among men; and it requires much enlightenment and liberal training to
enable society to overcome this universal prejudice and to inaugurate
complete and absolute toleration. 'In the present state of knowledge,'
says Buckle, the historian, 'the majority of people are so ill informed,
as not to be aware of the true nature of belief; they are not aware that
all belief is involuntary and is entirely governed by the circumstances
which produce it. What we call the will has no power over belief, and
consequently a man is nowise responsible for his creed, except in so far
as he is responsible for the events which gave him his creed.' It may be
doubted whether the majority of people are quite so ignorant as Mr.
Buckle here represents them; for the conflict between beliefs is rather
the result of feeling or passion than of judgment. Because men who
differ in opinion hate each other, it does not follow that they must
therefore deny the right to freedom of thought, or maintain that belief
may be changed at will. The red man and the white man may cordially
hate each other; but it would hardly be accurate to say that the former
denies the right of the latter to his color, or thinks him morally
responsible for it. Yet men are quite as much responsible for the color
of their skin as for the character of their honest convictions, and they
have almost equal power to control the one or the other. In truth, the
hatred arising from conflict of opinion is not the offspring of thought,
but of emotion. It is chiefly a derangement of the affections; not so
much an error of the reason. The most unenlightened man has the innate
conviction that he is entitled to his peculiar belief, because it is
impossible for him to admit any other; nor is it at all natural or
necessary that one individual should question the sincerity of another's
opinion on any subject, because it differs from his own. Intolerance in
this particular has been the result mostly of interference and
usurpation--the consequence of that theological despotism to which men
have, in some form or other, in all ages, been more or less subjected.
It is not, therefore, the liberty of thought and belief that Mr. Mill
finds it necessary to defend, in his exposition of the first division of
the subject; but it is only that of expression and discussion--the
liberty of the press--the right to make known opinions upon any subject,
and to produce arguments in support of them. In this country, it may be
supposed to be wholly unnecessary to investigate this subject, inasmuch
as the liberty of the press is here maintained to the most unlimited
extent. So far as the mere legal right is involved, this is undoubtedly
true; the established laws interpose no impediment to the expression and
publication of opinions, except those indispensable regulations which
are intended to preserve the public peace and morality, and to protect
private character from wanton injury. We have no reason to fear any
invasion of the liberty of the press--any political interference with
the right of free discussion--unless in times of great public danger,
or, as Mr. Mill says, 'during some temporary panic, when fear of
insurrection drives ministers and judges from their propriety.' But
there is a despotism of society, in this country as well as elsewhere,
which, independent of law or authority, often imposes silence on
unpopular opinions, and suppresses all discussion, by means of those ten
thousand appliances and expedients adopted by communities to express
displeasure and to command obedience. Even, however, if there were not
the slightest evidence of intolerance in the country, if the rational
principles of liberty were universally acknowledged and practised upon,
it would still be most useful and interesting to follow this author in
his admirable discussion of the subject. It would be a matter of no
little importance to understand the rational grounds on which the great
and acknowledged principles of liberty are actually founded, and to see
the perfect frankness and fearlessness with which this philosophic
author follows the doctrine to its extreme but inevitable conclusions.
For instance, Mr. Mill does not hesitate to say, 'if all mankind minus
one, were of one opinion, and only one person were of the contrary
opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one
person, than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing
mankind.' And this position is maintained not solely or chiefly on the
ground of injustice to the person holding the obnoxious opinion, but
because the forcible suppression of it would do even greater injustice
to those who conscientiously reject it. For if the opinion be true, its
establishment and dissemination would benefit mankind; and even if it be
false, it is equally important it should be freely made known, inasmuch
as it would contribute to 'the clearer perception and livelier
impression of truth produced by its collision with error.' Besides, no
man can certainly know that any opinion is true, so long as anything
which can be said against it is not permitted to be presented and freely
discussed. Liberty is the indispensable atmosphere of truth. Without it,
truth will as surely languish and die, as animals or plants will perish
without air. All great improvements have been accomplished only through
the conflicts of adverse opinion. Progress is change, and if all
discussion is prohibited, change and improvement are impossible.
It is interesting also to see the unlimited scope allowed to this bold
doctrine, and the fearlessness with which it is applied to subjects
usually deemed sacred and forbidden to all question or controversy. The
existence of a God, the certainty of a future state, the truth of
Christianity--all these are the proper subjects of free discussion and
untrammelled opinion, quite as much as any other questions, however
unimportant or indifferent. It becomes the devoutest Christian to hear
discussions on these transcendent subjects without the least ill will or
intolerance toward the adversary who may thus endeavor to shake his
faith in those sublime truths which he holds indisputable and more
sacred than all others. It is doing the highest possible service to the
doctrines to attack them; for if they be sound and true, they will
certainly survive, and be all the more glorious for having passed safely
through the ordeal. Christianity itself was more vital and effective in
its earlier stages, when fighting its way into existence against all
sorts of persecutions, than it has ever been since in the palmiest days
of its power. When its doctrines are no longer questioned, it will cease
to be a living spirit controlling the hearts of men. It will be a cold
and formal thing, resting on the general acquiescence, but no longer
exhibiting its all-conquering power in the active effort to overthrow
opposing creeds.
No genuine liberty can exist, until the community shall have reached
that elevated condition of liberality and wisdom which will gladly
submit its most cherished sentiments to the analysis of unsparing logic,
and that without the least effort to punish, in any way, the daring
attempt to undermine its faith. The champions of truth will be
strengthened by the encounter with error; weak and false arguments,
which really injure truth, will give way, and the solid foundations of
impregnable logic will be substituted in their place. It is impossible
to overestimate the service done to a good cause, by exposing it
fearlessly to the worst attacks of its enemies. 'The fatal tendency of
mankind to leave off thinking about a thing when it is no longer
doubtful, is the cause of half their errors. A contemporary author has
well spoken of 'the deep slumber of a decided opinion.'' And another
author enthusiastically exclaims: 'All hail, therefore, to those who, by
attacking a truth, prevent that truth from slumbering. All hail to those
bold and fearless natures, the heretics and innovators of the day, who,
rousing men out of their lazy sleep, sound in their ears the tocsin and
the clarion, and force them to come forth that they may do battle for
their creed. Of all evils, torpor is the most deadly. Give us paradox,
give us error, give us what you will, so that you save us from
stagnation. It is the cold spirit of routine which is the nightshade of
our nature. It sits upon men like a blight, blunting their faculties,
withering their powers, and making them both unable and unwilling to
struggle for the truth, or to figure to themselves what it is they
really believe.'
The chapter which Mr. Mill devotes to this subject--the liberty of
discussion and publication--is thoroughly exhaustive in its character.
It presents the question in almost every light in which it is desirable
to see it, and successfully meets every objection which can be made to
his doctrine. For the first time, a logical and philosophical exposition
of the great principles of liberty is presented to the world, and that
too in a most readable and attractive form. The work is calculated to do
immense good. It places liberty on a rational foundation, and dispels
every doubt which might have been entertained by the timid, as to the
safety and propriety of permitting free discussion on those points of
belief which are too often held to be beyond the domain of investigation
and argument. We do not pretend, here, to give anything like a synopsis
of the grounds assumed, and the reasonings adopted by the author. A full
and correct idea of these can only be obtained from the book itself. But
before leaving this part of the work, we cannot forbear quoting a
passage on this subject from an essay by Henry Thomas Buckle. Even at
the risk of prolonging this article beyond its proper limits, we quote
at some length, on account of the vast interest of the topic and the
different notions which too generally prevail as to the propriety of its
discussion:
'If they who deny the immortality of the soul, could, without the
least opprobrium, state in the boldest manner all their objections,
the advocates of the doctrine would be obliged to reconsider their
own position and to abandon its untenable points. By this means,
that which I revere, and an overwhelming majority of us revere, as
a glorious truth, would be immensely strengthened. It would be
strengthened by being deprived of those sophistical arguments which
are commonly urged in its favor, and which give to its enemies an
incalculable advantage. It would moreover be strengthened by that
feeling of security which men have in their own convictions, when
they know that everything is said against them which can be said,
and that their opponents have a fair and liberal hearing. This
begets a magnanimity and a rational confidence which cannot
otherwise be obtained. But, such results can never happen while we
are so timid, or so dishonest, as to impute improper motives to
those who assail our religious opinions. We may rely upon it that
as long as we look upon an atheistical writer as a moral offender,
or even as long as we glance at him with suspicion, atheism will
remain a standing and permanent danger, because, skulking in hidden
corners, it will use stratagems which their secrecy will prevent us
from baffling; it will practise artifices to which the persecuted
are forced to resort; it will number its concealed proselytes to an
extent of which only they who have studied this painful subject are
aware; and, above all, by enabling them to complain of the
treatment to which they are exposed, it will excite the sympathy of
many high and generous natures, who, in an open and manly warfare,
might strive against them, but who, by a noble instinct, find
themselves incapable of contending with any sect which is
oppressed, maligned, or intimidated.'
