The highest conventional refinement, of a certain kind, is apparent in

all that belongs to the Chinese. The inviolability of custom has not

made their life heavy, but shaped it to the utmost adroitness for their

own purposes. We are now somewhat familiar with their literature, and we

see pervading it a poetry subtle and aromatic, like the odors of their

appropriate beverage. Like that, too, it is all domestic,--never wild.

The social genius, fluttering on the wings of compliment, pervades every

thing Chinese. Society has moulded them, body and soul; the youngest

children are more social and Chinese than human; and we doubt not the

infant, with its first cry, shows its capacity for self-command and

obedience to superiors.

Their great man, Confucius, expresses this social genius in its most

perfect state and highest form. His golden wisdom is the quintescence of

social justice. He never forgets conditions and limits; he is admirably

wise, pure, and religious, but never towers above humanity--never soars

into solitude. There is no token of the forest or cave in Confucius. Few

men could understand him, because his nature was so thoroughly balanced,

and his rectitude so pure; not because his thoughts were too deep, or

too high for them. In him should be sought the best genius of the

Chinese, with that perfect practical good sense whose uses are

universal.

At one time I used to change from reading Confucius to one of the great

religious books of another Eastern nation; and it was always like

leaving the street and the palace for the blossoming forest of the East,

where in earlier times we are told the angels walked with men and

talked, not of earth, but of heaven.

As we looked at the forms moving about in the Museum, we could not

wonder that the Chinese consider us, who call ourselves the civilized

world, barbarians, so deficient were those forms in the sort of

refinement that the Chinese prize above all. And our people deserve it

for their senselessness in viewing _them_ as barbarians, instead of

seeing how perfectly they represent their own idea. They are inferior to

us in important developments, but, on the whole, approach far nearer

their own standard than we do ours. And it is wonderful that an

enlightened European can fail to prize the sort of beauty they do

develop. Sets of engravings we have seen representing the culture of the

tea plant, have brought to us images of an entirely original idyllic

loveliness. One long resident in China has observed that nothing can be

more enchanting than the smile of love on the regular, but otherwise

expressionless face of a Chinese woman. It has the simplicity and

abandonment of infantine, with the fulness of mature feeling. It never

varies, but it does not tire.

The same sweetness and elegance stereotyped now, but having originally a

deep root in their life as a race, may be seen in their poetry and

music. The last we have heard, both from the voice and several

instruments, at this Museum, for the first time, and were at first

tempted to laugh, when something deeper forbade. Like their poetry, the

music is of the narrowest monotony, a kind of rosary, a repetition of

phrases, and, in its enthusiasm and conventional excitement, like

nothing else in the heavens and on the earth. Yet both the poetry and

music have in them an expression of birds, roses, and moonlight; indeed,

they suggest that state where "moonlight, and music, and feeling are

one," though the soul seems to twitter, rather than sing of it.

It is wonderful with how little practical insight travellers in China

look on what they see. They seem to be struck by points of repulsion at

once, and neither see nor tell us what could give any real clew to their

facts. I do not speak now of the recent lecturers in this city, for I

have not heard them; but of the many, many books into which I have

earlier looked with eager curiosity,--in vain,--I always found the same

external facts, and the same prejudices which disabled the observer from

piercing beneath them. I feel that I know something of the Chinese when

reading Confucius, or looking at the figures on their tea-cups, or

drinking a cup of _genuine_ tea--rather an unusual felicity, it is said,

in this ingenious city, which shares with the Chinese one trait at

least. But the travellers rather take from than add to this knowledge;

and a visit to this Museum would give more clear views than all the

books I ever read yet.

The juggling was well done, and so solemnly, with the same concentrated

look as the music! I saw the juggler afterwards at Ole Bull's concert,

and he moved not a muscle while the nightingale was pouring forth its

sweetest descant. Probably the avenues wanted for these strains to enter

his heart had been closed by the imperial edict long ago. The

resemblance borne by this juggler to our Indians is even greater than we

have seen in any other case. His brotherhood does not, to us, seem

surprising. Our Indians, too, are stereotyped, though in a different

way; they are of a mould capable of retaining the impression through

ages; and many of the traits of the two races, or two branches of a

race, may seem to be identical, though so widely modified by

circumstances. They are all opposite to us, who have made ships, and

balloons, and magnetic telegraphs, as symbolic expressions of our wants,

and the means of gratifying them. We must console ourselves with these,

and our organs and pianos, for our want of perfect good breeding,

serenity, and "thorough virtue."

KLOPSTOCK AND META.[36]

The poet had retired from the social circle. Its mirth was to his

sickened soul a noisy discord, its sentiment a hollow mockery. With

grief he felt that the recital of a generous action, the vivid

expression of a noble thought, could only graze the surface of his mind.

The desolate stillness of death lay brooding on its depths. The friendly

smiles, the tender attentions which seemed so sweet in those hours when

Meta was "crown of his cup and garnish of his dish," could give the

present but a ghastly similitude to those blessed days. While his

attention, disobedient to his wishes, kept turning painfully inward, the

voice of the singer suddenly startled it back. A lovely maid, with

moist, clear eye, and pleadi ng, earnest voice, was seated at the

harpsichord. She sang a sad, and yet not hopeless, strain, like that of

a lover who pines in absence, yet hopes again to meet his loved one.

The heart of Klopstock rose to his lips, and natural tears suffused his

eyes. She paused. Some youth of untouched heart, shallow, as yet, in all

things, asked for a lively song, the expression of animal enjoyment. She

hesitated, and cast a sidelong glance at the mourner. Heedlessly the

request was urged: she wafted over the keys an airy prelude. A cold rush

of anguish came over the awakened heart; Klopstock rose, and hastily

left the room.

He entered his apartment, and threw himself upon the bed. The moon was

nearly at the full: a tree near the large window obscured its radiance,

and cast into the room a flickering shadow, as its leaves kept swaying

to and fro with the breeze.

Vainly Klopstock sought for soothing influences in the contemplation of

the soft and varying light. Sadness is always deepest at this hour of

celestial calmness. The soul realizes its wants, and longs to be in

harmony with itself far more in such an hour than when any outward ill

is arousing or oppressing it.

"Weak, fond wretch that I am!" cried he. "I, the bard of the Messiah! To

what purpose have I nurtured my soul on the virtues of that sublime

model, for whom no renunciation was too hard? Four years an angel

sojourned with me: her presence vivified my soul into purity and

benevolence like her own. Happy was I as the saints who rest after their

long struggles in the bosom of perfect love. I thought myself good

because I sinned not against a bounteous God, because my heart could

spare some drops of its overflowing oil and balm for the wounds of

others: now what am I? My angel leaves me, but she leaves with me the

memory of blissful years and our perfect communion as an earnest of that

happy meeting which awaits us, if I prove faithful to my own words of

faith, to those strains of religious confidence which are even now

cheering onward many an inexperienced youth. And what are my deeds and

feelings? The springs of life and love frozen, here I lie, sunk in

grief, as if I knew no world beyond the grave. The joy of others seems

an insult, their grief a dead letter, compared with my own. Meta! Meta!

couldst thou see me in my hour of trial, thou wouldst disdain thy chosen

one!"

A strain of sweet and solemn music swelled on his ear--one of those

majestic harmonies which, were there no other proof of the soul's

immortality, must suggest the image of an intellectual paradise. It

closed, and Meta stood before him. A long veil of silvery whiteness fell

over her, through which might be seen the fixed but nobly-serene

expression of the large blue eyes, and a holy, seraphic dignity of mien.

Klopstock knelt before her: his soul was awed to earth. "Hast thou

come, my adored!" said he, "from thy home of bliss, to tell me that thou

no longer lovest thy unworthy friend?"

"O, speak not thus!" replied the softest and most penetrating of voices.

"God wills not that his purified creatures should look in contempt or

anger on those suffering the ills from which they are set free. O, no,

my love! my husband! I come to speak consolation to thy sinking spirit.

When you left me to breathe my last sigh in the arms of a sister, who,

however dear, was nothing to my heart in comparison with you, I closed

my eyes, wishing that the light of day might depart with thee. The

thought of what thou must suffer convulsed my heart with one last pang.

Once more I murmured the wish I had so often expressed, that the sorrows

of the survivor might have fallen to my lot rather than to thine. In

that pang my soul extricated itself from the body; a sensation like that

from exquisite fragrance came over me, and with breezy lightness I rose

into the pure serene. It was a moment of feeling almost wild,--so free,

so unobscured. I had not yet passed the verge of comparison; I could not

yet embrace the Infinite: therefore my joy was like those of

earth--intoxicating.

"Words cannot paint, even to thy eager soul, my friend, the winged

swiftness, the onward, glowing hopefulness of my path through the fields

of azure. I paused, at length, in a region of keen, pure, bluish light,

such as beams from Jupiter to thy planet on a lovely October evening.

