soil of New England or a drop of all its waters shall
ever be surrendered by this great Republic; and from Lake Champlain and
the Housatonick to the St. Croix and St. Johns, the flag of the Union
shall ever float in undiminished glory. Lake Champlain unites Vermont
and New England with the Hudson, the lakes, and St. Lawrence; and Long
Island Sound, commanding the deepest approaches to New York, completes
the connection, which is a geographical and political necessity. I am
not a New Englander by parentage, birth, or education, but if the other
Free States of the North and Northwest should submit to the disgrace of
uniting themselves with a Southern confederacy, I should remove to New
England, and breathe an air uncontaminated by slavery or treason. And
there are hundreds of thousands who would pursue the same course. When,
in 1798, the great Washington feared that the South might be separated
by traitors from the Union, he declared that, in such an event, he would
remove to the North; and, in such a contingency, there are thousands,
even in the South, who would remove to New England.[7]

Those of the North and Northwest, who should remain and carry their
States into the Southern confederacy, would be regarded in the South
with loathing and contempt; the whole civilized world would consider
their degradation as complete and eternal. They would soon loathe
themselves, and feel that it was not only the <DW64>s who were enslaved,
but that they had put fetters upon their own limbs, and rendered
themselves worthy to be worked as slaves on the plantations of Southern
masters. I do not believe any of the Free States of the North and
Northwest can thus be disgraced and humiliated. There is one of these
States, I am sure, that will never submit to such degradation. It is the
State of Pennsylvania. There the Declaration of American Independence
was first proclaimed. There the Articles of Confederation and the
Constitution were framed. There are Germantown, Paoli, and Brandywine:
there Washington crossed the Delaware at midnight, and fought the two
great battles of the war of independence. There Franklin sleeps within
her soil, the great patriot, philosopher, and statesman whom New England
gave to Pennsylvania, the Union, and the world. No! No! from the
Delaware and Susquehanna to the Ohio and Lake Erie, the people of a
mighty State would consign to the scaffold and the block the wretched
traitors who would attempt to sever Pennsylvania from New England. Ice
and granite are called the principal products of New England, but our
Revolution and this rebellion prove that her great staples are
intellect, education, liberty, courage, and patriotism. She is said to
have Puritan angularities and to love money; but she pours out now, as
in 1776, lavish expenditures of her treasure in defence of the Union;
and the blood of her sons empurples the ocean and the lakes in every
naval conflict, and moistens all the battle fields of the nation. No!
all the traitors of the South, and all the Burrs, Arnolds, and Catalines
of the North can never sever New England from the Republic. And now, in
this hour of our country's peril, Missouri stretches her hands to New
England, and to all the free and loyal States, and proposes, with their
assistance, to abolish slavery, and link her destiny with theirs in the
bonds of a perpetual Union. And shall we hesitate for a moment, on such
a question? The money consideration is far less than a month's cost of
the war, and sinks into insignificance compared with the momentous
results and consequences. Emancipation in Missouri, with her consent and
the aid of Congress, is the first grand decisive victory of the Union in
this contest, insures eventual success, and must now be placed beyond
all hazard or contingency.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: 7th vol. Hamilton's 'Republic,' p. 189, and Jefferson's
'Autograph.']




THE SOLDIER'S BURIAL.


   Where shall we lay our comrade down?
     Where shall the brave one sleep?
   The battle's past, the victory won,
     Now we have time to weep!
       Bury him on the mountain's brow,
         Where he fought so well;
       Bury him where the laurels grow--
         There he bravely fell!

   There lay him in his generous blood,
     For there first comes the light
   When morning earliest breaks the cloud,
     And lingers last at night!

   What though no flow'ret there may bloom
     To scent the chilly air,
   The sky shall stoop to wrap his tomb,
     The stars will watch him there!

   What though no stone may mark his grave,
     Yet Fame shall tell his race
   Where sleeps the one so kind, so brave,
     And God will find the place!
        Bury him on the mountain's brow,
          Where he fought so well;
        Bury him where the laurels grow--
          There he bravely fell!



LITERARY NOTICES.


     THE RESULTS OF EMANCIPATION, by AUGUSTIN COCHIN, Ex-Mayor and
     Municipal Councillor of Paris. Work crowned by the Institute of
     France. Translated by MARY L. BOOTH, translator of Count de
     Gasparin's works on America, &c. Boston: Walker, Wise & Co. 1863.

AUGUSTIN COCHIN, author of the work before us, is a man of a class in
France from which we are specially well pleased to see vindications of
Emancipation and of the policy of the Federal Union arise. His position
is well and briefly stated in the preface as that of a Legitimist, a
fast friend and ally of Count de Montalembert in his effort to raise up
a Catholic Liberal party for the development of republican sentiments
and institutions, and the ardent coadjutor of Pere Lacordaire,
Monseigneur d'Orleans, Viscount de Melun, and a host of other moderate
reformers in behalf of freedom. He has some little reputation as a
writer on public and political topics; is highly connected, and, what is
perhaps more to the purpose than aught else, is a very practical man,
and son-in-law to Benoist d'Azy, who, possessed of an immense fortune,
an extensive landowner and proprietor of iron forges, has done perhaps
more than any other man to advance the material interests of his country
by railway building, mining, and agricultural improvements. We say that
this is more to the purpose, since it is of importance that the men who
_actively_ employ capital should understand the falsehood of slavery as
a productive force in any system of labor, anywhere, at the present day.
And it is highly significant when we find such men so far enlightened in
France at this time, where, although, as we learn, very advanced views
in political economy are set forth, we have still apprehended that a
deeply based attachment to slavery, common to all the Latin races,
prevails. That the Radicals should oppose slavery is but natural, but
such views among the highly cultivated aristocracy are indeed
encouraging.