The most interesting, and perhaps the most remarkable part of Mr. Mill's
book, is that which he devotes to individuality as one of the elements
of well being. Having very fully discussed the question of liberty in
thought and expression--the right of controlling one's own mind, and of
making known its conclusions--he proceeds to apply the same principle to
the conduct and whole scheme of human life, maintaining that every man
ought to be entirely free to act according to his own taste and judgment
in all matters which concern only himself. The sole condition or
limitation which society may rightfully impose upon the eccentricities
of individuals, is the equal right of all others to be unmolested and
unobstructed in their occupations and enjoyments. Every man is endowed
with faculties, capacities, and dispositions peculiar to himself, there
being quite as much diversity in the mental character of men as in their
physical appearance. It is this infinite diversity of thought and
feeling, as much perhaps as anything else, which distinguishes man from
the lower animals. It is of the utmost importance to the progress of
society, for it is only by departing from the common path, and pursuing
new and untried modes of existence and action, that improvements are
gradually made. If there were no disposition on the part of individuals
to deviate from the ordinary customs which have descended from
generation to generation, it is evident there would never be any
important change in the modes of human life nor in the institutions of
mankind, and if there could be any improvement at all, it would be
extremely slow and unimportant. It is the peculiarities of individuals
which alone can furnish the points of departure for new modes of action
and new plans of life. Hence it is not less the right of individuals
than it is the interest of the race that every one should not only be
permitted, but should even be encouraged to follow the dictates of his
own genius, with the most perfect and unlimited freedom consistent with
the peace and security of other men. Each one of the numberless buds on
a full-grown tree is the germ of another individual precisely similar to
the one from which it is taken. But if new trees are propagated from
these buds, they will exhibit not the slightest diversity in character
from that of the parent stock. It is only from the seed, original
centres of vitality and individuality that new varieties are produced
and improvements obtained either in the flower or the fruit. So in human
society: if each life is only an offshoot from the main body--a mere bud
from the parent tree--with no diversities in character, and no salient
points of original activity, it is evident that men would remain
substantially the same from generation to generation, and society would
stand still forever. Such, it is well known, is the case in those
Eastern nations in which a rigid system of caste prevails, the same
positions and occupations descending from father to son, without the
possibility of one generation escaping from the fatal routine to which
its predecessor was subjected.
Hence it is that Mr. Mill, with great earnestness, insists that 'there
should be different experiments in living,' and 'that the worth of
different modes of life should be proved practically, when any one
thinks fit to try them;' for, he continues, 'where not the person's own
character, but the traditions and customs of other people are the rule
of conduct, there is wanting one of the principal ingredients of human
happiness, and quite the chief ingredient of individual and social
progress.' Undoubtedly, that man who acts in conformity with his own
nature and disposition, if they do not mislead and betray him, will have
greater satisfaction and enjoyment than he who is constrained by the
opinions or authority of others to pursue courses not conformable to his
taste and judgment. That which men naturally incline to undertake and
ardently desire to accomplish, is usually that which they are best
fitted to do, and which will give the most appropriate exercise to their
peculiar faculties. It is evidently the general interest that every
individual in society should be employed in that peculiar work which he
can best perform. More will be effected, with less dissatisfaction and
suffering. And obviously, no better mode can be devised to put every man
to the thing for which he is capacitated by nature, than to give full
scope to his individuality, under the multiplied and powerful influences
which liberal education and elevated society are calculated to exert in
impelling him forward. The effect will be not only to do more for
society as a whole, but to make superior men by means of self-education.
'He who does anything because it is the custom, makes no choice. He
gains no practice either in discerning or desiring what is best. The
mental and moral, like the muscular powers, are improved only by being
used. The faculties are called into no exercise by doing a thing merely
because others do it, no more than by believing a thing only because
others believe it. If the grounds of an opinion are not conclusive to a
person's own reason, his reason cannot be strengthened, but is likely to
be weakened by adopting it: and if the inducements to an act are not
such as are consentaneous to his own feelings and character (where
affection or the rights of others are not concerned), it is so much done
toward rendering his feelings and character inert and torpid, instead of
active and energetic.'
Against these views, and, indeed, against the great body of valuable
thoughts so admirably presented in this work, no rational objection
would seem to be fairly adducible. But there are some very striking
passages liable to a very different criticism--passages which, if not
founded on actual misconception of facts, are, at least, so exaggerated
in statement as to require very material modifications, both as to the
existence of the evil they allege and the remedy they propose. Mr. Mill
complains of the despotism of society as having utterly suppressed all
spontaneity or individuality, and reduced the mass of mankind to a
condition of lamentable uniformity. He thinks this evil has not only
gone to a dangerous extent already, but that it threatens a still
further invasion of individual liberty with even greater disasters in
its train. It is better, however, to let Mr. Mill speak for himself in
the following passages:
'But society has now fairly got the better of individuality; and
the danger which threatens human nature is not the excess but the
deficiency of personal impulses and preferences.' * * *
'In our times, from the highest class of society down to the
lowest, every one lives as under the eye of a hostile and dreaded
censorship.' * * *
'I do not mean that they choose what is customary, in preference to
what suits their inclination. It does not occur to them to have any
inclination except for what is customary. Thus the mind itself is
bowed to the yoke; even in what people do for pleasure, conformity
is the first thing thought of; they like in crowds; they exercise
choice only among things commonly done; peculiarity of taste,
eccentricity of conduct, are shunned equally with crimes; until by
dint of not following their own nature they have no nature to
follow; their human capacities are withered and starved; they
become incapable of any strong wishes or native pleasures, and are
generally without either opinions or feelings of home growth or
properly their own.'
And so, speaking of men of genius as being less capable than other
persons 'of fitting themselves, without hurtful compression, into any of
_the small number of moulds_ which society provides in order to save its
members the trouble of forming their own character,' he continues:
'If they are of a strong character and break their fetters, they
become a mark for the society which has not succeeded in reducing
them to commonplace, to point at with solemn warning, as 'wild,'
'erratic,' and the like; much as if one should complain of the
Niagara river for not flowing smoothly between its banks like a
Dutch canal.'
Mr. Buckle also bears testimony to the same effect in the following
language:
'The immense mass of mankind are, in regard to their usages, in a
state of social slavery; each man being bound under heavy
penalties, to conform to the standard of life common to his own
class. How serious these penalties are, is evident from the fact
that though innumerable persons complain of prevailing customs, and
wish to shake them off, they dare not do so, but continue to
practise them, though frequently at the expense of health, comfort,
and fortune. Men not cowards in other respects, and of a fair share
of moral courage, are afraid to rebel against this grievous and
exacting tyranny.'
Now, we are decidedly of opinion that the expressions used by both these
eminent writers are altogether too strong. We think it is true, both in
Europe and America, that whenever the masses of society recognize a man
of real genius, they are ever ready to welcome him with all his
peculiarities--not merely to overlook his ordinary eccentricities, but
to pardon grave offences against morality, and even to imitate his
errors. It may well be that the multitude are not quick to distinguish
superiority; though with the proper information and opportunity of
judging, they seldom fail instinctively to appreciate great qualities,
especially if these be such as relate to practical life, or artistic
development, rather than to abstract and speculative science. Men
addicted to pursuits of the latter kind, make their merits known more
slowly; but when they are known, they command unbounded respect in
society.
The real difficulty, unfortunately, is, that the vast majority of men
are not gifted with marked individuality, or great genius. They do not
break through the trammels of custom, not so much because these trammels
are strong, as because their impulses are weak. Whenever a man of real
energy appears, the crowd separates before him, the cobwebs of custom
are brushed away as he advances, and the world receives him very
generally for what he is worth, and too often for more. That impostors
and pretenders frequently succeed in deceiving society, is owing to the
fact that it is ever anxious and ready to receive and reward its
benefactors.
But even Mr. Mill himself recognizes the wisdom of paying due deference
to the experience of mankind, and of considering established customs as
_prima facie_ good, and proper to be followed. He admits 'that people
should be so taught and trained in youth, as to know and benefit by the
ascertained results of human experience,' and that 'the traditions and
customs of other people are, to a certain extent, evidence of what their
experience has taught _them_; presumptive evidence, and as such, have a
claim to his deference.' From all which, it is plain that there is a
just medium between what is recognized and established, and what is
newly proposed as a substitute for the old. The masses of mankind are
incapable of judging between the value of prevailing usages and novel
practices; much less are they capable themselves of striking out new
paths fit to be followed by their fellow men. The true difficulty then
is the want of energetic individuality and original genius, rather than
the want of a field for the exhibition of their power, or an opportunity
for their exertion. It cannot be denied, however, that there is a
certain inertia in society, requiring no little exertion to overcome it,
even in the case of unquestionable improvements. But this is
unavoidable, and at the same time most fortunate for the safety of
mankind; for otherwise, we should be subjected to perpetual changes and
sudden convulsions, which would make even progress itself a doubtful
good.