"Here an immediate conviction pervaded me that this was home--was my

appointed resting place; a full tide of hope and satisfaction similar to

the emotion excited on my first acquaintance with thy poem flowed over

this hour; a joyous confidence in the existence of Goodness and Beauty

supplied for a season, the want of thy society. The delicious clearness

of every emotion exalted my soul into a realm full of life. Some time

elapsed in this state. The whole of my temporal existence passed in

review before me. My thoughts, my actions, were placed in full relief

before the cleared eye of my spirit. Beloved, thou wilt rejoice to know

that thy Meta could then feel that her worst faults sprung from

ignorance. As I was striving to connect my present state with my past,

and, as it were, poising myself on the brink of space and time, the

breath of another presence came across me, and, gradually evolving from

the bosom of light, a figure rose before me, in grace, in sweetness, how

excelling! Fixing her eyes on mine with the full gaze of love, she said,

in flute-like tones, 'Dost thou know me, my sister?'

"'Art thou not,' I replied, 'the love of Petrarch? I have seen the

portraiture of thy mortal lineaments, and now recognize that perfect

beauty, the full violet flower which thy lover's genius was able to

anticipate.'

"'Yes,' she said, 'I am Laura--on earth most happy, yet most sad; most

rich, and yet most poor. I come to greet her whom I recognize as the

inheritress of all that was lovely in my earthly being, more happy than

I in her temporal state. I have sympathized, O wife of Klopstock! in thy

transitory happiness. Thy lover was thy priest and thy poet; thy model

and oracle was thy bosom friend. All that earth could give was thine;

and I joyed to think on thy rewarded love, thy freedom of soul, and

unchecked faith. Follow me now: we are to dwell in the same circle, and

I am appointed to show thee thine abiding place.'

"She guided me towards the source of that light which I have described

to thee. We paused before a structure of dazzling whiteness, which stood

on a slope, and overlooked a valley of exceeding beauty. It was shaded

by trees which had that peculiar calmness that the shadows of trees have

below in the high noon of summer moonlight--

'... trees which are still

As the shades of trees below,

When they sleep on the lonely hill,

In the summer moonlight glow.'

It was decked with majestic sculptures, of which I may speak in some

future interview. Before it rose a fountain, from which the stream of

light flowed down the valley, dividing it into two unequal parts. The

larger and farther from us seemed, when I first looked on it, populous

with shapes, beauteous as that of my guide. But, when I looked more

fixedly, I saw only the valley, carpeted with large blue and white

flowers, which emitted a hyacinthine odor. Here, Laura, turning round,

asked, 'Is not this a poetic home, Meta?'

"I paused a moment ere I replied, 'It is indeed a place of beauty, but

more like the Greek elysium than the home Klopstock and I were wont to

picture to ourselves beyond the gates of Death.'

"'Thou sayest well,' she said; 'nor is this thy final home; thou wilt

but wait here a season, till Klopstock comes.'

"'What' said I, 'alone! alone in Eden?'

"'Has not Meta, then, collected aught on which she might meditate? Hast

thou never read, "While I was musing, the fire burned"?'

"'Laura,' said I, 'spare the reproach. The love of Petrach, whose soul

grew up in golden fetters, whose strongest emotions, whose most natural

actions were, through a long life, constantly repressed by the dictates

of duty and honor, she content might pass long years in that

contemplation which was on earth her only solace. But I, whose life has

all been breathed out in love and ministry, can I endure that my

existence be reversed? Can I live without utterance of spirit? or would

such be a stage of that progressive happiness we are promised?'

"'True, little one!' said she, with her first heavenly smile; 'nor shall

it be thus with thee. A ministry is appointed thee--the same which I

exercised while waiting here for that friend whom below I was forbidden

to call my own.'

"She touched me, and from my shoulders sprung a pair of wings, white and

azure, wide and glistering.

"'Meta!' she resumed, 'spirit of love! be this thine office. Wherever a

soul pines in absence from all companionship, breathe sweet thoughts of

sympathy to be had in another life, if deserved by virtuous exertions

and mental progress. Bind up the wounds of hearts torn by bereavement;

teach them where healing is to be found. Revive in the betrayed and

forsaken heart that belief in virtue and nobleness, without which life

is an odious, disconnected dream. Fan every flame of generous

enthusiasm, and on the altars where it is kindled strew thou the incense

of wisdom. In such a ministry thou couldst never be alone, since hope

must dwell with thee. But I shall often come and discourse to thee of

the future glories of thy destiny. Yet more: Seest thou that marble

tablet? Retire here when thy pinions are wearied. Give up thy soul to

faith. Fix thine eyes on the tablet, and the deeds and thoughts which

fill the days of Klopstock shall he traced on it. Thus shall ye not be

for a day divided. Hast thou, Meta, aught more to ask?"

"'Messenger of peace and bliss!' said I, 'dare I frame another request?

Is it too presumptuous to ask that Klopstock may be one of those to whom

I minister, and that he may know it is Meta who consoles him?'

"'Even this, to a certain extent, I have power to grant. Most pure, most

holy was thy life with Klopstock; ye taught one another only good

things, and peculiarly are ye rewarded. Thou mayst occasionally manifest

thyself to him, and answer his prayers with words,--so long,' she

continued, looking fixedly at me, 'as he continues true to himself and

thee!'

"O, my beloved, why tell thee what were my emotions at such a promise?

Ah! I must now leave thee, for dawn is bringing back the world's doings.

Soon I shall visit thee again. Farewell! Remember that thy every thought

and deed will be known to me, and be happy!"

She vanished.

WHAT FITS A MAN TO BE A VOTER?

A FABLE.

The country had been denuded of its forests, and men cried, "Come! we

must plant anew, or there will be no shade for the homes of our

children, or fuel for their hearths. Let us find the best kernels for a

new growth." And a basket of butternuts was offered.

But the planters rejected it with disgust. "What a black, rough coat it

has!" said they; "it is entirely unfit for the dishes on a nobleman's

table, nor have we ever seen it in such places. It must have a greasy,

offensive kernel; nor can fine trees grow up from such a nut."

"Friends," said one of the planters, "this decision may be rash. The

chestnut has not a handsome outside; it is long encased in troublesome

burs, and, when disengaged, is almost as black as these nuts you

despise. Yet from it grow trees of lofty stature, graceful form, and

long life. Its kernel is white, and has furnished food to the most

poetic and splendid nations of the older world."

"Don't tell me," says another; "brown is entirely different from black.

I like brown very well; there is Oriental precedent for its

respectability. Perhaps we will use some of your chestnuts, if we can

get fine samples. But for the present, I think we should use only

English walnuts, such as our forefathers delighted to honor. Here are

many basketsful of them, quite enough for the present. We will plant

them with a sprinkling between of the chestnut and acorn."

"But," rejoined the other, "many butternuts are beneath the sod, and

you cannot help a mixture of them being in your wood, at any rate."

"Well, we will grub them up and cut them down whenever we find them. We

can use the young shrubs for kindlings."

At that moment two persons entered the council of a darker complexion

than most of those present, as if born beneath the glow of a more

scorching sun. First came a woman, beautiful in the mild, pure grandeur

of her look; in whose large dark eye a prophetic intelligence was

mingled with infinite sweetness. She looked at the assembly with an air

of surprise, as if its aspect was strange to her. She threw quite back

her veil, and stepping aside, made room for her companion. His form was

youthful, about the age of one we have seen in many a picture produced

by the thought of eighteen centuries, as of one "instructing the

doctors." I need not describe the features; all minds have their own

impressions of such an image,

"Severe in youthful beauty."

In his hand he bore a white banner, on which was embroidered, "PEACE AND

GOOD WILL TO MEN." And the words seemed to glitter and give out sparks,

as he paused in the assembly.

"I came hither," said he, "an uninvited guest, because I read sculptured

above the door 'All men born free and equal,' and in this dwelling hoped

to find myself at home. What is the matter in dispute?"

Then they whispered one to another, and murmurs were heard--"He is a

mere boy; young people are always foolish and extravagant;" or, "He

looks like a fanatic." But others said, "He looks like one whom we have

been taught to honor. It will be best to tell him the matter in

dispute."

When he heard it, he smiled, and said, "It will be needful first to

ascertain which of the nuts is soundest _within_." And with a hammer he

broke one, two, and more of the English walnuts, and they were mouldy.

Then he tried the other nuts, but found most of them fresh within and

_white_, for they were fresh from the bosom of the earth, while the

others had been kept in a damp cellar.

And he said, "You had better plant them together, lest none, or few, of

the walnuts be sound. And why are you so reluctant? Has not Heaven

permitted them both to grow on the same soil? and does not that show

what is intended about it?"

And they said, "But they are black and ugly to look upon." He replied,

"They do not seem so to me. What my Father has fashioned in such guise

offends not mine eye."

And they said, "But from one of these trees flew a bird of prey, who has

done great wrong. We meant, therefore, to suffer no such tree among us."

And he replied, "Amid the band of my countrymen and friends there was

one guilty of the blackest crime--that of selling for a price the life

of his dearest friend; yet all the others of his blood were not put

under ban because of his guilt."