We cannot agree with M. Villemain, who, in his report from the Academy,
decreeing a prize of three thousand francs to M. Cochin for this work,
speaks of it as inspired with 'eloquent zeal' and 'ardor.' It is very
far from what it might have been as a _literary_ production; and to one
not interested in the facts and subject, is even--with the exception of
its excellent Introduction--dry. The author is decidedly an economist,
but he is _not_ 'an apostle,' as his eulogist claims, unless it be in
the sense in which any great collector and publisher of truths may be
termed such. But on its true basis the work is indeed a great one, fully
deserving the publisher's advertisement words, 'opportune and
important.' The volume before us is a complete history, in a minor
degree, of Slavery, and to a very full degree of Emancipation in the
English and French colonies, with some account of the same in those
belonging to Holland, Denmark, and Sweden. Having made for many years a
specialty of the subject, and having had placed at his disposal the
published and unpublished papers and records of every ministry of
Europe, as, for instance, of the English Board of Trade, M. Cochin has
accumulated a mass of extremely valuable material--all of which is
presented in a very clear, perfectly well arranged form--and which we
need not say should be read by every one in public, since there is
certainly no intelligent American at the present day on whom the
necessity of acquiring full information on this subject is not almost a
solemn duty. Next after crushing rebellion, the great task of the
Federal Government should be to organize labor and adopt a vigorous
_central_ and _industrial_ policy. To do this, the relations of free and
of slave labor to circumstances should be extensively studied. As in the
case of all wars involving an institution, the question between the
North and the South at the present day is simply one between ignorance
and knowledge--knowledge such as books like this are eminently adapted
to disseminate.

Passing by religious and philosophic argument, neither of which has been
of much practical avail in this country, since we see the Church of the
South quite as zealous in upholding slavery on Biblical grounds as that
of the North is in opposing it, we come to Cochin's first real
argument--that political economy affirms the superiority of free over
forced labor. Policy and charity unite in this--'charity detests slavery
because it oppresses; policy, more elevated, condemns it _because it
corrupts the inferior race_.'

We call attention to this sentence because it accurately expresses the
difference between mere 'Abolition,' which regarded only the sufferings
of the blacks, and that higher and more comprehensive policy of
'EMANCIPATION FOR THE SAKE OF THE WHITE MAN,' which declares that
slavery always in time inevitably makes of the slaveholder an
intolerable neighbor to the free white laborer. From this point our
author sets forth the gradual growth of the aversion to slavery all over
the Continent, with the reactionary tendency in its favor in the Cotton
United States and in England. It is needless to say that, before the
overwhelming light of _facts_ presented, especially when these facts are
drawn from the past as well as the present, and from every country
instead of _one_, slavery is shown to be more than deadly-conservative;
more than cruel; more than a mere dead wall in the way of the onward
march of the century. The time will come when such a curse will be
rooted out of a country by the strong hand of all civilized nations. Had
England and France been truly enlightened to their own interests, this
war would never have taken place.

The history of the African slave trade and the efforts to destroy it,
the Emancipation of the French Convention and the reestablishment of
slavery by the Consulate, from 1794 to 1802, form the first chapter of
this work. Hence we have its history, its abolition in 1848, and, after
this, that most important part, a careful examination of the results of
Emancipation, showing--as Sewall and others have done--the grossness of
the current falsehood to the effect that it has led to evil results. For
those who can see only a part instead of the whole, who regard the
amount of good done to themselves as the test of everything, who make no
allowance for a social transition, or for a future (like our own
'treason-Democrats'), and who see in the black, whether slave or free,
simply a creature whose whole mission is to benefit the white, it is
true that Emancipation in certain isolated cases may not appear to have
fully succeeded. The _truth_ is, that freed labor has nowhere
diminished--it has simply assumed _new forms_, more advantageous, for
the time, to the laborer, while in most cases it has increased its
profits. If slaves were overworked, there was no real gain;--if schools
and marriage, cleanly independence and good clothing have increased
tenfold among those who were once naked, starved, and ignorant, there
has been a gain, although here and there less sugar is exported. And so
the reader may trace the arguments and facts to the end.

Yet, after all, we feel almost ashamed that such a book should be really
needed! What true _scholar_ and honest man requires arguments of this
kind? A thousand or two years ago, any king's daughter, any young lady,
anybody walking in a lonely spot, was in danger of being kidnapped and
sold to prostitution or slavery. Philosophers, poets, and artists were
owned by brutal wretches; pious priests purchased gentlemen of noble
birth for slaves. The pirate's galley swept every coast to steal any
human being. Time rolled on, and slavery was modified. White slaves
became serfs, serfs became free. The cause of emancipation is clear as
that of any progressive reform--and yet, right in the face of history
and God's truth, we see the Southern Confederacy and the British people
daring to put themselves forward as the advocates of a crime so rapidly
becoming obsolete. Yes--that is what the land of Wilberforce is now
_practically_ doing, while several of her writers, turning on their
tracks, are beginning to 'reconsider' the subject in their writings!


     WAR SONGS FOR FREEMEN. Dedicated to the Army of the United States.
     Third Edition. Printed for the New York Volunteers. Boston: Ticknor
     & Fields.

Have you a friend in the army, especially one who sings occasionally, or
if he be not canorous, say a friend who likes to read songs and hear
them sung by others? In other words, would you, young lady reader (or
any other reader), like to give some soldier at least half an hour's
amusement for a very trivial outlay? In such case we recommend you to
purchase this little pamphlet, and investing in a postage stamp, send it
off without delay to the Army of the ----, whatever _that_ may be.

The work in question contains thirty songs of the war, mostly written
expressly for the book, and each accompanied by the music, in nearly all
cases with the bass. Among the contributors are Dr. O. W. Holmes, who
has given two capital lyrics, 'Union' and 'Liberty,' and a superb
trumpet song, well adapted to _Was blasen die Trompeten?_ or 'What are
the trumpets blowing?' a spirited German air. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe
contributes a 'Harvard Student's Song', which is of course brilliant,
earnest, and beautiful. It is set to the glorious old
Slavonian--subsequently German air:

   'Denkst du duran mein tapf'rer Lagienka?'

which no one ever heard without loving. C. T. Brooks, has given to the
grand and swelling _Landesvater_ words in every way worthy of it:

           'Comrades plighted,
           Fast united,
       Firm to death for Freedom stand!
   See your country torn and bleeding,
   Hear a mother's solemn pleading!
       Rescue Freedom's promised land.'