There is also another important aspect in which this question may be
advantageously considered. No one doubts that coöperation in society
contributes vastly to the increase of human power, production, and
happiness. Unanimity in sentiment promotes harmony, and contributes to
prosperity. Nor will it be denied that if truth could be certainly
attained upon any point whatever, it would be desirable that it should
be universally recognized and accepted. Undoubtedly, if any man in the
community should be disposed to dispute that truth, he ought to be
permitted freely to do so; but we cannot see that this opposition would
be better than his acquiescence. Now, the problem is to reconcile the
degree of unanimity and coöperation which is requisite for the full
exertion of social power, with that amount of individuality which would
be useful in promoting a progressive change. Spontaneity or originality
is disintegrating in its immediate tendency. It disturbs the order of
society, though, in the end, on the whole, it is advantageous. Thus we
have the tenacity of old habits and prevailing sentiments on the one
hand, tending to the harmony of society, and enabling all its members to
coöperate in the great works which make communities powerful. On the
other hand, we have the sporadic and disturbing efforts of individual
genius, ever seeking to withdraw the social current into new channels,
and eventually, through many trials, errors, failures, and triumphs,
alluring and leading it into better paths. It is not good for society
that either of these conflicting forces should gain the decided
ascendency; nor do we believe with Mr. Mill, that the preponderance at
the present time belongs to the former.
As to the influence of fashion, which is evidently alluded to in the
passages quoted, that plainly stands on a different and peculiar
footing. It has a double power to enforce its decrees. The one is
economical and commercial--the power of capital to control productions,
and the advantages of producing largely after a few forms or patterns;
the other is the social or psychological influence--the natural sympathy
among men which induces uniformity of dress and habit. Extravagant
excess often rules. Yet there is never wanting in the public of all
civilized countries, a disposition to adopt improvements when they
contribute to the general convenience, economy, and happiness; and we
believe, on the whole, the tendency is to become more and more rational
every day. Besides, a certain degree of uniformity is desirable in this
as in all other things. No little loss and inconvenience would ensue if
the fancies of every individual were permitted to run riot, and no man's
taste were modified by that of his neighbor, or controlled by the
general inclination. It is impossible to conceive the motley and
discordant mass which a community of such people would present.
The bearing of these social phenomena in other directions and upon other
interests, is the subject of equal condemnation by the author. The
effect upon government, and the general tendency of the democratic
principle, are represented in such highly colored pictures as these:
'In sober truth, whatever homage may be professed, or even paid to
real or supposed mental superiority, the general tendency of things
throughout the world is to render mediocrity the ascendant power
among mankind.
* * * * *
'At present, individuals are lost in the crowd. In politics it is
almost a triviality to say that public opinion rules the world. The
only power deserving the name is that of masses, and of
governments, while they make themselves the organ of the tendencies
and instincts of masses. This is as true in the moral and social
relations of private life as in public transactions. Those whose
opinions go by the name of public opinions, are not always the same
sort of public; in America they are the whole white population; in
England, chiefly the middle class. But they are always a mass, that
is to say, collective mediocrity.
* * * * *
'Their thinking is done for them by one mind like themselves,
addressing them or speaking in their name, on the spur of the
moment, through the newspapers. I do not assert that anything
better is compatible, as a general rule, with the present low state
of the human mind. But that does not hinder the government of
mediocrity from being mediocre government. No government by a
democracy or a numerous aristocracy, either in its political acts,
or in the opinions, qualities, and tone of mind which it fosters,
ever did or could rise above mediocrity, except in so far as the
sovereign many may have let themselves be guided (which in their
best times they have always done) by the counsels and influence of
a more highly gifted and instructed One or Few. The initiation of
all wise or noble things comes and must come from individuals;
generally at first from some one individual.'
In all this there is too much truth; but it is truth which is wholly
unavoidable. Nor are the circumstances complained of peculiar to the
present age, or to the institutions which now generally prevail.
Democratic and representative forms of government have so degenerated,
as to fail in the vital point of bringing the best and ablest men to the
control of affairs. But has any more despotic or hereditary form been
equally successful, in the long run, in promoting the freedom, progress,
and grandeur of nations? Is the mediocrity of a whole people more
injurious to humanity than the precarious superiority of distinguished
families, or the selfish power of haughty privileged classes? One
important consideration seems to be overlooked by Mr. Mill in these
one-sided views of the present condition of society; and that is, the
comparatively greater elevation and improvement of the whole mass of
civilized communities; and the question is suggested, whether humanity
is more interested in the mediocre power of the millions, or the
exceptional greatness of a few men of extraordinary genius; whether the
influence of individual originality is actually lost to the world,
because it is apparently overshadowed by the moderate intelligence of
the countless masses of men. We maintain that the loss of this influence
is not real, but merely apparent: like some great wave in the boundless
ocean, it seems to sink into the quiet surface, while in truth its
effects are necessarily felt on the shores of the most distant
continents and islands. Society, at the present time, is in a state of
transition; it is engaged in absorbing ideas and influences which seem
utterly to disappear in its fathomless depths, while it is simply
preparing for higher exertions and nobler conquests over ignorance and
tyranny.
One thing at least may be said with obvious truth, and with certainty of
large compensation for the evils supposed to exist in the present
condition of society, as represented by Mr. Mill; it is this: if public
opinion is so omnipotent in the enforcement of mediocre schemes and
ideas, it can bring to bear a vast fund of power, whenever real genius
may be so fortunate as to make itself felt and respected. No man having
any faith in humanity, not even Mr. Mill himself, will deny the power of
individual genius to make its impression even on the mediocre masses;
for that would be to deny the essential nature and efficiency of
originality, and its capacity to accomplish the work which it is
destined to do for the benefit of mankind. Actual conditions at the
present moment, may possibly place unusual obstructions in the way of
genius; though the entire freedom and accessibility of the press would
seem to negative that view. At any rate, it follows from the very
premises of Mr. Mill and those who think with him, that the actual
organization of society, of which he complains, if it can be wielded in
the interest of great ideas, is possessed of an authority which will
make its decrees irresistible. In this fact we see ground of hope,
rather than of despair, for the future of mankind. Mediocrity cannot
always hold the reins and direct the progress of human society.
In his work on representative government, Mr. Mill fully recognizes the
operation of free institutions as 'an agency of national education;' and
he well says, 'a representative constitution is a means of bringing the
general standard of intelligence and honesty existing in the community,
and the individual intellect and virtue of its wisest members more
directly to bear upon the government, and investing them with greater
influence in it than they would have under any other mode of
organization.' It cannot be otherwise. The masses are gradually rising
in intelligence, as well as in the capacity and disposition to recognize
and receive real superiority wherever it may be found. Certain cumbrous
machinery heretofore used in social and political action, now stands in
the way of free and efficient efforts to reach the best results. But
these impediments will soon be swept away. They cannot remain eternally
in the path of society; for, if by no other means, they will be removed
by the flood of discontent and denunciation which now surges violently
against them, and threatens them every instant with demolition and
destruction.
CLOUD AND SUNSHINE.
A dusky vapor veils the sky,
And darkens on the dewy slopes;
Chill airs on rustling wings flit by,
Sad as the sigh o'er buried hopes:
I tread the cloistered walk alone,
Between the shadow and the light,
While from the church tower thronging down
Pale phantoms greet the coming night.
My heart swells high with scorn and hate
At social fictions, narrow laws
By which the few maintain their state,
And build us out with golden bars:
'She wears a careless smile,' I said,
'And regal jewels on her brow;
Those queenly lips, ere now, have made
Rare mockery of her broken vow.
'And what was I,--to touch that heart?
Only a poet, made to pour
Love's silver phrase with subtle art
In tides of music at her door.
What though she bore a brightened blush,
As if the echo linger'd long?
Even so she listens to the thrush
That thrills the air with eddying song.
'How sweet, on summer-scented morns,
To hear through all our lingering walk,
As soft as dew on fragrant lawns,
The wandering music of her talk!
Ah! dreaming heart, that asked no more
When dower'd with that o'erflowing smile:
Ah! foolish heart, to linger o'er
The memories that can still beguile.'
I paused. On distant breezes borne,
A silken stir floats slowly by,
And from the clouds a silver dawn
Breaks through the vapor-shrouded sky;
The cloister'd walk is paved with light,
And bathed in crystal beams she stands:
No jewels crown her presence bright,
A single rose is in her hands.
'Oh! fair white rose,' she softly said,
'Make peace between my love and me;
Lest from my life the colors fade,
And leave me faint and pale like thee:
Tell him that dearer is the flower
Once honored by his poet hand,
Than ermined rank, and princely power,
With any noble in the land.'
* * * * *
Then soft as rose-leaf on my brow
A sudden kiss comes floating down,
On wings as light as angels know,
And crowns me with a kingly crown.
And banish'd by a touch divine,
Fled all the memories of pain;
I clasped the pleading hands in mine,
And told her all my love again.
The pale mist like an incense cloud
From some great altar drifts away,
In silvery fullness o'er us flows
The glory of a pallid day.
Amid the opening buds of hope
I smile at half-forgotten fears;
For love, I said, grows holier still
And purer through baptismal tears.
'IS THERE ANYTHING IN IT?