Then they said, "But in the Holy Book our teachers tell us, we are bid

to keep in exile or distress whatsoever is black and unseemly in our

eyes."

Then he put his hand to his brow, and cried in a voice of the most

penetrating pathos, "Have I been so long among you, and ye have not

known me?" And the woman turned from them the majestic hope of her

glance, and both forms suddenly vanished; but the banner was left

trailing in the dust.

The men stood gazing at one another. After which one mounted on high,

and said, "Perhaps, my friends, we carry too far this aversion to

objects merely because they are black. I heard, the other day, a wise

man say that black was the color of evil--marked as such by God, and

that whenever a white man struck a black man he did an act of worship

to God.[37] I could not quite believe him. I hope, in what I am about to

add, I shall not be misunderstood. I am no abolitionist. I respect above

all things, divine or human, the constitution framed by our forefathers,

and the peculiar institutions hallowed by the usage of their sons. I

have no sympathy with the black race in this country. I wish it to be

understood that I feel towards negroes the purest personal antipathy. It

is a family trait with us. My little son, scarce able to speak, will cry

out, 'Nigger! Nigger!' whenever he sees one, and try to throw things at

them. He made a whole omnibus load laugh the other day by his cunning

way of doing this.[38] The child of my political antagonist, on the

other hand, says 'he likes _tullared_ children the best.'[39] You see he

is tainted in his cradle by the loose principles of his parents, even

before he can say nigger, or pronounce the more refined appellation. But

that is no matter. I merely mention this by the way; not to prejudice

you against Mr.----, but that you may appreciate the very different

state of things in my family, and not misinterpret what I have to say. I

was lately in one of our prisons where a somewhat injudicious indulgence

had extended to one of the condemned felons, a lost and wretched outcast

from society, the use of materials for painting, that having been his

profession. He had completed at his leisure a picture of the Lord's

Supper. Most of the figures were well enough, but Judas he had

represented as a black.[40] Now, gentlemen, I am of opinion that this is

an unwarrantable liberty taken with the Holy Scriptures, and shows _too

much_ prejudice in the community. It is my wish to be moderate and fair,

and preserve a medium, neither, on the one hand, yielding the wholesome

antipathies planted in our breasts as a safeguard against degradation,

and our constitutional obligations, which, as I have before observed,

are, with me, more binding than any other; nor, on the other hand,

forgetting that liberality and wisdom which are the prerogative of every

citizen of this free commonwealth. I agree, then, with our young

visitor. I hardly know, indeed, why a stranger, and one so young, was

permitted to mingle in this council; but it was certainly thoughtful in

him to crack and examine the nuts. I agree that it may be well to plant

some of the black nuts among the others, so that, if many of the walnuts

fail, we may make use of this inferior tree."

At this moment arose a hubbub, and such a clamor of "dangerous

innovation," "political capital," "low-minded demagogue," "infidel who

denies the Bible," "lower link in the chain of creation," &c., that it

is impossible to say what was the decision.

DISCOVERIES.

Sometimes, as we meet people in the street, we catch a sentence from

their lips that affords a clew to their history and habits of mind, and

puts our own minds on quite a new course.

Yesterday two female figures drew nigh upon the street, in whom we had

only observed their tawdry, showy style of dress, when, as they passed,

one remarked to the other, in the tone of a person who has just made a

discovery, "_I_ think there is something very handsome in a fine child."

Poor woman! that seemed to have been the first time in her life that she

had made the observation. The charms of the human being, in that fresh

and flower-like age which is intended perpetually to refresh us in our

riper, renovate us in our declining years, had never touched her heart,

nor awakened for her the myriad thoughts and fancies that as naturally

attend the sight of childhood as bees swarm to the blossoming bough.

Instead of being to her the little angels and fairies, the embodied

poems which may ennoble the humblest lot, they had been to her mere

"torments," who "could never be kept still, or their faces clean."

How piteous is the loss of those who do not contemplate childhood in a

spirit of holiness! The heavenly influence on their own minds, of

attention to cultivate each germ of great and good qualities, of

avoiding the least act likely to injure, is lost--a loss dreary and

piteous! for which no gain can compensate. But how unspeakably

deplorable the petrifaction of those who look upon their little friends

without any sympathy even, whose hearts are, by selfishness,

worldliness, and vanity, seared from all gentle instincts, who can no

longer appreciate their spontaneous grace and glee, that eloquence in

every look, motion, and stammered word, those lively and incessant

charms, over which the action of the lower motives with which the social

system is rife, may so soon draw a veil!

We can no longer speak thus of _all_ children. On some, especially in

cities, the inheritance of sin and deformity from bad parents falls too

heavily, and incases at once the spark of soul which God still doth not

refuse in such instances, in a careful, knowing, sensual mask. Such are

never, in fact, children at all. But the rudest little cubs that are

free from taint, and show the affinities with nature and the soul, are

still young and flexible, and rich in gleams of the loveliness to be

hoped from perfected human nature.

It is sad that all men do not feel these things. It is sad that they

wilfully renounce so large a part of their heritage, and go forth to buy

filtered water, while the fountain is gushing freshly beside the door of

their own huts. As with the charms of children, so with other things.

They do not know that the sunset is worth seeing every night, and the

shows of the forest better than those of the theatre, and the work of

bees and beetles more instructive, if scanned with care, than the lyceum

lecture. The cheap knowledge, the cheap pleasures, that are spread

before every one, they cast aside in search of an uncertain and feverish

joy. We did, indeed, hear one man say that he could not possibly be

deprived of his pleasures, since he could always, even were his abode in

the narrowest lane, have a blanket of sky above his head, where he could

see the clouds pass, and the stars glitter. But men in general remain

unaware that

"Life's best joys are nearest us,

Lie close about our feet."

For them the light dresses all objects in endless novelty, the rose

glows, domestic love smiles, and childhood gives out with sportive

freedom its oracles--in vain. That woman had seen beauty in gay shawls,

in teacups, in carpets; but only of late had she discovered that "there

was something beautiful in a fine child." Poor human nature! Thou must

have been changed at nurse by a bad demon at some time, and strangely

maltreated,--to have such blind and rickety intervals as come upon thee

now and then!

POLITENESS TOO GREAT A LUXURY TO BE GIVEN TO THE POOR.

A few days ago, a lady, crossing in one of the ferry boats that ply from

this city, saw a young boy, poorly dressed, sitting with an infant in

his arms on one of the benches. She observed that the child looked

sickly and coughed. This, as the day was raw, made her anxious in its

behalf, and she went to the boy and asked whether he was alone there

with the baby, and if he did not think the cold breeze dangerous for it.

He replied that he was sent out with the child to take care of it, and

that his father said the fresh air from the water would do it good.

While he made this simple answer, a number of persons had collected

around to listen, and one of them, a well-dressed woman, addressed the

boy in a string of such questions and remarks as these:--

"What is your name? Where do you live? Are you telling us the truth?

It's a shame to have that baby out in such weather; you'll be the death

of it. (To the bystanders:) I would go and see his mother, and tell her

about it, if I was sure he had told us the truth about where he lived.

How do you expect to get back? Here, (in the rudest voice,) somebody

says you have not told the truth as to where you live."

The child, whose only offence consisted in taking care of the little one

in public, and answering when he was spoken to, began to shed tears at

the accusations thus grossly preferred against him. The bystanders

stared at both; but among them all there was not one with sufficiently

clear notions of propriety and moral energy to say to this impudent

questioner "Woman, do you suppose, because you wear a handsome shawl,

and that boy a patched jacket, that you have any right to speak to him

at all, unless he wishes it--far less to prefer against him these rude

accusations? Your vulgarity is unendurable; leave the place or alter

your manner."

Many such instances have we seen of insolent rudeness, or more insolent

affability, founded on no apparent grounds, except an apparent

difference in pecuniary position; for no one can suppose, in such cases,

the offending party has really enjoyed the benefit of refined education

and society, but all present let them pass as matters of course. It was

sad to see how the poor would endure--mortifying to see how the

purse-proud dared offend. An excellent man, who was, in his early years,

a missionary to the poor, used to speak afterwards with great shame of

the manner in which he had conducted himself towards them. "When I

recollect," said he, "the freedom with which I entered their houses,

inquired into all their affairs, commented on their conduct, and

disputed their statements, I wonder I was never horsewhipped, and feel

that I ought to have been; it would have done me good, for I needed as

severe a lesson on the universal obligations of politeness in its only

genuine form of respect for man as man, and delicate sympathy with each

in his peculiar position."

Charles Lamb, who was indeed worthy to be called a human being because

of those refined sympathies, said, "You call him a gentleman: does his

washerwoman find him so?" We may say, if she did, she found him a _man_,

neither treating her with vulgar abruptness, nor giving himself airs of

condescending liveliness, but treating her with that genuine respect

which a feeling of equality inspires.

To doubt the veracity of another is an insult which in most _civilized_

communities must in the so-called higher classes be atoned for by blood,

but, in those same communities, the same men will, with the utmost

lightness, doubt the truth of one who wears a ragged coat, and thus do

all they can to injure and degrade him by assailing his self-respect,

and breaking the feeling of personal honor--a wound to which hurts a man

as a wound to its bark does a tree.