The same author also gives the well known 'Korner's Prayer,' and 'The
Vow.' From Mrs. T. Sedgwick we find a fine bold song, 'For a' that and
a' that,' of course to the good old air of that name--a lyric of such
decided merit in most respects that we regret to notice in it the
venerable bull of 'polar stars,' quizzed long ago in another writer. Our
contributor, Henry Perry Leland, has in this collection two songs, both
strongly marked with the camp, neither setting forth the slightest
earthly claim to be regarded as 'elevated poesie,' yet both remarkably
sing-able, and probably destined to become broadly popular. Of these,
'Bully Boy Billy,' is set to a lilting 'devil may care' Low-Dutch camp
tune--one of the kind which 'sings itself,' and is well adapted to a
roaring chorus. From the same we find a lyric detailing the loss of a
briarwood pipe stolen in a raid, which the grieving 'sojer' trusts (as
we most sincerely do with him) may be found when Richmond's taken. Among
the remaining lyrics are five by Charles Godfrey Leland, including
'We're at War,' to the bold French air of the _Choeur des Girondins_,
'Northmen Come Out,' to the _Burschen heraus_, and 'Shall Freedom Droop
and Die?' to the fine old air of 'Trelawney.' 'The Cavalry Song' has a
brave air, composed for it by John K. Paine. Very spirited and merry is
'Overtures from Richmond,' set to the quaint air of '_Lilliburlero,
bullen a la_,' which is said to have 'sung a deluded prince out of three
kingdoms.' We trust that some of the old charm still sticks to the magic
words, and that it may do as much for King Jeff. as it once did for King
James. Among the remaining lyrics are the following: 'Put it Through,'
and 'Old Faneuil Hall,' by E. E. Hale; 'Our Country is Calling,' to
'_Wohlauf Kameraden!_' by Rev. F. H. Hedge, and a translation of
Luther's _Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott_ by the same; Hauff's 'Night
Guard,' an exquisite German air, and 'I'll be a Sergeant,' and 'Would
you be a Soldier, Laddy?' both of them capital spirited soldier-songs.
Last, not least, we have the 'Lass of the Pamunkey,' by F. J. Child. We
know not whether the incident detailed be strictly autobiographic or
borrowed; it is at any rate well told and merrily music-ed.

The reader will do well to observe that this collection, which has
already become immensely popular, and has furnished material for more
than one excellent patriotic concert, is prepared solely for the benefit
of the solders, _and that the proceeds of the sale of the book are all
devoted to distributing it in the army_. All who wish to make a most
acceptable little gift at a trifling price; all who are 'sending things'
to the army; all who would secure an interesting specimen of the songs
of the war, and, finally, all who would own a really excellent musical
work, should send an order for the above mentioned to Messrs. Ticknor &
Fields.


     THE NATIONAL ALMANAC AND ANNUAL RECORD FOR 1863. 12mo, pp. 704.
     Philadelphia: George W. Childs. New York: Charles T. Evans.

If Dickens's illustrious statistician, Mr. Gradgrind, were in the flesh
to-day, how he would gloat over this book! The 'facts' presented in its
seven hundred double-columned pages would satisfy, even to repletion,
his voracious cravings; and once crammed with them, he would go forth
into society a walking cyclopedia of all that appertained to the civil,
military, agricultural, industrial, financial, educational, charitable,
and religious condition of these United States.

But though we make no claim to belong to the Gradgrind family, we
acknowledge with pleasure our gratification with this book. It has long
been matter of reproach against us on the part of foreign writers on
commerce and statistical science, that we produced no statistical works
worthy the name. The publication of this work will forever put that
reproach to silence. We have examined the book with care, and have been
at a loss which most to admire, the patient and extraordinary labor
which had brought together so vast a collection of important facts, or
the complete and exhaustive treatment of every subject.

It is a marked characteristic of the work that, while omitting nothing
necessary to a full elucidation of the past condition of the country, it
brings all its statistics up to the latest dates. The United States debt
is given to December 1, 1862; the Government receipts and expenditures
for the financial year 1862; the issues of the mint to the autumn of
1862; the contributions of each State to the volunteer army to December,
1862; the finances of most of the States to the same date; even the
Pacific States being brought up to last autumn; and the condition of the
Rebel army and finances to January 1, 1863. Such enterprise deserves,
and must achieve success.

Noticeable, too, for its completeness and thoroughness, is the 'Record
of Events' of the war, occupying nearly eighty pages, and forming a
continuous and admirable journal of the war up to the close of last
year. In the States, also, the fulness and variety of detail of the
finances, debts, banks, railroads (a new feature), educational
institutions, charitable and correctional organizations, agriculture,
manufactures, and military organization of each State, possess a deep
interest to any man who desires to know the actual condition and
resources of his country. We were particularly pleased with a series of
diagrams, prepared by Prof. Gillespie of Union College, illustrating at
a glance the changes which have taken place in the relative population
of the different States, the relative proportion of increase of white
and of slave population, and the effect produced by this upon different
sections. We have not, at the late hour at which we write, time or room
to indicate a tithe of the valuable features of this remarkable book; we
can only say, that whoever expends the small sum necessary for its
purchase, will most assuredly obtain an ample equivalent for his money.


     THE ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS. Second Series. New York: Carleton, 413
     Broadway. 1863.

During the present decade the American public has welcomed almost
annually a new humorist. Thus we have seen in rapid succession John
Phoenix, Doesticks, Fanny Fern, and Artemus Ward enjoying
extraordinary popularity, and then new 'lords of misrule' 'reigning in
their stead.' The last popular favorite is 'Orpheus C. Kerr'--a name
thinly disguising that of Office Seeker, and which is not indeed too
well chosen, since in the volume before us little or nothing relative to
the very suggestive subject of office-seeking, on the part of the author
at least, is to be found. The book itself is, however, marvellously
laugh provoking, abounding in the oddest conceits, strangest stories,
and drollest extravaganzas in the most ultra American vein. If the men
who best ridicule great failures in war and in politics, are the ones
most to be dreaded, it must be admitted that 'Orpheus C. Kerr' is the
sharpest thorn which has been as yet planted in the side of the 'Young
Napoleons' of our army, whose ability seems to consist in building up
the strength of the enemy by delay and in canvassing indirectly for the
Presidency. There is no cause so good as to be without abuses, and the
abuses which have crept into our management of the war are touched off
in these papers as merrily as unmercifully. They have done 'yeoman's
service' in the press, hitting all sides, but bearing most heavily on
'Young Napoleon' and the _status quo_ Democracy. It cannot be denied
that the humor of these sketches is often merely extravagant, sometimes
harshly strained, and occasionally bare and thin enough in all
conscience, while the stories of the Cosmopolite Club seem like mere
'filling up' to 'make pages;' yet with all this there is more real wit,
humor, and life-knowledge in this volume than would give tone and
strength to half a dozen ordinary popular essayists of the Country
Parson school. Extravagance is however to American narrative what it is
to Arab conversation, something much less _outre_ to those who are born
to it than to strangers, who are unable to discount like the natives as
fast as the sums total are set down. Making every allowance for every
defect, there remains in 'Orpheus C. Kerr' a residuum of irresistible
humor, provoking scores of hearty laughs, and many indications of a
basis of thought and of literary ability which place him far in advance
of the later writers of his school. He takes a wider range, too wide
indeed at times, since he occasionally becomes 'Cockneyfied.' We wish
that 'Villiam' and the Willis-y 'my boy' were less frequently mentioned.
Yet as all this is atoned for by abundance of true American fun, we
readily pardon such echoes, trusting that in his future writings our
humorist will endeavor to be in all things truly original. He can be so
by the very simple process of pruning.