'A true bill.'-SHAKSPEARE.
I used to be 'verdant' in the art of legislation. A short time since I
paid my initiation fee, and learned the mystery. It is true I had heard
much of legislative corruption, and had often seen paragraphs relating
thereto in the newspapers, but I looked upon them as political squibs,
put forth by the 'outs' in revenge for the defeat of their party
schemes. Here let me stoutly assert that I cannot testify of my own
knowledge to any instance of legislative corruption. _Mem:_ This
declaration is intended to save me from being called before any of the
numerous investigating committees, which, like the schoolmaster, are
abroad just now. At the same time I propose to relate in brief terms how
I was initiated, and the reader may rest assured that it is 'an ower
true tale.'
In the winter of 186-, not very long ago, you will perceive, the
corporation of which I was a member found it important to obtain some
legislation which would be very serviceable to those concerned. I was
selected to go to Harrisburg, to see the members of the Legislature
individually, and request them, if there was nothing objectionable in
the bill, to vote for it. I had no doubt but that my reasons would prove
satisfactory, especially as our business was of a nature to essentially
contribute to the development of the mineral and agricultural resources
of the State. With these honest and innocent ideas of legislation, I
started on my mission. On arriving at the capitol, I called on our
immediate member, Mr. Jones, who, if his own professions were to be
trusted, was anxious to do all he could to promote the object of my
visit. He was an old member, and 'knew the ropes.' From him I had every
reason to expect aid in procuring the passage of my bill. His room was
at a hotel, where a large number of the members of both houses boarded,
and he knew them all. Of course, it was a very proper place for me to
take rooms. I accompanied Jones to the gentlemen's sitting room in the
evening, where he introduced me to many of his fellow legislators, at
the same time hinting to them that I might have a bill of some
importance for them to consider. In one or two instances, I noticed that
knowing glances were exchanged between Jones and those to whom he
introduced me. On one occasion a member called him aside, and, after
some other conversation, in a low tone, said: _'Is there anything in
it?'_ The remark was so decidedly foreign to anything that could refer
to my bill, that I concluded that it related to some rumor that was
floating about without any certainty of its truth.
During the next day, I employed myself in listening to the debates and
watching the course of business in the House. It was all new to me, and,
of course, very interesting. While seated in the lobby, a middle-aged
man of short stature, dark whiskers, and limping gait, whom I had heard
designated as 'Sheriff,' and who appeared to have no visible means of
support in Harrisburg, except his cane, carelessly dropped into a seat
by my side, and engaged in commonplace conversation. He soon approached
a more business-like matter, and said he had understood I was interested
in some local legislation which would come before the House. I told him
that I had charge of a bill which I should endeavor to have passed, 'It
requires some tact and experience,' said he, 'to engineer a bill through
such a House as this;' and he ended this preliminary conversation by
asking the same mysterious question I had heard the night previous,
viz.; _'Is there anything in it?'_ I answered that I hoped there would
be something in it, if it passed, for the parties interested, as it
would enable us to develop certain matters of interest to the State, as
well as to make a profit for the stockholders. 'If,' said he, 'it is a
bill of such importance, you ought to have some man of experience to
assist you in putting it through.' I assured him that 'our member' was a
man of experience, and would stand by me, and be ready and willing to
impart any instruction that might be necessary. The answer I received
was a sarcastic smile, and the 'Sheriff' left.
I continued to watch the course of legislation for a few days, and soon
discovered that I was the object of considerable interest to a number of
outsiders. Whenever I entered the lobby, the 'Sheriff' and several
gentlemen, who were always in his company, would cast their eyes in the
direction of my seat, and then confer together. They seemed to keep a
strict watch on my movements. At last, when an opportunity offered, I
asked Jones what this 'Sheriff' was doing about the House. 'He seems to
have no business, and is constantly watching the proceedings of both
Houses, vibrating between them like an animated pendulum,' said I. 'Oh,'
said Jones, 'he is a member of the _Third House!_' Here was a new thing
to me. I evidently had not learned all the machinery of legislating. I
asked for an explanation, and soon learned that the 'Third House'
consisted of old ex-members of either House or Senate, broken-down
politicians, professional borers, and other vagrants who had made
themselves familiar with the _modus operandi_ of legislation, and who
negotiated for the votes of members on terms to be agreed upon by the
contracting parties--in short, these were the Lobby members of the
Legislature--a portion of mankind which I had never heard mentioned in
terms other than contempt and disgust. Was I then to become familiar
with these leeches--these genteel loafers, who, having no apparent
business, yet manage to live at the best hotels, drink the best of
wines, and go home at the end of the session with more money than any of
the _honest_ members? The sequel will show.
After waiting a week, I became impatient at the want of interest on the
part of Jones in my bill, which so materially concerned a large number
of his constituents. He, better than any other member, knew how much our
company was doing for the development of the country, the furnishing of
employment for laborers, and the increase of taxable inhabitants. He
knew that not a man in the county had an objection to urge, or a
remonstrance to present against our proposition. Why, then, did he not
take my ready-drawn bill and present it without any further delay?
Jones was a member of the committee on corporations, and was said to
have much influence in that important vestibule to the temple whence
corporate privileges issue. He might, then, if so disposed, soon have my
bill through that committee, I determined to bring the matter to a point
at once, and cut short my board bill by a speedy presentation of my
legislative bill, or obtain the unequivocal refusal of 'our member' to
act. I had spent one Sunday in Harrisburg, and did not wish to suffer
another infliction of the kind, if any effort of mine could avoid it. On
Monday the House did not meet until three o'clock, as those members who
live within a few hours' ride of the capital always wish to go home, and
another class wish to spend Saturday and Sunday in Philadelphia,
enjoying the various _hospitalities_ of the city of Brotherly Love, and
the superior facilities for religious instruction, of which legislators
generally stand in great need. These two parties combine, and have no
difficulty in adjourning over from Friday noon to Monday evening.
At the meeting of the House, I was promptly on hand, and at once
attacked Jones. I handed him my bill, drawn in due form, saying:
'Mr. Jones, I have been here a week, and have made no progress in the
business for which I came. I am anxious to be at home attending to other
duties. I propose to leave the bill in your hands, and depend upon you
to see it through. There seems to be no necessity of my being detained
longer, for I cannot hasten the matter. There cannot be the slightest
objection, I presume, to its passage, when once introduced.'
Jones saw that I was becoming impatient, and seemed to be entirely
satisfied that I should be quite so; and he informed me that the chief
difficulty would be in passing it through the committee on corporations.
The bills referred to that committee, he said, were always scrutinized
very closely, and it would need some engineering. He clapped his hands,
and called a page to his seat, whispered a few words to him, when he,
like Puck, darted off on his errand. Jones then turned to me, and
renewed the conversation. I soon saw the veritable Third House
'Sheriff,' whom I have described, approaching us. 'Our member' then
handed him the bill, saying:
'My friend here is very desirous of pushing his bill through. Do you
think there will be any difficulty about it?'
I could not see the propriety of consulting this Third House borer,
especially as he was a total stranger to me. The 'Sheriff' looked wise
a short time, and then said:
'Well' (addressing his conversation to me), 'you know that we have all
kinds of men to deal with here, and some of them will pay no attention
to a bill, however meritorious, _if there is nothing in it_--I mean, if
it brings no money to their pockets. It is very lamentable that such is
the case, but long experience has taught me that no bill of as much
importance as yours, can get through here, without the aid of money.'
I was dumb with indignation! The flood of legislative light thus
suddenly shed upon my unsophisticated mental vision, was too dazzling
for me. I replied, when I could command my voice, with some very severe
animadversions on bribery and corruption, with which the 'Sheriff' and
Jones expressed a hearty agreement, but they said we must take men as we
find them, and deal with them accordingly, or do without what we knew to
be our just dues; and the 'Sheriff' hobbled away, and took a seat in the
lobby. I left Jones with a determination to go over to the Senate and
consult with the Senator from our district, and ascertain whether he
entertained the same views of necessary appliances for legislation, as
did my friends of the Second and Third Houses. Our Senator was a very
sedate man, who had a reputation for honesty and piety, equalled only by
that of Jones himself. I explained my business, showed him my bill, and
he read it carefully through. On handing it back to me, he said,
quietly:
'If there _is anything in it,_ it will pass without much opposition. If
not, it will hardly go through the House. There is a _Ring_ formed over
there, which will prevent any legislation of this kind, unless it is
well paid for.'
Here was another legislative idiom! 'The Ring.' What did that mean? I
was not long kept in ignorance, for I soon learned that it was a
combination of members who had agreed to vote for no bill unless
approved by them, and not only approved, but well paid for. It was easy
for twenty or thirty individuals to control all important legislation in
this way, by casting their votes for one side or the other. This ring is
always in alliance with the Third House, and always in market, as I
learned by my brief experience.