Then how rudely are favors conferred, just as a bone is thrown to a dog!

A gentleman, indeed, will not do _that_ without accompanying signs of

sympathy and regard. Just as this woman said, "If you have told the

truth I will go and see your mother," are many acts performed on which

the actors pride themselves as kind and charitable.

All men might learn from the French in these matters. That people,

whatever be their faults, are really well bred, and many acts might be

quoted from their romantic annals, where gifts were given from rich to

poor with a graceful courtesy, equally honorable and delightful to the

giver and the receiver.

In Catholic countries there is more courtesy, for charity is there a

duty, and must be done for God's sake; there is less room for a man to

give himself the pharisaical tone about it. A rich man is not so

surprised to find himself in contact with a poor one; nor is the custom

of kneeling on the open pavement, the silk robe close to the beggar's

rags, without profit. The separation by pews, even on the day when all

meet nearest, is as bad for the manners as the soul.

Blessed be he, or she, who has passed through this world, not only with

an open purse and willingness to render the aid of mere outward

benefits, but with an open eye and open heart, ready to cheer the

downcast, and enlighten the dull by words of comfort and looks of love.

The wayside charities are the most valuable both as to sustaining hope

and diffusing knowledge, and none can render them who has not an

expansive nature, a heart alive to affection, and some true notion,

however imperfectly developed, of the meaning of human brotherhood.

Such a one can never sauce the given meat with taunts, freeze the viand

by a cold glance of doubt, or plunge the man, who asked for his hand,

deeper back into the mud by any kind of rudeness.

In the little instance with which we began, no help _was_ asked, unless

by the sight of the timid little boy's old jacket. But the license which

this seemed to the well-clothed woman to give to rudeness, was so

characteristic of a deep fault now existing, that a volume of comments

might follow and a host of anecdotes be drawn from almost any one's

experience in exposition of it. These few words, perhaps, may awaken

thought in those who have drawn tears from other's eyes through an

ignorance brutal, but not hopelessly so, if they are willing to rise

above it.

CASSIUS M. CLAY.

The meeting on Monday night at the Tabernacle was to us an occasion of

deep and peculiar interest. It was deep, for the feelings there

expressed and answered bore witness to the truth of our belief, that the

sense of right is not dead, but only sleepeth in this nation. A man who

is manly enough to appeal to it, will be answered, in feeling at least,

if not in action, and while there is life there is hope. Those who so

rapturously welcomed one who had sealed his faith by deeds of devotion,

must yet acknowledge in their breasts the germs of like nobleness.

It was an occasion of peculiar interest, such as we have not had

occasion to feel since, in childish years, we saw Lafayette welcomed by

a grateful people. Even childhood well understood that the gratitude

then expressed was not so much for the aid which had been received as

for the motives and feelings with which it was given. The nation rushed

out as one man to thank Lafayette, that he had been able, amid the

prejudices and indulgences of high rank in the old _regime_ of society,

to understand the great principles which were about to create a new

form, and answer, manlike, with love, service, and contempt of selfish

interests to the voice of humanity demanding its rights. Our freedom

would have been achieved without Lafayette; but it was a happiness and a

blessing to number the young French nobleman as the champion of American

independence, and to know that he had given the prime of his life to our

cause, because it was the cause of justice. With similar feelings of

joy, pride, and hope, we welcome Cassius M. Clay, a man who has, in like

manner, freed himself from the prejudices of his position, disregarded

selfish considerations, and quitting the easy path in which he might

have walked to station in the sight of men, and such external

distinctions as his State and nation readily confer on men so born and

bred, and with such abilities, chose rather an interest in their souls,

and the honors history will not fail to award to the man who enrolls his

name and elevates his life for the cause of right and those universal

principles whose recognition can alone secure to man the destiny without

which he cannot be happy, but which he is continually sacrificing for

the impure worship of idols. Yea, in this country, more than in the old

Palestine, do they give their children to the fire in honor of Moloch,

and sell the ark confided to them by the Most High for shekels of gold

and of silver. Partly it was the sense of this position which Mr. Clay

holds, as a man who esteems his own individual convictions of right more

than local interests or partial, political schemes, that gave him such

an enthusiastic welcome on Monday night from the very hearts of the

audience, but still more that his honor is at this moment identified

with the liberty of the press, which has been insulted and infringed in

him. About this there can be in fact but one opinion. In vain Kentucky

calls meetings, states reasons, gives names of her own to what has been

done.[41] The rest of the world knows very well what the action is, and

will call it by but one name. Regardless of this ostrich mode of

defence, the world has laughed and scoffed at the act of a people

professing to be free and defenders of freedom, and the recording angel

has written down the deed as a lawless act of violence and tyranny, from

which the man is happy who can call himself pure.

With the usual rhetoric of the wrong side, the apologists for this mob

violence have wished to injure Mr. Clay by the epithets of "hot-headed,"

"visionary," "fanatical." But, if any have believed that such could

apply to a man so clear-sighted as to his objects and the way of

achieving them, the mistake must have been corrected on Monday night.

Whoever saw Mr. Clay that night, saw in him a man of deep and strong

nature, thoroughly in earnest, who had well considered his ground, and

saw that though open, as the truly _noble_ must be, to new views and

convictions, yet his direction is taken, and the improvement to be made

will not be to turn aside, but to expedite and widen his course in that

direction. Mr. Clay is young, young enough, thank Heaven! to promise a

long career of great thoughts and honorable deeds. But still, to those

who esteem youth an unpardonable fault, and one that renders incapable

of counsel, we would say that he is at the age when a man is capable of

great thoughts and great deeds, if ever. His is not a character that

will ever grow old; it is not capable of a petty and short-sighted

prudence, but can only be guided by a large wisdom which is more young

than old, for it has within itself the springs of perpetual youth, and

which, being far-sighted and prophetical, joins ever with the progress

party without waiting till it be obviously in the ascendant.

Mr. Clay has eloquence, but only from the soul. He does not possess the

art of oratory, as an art. Before he gets warmed he is too slow, and

breaks his sentences too much. His transitions are not made with skill,

nor is the structure of his speech, as a whole, symmetrical; yet,

throughout, his grasp is firm upon his subject, and all the words are

laden with the electricity of a strong mind and generous nature. When he

begins to glow, and his deep mellow eye fills with light, the speech

melts and glows too, and he is able to impress upon the hearer the full

effect of firm conviction, conceived with impassioned energy. His often

rugged and harsh emphasis flashes and sparkles then, and we feel that

there is in the furnace a stream of iron: iron, fortress of the nations

and victor of the seas, worth far more, in stress of storm, than all the

gold and gems of rhetoric.

The great principle that he who wrongs one wrongs all, and that no part

can be wounded without endangering the whole, was the healthy root of

Mr. Clay's speech. The report does not do justice to the turn of

expression in some parts which were most characteristic. These, indeed,

depended much on the tones and looks of the speaker. We should speak of

them as full of a robust and homely sincerity, dignified by the heart of

the gentleman, a heart too secure of its respect for the rights of

others to need any of the usual interpositions. His good-humored

sarcasm, on occasion of several vulgar interruptions, was very pleasant,

and easily at those times might be recognized in him the man of heroical

nature, who can only show himself adequately in time of interruption and

of obstacle. If that be all that is wanted, we shall surely see him

wholly; there will be no lack of American occasions to call out the

Greek fire. We want them all--the Grecian men, who feel a godlike thirst

for immortal glory, and to develop the peculiar powers with which the

gods have gifted them. We want them all--the poet, the thinker, the

hero. Whether our heroes need _swords_, is a more doubtful point, we

think, than Mr. Clay believes. Neither do we believe in some of the

means he proposes to further his aims. God uses all kinds of means, but

men, his priests, must keep their hands pure. Nobody that needs a bribe

shall be asked to further our schemes for emancipation. But there is

room enough and time enough to think out these points till all is in

harmony. For the good that has been done and the truth that has been

spoken, for the love of such that has been seen in this great city

struggling up through the love of money, we should to-day be

thankful--and we are so.

THE MAGNOLIA OF LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN.

The stars tell all their secrets to the flowers, and, if we only knew

how to look around us, we should not need to look above. But man is a

plant of slow growth, and great heat is required to bring out his

leaves. He must be promised a boundless futurity, to induce him to use

aright the present hour. In youth, fixing his eyes on those distant

worlds of light, he promises himself to attain them, and there find the

answer to all his wishes. His eye grows keener as he gazes, a voice from

the earth calls it downward, and he finds all at his feet.

I was riding on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain, musing on an old

English expression, which I had only lately learned to interpret. "He

was fulfilled of all nobleness." Words so significant charm us like a

spell, long before we know their meaning. This I had now learned to

interpret. Life had ripened from the green bud, and I had seen the

difference, wide as from earth to heaven, between nobleness and the

_fulfilment_ of nobleness.