     POEMS. By THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. New York: Carleton. 1863.

Most of these very pleasant little strains of word-music and of graceful
thought have been frequently brought before the American public, and
become familiar favorites. They now reappear to advantage in a delicate
blue-and-gold volume, with a medallion portrait of the poet.


     MODERN WAR: Its Theory and Practice Illustrated from Celebrated
     Campaigns and Battles. With Maps and Diagrams. By EMERIC SZABAD,
     Captain U. S. A. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1863.

An excellent work, of an eminently practical nature, which may be read
with interest and profit by every one in a time when there
are so few who do not assume to be more or less critical in the art of war.


     THE PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES; or, Adventures in the American Desert.
     By GUSTAVE AIMARD. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson. New York: Frederic
     A. Brady. 1863.

A very trashy wildcat romance, highly spiced with sensation sentiment,
"r-r-revenge," and other melo-dramatic attributes. Its author is well
known as an extensive contributor to what may be called the
Sadly-Neglected-Apprentice school of literature and of readers.


     ANDREE DE TAVERNEY, or the Downfall of French Monarchy. By
     ALEXANDER DUMAS. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brothers. 1863.

When we, on the publishers' authority, inform the reader that this is
really 'the _final_ conclusion' of the 'Countess of Charny,' the
'Memoirs of a Physician,' and a small library of other works, we shall
doubtless send a thrill of joy to more than one heart. Incredible as it
may appear, the Dumas factory, as _Maquet_ termed it, has actually
finished one of its valuable historical series--unless indeed the
director-in-chief should see fit to republish the long-forgotten first
volume, as a subsequent final conclusion to this of 'Andree de
Taverney.'


     VERNER'S PRIDE; a Tale of Domestic Life. By Mrs. HENRY WOOD. In two
     volumes. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brothers. 1863.

A decidedly English novel, of a type well known to our public, embracing
few novelties of character, yet well written, with the story well told.
It has, we believe, been so fortunate as to secure a wide circulation.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


It is a dangerous task for the editor of a monthly review, in times like
these, to comment on what has been or is likely to be done by the army,
when no one knows what a day may bring forth. But, as regards those of
the enemy among us who are scheming to aid and abet their Southern
friends, we may speak more confidently. These traitors, though they have
of late cast off the mask, and no longer pretend to aid the
Administration and the cause of the Union, are still obliged to move
with the caution without which trachery and cowardice would soon perish.
It is, however, a bitter and a humiliating thought that they are so
openly active among us, that they hold meetings where the ruin of the
country is calmly meditated, that they form clubs, that they stir up the
mob of their degraded hangers-on to hurrah for JEFFERSON DAVIS in our
streets, and that finally no amount of exposure and of denunciation in
the patriotic press seems to have the slightest effect in attracting to
them the punishment they deserve.

The traitors of whom we speak are of two classes, the leaders and the
dupes. The latter, careless of the fact that even if a _sudden_ peace
could be brought about it must overwhelm the country in financial ruin,
believe in a restitution of the _status quo ante bellum_. They think
that their leaders will, in unison with DAVIS and his colleagues,
reunite, annul Emancipation, disavow the acts of the Lincoln
Administration, and reestablish Slavery. Cotton is again to be king, and
all go on as of old, save that New England is to be thrown out of the
confederacy. They are encouraged in this belief by lying or cunningly
managed letters from the South, and by assurances that the confederate
leaders are secretly working to this end and aim. 'We got along very
well before the war,' is their constant complaint, 'and we could do as
well again, were it not for the Emancipationists.' Among the lukewarm,
the cowardly, the meanly selfish and avaricious, and the habitual
grumblers, such doctrines are readily made plausible. Those especially,
who measure the propriety of carrying on a war solely by the amount of
success which they desire, and who are incapable of great thoughts and
principles, are easily duped by intriguing villany.

The leaders of these dupes have no faith whatever in restoring the
Union. They have no desire to restore it. Men like Fernando Wood hope
from their very hearts for a complete disintegration--the more thorough,
for them, the better. They could never expect to command the ship, and
so they are willing to wreck her, in the hope of each securing a
fragment. Ruined in character in the eyes of all honest men, their names
a byword for treason, and in most cases for literal crimes, political
outcasts of the stamp who are said to vibrate between the legislature
and the penitentiary, these desperadoes are now working with all their
might to mass the cowardice of the North into a body powerful enough to
do collectively, that for which an individual has in all countries and
in all ages been judged worthy the gallows. But for this war they must
have been confined to representing the dangerous classes of our
cities--the ignorance and vice which finds in them congenial leaders. As
it is, they hope for wider fields and more absolute sway.

There is reason to apprehend that the men who are really true to the
Union do not appreciate the extent to which treason is working among us.
Worse than all, there are many, who, while believing themselves true to
the good cause, are, by constant grumbling and complaint, aiding the
very worst form of disunion. Could we prevail with one prayer upon the
heart of every Federal freeman, it would be to implore him in this hour
of trial not to withold his warmest support from the Administration and
to fall into the common weakness of fault-finding and despairing. Such
enormous wars as this never have been ended in a few months; wars
especially which involve the deepest antagonism of social principles in
existence. And our winnings have been neither few nor light. The
Southern Border States, with little exception, are now ours, and will
inevitably be fully won in time: New Orleans is a pledge, with other
important points, and the enemy admit that every Southern seaboard town
is destined to be taken. Does this look like the wild boasting of the
South two years ago, when the North was to be plundered, Washington
taken, and the Free States trampled under the heel of a chivalry
fiercely crying, _Vae victis!_'--'Woe to the conquered!'? There is no
danger now from the enemy: as he himself admits, two years more of the
war would not, at the rate in which we progress, leave him a single
State; and be it borne in mind that a _speedy_ return to peace is only
to be purchased at the price of a terrible financial crisis.