Satisfied that I must go about the business of legislation as I would
any other purchase, I began to figure up the profit and loss account, to
see how much fleecing we could stand, and make the bill profitable to
ourselves. I returned to Jones to ascertain, if possible, if he was in
the ring, and how much money it would require to get my bill through. He
at once and most emphatically disclaimed all knowledge of the ring, and
could not tell at all, how much money would be needed. He advised me to
go to my Third House friend, the 'Sheriff,' who was posted up in such
matters, and I concluded to act on his suggestion. The 'Sheriff's'
advice was of a very practical nature. He thought it might take $3,000
to get it through--perhaps $5,000 for both House and Senate. It seemed a
sheer piece of robbery and corruption, and I delayed further action
until I could write to the directors of our corporation and state the
case to them. This delayed me another week. When the answer came, it
enclosed a check for $5,000, with directions to 'buy the scoundrels, if
they were for sale, like dogs in the market.' On the day after I
received the check, I went to the House, determined to make the best
terms I could among those who followed legislation as a trade and made
merchandise of their votes. Jones thought $3,000 would get it through
the committee on corporations, and if I would hand him that amount he
would manage it as economically as possible. He insisted that he did not
wish anything for himself. He would scorn to accept a cent for his
influence, and would feel everlastingly disgraced to take a farthing
from a constituent. He was only anxious to serve me and have me fleeced
as little as possible. Of course, I believed him. In proof of my
confidence, I immediately handed over $2,000 to his custody, in
convenient packages for distribution. The same day my bill was read in
place and referred to the committee on corporations! This was on
Tuesday. On Thursday I was at the seat of Jones, when he reported the
bill from his committee. As he took it from his desk, a small strip of
paper was dropped upon the floor. It seemed to have been accidentally
folded in the bill. It was, beyond all question, accidentally dropped. I
picked it up, not knowing but that it might be of some importance. As he
was reporting various bills, I looked at the slip of paper. The title of
my bill was at the head, or immediately following the words, 'In
committee,' and below were eight names, foremost of which was that of
'our member.' The names and figures were as follows:
Jones, $125 McGee, $125
Smith, 125 McMurphy, 125
Baker, 125 Grabup, 125
Van Dunk, 125 Holdum, 125
-----
Am't received by Jones, $1,000
I folded this interesting _morceau_, and placed it in my pocket. I was
greatly surprised to see the name of Jones down for $125, when he had so
positively declared that he did not want a cent; but I was happy to find
that he had expended only $1,000 to get it through the committee. When
he took his seat, I asked him if he had any difficulty in passing the
bill through the committee? He said he had a little. The members thought
$2,000 rather a small 'divy' (the legislative commercial phrase for
dividend) for such a bill; but he induced them to let it go through for
that sum. I could not but remember that little memorandum in my pocket,
which only exhibited a distribution of half that amount, including one
eighth of the sum to 'Jones.' It looked very much as if his fellow
committee men had been sold as well as bought, and that he had quietly
pocketed $1,125 in the operation. However, I said nothing, but concluded
that I was fast being initiated into the mysteries of _honorable_
legislation. I must now wait to see if my money would hold out to carry
the bill through, provided Jones continued to be the financial agent,
and continued to make a fifty per cent. dividend for himself before
disbursing to his fellows. I thought his course did not look like 'honor
among thieves.'
After the bill was reported, my friend, the 'Sheriff,' came to
congratulate me on such prompt action by the committee, and hoped I
would be as successful with the ring on the floor of the House. I told
him that he seemed to be well posted on such matters, and I would like
to retain him as my counsellor in the case. With that characteristic
modesty which adheres to a veteran member of the Third House, who has
served fifteen winters in the lobby, he protested his want of ability to
manage such matters; but concluded that, if I really desired it, he
would assist me all in his power. I insisted that he was just the man,
and must stand by me. We immediately entered into negotiations, I was to
place my remaining $3,000 in his hands, and he would use such portions
of it as would be necessary to secure the ring in both branches of the
Legislature. He would disburse as little as possible, and return me what
remained, out of which I could pay him what I thought proper for his
services. As he was well acquainted with nearly all the members, I had
no doubt of his ability to carry it through, for it was just that kind
of a bill that no valid objection could be raised against. Jones, who
had proved by his acts how entirely disinterested he was in all his
efforts in my behalf, told me that there need be no fear of the
'Sheriff,' and he (Jones) would be responsible for a fair account of the
disbursement of the money. I could have no suspicion of Jones's honesty
and fair dealing after my previous experience; so, in presence of our
honest member, I handed over the $3,000. Soon after this, I saw the
'Sheriff' and Jones figuring earnestly together, and then go and consult
with several members, who I supposed were in the ring. It would be
ungenerous to suppose that Jones would receive money for voting for a
bill to improve his own county, and he was undoubtedly doing all he
could without compensation, while entirely conscious that others were
being paid. My readers will be as ready to adopt this opinion as myself
after what I have already recorded of him. Private bill day came, and
mine was on the calendar. I must confess to a little palpitation when I
heard the title read. I was made anxious and indignant, when a member
from Philadelphia started to his feet, and said:
'I object to that bill.'
Jones trusted the member would not insist on his objection to that
purely local bill. It was no use, the objection was adhered to. When
business proceeded again, Jones went to the objecting member, who sat
near where I stood anxiously watching the proceedings. Jones spoke to
him warmly, when the other retorted with:
'Well, _if there is anything in it,_ I will withdraw my objection, but
not until I am _satisfied_.'
The objector passed into the rotunda with Jones and the 'Sheriff,' where
he _must_ have been satisfied, for when he returned to his seat, he
withdrew his objection, and it was, with the others, laid aside for a
second reading. I never knew the arguments which were presented to
induce him to withdraw his objection, but he probably found _how much_
there was 'in it.' In the afternoon my bill passed without opposition.
The 'Sheriff' now informed me that I must hurry up the transcribing of
my bill, or it would be a long time in getting over to the Senate. I
told him that I supposed all bills must take their course according to
their numbers. He said he would go to the clerk with me and get it
'hurried up.' When we spoke to the clerk, he said it could not be
transcribed for a day or two, for it was nearly at the bottom of the
large package that had been passed. The 'Sheriff' quietly handed a
five-dollar note to the clerk, and his mind suddenly changed, and,
'seeing it is for you,' he would have it attended to immediately. The
next thing to be looked for was a transcribing clerk who would do it.
Another five-dollar note accomplished this object, and the work was
finished up that night. In the morning it went to the Senate, and there
it went through smoothly.
After my success, I called on the 'Sheriff' to see how much of the
$3,000 he had used. As I anticipated, it was all used; but I strongly
suspected that the whole ring, in this case, consisted of Jones, the
'Sheriff,' and the objecting member who went into the rotunda, and that
the two former made a pretty large 'divy,' and paid the others,
including the clerks, as little as possible.
In the course of my investigations, I learned that one of the Third
House often receives money on his own representation that certain
members will not vote without pay, when they (the members) are entirely
innocent and unsuspecting, while the leeches of the lobby are selling
their votes and charging them with bribery.
Such is the little 'mystery' which I paid five thousand dollars to
become acquainted with. As our company has no more acts of incorporation
to ask for, I hope never to be obliged to learn the lesson over again.
Perhaps others may manage better and cheaper from taking note of my
experience.
THE CONFEDERATION AND THE NATION.
When the States which are now in war against the Government, declared
themselves no longer bound by the Constitution, and no longer parts of
the nation, they rested their action, so far as they deigned to account
for it, on the ground that the United States were nothing more than a
confederation, constituted such by a mere compact, which could be broken
when the interests or the whim of any party so dictated. The loyal
States, on the other hand, straightway took up arms in defence of the
integrity of the nation, constituted such by organic law, which is
supreme forever throughout the length and breadth of the land. Now,
while there are in our midst men base enough to endeavor to seduce the
unthinking portion of our community to the idea that the traitors are
entitled to those rights, and to be treated in that way conceded only by
one nation to another, it may be well to consider, in the light of our
own history, the argument as to the nature of our Government; for it is
only by granting the correctness of the view advanced by the rebels,
that we can for one moment entertain any proposition for compromise, or
any of those vague but pernicious ideas brought forward by Peace
Democrats looking to a disgraceful settlement of this war. With this
purpose in view, we propose to briefly examine the main points in the
Articles of Confederation and the Constitution, and by thus comparing
the frameworks of the two governments, to show the definite and
irreconcilable difference which exists between them.
The Articles of Confederation were entered on within four days after the
second anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, by the same body
which adopted that instrument, and about nine years before the adoption
of the Constitution in convention. The three years which just elapsed
had been a season of singular and searching trial. While unity of
feeling was compelled in the face of a powerful and aggressive foe, and
in the defence of liberties held and prized in common, the mutual
relations of the colonies were so indefinitely ascertained, and
authority was so loosely bestowed, that unity of action was impossible;
there was no power to do the very things which necessity and desire
alike dictated. Having taken up arms against the most powerful nation of
the time, whose system enabled it to concentrate vast energies on the
subjugation of this dozen revolted colonies scattered along the Atlantic
coast, they found themselves in so helplessly disorganized a condition,
that, separated from the mother country, they could hardly, for any
length of time, have successfully pursued the quiet life of peace.