A fragrance beyond any thing I had ever known came suddenly upon the

air, and interrupted my meditation. I looked around me, but saw no

flower from which it could proceed. There is no word for it; _exquisite_

and _delicious_ have lost all meaning now. It was of a full and

penetrating sweetness, too keen and delicate to be cloying. Unable to

trace it, I rode on, but the remembrance of it pursued me. I had a

feeling that I must forever regret my loss, my want, if I did not return

and find the poet of the lake, whose voice was such perfume. In earlier

days, I might have disregarded such a feeling; but now I have learned

to prize the monitions of my nature as they deserve, and learn sometimes

what is not for sale in the market place. So I turned back, and rode to

and fro, at the risk of abandoning the object of my ride.

I found her at last, the queen of the south, singing to herself in her

lonely bower. Such should a sovereign be, most regal when alone; for

then there is no disturbance to prevent the full consciousness of power.

All occasions limit; a kingdom is but an occasion; and no sun ever saw

itself adequately reflected on sea or land.

Nothing at the south had affected me like the magnolia. Sickness and

sorrow, which have separated me from my kind, have requited my loss by

making known to me the loveliest dialect of the divine language.

"Flowers," it has been truly said, "are the only positive present made

us by nature." Man has not been ungrateful, but consecrated the gift to

adorn the darkest and brightest hours. If it is ever perverted, it is to

be used as a medicine; and even this vexes me. But no matter for that.

We have pure intercourse with these purest creations; we love them for

their own sake, for their beauty's sake. As we grow beautiful and pure,

we understand them better. With me knowledge of them is a circumstance,

a habit of my life, rather than a merit. I have lived with them, and

with them almost alone, till I have learned to interpret the slightest

signs by which they manifest their fair thoughts. There is not a flower

in my native region which has not for me a tale, to which every year is

adding new incidents; yet the growths of this new climate brought me new

and sweet emotions, and, above all others, was the magnolia a

revelation. When I first beheld her, a stately tower of verdure, each

cup, an imperial vestal, full-displayed to the eye of day, yet guarded

from the too hasty touch even of the wind by its graceful decorums of

firm, glistening, broad, green leaves, I stood astonished, as might a

lover of music, who, after hearing in all his youth only the harp or

the bugle, should be saluted, on entering some vast cathedral, by the

full peal of its organ.

After I had recovered from my first surprise, I became acquainted with

the flower, and found all its life in harmony. Its fragrance, less

enchanting than that of the rose, excited a pleasure more full of life,

and which could longer be enjoyed without satiety. Its blossoms, if

plucked from their home, refused to retain their dazzling hue, but

drooped and grew sallow, like princesses captive in the prison of a

barbarous foe.

But there was something quite peculiar in the fragrance of this tree; so

much so, that I had not at first recognized the magnolia. Thinking it

must be of a species I had never yet seen, I alighted, and leaving my

horse, drew near to question it with eyes of reverent love.

"Be not surprised," replied those lips of untouched purity, "stranger,

who alone hast known to hear in my voice a tone more deep and full than

that of my beautiful sisters. Sit down, and listen to my tale, nor fear

that I will overpower thee by too much sweetness. I am, indeed, of the

race you love, but in it I stand alone. In my family I have no sister of

the heart, and though my root is the same as that of the other virgins

of our royal house, I bear not the same blossom, nor can I unite my

voice with theirs in the forest choir. Therefore I dwell here alone, nor

did I ever expect to tell the secret of my loneliness. But to all that

ask there is an answer, and I speak to thee.

"Indeed, we have met before, as that secret feeling of home, which makes

delight so tender, must inform thee. The spirit that I utter once

inhabited the glory of the most glorious climates. I dwelt once in the

orange tree."

"Ah?" said I; "then I did not mistake. It is the same voice I heard in

the saddest season of my youth. I stood one evening on a high terrace in

another land, the land where 'the plant man has grown to greatest size.'

It was an evening whose unrivalled splendor demanded perfection in

man--answering to that he found in nature--a sky 'black-blue' deep as

eternity, stars of holiest hope, a breeze promising rapture in every

breath. I could not longer endure this discord between myself and such

beauty; I retired within my window, and lit the lamp. Its rays fell on

an orange tree, full clad in its golden fruit and bridal blossoms. How

did we talk together then, fairest friend! Thou didst tell me all; and

yet thou knowest, that even then, had I asked any part of thy dower, it

would have been to bear the sweet fruit, rather than the sweeter

blossoms. My wish had been expressed by another.

'O, that I were an orange tree,

That busy plant!

Then should I ever laden he,

And never want

Some fruit for him that dresseth me.'

Thou didst seem to me the happiest of all spirits in wealth of nature,

in fulness of utterance. How is it that I find thee now in another

habitation?"

"How is it, man, that thou art now content that thy life bears no golden

fruit?"

"It is," I replied, "that I have at last, through privation, been

initiated into the secret of peace. Blighted without, unable to find

myself in other forms of nature, I was driven back upon the centre of my

being, and there found all being. For the wise, the obedient child from

one point can draw all lines, and in one germ read all the possible

disclosures of successive life."

"Even so," replied the flower, "and ever for that reason am I trying to

simplify my being. How happy I was in the 'spirit's dower when first it

was wed,' I told thee in that earlier day. But after a while I grew

weary of that fulness of speech; I felt a shame at telling all I knew,

and challenging all sympathies; I was never silent, I was never alone;

I had a voice for every season, for day and night; on me the merchant

counted, the bride looked to me for her garland, the nobleman for the

chief ornament of his princely hair, and the poor man for his wealth;

all sang my praises, all extolled my beauty, all blessed my beneficence;

and, for a while, my heart swelled with pride and pleasure. But, as

years passed, my mood changed. The lonely moon rebuked me, as she hid

from the wishes of man, nor would return till her due change was passed.

The inaccessible sun looked on me with the same ray as on all others; my

endless profusion could not bribe him to one smile sacred to me alone.

The mysterious wind passed me by to tell its secret to the solemn pine,

and the nightingale sang to the rose rather than me, though she was

often silent, and buried herself yearly in the dark earth.

"I knew no mine or thine: I belonged to all. I could never rest: I was

never at one. Painfully I felt this want, and from every blossom sighed

entreaties for some being to come and satisfy it. With every bud I

implored an answer, but each bud only produced an orange.

"At last this feeling grew more painful, and thrilled my very root. The

earth trembled at the touch with a pulse so sympathetic that ever and

anon it seemed, could I but retire and hide in that silent bosom for one

calm winter, all would be told me, and tranquillity, deep as my desire,

be mine. But the law of my being was on me, and man and nature seconded

it. Ceaselessly they called on me for my beautiful gifts; they decked

themselves with them, nor cared to know the saddened heart of the giver.

O, how cruel they seemed at last, as they visited and despoiled me, yet

never sought to aid me, or even paused to think that I might need their

aid! yet I would not hate them. I saw it was my seeming riches that

bereft me of sympathy. I saw they could not know what was hid beneath

the perpetual veil of glowing life. I ceased to expect aught from them,

and turned my eyes to the distant stars. I thought, could I but hoard

from the daily expenditure of my juices till I grew tall enough, I might

reach those distant spheres, which looked so silent and consecrated,

and there pause a while from these weary joys of endless life, and in

the lap of winter find my spring.

"But not so was my hope to be fulfilled. One starlight night I was

looking, hoping, when a sudden breeze came up. It touched me, I thought,

as if it were a cold, white beam from those stranger worlds. The cold

gained upon my heart; every blossom trembled, every leaf grew brittle,

and the fruit began to seem unconnected with the stem; soon I lost all

feeling; and morning found the pride of the garden black, stiff, and

powerless.

"As the rays of the morning sun touched me, consciousness returned, and

I strove to speak, but in vain. Sealed were my fountains, and all my

heartbeats still. I felt that I had been that beauteous tree, but now

only was--what--I knew not; yet I was, and the voices of men said, It is

dead; cast it forth, and plant another in the costly vase. A mystic

shudder of pale joy then separated me wholly from my former abode.

"A moment more, and I was before the queen and guardian of the flowers.

Of this being I cannot speak to thee in any language now possible

betwixt us; for this is a being of another order from thee, an order

whose presence thou mayst feel, nay, approach step by step, but which

cannot be known till thou art of it, nor seen nor spoken of till thou

hast passed through it.

"Suffice it to say, that it is not such a being as men love to paint; a

fairy, like them, only lesser and more exquisite than they; a goddess,

larger and of statelier proportion; an angel, like still, only with an

added power. Man never creates; he only recombines the lines and colors

of his own existence: only a deific fancy could evolve from the elements

the form that took me home.

"Secret, radiant, profound ever, and never to be known, was she; many

forms indicate, and none declare her. Like all such beings, she was

feminine. All the secret powers are "mothers." There is but one paternal

power.