But we are in danger from the traitors _at home_. JEFFERSON DAVIS is
less deadly to the Federal Union and less to be dreaded than the men who
are scheming to make of New York a free city, and of every State and
county a feudal principality.

       *       *       *       *       *

The intentions of Louis Napoleon as regards Mexico are beginning to
excite interest. Whatever they may be, there is one thing which it would
be well for the French Emperor never to forget. He holds France simply
as a pledge to the Revolution. So long as he remains true to the cause
of liberty--and, despite names and circumstances, he has been truer to
it than many suppose--he will remain in power. When he is false to it he
will perish. It was through forgetting this that his uncle died at St.
Helena--it was through forgetting this that Louis Philippe quitted Paris
in a very citizenly but most un-kingly manner. The _bourgeoisie_ of
France and the gossips of Paris may storm at the Federal Union,
_epiciers_ may growl for our sugar, and operatives for cotton, but this
class--on whom Louis Philippe made the mistake of solely relying, with a
little help from the aristocracy--are not the men who guide the storms
of revolution in France. The arch spirits of mischief are more secret,
and of late years they have learned much. They are no longer so much
inclined to Socialism, Pere Cabet and 'national ateliers,' still less to
guillotines and noyades. But they are firm as ever, as jealous of
despotism as ever, and, for an oppressor, as powerful as ever. And we
believe that this class of men are firmly attached to the great cause of
progressive freedom as represented by the Federal States and by the
present Administration. Every day sees the truth spreading in France,
and with its extension goes a deeply seated interest in the abolition of
slavery. France--unlike England--feels shame at the idea of being
chronicled in history as aiding oppression. The Frenchman is not so
enormously conceited, so pitiably vain as to believe, like the Briton,
that a crime is a virtue when for _his_ own peculiar interest. Vain as
the French may be, they have not quite come to _that_.

It must be admitted that the French are a shrewd nation. We were wont to
think of old that there was more spite than intelligence in the epithet
by which they characterized John Bull as 'perfidious.' They were right,
for time has shown us that Venice, in the full bloom of her night-shade
iniquity and poniard policy, was never falser at heart than this great,
brawling, boasting, beef-eating England--this 'merry England' of paupers
and prisons, where one man in every eight is buried at public
expense--this Mother England, which starves away annually half a million
of emigrants--this Honest Old England, which floods the world with
pick-pockets, burglars, and correspondents for the _Times_.

It was a trifling thing which brought on the French Revolution of
1848--the return of foreign refugees to Austria, and other significant
indications of joining with the old powers in oppressing freedom. Let
Louis Napoleon beware of an anti-American policy--for to every such
policy there will be an opposition, with a spectre of the Revolution in
the background.

       *       *       *       *       *

When these remarks meet the eye of the reader, the infamous conduct of
the drunken Delaware Southern-ape Senator, SAULSBURY, will in all
probability have been forgotten. We have for so many years been so
familiarized with the ribald or rowdy pranks of the chivalry, and of
those more miserable wretches their Northern servants, that the mass of
the public seems even yet quite willing to endure, for the poor payment
of an apology, conduct which should anywhere have promptly consigned to
imprisonment, at least, the guilty one. Not but that the apology of
SAULSBURY was humble enough in all conscience. But it is time that our
halls of legislation were thoroughly purified, now that 'chivalric'
brigandage and the Southern system of personal retaliation no longer
prevail. The first legislator who shall dare to draw a weapon in a place
sacred to the councils of his country, should be permanently expelled
from those councils, and made to feel by rigorous imprisonment, and
life-long disfranchisement, the enormous infamy of his offence. We
wonder that the English press treats us as a nation of boors and fools,
and yet permit a representative on the floor of the Senate to set forth
in his own person the worst of which a boor or fool is capable, and
accept as full reparation a drunken-headaching apology!

These are the days of reform, and we sincerely trust that the reform
will extend to the conduct of all our representatives, especially in
Congress. The man who shall dare to apply, not merely to the President,
but to any fellow member, while in either House, any terms of personal
abuse, should incur a punishment which would teach him for the future to
keep a civil tongue in his head, and make him endeavor to assume in
future, at least the outward deportment of a gentleman. The going armed
into such an assembly should however be promptly visited with a penalty
of the extremest severity. It is time that the North freed itself
entirely of these Southern 'dead rabbits' of the Saulsbury stamp, and
indicated by every means in its power its determination to progress in
the path of justice, order, and civilization.

       *       *       *       *       *

All contributions, letters, &c., intended for the editors of THE
CONTINENTAL MAGAZINE, should be addressed to the care of JOHN F. TROW,
Esquire, No. 50 Greene street, New York. Correspondents directing to Mr.
LELAND are particularly requested to bear this address in mind, as that
gentleman is no longer a resident of Boston.

       *       *       *       *       *

We publish the poetical tale, THE LADY AND HER SLAVE, by an American
lady, subscribing herself _Incognita_. This is a poem of great genius
and power. Whilst it possesses the inspiration of poetry, it has all the
merits of a truthful and most interesting tale, combined with a splendid
intellectual argument against slavery. This poem unites the logic of
Pope with the genius and poetical inspiration of Goldsmith. It is a
tragedy, and might be transferred to the stage. We trust _Incognita_
will continue her favors to THE CONTINENTAL.

R. J. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

The rise in specie and in exchange is, we observe, spoken of as
'unprecedented'. The following extract from a work entitled, 'The
British Empire in America,' written in 1740, shows that we are as yet
far from having attained the differences in these respects:

     'As to Money, they have none, Gold or Silver: About 50 Years ago
     they had some coined at _Boston_; but there's not enough now for
     Retailers. All Payments are in Province Bills, even so low as _Half
     a Crown_; thus every Man's Money is his Pocket Book. This makes the
     Course of Exchange so exorbitant, that 100_l._ in _London_ made out
     lately 225_l._ in _New-England_; and if a Merchant sells his Goods
     from _England_ at 220_l._ Advance upon 100_l._ in the Invoice, he
     would be a Loser by the Bargain, considering the incidental Charges
     on his Invoice.'