Under these circumstances, they bound themselves together by Articles of
Confederation. These were, what similar articles had always been, a
species of treaty, having peculiar objects, seeking them in a peculiar
way, and declared perpetual, but having an obligation no stronger than
that of a treaty, and practically dissoluble at the will of the parties.
Thus, the States issued letters of marque and reprisal; Congress
determined on peace and war, but the States were depended on to accept
the former and carry on the latter when declared. Congress might
ascertain the number of ships and men to be furnished, but the States
appointed the officers. Congress might fix the sums necessary to be used
in defraying public expenses, but the States must raise them. Congress
might regulate the value of coin, but the States might issue it. The
loose character of this tie is seen still more plainly in the fact that
there was no efficient final tribunal. The commissioners appointed by
Congress might decide a controversy arising between two States, but
there was nothing by which the commissioners could be guided, no
stability or force as precedents in their decisions when made, and no
power to enforce them if neglected or rejected by one or both the
parties. It was simply a provision for constantly recurring arbitration,
obtained by reference to a changeable, and practically unauthoritative
board of judges. Moreover, this government, weak and unorganized as it
was, was withdrawn on the adjournment of Congress; for the Committee of
States, appointed to act in the recess, was useless, as well from the
paucity of its powers, as from the fact that a quorum of its members
could seldom be obtained.
Such a system, or rather, lack of system, could be tolerated only while
the peril of their life and liberties compelled the people to perform
the duties the government was powerless to enforce. After the war was
over, and the people were left with independence and freedom, with a
powerful ally in Europe, with elements of unrivalled resource, but with
a heavy load of debt, with disorganized social and political relations,
with crippled commerce, and without the powerful uniting pressure from
outside, this system of confederation began to develop its evils and its
insufficiency. To complete the triumph begun by the desolating struggle
through which we had just passed, and, by building up a system under
whose operation the nation's wealth could pay the nation's debt, and the
nation's power protect the nation's honor and interest, to assert at
once the claim and the right to respect, was the necessity of the time.
To answer this necessity was a very different thing from conducting the
war. Commerce was now to take the place of naval conflict; mutual
intercourse in the interest of trade was to replace the performance of
those duties which the common defence had imposed. The life of the
people was now to be saved, not by armed struggles in its defence, but
by nurturing its resources, opening its various channels, and freeing it
for the performance of its healthful and renewing functions.
For this purpose, a system which could not make treaties of commerce
without leaving it in the power of thirteen States to break them by
retaliation, which could not prevent one or all of these States from
utterly prohibiting the import or export of such commodities as they
chose, and which left the people powerless to induce or compel
advantages from foreign commerce, while it was even more helpless in
regard to domestic commerce--for this purpose such a system was
absolutely useless.
After struggling for a few years under the cramping and confusing
effects of this system, it was given up, and the Constitution, as framed
in 1787, was adopted. The relations assumed by the States at this time
were marked. By the Articles, each State had retained its sovereignty,
freedom, and independence. By the Constitution, the people and the
States reserved such powers as were not expressly given to the United
States, or prohibited to the States. The omission of the claim to
sovereignty and independence in the Constitution, is as significant as
is its presence in the Articles. It appears as a definite surrender of
those attributes, as complete, as binding, as permanent as language
could make it. Nor must we forget, while the momentous questions of our
times are yet undecided, that sovereignty once surrendered can never be
'resumed.' The relations, the duties, and the attributes of the life to
which it belongs have been completely and forever given up, while those
of another have been as entirely and irrevocably assumed.
The States had thus passed from one into another sphere of existence,
whose relations were as different as their objects. The Articles were a
league of friendship for common defence, the security of liberties, and
the general and mutual welfare. No identity of interest was supposed to
exist or sought to be served. Such needs as were, at the time of the
adoption, felt in common, were provided for, and the States were left to
provide, as best they could, for the others. This much and no more was
sought by the States. That the objects of the Constitution were
different, as well as that they were avowed by a far different
authority, is shown in the declaration with which it opens: 'We THE
PEOPLE of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union'--not
as to time, for both the old and the new union were declared perpetual;
but in kind, for which the States surrendered the former claim to
sovereignty and independence. 'To establish justice'--not to insure the
amicable relations of allied States, but to form a tribunal which should
decide upon the common allegiance and the common privileges of the
people. 'To insure domestic tranquillity'--an object unrecognized in the
Articles of Confederation, and implying, not association but identity;
not the mutual obligations of partnership, but the intimate connection
of the national household. 'Do ordain and establish this Constitution.'
There is no longer the indefinite expression of half-conceived
obligation, nor the imperfect pledge to imperfect union, but there is,
instead, the solemn, authoritative language of a sovereign people,
self-contained, self-sufficing, conscious alike of its duties and its
rights, giving form to what shall be the law of the land, fundamental as
being based on the will of the people, supreme as higher than the will
of any part of the people, whether individual or State.
A difference as radical pervades all the provisions of the Constitution.
By the Articles, the vote in Congress was taken by States. By the
Constitution, a majority controls in all but extraordinary business, and
the vote is always taken by members. The Congress is no longer the
assembled States; it is the assembled representatives of the people--of
the nation. It is no longer charged with the management of the mutual
relations of parties to an alliance, but with the making of laws which
shall be the supreme law of the land throughout its entire extent. By
the Articles, prohibitions to the States are made conditional on the
consent of Congress--but by the Constitution, the more important acts of
sovereignty--forming treaties, issuing bills of credit, regulating the
circulating medium--are unconditionally forbidden to the States. The
Congress now controls foreign commerce, raises the revenue, levies
taxes, and cares for the welfare of the nation. By the Articles, new
members of the Confederation were to be admitted by the consent of
nine--about two-thirds of the States. By the Constitution, the
applicants are regarded rather as an organized body of men, seeking to
identify themselves with the American people. To such the national
Congress extends the privilege of citizenship, and from such demands
conformity to our method of national life.
But while these are instances of the radical difference existing between
the methods of treating the same subjects in the Articles of
Confederation and in the Constitution, there are elements in the
Constitution, peculiar to itself, which make the relations and duties of
the States under them utterly irreconcilable. These are embodied in the
organization of the national Government. In assuming the functions, it
took upon itself the forms and instrumentalities of a sovereign and
universal authority. Having founded the Government on the supremacy of
the people, and deposited all original power with the representative and
legislative body, the Constitution provided for the prompt and thorough
exercise of that power by vesting the executive authority in the
President of the United States, and such officers as Congress should
appoint for him. In the Federation there was no executive, for there was
very little to execute. What few things it lay in the power of the
assembled States to determine should be done, were given to the
respective States to do. When they were refractory or negligent, there
was no power in Congress, either to appoint other agents, or to compel
them to the performance of their duties. A promise voluntarily given,
and deemed subject to voluntary violation, was the only pledge given for
the execution of mutual agreements.
Were our national Government now as it was then--as the rebels maintain,
and as their Northern friends would have us act as if we believed--the
rebellion would indeed be a justifiable attempt to secure self-evident
rights. But it is not so. Under the Constitution, an executive is
appointed directly by the people, who is bound, by an oath too sacred
for any but a traitor to violate, to protect, defend, and preserve the
organic law which binds us as a nation forever, and to apply and execute
the laws of Congress made in accordance therewith.
And to these laws, which, made by the representatives of the people,
embody their sovereign authority, there is given the further sanction of
judicial supervision. In the Confederation there was no general and
permanent standard by which decisions could be made and preserved.
Everything was made to depend on the irresponsible and often conflicting
action of the States, or on the unauthoritative determination of the
congressional commission. To remedy this defect, and make more complete
the national character of our present Government, a judicial power of
the United States was vested in the Supreme Court, and in such inferior
courts as Congress may establish. This Supreme Court, with original
jurisdiction in all cases affecting foreign nations, and in all cases in
which a State shall be a party, and with appellate jurisdiction in other
cases, is at once a final tribunal for inter-State disagreement, and a
representative to the world of an united nation, having an individual
existence, and capable of performing all the functions of an individual
nation.
We have thus traced the main lines of difference between the Articles of
Confederation and the Constitution, and have seen that the latter was
meant to be, and is the organic law of a developed and completed
nationality. Under it, every one of us becomes an American citizen,
exercising, as is right, certain local privileges, and dependent for
their immediate protection on the State authorities, but possessing
other wider and nobler rights, which inhere in him as a citizen of the
United States, and which are asserted and supported by the power and
dignity of the entire nation. No words can more fully express the lofty
majesty of that state of nationality on which we have entered, never,
under God, to fall from it, than those of the Constitution itself, to
support which every member of every government, the local as well as the
national, is bound by solemn oath. 'This Constitution, and the laws of
the United States made in pursuance thereof, and all treaties made under
the authority of the United States, shall be the SUPREME LAW OF THE
LAND, anything in the constitution or laws of any State to the contrary
notwithstanding.'
Before such words as these, binding these States together as one nation,
whose integrity nothing but treason would seek to destroy or weaken, the
fierce invective of the Southern, and the feeble sophistry of the
Northern traitor shrink to insignificance. They are at once the record
and the prophecy of our success, declaring the foundation on which the
Government is based, and pointing to yet greater glories to be attained
in the superstructure.