"She had heard my wish while I looked at the stars, and in the silence

of fate prepared its fulfilment. 'Child of my most communicative hour,'

said she, 'the full pause must not follow such a burst of melody. Obey

the gradations of nature, nor seek to retire at once into her utmost

purity of silence. The vehemence of thy desire at once promises and

forbids its gratification. Thou wert the keystone of the arch, and bound

together the circling year: thou canst not at once become the base of

the arch, the centre of the circle. Take a step inward, forget a voice,

lose a power; no longer a bounteous sovereign, become a vestal

priestess, and bide thy time in the magnolia.'

"Such is my history, friend of my earlier day. Others of my family, that

you have met, were formerly the religious lily, the lonely dahlia,

fearless decking the cold autumn, and answering the shortest visits of

the sun with the brightest hues; the narcissus, so rapt in

self-contemplation that it could not abide the usual changes of a life.

Some of these have perfume, others not, according to the habit of their

earlier state; for, as spirits change, they still bear some trace, a

faint reminder, of their latest step upwards or inwards. I still speak

with somewhat of my former exuberance and over-ready tenderness to the

dwellers on this shore; but each star sees me purer, of deeper thought,

and more capable of retirement into my own heart. Nor shall I again

detain a wanderer, luring him from afar; nor shall I again subject

myself to be questioned by an alien spirit, to tell the tale of my being

in words that divide it from itself. Farewell, stranger! and believe

that nothing strange can meet me more. I have atoned by confession;

further penance needs not; and I feel the Infinite possess me more and

more. Farewell! to meet again in prayer, in destiny, in harmony, in

elemental power."

The magnolia left me; I left not her, but must abide forever in the

thought to which the clew was found in the margin of that lake of the

South.

CONSECRATION OF GRACE CHURCH.

Whoever passes up Broadway finds his attention arrested by three fine

structures--Trinity Church, that of the Messiah, and Grace Church.

His impressions are, probably, at first, of a pleasant character. He

looks upon these edifices as expressions, which, however inferior in

grandeur to the poems in stone which adorn the older world, surely

indicate that man cannot rest content with his short earthly span, but

prizes relations to eternity. The house in which he pays deference to

claims which death will not cancel seems to be no less important in his

eyes than those in which the affairs which press nearest are attended

to.

So far, so good! That is expressed which gives man his superiority over

the other orders of the natural world, that consciousness of spiritual

affinities of which we see no unequivocal signs elsewhere.

But, if this be something great when compared with the rest of the

animal creation, yet how little seems it when compared with the ideal

that has been offered to him, as to the means of signifying such

feelings! These temples! how far do they correspond with the idea of

that religious sentiment from which they originally sprung? In the old

world the history of such edifices, though not without its shadow, had

many bright lines. Kings and emperors paid oftentimes for the materials

and labor a price of blood and plunder, and many a wretched sinner

sought by contributions of stone for their walls to roll off the burden

he had laid on his conscience. Still the community amid which they rose

knew little of these drawbacks. Pious legends attest the purity of

feeling associated with each circumstance of their building. Mysterious

orders, of which we know only that they were consecrated to brotherly

love and the development of mind, produced the genius which animated the

architecture; but the casting of the bells and suspending them in the

tower was an act in which all orders of the community took part; for

when those cathedrals were consecrated, it was for the use of all. Rich

and poor knelt together upon their marble pavements, and the imperial

altar welcomed the obscurest artisan.

This grace our churches want--the grace which belongs to all religions,

but is peculiarly and solemnly enforced upon the followers of Jesus. The

poor to whom he came to preach can have no share in the grace of Grace

Church. In St. Peter's, if only as an empty form, the soiled feet of

travel-worn disciples are washed; but such feet can never intrude on the

fane of the holy Trinity here in republican America, and the Messiah may

be supposed still to give as excuse for delay, "The poor you always have

with you."

We must confess this circumstance is to us quite destructive of

reverence and value for these buildings.

We are told, that at the late consecration, the claims of the poor were

eloquently urged; and that an effort is to be made, by giving a side

chapel, to atone for the luxury which shuts them out from the reflection

of sunshine through those brilliant windows. It is certainly better that

they should be offered the crumbs from the rich man's table than nothing

at all, yet it is surely not _the_ way that Jesus would have taught to

provide for the poor.

Would we not then have these splendid edifices erected? We certainly

feel that the educational influence of good specimens of architecture

(and we know no other argument in their favor) is far from being a

counterpoise to the abstraction of so much money from purposes that

would be more in fulfilment of that Christian idea which these assume to

represent Were the rich to build such a church, and, dispensing with

pews and all exclusive advantages, invite all who would to come in to

the banquet, that were, indeed, noble and Christian. And, though we

believe more, for our nation and time, in intellectual monuments than

those of wood and stone, and, in opposition even to our admired Powers,

think that Michael Angelo himself could have advised no more suitable

monument to Washington than a house devoted to the instruction of the

people, and think that great master, and the Greeks no less, would agree

with us if they lived now to survey all the bearings of the subject, yet

we would not object to these splendid churches, if the idea of Him they

call Master were represented in them. But till it is, they can do no

good, for the means are not in harmony with the end. The rich man sits

in state while "near two hundred thousand" Lazaruses linger, unprovided

for, without the gate. While this is so, they must not talk much,

within, of Jesus of Nazareth, who called to him fishermen, laborers, and

artisans, for his companions and disciples.

We find some excellent remarks on this subject from Rev. Stephen Olin,

president of the Wesleyan University. They are appended as a note to a

discourse addressed to young men, on the text, "Put ye on the Lord Jesus

Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts

thereof."

This discourse, though it discloses formal and external views of

religions ties and obligations, is dignified by a fervent, generous love

for men, and a more than commonly catholic liberality; and though these

remarks are made and meant to bear upon the interests of his own sect,

yet they are anti-sectarian in their tendency, and worthy the

consideration of all anxious to understand the call of duty in these

matters. Earnest attention of this sort will better avail than fifteen

hundred dollars, or more, paid for a post of exhibition in a fashionable

church, where, if piety be provided with one chance, worldliness has

twenty to stare it out of countenance.

"The strong tendency in our religious operations to gather the rich and

the poor into separate folds, and so to generate and establish in the

church distinctions utterly at variance with the spirit of our political

institutions, is the very worst result of the multiplication of sects

among us; and I fear it must be admitted that the evil is greatly

aggravated by the otherwise benignant working of the voluntary system.

Without insisting further upon the probable or possible injury which may

befall our free country from this conflict of agencies, ever the most

powerful in the formation of national and individual character, no one,

I am sure, can fail to recognize in this development an influence

utterly and irreconcilably hostile to the genius and cherished objects

of Christianity. It is the peculiar glory of the gospel that, even under

the most arbitrary governments, it has usually been able to vindicate

and practically exemplify the essential equality of man. It has had one

doctrine and one hope for all its children; and the highest and the

lowest have been constrained to acknowledge one holy law of brotherhood

in the common faith of which they are made partakers. Nowhere else, I

believe, but in the United States--certainly nowhere else to the same

extent--does this anti-Christian separation of classes prevail in the

Christian church. The beggar in his tattered vestments walks the

splendid courts of St. Peter's, and kneels at its costly altars by the

side of dukes and cardinals. The peasant in his wooden shoes is welcomed

in the gorgeous churches of Notre Dame and the Madeleine; and even in

England, where political and social distinctions are more rigorously

enforced than in any other country on earth, the lord and the peasant,

the richest and the poorest, are usually occupants of the same church,

and partakers of the same communion. That the reverse of all this is

true in many parts of this country, every observing man knows full well;

and what is yet more deplorable, while the lines of demarcation between

the different classes have already become sufficiently distinct, the

tendency is receiving new strength and development in a rapidly

augmenting ratio. Even in country places, where the population is

sparse, and the artificial distinctions of society are little known, the

working of this strange element is, in many instances, made manifest,

and a petty coterie of village magnates may be found worshipping God

apart from the body of the people. But the evil is much more apparent,

as well as more deeply seated, in our populous towns, where the causes

which produce it have been longer in operation, and have more fully

enjoyed the favor of circumstances. In these great centres of wealth,

intelligence, and influence, the separation between the classes is, in

many instances, complete, and in many more the process is rapidly

progressive.

"There are crowded religious congregations composed so exclusively of

the wealthy as scarcely to embrace an indigent family or individual; and

the number of such churches, where the gospel is never preached to the

poor, is constantly increasing. Rich men, instead of associating

themselves with their more humble fellow-Christians, where their money

as well as their influence and counsels are so much needed, usually

combine to erect magnificent churches, in which sittings are too

expensive for any but people of fortune, and from which their

less-favored brethren are as effectually and peremptorily excluded as if

there were dishonor or contagion in their presence. A congregation is

thus constituted, able, without the slightest inconvenience, to bear the

pecuniary burdens of twenty churches, monopolizing and consigning to

comparative inactivity intellectual, moral, and material resources, for

want of which so many other congregations are doomed to struggle with

the most embarrassing difficulties. Can it for a moment be thought that

such a state of things is desirable, or in harmony with the spirit and

design of the gospel?