So that after all, they had as great 'ups and downs' of old as do we of
the present day.

Apropos of the old book in question, it abounds in quaint bits of
information, given in a dry, free and easy style seldom found at the
present day in any work of the kind. Thus it tells us, among the
anecdotes of ELLIOT the missionary, that an Indian in a religious
conference asked how GOD could create man in his own image, since
according to the second commandment it was forbidden to make any such
image?

'To qualify him for the Work he was going about, Mr _Elliot_ learnt the
_Indian_ Language as barbarous as can come out of the Mouth of Man, as
will be seen by these Instances:

'_Nummatchekodtantamoonganunnonash_, is in English, _Our Lusts_; a Word
that the Reverend Mr _Elliot_ must often have occasion to make Use of.
As long as it is, we meet with a longer still:

'_Kummogkodonattoottummoooctiteaongannunonash_, meaning Our Question.

'_Gannunonash_' seems to be 'our,' because we find it in the End of the
First Word, as well as the second, * * and this appears again in another
Word:

'_Noowomantammooonkanunnonash_, 'Our Loves.'

'The longest of these _Indian_ Words is to be measured by the Inch, and
reaches to near half a Foot; and if Mr _Elliot_ did put as many of these
Words in a Sermon of his, as Mr _Peters_ put _English_ Words in one of
his Sermons, everyone of them must have made a sizeable Book and have
taken up three or four Hours in utterance.'

The Peters referred to was the celebrated Hugh Peters, Cromwell's
chaplain. Our author vindicates this clergyman from certain scandalous
charges, declaring that he had asked of his daughter, Miss Peters, if
they were so, which she had utterly denied! Less credulous is he as
regarded 'William Pen' (with whom he seems to have been on terms of
great personal intimacy), since he hints very broadly in one passage,
that he put no faith whatever in a certain assertion of 'Pen' as to his
own (Penn's) good behavior when amiably smiled on by a _belle sauvage_,
who, as the French would say, was not savage at all. 'Scandal, scandal
all,' we doubt not. There are gossipers in every age, tattlers in every
corner of history, and who escapes them? Cato did not, Washington could
not, and 'Mr Pen' even must fill his place with the great maligned. Let
us trust that our incautious dip from the old work may not, suggest to
any novel maker 'Penn and the Princess,--a Tale of the Olden Time.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The following poem, which we find in the Philadelphia _Press_, is among
the best of the many sad lyrics which the war has inspired. The music of
the refrain is remarkable:


DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

By George H. Boker

   Close his eyes; his work is done!
     What to him is friend or foeman,
   Rise of moon, or set of sun,
     Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
       Lay him low, lay him low,
       In the clover or the snow:
       What cares he? he cannot know:
         Lay him low!

   As man may, he fought his fight,
     Proved his truth by his endeavor;
   Let him sleep in solemn night,
     Sleep forever and forever.
       Lay him low, lay him low,
       In the clover or the snow:
       What cares he? he cannot know:
         Lay him low!

   Fold him in his country's stars;
     Roll the drum and fire the volley!
   What to him are all our wars,
     What but death bemocking folly?
       Lay him low, lay him low,
       In the clover or the snow:
       What cares he? he cannot know:
         Lay him low!

   Leave him to God's watching eye;
     Trust him to the Hand that made him.
   Mortal love weeps idly by:
     God alone has power to aid him.
       Lay him low, lay him low,
       In the clover or the snow:
       What cares he? he cannot know:
         Lay him low!

       *       *       *       *       *

Much has been said of the high price paid to opera singers. The
celebrated BERLIOZ once reduced it to details in the following word:

     'The first tenor,' he said, 'has 100,000 frcs. per annum, and he
     sings for it about seven times during the month, or eighty-four
     times during the year. This would be about 1,100 francs per
     evening. Admitted then that his part would contain 1,100 notes or
     syllables, the price of each syllable would be 1 franc.
     Consequently in William Tell:

   'Ma (1 fr.) presence (3 fr.) pourvous est peut etre un outrage (9 fr.)
   Mathilde (3 fr.) mes pas indiscret (100 sous).
   On osee jusqu'a vous se frayer une passage! (13 fr.)

     'These three lines therefore cost 34 francs. A great sum! Engaging
     under these circumstances a Prima Donna, at the miserable pittance
     of 40,000 francs, the answer of Mathilde amounts to much less, for
     every syllable would then cost but 8 sous: but even that is not so
     bad after all.

     'We laugh,' adds Berlioz, 'but the theatres have to pay. They will
     pay until the treasury is empty, and after that the 'Immortals'
     will have to condescend to give singing lessons (i.e., those who
     know enough for it), or to sing at public places with accompaniment
     of one guitar, four candles, and a green carpet. After that we may
     be able to construct the Temple of Music on a firmer basis.'

At these rates, the old form of declaring that any thing went for 'a
mere song,' would not say much for its cheapness. But if--as Berlioz
seems to think--these high prices are to be regretted, we still cannot
see how they are to be remedied. The public, for want of better
amusement, keep up the opera, and the different opera houses keep up
the prices by outbidding each other. When municipal governments shall
recognize the fact that amusement is a constant quantity in the
administration of a state, and provide first-class entertainments
_gratis_ or at nominal rates, there will be much vice done away with and
many rum shops closed--which would be bad, by the way, for the
Democrato-Rum-elected Governor Seymour, for the whole alcoholic vote was
cast in his favor. There will, we believe, come a time when the party of
progress will urge an enlarged provision of education and recreation for
the people, with the same earnestness which it now shows in forwarding
Emancipation.

       *       *       *       *       *

England has by her Southern sympathy fairly put a serpent girdle of her
treachery around the earth. For further particulars consult the
following:


TO JOHN BULL.

   Oh don't you remember sweet Ireland, John Bull?
     Green Erin beyond the blue sea?
   And the patriots there whom you starved, hung, and shot,
     Because they desired to be free.
   On the lone heather wild, in the dark silent glen,
     The peasant still shows you the graves
   Of the heroes who fell in the year ninety-eight
     And died ere they'd live as your slaves.