REASON, RHYME, AND RHYTHM.
CHAPTER II.--THE SOUL OF ART.
'In diligent toil thy master is the bee;
In craft mechanical, the worm that creeps
Through earth its dexterous way, may tutor thee;
In knowledge, couldst thou fathom all its depths,
All to the seraph are already known:
But thine, o Man, is Art--thine wholly and alone!'--SCHILLER.
'The _contemplation_ of the Divine Attributes is the source of the
highest enjoyment: their _manifestation_ is the enduring base and
unfailing spring of all true Art.'
Many good and great men persist in refusing to teach, save through
abstract dogmas and logical formulæ, always disagreeable to and rarely
comprehended by the masses, those high moral truths, which they are so
eager to imbibe when presented to them under the attractive form of art.
It is indeed impossible for man to grasp the essential truths of life
through the understanding alone; because, created in the image of the
triune God, he can only make vital truths fully his own in the symbolic
unity of his triune being. If considered only as body or sensuous
perception, only as soul or heart, only as spirit or intellect--he
cannot be said to live at all, since it is only in the perfect union of
the Three that his essential life is found. To make instruction really
available to him, he must be taught as God and nature always teach
him--as soul, spirit, and body. To sever them is to disintegrate the
mystic core of his very being; to disregard the triune image in which he
was made. As art is symbolic of man himself, it addresses itself to his
whole being. Thus, man exists as:
Soul-Spirit-Body: to which the corresponding senses are--
Hearing-Seeing--Touching: the corresponding arts--
Music-Painting-Sculpture. Poetry is no fourth art; it but embraces
and embodies them all in its correspondent divisions of--
Rhythm-Description-Form.
The 'Body' draws its life from the world of matter made by God, by an
assimilation of the elements suited to and prepared for its needs.
The 'Spirit' lives by an analogous process; but its proper food is the
wisdom of God.
In a like manner lives the 'Soul;' its tender instincts are to be
pastured upon the love of God.
Oh, marvellous condescension! The Infinite deigns to be appropriated as
the source of all life and growth by the finite!
In close connection with the threefold being of man, stand the Fine
Arts.
'Body.' Sculpture is the art of corporeal form, appealing to the eye as
the necessary medium for satisfying the corporeal sense of touch. It
gratifies this sense that 'ideal beauty' should breathe through solid,
tangible, and material forms. For the triune man longs for perfection in
his triune being. It should not astonish us that this art attained its
greatest perfection in the ages of classical antiquity; and that music
and painting, the symbolic arts of soul and spirit, should have attained
their highest excellence only after the advent of our sublime ideal
Christ.
'Spirit.' As seeing is the sense holding the closest relation with the
spirit or intellect, and light is the most spiritual element of
nature,--so painting, addressing itself to the spirit of man, must be
regarded as the most spiritual of the arts. Classic art became romantic
during the Christian era; Christianity impressed it with an almost
painful longing for the divine. Classic beauty was indeed there, but
with the expression of inadequacy to its internal consciousness,
oppressed with the grief of its fallen existence, and with the sadness
of an infinite longing on its ethereal countenance.
'Soul.' Music, addressing itself through the ear to the emotions, is the
art of the longing, divining, loving soul. It never excites abstract or
antagonistic thought; it unites humanity in concrete feeling. It
certainly cannot be denied that sounds address themselves immediately to
the feelings; that the tones of the voice are highly sympathetic; that
the sighs, groans, shrieks, cries of a sufferer affect us far more
vividly than the mere sight of the same degree of suffering.
But though the arts seem to us to be thus divided, each art is also
threefold, and must appeal to the triune nature of man. As man only
truly lives, so he only truly creates, as a threefold being, yet his
_life_ is ever one, so that soul, spirit, and body are constantly acting
and reacting upon each other. When the divine wisdom shines into the
spirit, it gives it the perception of intellectual truths, which truths
throw their light far into the dimmer soul; and when the divine love
pours into the soul, it gifts it with the almost limitless faculty of
loving, which warms and quickens the colder spirit, until it germs and
buds in the lovely bloom of human charities and self-abnegating good
deeds.
It is not our intention here to enter into any detailed speculations
upon the hidden mysteries of our being; we simply call the attention of
the reader to the fact that there is a class of truths which must belong
to the universal reason (such as mathematical axioms, syllogistic
formulæ, logical deductions, etc., etc.), because they compel assent as
soon as recognized;--thus a ray of divine wisdom itself must exist in
our spirits, which cannot be perverted, and which elevates the human
mind to the immediate perception of impersonal, abstract, and
conviction-compelling truths. We cannot deny them, even if we would! All
sound logic has its power in the light proceeding from this divine ray.
A ray of the divine love must also exist in the essence of the human
soul, to enable it to perform the marvels of self-abnegating devotion,
of which the most humble among us frequently seem capable. Strange
Promethean fire!
As it is the allotted task of every individual to form his soul into a
noble and powerful personality, to be an artist in the highest sense of
the word, since he must aid in chiselling a glorious statue from the
living block intrusted to his care,--is it not essentially necessary
that every human being should be taught to discern and love the
beautiful? And vast is the difference between the artist in the school
of men and in the school of God; the first, working for and in time,
must be satisfied with leaving to his fellow men some brilliant yet
perishing records of his thoughts; while the latter, working for
eternity, may labor forever to approach the infinite beauty set before
him as his glorious ideal of perfection!
We have already asserted that poetry is no fourth art on a line with the
other three. It indeed embraces and resumes them all, with added powers
of its own. It cannot, however, be denied that, employed in combination
with poetry, the other arts lose much of their special power and effect,
for thus associated they hold a subordinate station, are forced to
appear in a colder medium, and are subjected to the laws of a harmony
but partially adapted to their individual interests. Undeniable as this
may be, poetry still maintains its high claims to our consideration.
Though its tones be colder than those of music, since they must pass
through the analytic intellect instead of appealing immediately to the
sympathetic heart; if its hues are less vivid than, those of painting,
as they must be transmitted through the slower medium of words in lieu
of impressing themselves immediately upon the delighted eye; if less
palpable to the corporeal sense of touch than sculpture, with its
solidity of form,--yet is its range wider, fuller, and far more
comprehensive than any one of the sister arts. If any one should be
inclined to doubt that it is indeed a _resumé_ of them all, let him
consider that in its prosodial flow, measured pauses, metrical lines,
varied cadences, stirring or soothing rhythms, sweet or rugged
rhymes,--it is music: in its metaphorical diction, descriptive imagery,
succession of shifting pictures, diversified illustration, and vivid
coloring,--it is painting; while in its organic development and
arrangement of parts, its complicated structure, in the individualism of
characters, and the sharply defined personalities of its dramatic
realm,--it struggles to attain the fixed and beautiful unity of
sculpture.
The arts find their essential unity in the fact that their sole object
is the manifestation of the beautiful. No one knows better than the
artist that beauty is not the production, of his own limited
understanding, but that, after having duly made his preliminary studies
of the laws of the medium through which he is to manifest it, it shines
into, it reveals itself, as it were, intuitively to the divining soul.
Far lower in its sphere than that infallible inspiration which speaks to
us through the sacred pages of Holy Writ of the things immediately
pertaining to our relations with God, true artistic power must still be
considered as inspiration, since it is constantly arriving at more than
the unassisted reason of man could command by the fullest exercise of
its highest logical powers. The impassioned Romeo cries: 'Can philosophy
make a Juliet?' That philosophy has never made a Juliet in art is
positively certain! Let us then reverentially enter upon an analysis of
the effect of beauty upon the human spirit, whether found in the perfect
works of our God, or shining through the more humble imitations and
manifestations of the fallible human artist.
The perception of beauty first excites a sensation of pleasure, then a
feeling of interest in the beautiful object, then a perception of
kindness in a superior intelligence, from which it is at once seen it
must ultimately flow, then a feeling of grateful veneration toward that
beneficent Intelligence. Unless the perception of beauty be accompanied
with these emotions, we have no more correct idea of beauty than we can
be said to have an idea of a letter of which we perceive the fine
handwriting and fair lines, without understanding the contents. The
emotions consequent upon the due perception of beauty are not given by
the senses, nor do they arise entirely from the intellect, but,
proceeding from the entire man, must be accompanied by a right and open
state of the heart. A true perception and acknowledgment of beauty is
then certainly elevating; exalting and purifying the mind in accordance
with its degree. And it would indeed seem, from the lavish profusion
with which the Deity has seen fit to scatter it around us, that it was
His beneficent intention we should be constantly under its influence.