"A more difficult question arises when we inquire after a remedy for

evils too glaring to be overlooked, and too grave to be tolerated,

without an effort to palliate, if not to remove them. The most obvious

palliative, and one which has already been tried to some extent by

wealthy churches or individuals, is the erection of free places of

worship for the poor. Such a provision for this class of persons would

be more effectual in any other part of the world than in the United

States. Whether it arises from the operation of our political system, or

from the easy attainment of at least the prime necessaries of life, the

poorer classes here are characterized by a proud spirit, which will not

submit to receive even the highest benefits in any form that implies

inferiority or dependence. This strong and prevalent feeling must

continue to interpose serious obstacles in the way of these laudable

attempts. If in a few instances churches for the poor have succeeded in

our large cities, where the theory of social equality is so imperfectly

realized in the actual condition of the people, and where the presence

of a multitude of indigent foreigners tends to lower the sentiment of

independence so strong in native-born Americans, the system is yet

manifestly incapable of general application to the religious wants of

our population. The same difficulty usually occurs in all attempts to

induce the humbler classes to worship with the rich in sumptuous

churches, by reserving for their benefit a portion of the sittings free,

or at a nominal rent. A few only can be found who are willing to be

recognized and provided for as beneficiaries and paupers, while the

multitude will always prefer to make great sacrifices in order to

provide for themselves in some humbler fane. It must be admitted that

this subject is beset with practical difficulties, which are not likely

to be removed speedily, or without some great and improbable revolution

in our religious affairs. Yet if the respectable Christian denominations

most concerned in the subject shall pursue a wise and liberal policy for

the future, something may be done to check the evil. They may retard its

rapid growth, perhaps, though it will most likely be found impossible to

eradicate it altogether. It ought to be well understood, that the

multiplication of magnificent churches is daily making the line of

demarcation between the rich and the poor more and more palpable and

impassable. There are many good reasons for the erection of such

edifices. Increasing wealth and civilization seem to call for a liberal

and tasteful outlay in behalf of religion; yet is it the dictate of

prudence no less than of duty to balance carefully the good and the evil

of every enterprise. It should ever be kept in mind, that such a church

virtually writes above its sculptured portals an irrevocable prohibition

to the poor--'_Procul, O procul este profani_.'"

LATE ASPIRATIONS.

LETTER TO H----.

You have put to me that case which puzzles more than almost any in this

strange world--the case of a man of good intentions, with natural powers

sufficient to carry them out, who, after having through great part of a

life lived the best he knew, and, in the world's eye, lived admirably

well, suddenly wakes to a consciousness of the soul's true aims. He

finds that he has been a good son, husband, and father, an adroit man of

business, respected by all around him, without ever having advanced one

step in the life of the soul. His object has not been the development of

his immortal being, nor has this been developed; all he has done bears

upon the present life only, and even that in a way poor and limited,

since no deep fountain of intellect or feeling has ever been unsealed

for him. Now that his eyes are opened, he sees what communion is

possible; what incorruptible riches may be accumulated by the man of

true wisdom. But why is the hour of clear vision so late deferred? He

cannot blame himself for his previous blindness. His eyes were holden

that he saw not. He lived as well as he knew how.

And now that he would fain give himself up to the new oracle in his

bosom, and to the inspirations of nature, all his old habits, all his

previous connections, are unpropitious. He is bound by a thousand chains

which press on him so as to leave no moment free. And perhaps it seems

to him that, were he free, he should but feel the more forlorn. He sees

the charm and nobleness of this new life, but knows not how to live it.

It is an element to which his mental frame has not been trained. He

knows not what to do to-day or to-morrow; how to stay by himself, or how

to meet others; how to act, or how to rest. Looking on others who chose

the path which now invites him at an age when their characters were yet

plastic, and the world more freely opened before them, he deems them

favored children, and cries in almost despairing sadness, Why, O Father

of Spirits, didst thou not earlier enlighten me also? Why was I not led

gently by the hand in the days of my youth? "And what," you ask, "could

I reply?"

Much, much, dear H----, were this a friend whom I could see so often

that his circumstances would be my text. For no subject has more engaged

my thoughts, no difficulty is more frequently met. But now on this poor

sheet I can only give you the clew to what I should say.

In the first place, the depth of the despair must be caused by the

mistaken idea that this our present life is all the time allotted to man

for the education of his nature for that state of consummation which is

called heaven. Were it seen that this present is only one little link in

the long chain of probations; were it felt that the Divine Justice is

pledged to give the aspirations of the soul all the time they require

for their fulfilment; were it recognized that disease, old age, and

death are circumstances which can never touch the eternal youth of the

spirit; that though the "plant man" grows more or less fair in hue and

stature, according to the soil in which it is planted, yet the

principle, which is the life of the plant, will not be defeated, but

must scatter its seeds again and again, till it does at last come to

perfect flower,--then would he, who is pausing to despair, realize that

a new choice can never be too late, that false steps made in ignorance

can never be counted by the All-Wise, and that, though a moment's delay

against conviction is of incalculable weight the mistakes of forty

years are but as dust on the balance held by an unerring hand. Despair

is for time, hope for eternity.

Then he who looks at all at the working of the grand principle of

compensation which holds all nature in equipoise, cannot long remain a

stranger to the meaning of the beautiful parable of the prodigal son,

and the joy over finding the one lost piece of silver. It is no

arbitrary kindness, no generosity of the ruling powers, which causes

that there be more joy in heaven over the one that returns, than over

ninety and nine that never strayed. It is the inevitable working of a

spiritual law that he who has been groping in darkness must feel the

light most keenly, best know how to prize it--he who has long been

exiled from the truth seize it with the most earnest grasp, live in it

with the deepest joy. It was after descending to the very pit of sorrow,

that our Elder Brother was permitted to ascend to the Father, who

perchance said to the angels who had dwelt always about the throne, Ye

are always with me, and all that I have is yours; but this is my Son; he

has been into a far country, but could not there abide, and has

returned. But if any one say, "I know not how to return," I should still

use words from the same record: "Let him arise and go to his Father."

Let him put his soul into that state of simple, fervent desire for truth

alone, truth for its own sake, which is prayer, and not only the sight

of truth, but the way to make it living, shall be shown. Obstacles,

insuperable to the intellect of any adviser, shall melt away like

frostwork before a ray from the celestial sun. The Father may hide his

face for a time, till the earnestness of the suppliant child be proved;

but he is not far from any that seek, and when he does resolve to make a

revelation, will show not only the _what_, but the _how_; and none else

can advise or aid the seeking soul, except by just observation on some

matter of detail.

In this path, as in the downward one, must there be the first step that

decides the whole--one sacrifice of the temporal for the eternal day is

the grain of mustard seed which may give birth to a tree large enough to

make a home for the sweetest singing birds. One moment of deep truth in

life, of choosing not merely honesty, but purity, may leaven the whole

mass.

FRAGMENTARY THOUGHTS FROM MARGARET FULLER'S JOURNAL.

I gave the world the fruit of earlier hours:

O Solitude! reward me with some flowers;

Or if their odorous bloom thou dost deny,

Rain down some meteors from the winter sky!

_Poesy._--The expression of the sublime and beautiful, whether in

measured words or in the fine arts. The human mind, apprehending the

harmony of the universe, and making new combinations by its laws.

* * * * *

_Poetry._--The sublime and beautiful expressed in measured language. It

is closely allied with the fine arts. It should sing to the ear, paint

to the eye, and exhibit the symmetry of architecture. If perfect, it

will satisfy the intellectual and moral faculties no less than the heart

and the senses. It works chiefly by simile and melody. It is to prose as

the garden to the house. Pleasure is the object of the one, convenience

of the other. The flowers and fruits may be copied on the furniture of

the house, but if their beauty be not subordinated to utility, they lose

the charm of beauty, and degenerate into finery. The reverse is the case

in the garden.

* * * * *

_Nature._--I would praise alike the soft gray and brown which soothed my

eye erewhile, and the snowy fretwork which now decks the forest aisles.

Every ripple in the snowy fields, every grass and fern which raises its

petrified delicacy above them, seems to me to claim a voice. A voice!

Canst thou not silently adore, but must needs be doing? Art thou too

good to wait as a beggar at the door of the great temple?

_Woman--Man._--Woman is the flower, man the bee. She sighs out melodious

fragrance, and invites the winged laborer. He drains her cup, and

carries off the honey. She dies on the stalk; he returns to the hive,

well fed, and praised as an active member of the community.

* * * * *

_Action symbolical of what is within._--Goethe says, "I have learned

to consider all I do as symbolical,--so that it now matters little to me

whether I make plates or dishes." And further, he says, "All manly

effort goes from within outwards."

* * * * *

_Opportunity fleeting._--I held in my hand the cup. It was full of hot

liquid. The air was cold; I delayed to drink, and its vital heat, its

soul, curled upwards in delicatest wreaths. I looked delighted on their

beauty; but while I waited, the essence of the draught was wasted on the

cold air: it would not wait for me; it longed too much to utter itself:

and when my lip was ready, only a flat, worthless sediment remained of

what had been.