   And don't you remember your own words, John Bull,
     Of the Southern Confed--er--a--cie?
   When you said in the _Times_, that your heart went of course
   With a brave race which sought to be free.
     Oh what do you think of Old Ireland, John Bull?
     There's a race that's as brave as your own,
   And one that would like very well to be free,
     If you only would let it alone.

   And don't you remember great India, John Bull?
     With the Sepoys you blew from your guns,
   And the insult and murder of Brahmins, John Bull,
     For some outrage endured from their sons?
   The outrage was proved a black lie, as you know,
     A lie, as your own books declare:
   Your hell-hounds of HAVELOCKS stirred up the war,
     And what business had they to be there?

   And don't you remember great China, John Bull,
     Where you smeared yourself blacker with sin?
   Where the Emperor tried to keep opium out,
     And you fought to force opium in?
   It was _Government_ opium from India, too,
     Which poisons both body and soul;
   You have fought against freedom with steel, Johnny Bull;
     With the steel and the cord and the bowl.

   And do you believe in a GOD, Johnny Bull,
     Or _anything_ after the grave?
   Then tell us what waits for the sinner who aids
     The tyrant to trample the slave?
   I'll not ask if you've faith in a Devil, John Bull:
     One might think he were laid on the shelf,
   To see you unpunished--but now I believe
     That you are the False One himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are indebted to a friend for the following tales of foraging, which
are vouched for as authentic:

     A company of the Two--th cavalry of volunteers, no matter in what
     State, were out on a forage, with the usual orders to respect the
     enemy's property. But coming on a plantation where chickens and
     turkeys were dallying in the sunshine, the officer in command,
     tired of pork and plaster-pies, alias hard biscuit, gave the boys
     leave to club over as many of the 'two-legged things in feathers'
     as they could conveniently come at. The result was that a good
     number were despatched, and being tied together by the legs, were
     slung over the pommel of the saddle of 'Benny,' an old _sabreur_,
     who had frontiered it for years, been in more Indian fights than
     you could shake a stick at, and could tell, if he wanted to, of
     some high-old-hard times with these same Mdewakantonwar, Wahpekute,
     Ihanktonwannas, and Minnikanyewazhipu red-skinned fiends.

     Returning to camp, as ill luck would have it, they met the colonel
     of their regiment riding out to a neighboring camp. Just before
     they met him, in fact when they were nearly up to him, for a curve
     in the road had hid him from sight till then, the officer in
     command rode by Benny with the command:

     'D--n it, man, why don't you sling those chickens the other side
     your saddle? The colonel will see them, hanging that way.'

     'Can't be done! got fourteen turkeys _there_ on a balance!'

     By remarkably good fortune the colonel did not see the chickens, so
     they and the turkeys were safely smuggled into camp, Benny getting
     full credit for maintaining the balance of power, when the odds
     were dead against him.

Story ye second:

     When the Forty-eleventh P.M. were camped near Boonesboro', what
     time the rebels were driven out of Maryland, the colonel of the
     said regiment duly issued orders that all provender taken by troops
     under his command should be fairly paid for without defalcation for
     value received. Now it happened one bright morning that the major
     of the aforesaid regiment riding out near camp, saw a private
     deliberately lift up what is known in Southern tongue as a 'rock,'
     and throwing the same with great skill, instantly kill a small pig
     that with half a dozen other small pigs were following their mother
     at full speed away from the neighborhood of this same private.

     The soldier, who was an Irishman, picked up the pig, and hiding it
     under his army sack, was returning to camp, when, lifting up his
     head, he saw before him the major, who, assuming his most solemn
     look, thus spoke to him:

     'What have you under your coat, there?'

     'Shure it's an empty stomach, sirr!--and a small pig that's hurted
     itself--poor little thing!--and I'm taking it home to mend its leg,
     to be sure:--the poor crayture wud be after dying if left all alone
     in the cold, the raw morning.'

     The major dearly relished the joke, but discipline is discipline,
     and there was but one way to overlook this breach of it: that was
     to punish Paddy by giving him a three-mile walk down the road, and
     over the fields back to camp, before he could bring his pig in.

     'You say the pig is lame?' asked the officer.

     'Shure, that's the truth, sirr; and I'm afther belaving it'll niver
     be able to run any more at all, at all: be the same token its
     tail's out of curl entirely; and had'nt I better be afther taking
     it home than letting it die like a haythin in the road here?'

     'Do you see that old sow down the road there with those other pigs?
     you follow her home at _once_, sir, and leave the lame pig
     _there_!'

     Saying which, the major continued his ride, and the Irishman duly
     followed the old sow to--a turn in the road, when he 'obeyed
     orders,' and left the lame pig 'at home,' where that night at least
     one mess had roast pig with '_ubi_ beans _ibi patria_,' sauce at
     discretion.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO

THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

ON BOARD THE PRINCESS ROYAL

   Ye Mariners of England,
     That shame your country's fame;
   That peddle chains to bind the slave,
     In the blood-royal name!
   Your glorious standard hide away,
     Hoist slave flags in its place,
   And steal o'er the deep,
     With our Yankee ships in chase:
   And ye peddlers, shun the starry flag,
     While the Yankee cruisers chase.

   The spirits of your fathers
     Shall start from every wave!
   For the ocean was their field of fame,
     And ye insult their grave.
   Where they like bold men fought and fell,
     Ye take a part that's base,
   And steal o'er the deep
     With our Yankee ships in chase:
   And ye peddlers, shun the starry flag,
     While the Yankee cruisers chase.

   Britannia needeth cotton,
     And so your honor'll sleep;
   Your market's o'er the mounting wave,
     Your greed of gain lies deep.
   Your sovereign bids you walk upright;--
     Her fair fame you disgrace,
   And steal o'er the deep,
     With our Yankee ships in chase:
   And ye peddlers, shun the starry flag,
     While our Yankee cruisers chase.

   The meteor flag of England
     Should redder burn for shame,
   When it waves o'er chains for slaves
     In Princess Royal's name.
   Mourn, mourn, ye ocean hucksters!
     Your goods and ships are lost:
   To the shame of your name
     Get you home and count the cost:
   For your Princess Royal's gone for good;
     Get you home and count the cost.


       *       *       *       *       *


  The
  Continental Monthly.

The readers of the CONTINENTAL are aware of the important
position it has assumed, of the influence which it exerts, and of the
brilliant array of political and literary talent of the highest order
which supports it. No publication of the kind has, in this country, so
successfully combined the energy and freedom of the daily newspaper with
the higher literary tone of the first-class monthly; and it is very
certain that no magazine has given wider range to its contributors, or
preserved itself so completely from the narrow influences of party or of
faction. In times like the present, such a journal is either a power in
the land or it is nothing. That the CONTINENTAL is not the
latter is abundantly evidenced _by what it has done_--by the reflection
of its counsels in many important public events, and in the character
and power of those who are its staunchest supporters.

Though but little more than a year has elapsed since the
CONTINENTAL was first established, it has during that time
acquired a strength and a political significance elevating it to a
position far above that previously occupied by any publication of the
kind in America. In proof of which assertion we call attention to the
following facts:

1. Of its POLITICAL articles republished in pamphlet form, a
single one has had, thus far, a circulation of _one hundred and six
thousand_ copies.

2. From its LITERARY department, a single serial novel, "Among
the Pines," has, within a very few months, sold nearly _thirty-five
thousand_ copies. Two other series of its literary articles have also
been republished in book form, while the first portion of a third is
already in press.

No more conclusive facts need be alleged to prove the excellence of the
contributions to the CONTINENTAL, or their _extraordinary
popularity;_ and its conductors are determined that it shall not fall
behind. Preserving all "the boldness, vigor, and ability" which a
thousand journals have attributed to it, it will greatly enlarge its
circle of action, and discuss, fearlessly and frankly, every principle
involved in the great questions of the day. The first minds of the
country, embracing the men most familiar with its diplomacy and most
distinguished for ability, are among its contributors; and it is no mere
"flattering promise of a prospectus" to say that this "magazine for the
times" will employ the first intellect in America, under auspices which
no publication ever enjoyed before in this country.

While the CONTINENTAL will express decided opinions on the
great questions of the day, it will not be a mere political journal:
much the larger portion of its columns will be enlivened, as heretofore,
by tales, poetry, and humor. In a word, the CONTINENTAL will be
found, under its new staff of Editors, occupying a position and
presenting attractions never before found in a magazine.


TERMS TO CLUBS.

  Two copies for one year,                    Five dollars.
  Three copies for one year,                   Six dollars.
  Six copies for one year,                  Eleven dollars.
  Eleven copies for one year,                Twenty dollars.
  Twenty copies for one year,            Thirty-six dollars.
                           PAID IN ADVANCE

_Postage, Thirty-six cents a year_, to be paid BY THE
SUBSCRIBER.

SINGLE COPIES.

Three dollars a year, IN ADVANCE. _Postage paid by the
Publisher_.

  JOHN F. TROW, 50 Greene St., N. Y.,
  PUBLISHER FOR THE PROPRIETORS.

[Illustration: pointing finger] As an Inducement to new subscribers, the
Publisher offers the following liberal premiums:

[Illustration: pointing finger] Any person remitting $3, in advance,
will receive the magazine from July, 1862, to January, 1864, thus
securing the whole of Mr. KIMBALL'S and Mr. KIRKE'S new serials, which
are alone worth the price of subscription. Or, if preferred, a
subscriber can take the magazine for 1863 and a copy of "Among the
Pines," or of "Undercurrents of Wall Street," by R. B. KIMBALL, bound in
cloth, or of "Sunshine in Thought," by CHARLES GODFREY LELAND (retail
price, $1. 25.) The book to be sent postage paid.

[Illustration: pointing finger] 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 60 to 80 bushels per acre. Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep
and Hogs are raised here at a small cost, and yield large profits. It is
believed that no section of country presents greater inducements for
Dairy Farming than the Prairies of Illinois, a branch of farming to
which but little attention has been paid, and which must yield sure
profitable results. Between the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, and
Chicago and Dunleith, (a distance of 56 miles on the Branch and 147
miles by the Main Trunk,) Timothy Hay, Spring Wheat, Corn, &c., are
produced in great abundance.

AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS.

The Agricultural products of Illinois are greater than those of any
other State. The Wheat crop of 1861 was estimated at 35,000,000 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

  Payment in one year           48 00
     "    in two years          48 00
     "    in three years        48 00
     "    in four years        236 00
     "    in five years        224 00
     "    in six years         212 00


  40 acres, at $10 00 per acre:

  Cash payment                 $24 00

  Payment in one year           24 00
     "    in two years          24 00
     "    in three years        24 00
     "    in four years        118 00
     "    in five years        112 00
     "    in six years         106 00


       *       *       *       *       *


   Number 16.                  25 Cents.

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

DEVOTED TO Literature and National Policy.


APRIL, 1863.


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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

CONTENTS.--No. XVI.

   The Wonders of Words,                                             385

   The Chech,                                                        395

   Pictures from the North,                                          398

   The New Rasselas,                                                 404

   The Chained River.  By Charles Godfrey Leland,                    410

   How the War affects Americans. By Hon. F. P. Stanton,             411

   Promoted,                                                         420

   Henrietta and Vulcan. By Delia M. Colton,                         421

   Ethel. By Martha Walker Cook,                                     435

   The Skeptics of the Waverley Novels. By Charles Godfrey Leland,   439

   A Merchant's Story. By Edmund Kirke,                              451

   A Chapter on Wonders. By Perth Granton,                           461

   The Return.  By Edward Sprague Rand, jr.,                         464

   The Union. By Hon. R. J. Walker,                                  465

   Down in Tennessee,                                                469

   Poetry and Poetical Selections,                                   474

   Flag of our Sires. By Hon. R. J. Walker,                          480

   A Fancy Sketch,                                                   482

   Our Present Position; its Dangers and its Duties,                 488

   The Complaining Bore,                                             496

   Literary Notices,                                                 500

   Editors' Table,                                                   503

       *       *       *       *       *

'MY SOUTHERN FRIENDS,' by the author of 'Among the Pines,' is just
issued from the press of G. W. CARLETON, 413 Broadway, N. Y. Price, $l,
cloth; 75 cts., paper covers.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Continental Monthly, Vol 3 No 3,
March 1863, by Various

*** 