* * * * *

_Mingling of the heavenly with the earthly._--The son of the gods has

sold his birthright. He has received in exchange one, not merely the

fairest, but the sweetest and holiest of earth's daughters. Yet is it

not a fit exchange. His pinions droop powerless; he must no longer soar

amid the golden stars. No matter, he thinks; "I will take her to some

green and flowery isle; I will pay the penalty of Adam for the sake of

the daughter of Eve; I will make the earth fruitful by the sweat of my

brow. No longer my hands shall bear the coal to the lips of the inspired

singer--no longer my voice modulate its tones to the accompaniment of

spheral harmonies. My hands now lift the clod of the valley which dares

cling to them with brotherly familiarity. And for my soiling, dreary

task-work all the day, I receive--food.

"But the smile with which she receives me at set of sun, is it not worth

all that sun has seen me endure? Can angelic delights surpass those

which I possess, when, facing the shore with her, watched by the quiet

moon, we listen to the tide of the world surging up impatiently against

the Eden it cannot conquer? Truly the joys of heaven were gregarious and

low in comparison. This, this alone, is exquisite, because exclusive and

peculiar."

Ah, seraph! but the winter's frost must nip thy vine; a viper lurks

beneath the flowers to sting the foot of thy child, and pale decay must

steal over the cheek thou dost adore. In the realm of ideas all was

imperishable. Be blest while thou canst. I love thee, fallen seraph, but

thou shouldst not have sold thy birthright.

"All for love and the world well lost." That sounds so true! But genius,

when it sells itself, gives up, not only the world, but the universe.

Yet does not love comprehend the universe? The universe is love. Why

should I weary my eye with scanning the parts, when I can clasp the

whole this moment to my beating heart?

But if the intellect be repressed, the idea will never be brought out

from the feeling. The amaranth wreath will in thy grasp be changed to

one of roses, more fragrant indeed, but withering with a single sun!

* * * * *

_The Crisis with Goethe._--I have thought much whether Goethe did

well in giving up Lili. That was the crisis in his existence. From that

era dates his being as a "Weltweise;" the heroic element vanished

irrecoverably from his character; he became an Epicurean and a Realist;

plucking flowers and hammering stones instead of looking at the stars.

How could he look through the blinds, and see her sitting alone in her

beauty, yet give her up for so slight reasons? He was right as a genius,

but wrong as a character.

* * * * *

_The Flower and the Pearl._---- has written wonders about the mystery of

personality. Why do we love it? In the first place, each wishes to

embrace a whole, and this seems the readiest way. The intellect soars,

the heart clasps; from putting "a girdle round about the earth in forty

minutes," thou wouldst return to thy own little green isle of emotion,

and be the loving and playful fay, rather than the delicate Ariel.

Then most persons are plants, organic. We can predict their growth

according to their own law. From the young girl we can predict the

lustre, the fragrance of the future flower. It waves gracefully to the

breeze, the dew rests upon its petals, the bee busies himself in them,

and flies away after a brief rapture, richly laden.

When it fades, its leaves fall softly on the bosom of Mother Earth, to

all whose feelings it has so closely conformed. It has lived as a part

of nature; its life was music, and we open our hearts to the melody.

But characters like thine and mine are mineral. We are the bone and

sinew, these the smiles and glances, of earth. We lie nearer the mighty

heart, and boast an existence more enduring than they. The sod lies

heavy on us, or, if we show ourselves, the melancholy moss clings to us.

If we are to be made into palaces and temples, we must be hewn and

chiselled by instruments of unsparing sharpness. The process is

mechanical and unpleasing; the noises which accompany it, discordant and

obtrusive; the artist is surrounded with rubbish. Yet we may be polished

to marble smoothness. In our veins may lie the diamond, the ruby,

perhaps the emblematic carbuncle.

The flower is pressed to the bosom with intense emotion, but in the home

of love it withers and is cast away.

The gem is worn with less love, but with more pride; if we enjoy its

sparkle, the joy is partly from calculation of its value; but if it be

lost, we regret it long.

For myself, my name is Pearl.[42] That lies at the beginning, amid slime

and foul prodigies from which only its unsightly shell protects. It is

cradled and brought to its noblest state amid disease and decay. Only

the experienced diver could have known that it was there, and brought it

to the strand, where it is valued as pure, round, and, if less brilliant

than the diamond, yet an ornament for a kingly head. Were it again

immersed in the element where first it dwelt, now that it is stripped of

the protecting shell, soon would it blacken into deformity. So what is

noblest in my soul has sprung from disease, present defeat,

disappointment, and untoward outward circumstance.

For you, I presume, from your want of steady light and brilliancy of

sparks which are occasionally struck from you, that you are either a

flint or a rough diamond. If the former, I hope you will find a home in

some friendly tinder-box, instead of lying in the highway to answer the

hasty hoof of the trampling steed. If a diamond, I hope to meet you in

some imperishable crown, where we may long remain together; you lighting

up my pallid orb, I tempering your blaze.

_Dried Ferns about my Lamp-shade._--"What pleasure do you, who have

exiled those paper tissue covers, take in that bouquet of dried ferns?

Their colors are less bright, and their shapes less graceful, than those

of your shades."

I answer, "They grew beneath the solemn pines. They opened their hearts

to the smile of summer, and answered to the sigh of autumn. _They_

remind me of the wealth of nature; the tissues, of the poverty of man.

They were gathered by a cherished friend who worships in the woods, and

behind them lurks a deep, enthusiastic eye. So my pleasure in seeing

them is 'denkende' and 'menschliche.'"

"They are of no use."

"Good! I like useless things: they are to me the vouchers of a different

state of existence."

* * * * *

_Light._--My lamp says to me, "Why do you disdain me, and use that

candle, which you have the trouble of snuffing every five minutes, and

which ever again grows dim, ungrateful for your care? I would burn

steadily from sunset to midnight, and be your faithful, vigilant friend,

yet never interrupt you an instant."

I reply, "But your steady light is also dull,--while his, at its best,

is both brilliant and mellow. Besides, I love him for the trouble he

gives; he calls on my sympathy, and admonishes me constantly to use my

life, which likewise flickers as if near the socket."

* * * * *

_Wit and Satire._--I cannot endure people who do not distinguish between

wit and satire; who think you, of course, laugh at people when you laugh

_about_ them; and who have no perception of the peculiar pleasure

derived from toying with lovely or tragic figures.

FAREWELL.[43]

Farewell to New York city, where twenty months have presented me with a

richer and more varied exercise for thought and life, than twenty years

could in any other part of these United States.

It is the common remark about New York, that it has at least nothing

petty or provincial in its methods and habits. The place is large

enough: there is room enough, and occupation enough, for men to have no

need or excuse for small cavils or scrutinies. A person who is

independent, and knows what he wants, may lead his proper life here,

unimpeded by others.

Vice and crime, if flagrant and frequent, are less thickly coated by

hypocrisy than elsewhere. The air comes sometimes to the most infected

subjects.

New York is the focus, the point where American and European interests

converge. There is no topic of general interest to men, that will not

betimes be brought before the thinker by the quick turning of the wheel.

_Too_ quick that revolution,--some object. Life rushes wide and free,

but _too fast_. Yet it is in the power of every one to avert from

himself the evil that accompanies the good. He must build for his study,

as did the German poet, a house beneath the bridge; and then all that

passes above and by him will be heard and seen, but he will not be

carried away with it.

Earlier views have been confirmed, and many new ones opened. On two

great leadings, the superlative importance of promoting national

education by heightening and deepening the cultivation of individual

minds, and the part which is assigned to woman in the next stage of

human progress in this country, where most important achievements are to

be effected, I have received much encouragement, much instruction, and

the fairest hopes of more.

On various subjects of minor importance, no less than these, I hope for

good results, from observation, with my own eyes, of life in the old

world, and to bring home some packages of seed for life in the new.

These words I address to my friends, for I feel that I have some. The

degree of sympathetic response to the thoughts and suggestions I have

offered through the columns of the Tribune, has indeed surprised me,

conscious as I am of a natural and acquired aloofness from many, if not

most popular tendencies of my time and place. It has greatly encouraged

me, for none can sympathize with thoughts like mine, who are permanently

insnared in the meshes of sect or party; none who prefer the formation

and advancement of mere opinions to the free pursuit of truth. I see,

surely, that the topmost bubble or sparkle of the cup is no voucher for

the nature of its contents throughout, and shall, in future, feel that

in our age, nobler in that respect than most of the preceding ages, each

sincere and fervent act or word is secure, not only of a final, but of a

speedy response.

I go to behold the wonders of art, and the temples of old religion. But

I shall see no forms of beauty and majesty beyond what my country is

capable of producing in myriad variety, if she has but the soul to will

it; no temple to compare with what she might erect in the ages, if the

catchword of the time, a sense of _divine order_, should become no more

a mere word of form, but a deeply-rooted and pregnant idea in her life.

Beneath the light of a hope that this may be, I say to my friends once

more a kind farewell!