Now the artist is one gifted by his Creator to discern that ineffable
beauty which is everywhere present, to live in the realm of the ideal,
and to reveal it to men through words, forms, colors, sounds, and, would
he insure the salvation of his own soul, through good deeds. Thus it can
be proved that 'religion is the soul of art,' and essentially necessary
to the artist, because it gives him, simultaneously, the ideas and
feelings of the Absolute, without which he must lose his way, falling
into sterile and ignoble copies of the real, like the Dutch painters,
and thus be able to produce nothing but detailed and accurate copies of
low subjects, of factitious emotions, or of vulgar sensations. Without
faith, the artist prefers the body itself to the feelings which animate
it--the polished limbs of a Venus to the brow of a Madonna! The
intellect alone can never soar to the regions of eternal truth, to the
Absolute; it must be aided by the heart in its daring flight. Faith and
love are the snowy and glittering wings of true artistic excellence.
When the soul is full of the bliss of beauty, the feeling of its
happiness urges the artist on to the necessity of imparting it,--while
his heart is wrapt in the vision of the Absolute, he would fain build
for his joyous thoughts an eternal abode with his fellow men, that they
too might see the steppings of the All Fair, and so be cheered and
stimulated in these their gloomy days of evil.
Thus it cannot be denied that religion alone gives depth and sublimity
to the creations of art, because it alone gives faith and hope in the
Infinite. If we are often astonished to see the springs of artistic
inspiration so rapidly exhausted in many men of genius of our own epoch,
it is because of their overwhelming egotism and limited subjectivity,
because the worship of the finite replaces that of the infinite, because
religion has become for them a mere memory of childhood. To recover
their blighted fertility of imagination, they must again become as
little children, again betake themselves to the shady and lonely way
leading to the temple of God.
In proof of this position, we constantly find that men gifted,
sensuously, with acute perceptions of the beautiful, yet who do not
receive it with a pure heart, never comprehend it aright; but making it
a mere minister to their desires, a mere seasoning of sensual pleasures,
sink until all their creations take the same earthly stamp, and it is
seen and felt that the heavenly sense of beauty has been degraded into a
servant of lust. But as the spirit of prophecy consisted with the
avarice of Balaam and the disobedience of Saul, so God knows all the
stops of the heaven-gifted but self-corrupted artists, and, in spite of
themselves, has often made them discourse high harmonies, and give the
most eloquent and earnest enunciations of the very sentiments and
principles in which their own condemnation could be found clearly and
vividly written. The good seed, although divine, if there be no blessing
upon it, may indeed bring forth wild grapes, but these grapes are well
discerned, for there is, in the works of bad men, a taint, stain, and
jarring discord, blacker and louder exactly in proportion to their moral
deficiency. At best it is no part of our duty to examine into and
pronounce upon the frail characters of men, but rather to hold fast to
that which we can prove good, and feel to be ordained for our own
benefit.
It can, moreover, be fully proved that the artists, as a class, have
never been false to religion. From the poets of the dark ages sprang a
literature strange and marvellous, but full of naive faith, and bearing
striking witness to the activity of the human spirit even in those dim
centuries: I mean the literature of 'visions and legends.' And to
estimate the importance of these consolatory creations aright, we must
remember how precarious and miserable life then was, passed in constant
privation and poverty, menaced with increasing perils; and then consider
the fact that these legends kept constantly before the mind of the
oppressed people the consoling idea of a superintending Providence, who
numbers all our tears and hears our lightest sighs. The legend indeed
never confined itself wholly to this earth as the theatre of its wild
drama; immortality was always its groundwork, and its last scene always
opened in the invisible world, where the saints were surrounded with
undying halos of glory, and from whence they watched over men with
increasing love, while in their midst reigned a gentle figure full of
grace and majesty, uniting, in a mysterious and ineffable manner, the
holy virginity and sacred maternity of woman; a gentle, humble being,
through whose innocent meekness the two worlds, finite and infinite, had
been forever linked in the person of the infant God, whom she forever
bore upon her virgin bosom. What a tender lesson for barbaric life!
We must also remember that these legends were eminently popular, that
they passed from mouth to mouth round the winter hearth, teaching the
young and soothing the children, like the cradle song of a mother,
pouring hope into the cell of the captive, teaching the virtuous
oppressed that a just God mercifully listened to all their secret sighs,
and, leading the poor to look beyond the squalid poverty which
surrounded them, pointed to them the legions of angels, which were
lovingly camped around them. It is impossible to overestimate the
blessed effects of such a literature, or to count the naive hearts which
it may have rescued from suicide and despair!
The spirit of the literature of the middle ages culminates in the
Christian poet, Dante. History, theology, politics, paganism, sweet and
melancholy elegies, flashes of fiery indignation, all men and all
generations, meet in his majestic epic. Yet the closest unity is
preserved through this astonishing range of subjects; one sublime idea
broods over its every line,--the idea of a God of perfect justice--of
undying love!
We cite, in corroboration, the following lines from this noble poet,
though a prose translation can do but little justice to the glowing
original:
'God is One in substance; Power, Wisdom, and Love assume in Him a
triple Personality, so that in all tongues singular and plural are
alike applicable to Him. He is spirit; he is the circle which
circumscribes everything and which nothing ever circumscribes;
immense, eternal, immutable, He is the Primal out of which all is
darkness. Unlimited by time, without laws save in His own will, in
the bosom of eternity, He, who is three in One, acts;--Power
executes what Wisdom proposes, and Infinite Love is forever germing
into ever new loves. Like a triple arrow from a single bow, from
the depths of the Productive thought, spring, whether single or
united, matter, form, with the living heart of all finite
beings--their own governing laws. Created things are but the
splendor of the immutable ideas which the Father engenders, and
which He loves unceasingly. Ideas--thoughts--sacred words! Light,
which, without being detached from Him who wills it into being,
shines from creature to creature, from cause to effect,
on--on--until it produces only contingent and transitory phenomena;
Light which, repeated and reflected from mirror to mirror, pales as
its distance increases from its Holy Source.'
That would surely be an interesting work which would glean for us the
multiplied expressions of the faith of the 'laurel-crowned,' who have
left their consoling records for humanity, their tracks of light over
the dark earth-bosom in which they sleep. But this is not place for such
researches; we must confine ourselves to but few quotations, designed to
show that religion is the soul of art.
In proof of this we might quote the whole of the fine tragedy of
Polyeucte; it is full of ardent religious feeling. The moral is indeed
condensed in the following lines:
'If, to die for our king is a glorious destiny,--
How sublime is death when we may die for God!'
Urged by that unconquerable love of the Absolute which possesses all
true poets, Racine seeks in God alone the source of all regal power:
'The eternal is his name, the world is his work,
He hears the sighs of the oppressed;
He judges all mortals with equal justice,
From the height of his throne he calls kings to account.'
Our English poet Shakspeare, whose works are full of sublime morality,
puts into the mouth of one of his matchless heroines the following
exquisite passage, recalling to us the lessons of the New Testament:
'Alas! alas!
Why all the souls that are, were forfeit once,
And He that might the advantage best have took
Found out the remedy: how would you be,
If He, who is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are? In the strict course
Of justice none of us should see salvation:
We do pray for mercy; that same prayer
Should teach us all to render deeds of mercy.'
Klopstock, the German poet, sings only of God, not in the creation
alone, the last judgment, in his august and dreadful majesty, but in the
wonders of His tender love:
'I trust in thee, Divine Mediator! I have chanted the canticle of
the new covenant; my race is run; Thou hast pardoned my tottering
steps! Sound! sound, quivering strings of my lyre! My heart is full
of the bliss of gratitude to my God! What recompense could I ask? I
have tasted the cup of angels in singing of my Redeemer!'
Not less devout than the 'Messiah,' but far more beautiful, is Tasso's
exquisite 'Jerusalem Delivered.'
A complete system of theology may be found in the majestic pages of
Milton's sublime 'Paradise Lost.'
That which with the heathen poets was but an episode, the religious
element of the poem, as the 'Descent into Hades,' the 'Wanderings
through Elysium,' etc., etc., ends by absorbing the entire work after
the advent of Christianity. The 'Divine Comedy,' the 'Paradise Lost,'
and the 'Messiah,' form a magnificent Christian trilogy, of which the
scene is almost always in a supernatural sphere, and in which the
principal actor is--the Providence of God.
On this subject we have no further time to dilate, and the reader may
easily verify its truth for himself. If he would convince himself that
the deepest draughts of inspiration have ever been drawn by the highest
artists from religious ideas, let him add to the names above given,
those of Fra Angelico, Fra Bartolomeo, Tintoret, Corregio, Murillo,
Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, and, in our own days,
Overbeck; let him gaze into that divine face of godlike sorrow given us
by an untaught monk, Antonio Pesenti, in his marvellous crucifix of
ivory, let him listen to the pure ethereal strains of Palestrina,
Pergolese, Marcello, Stradella, and Cherubini, and thus be assured that
religion, the love of the Infinite, is the 'Soul of Art.'
THE BUCCANEERS OF AMERICA.
The most terrible name, perhaps, in the juvenile literature of England
and English America, during the last century and a half, has been that
of WILLIAM KIDD, the pirate. In the nursery legend, in story,
and in song, the name of Kidd has stood forth as the boldest and
bloodiest of buccaneers. The terror of the ocean when abroad, he
returned from his successive voyages to line our coasts with silver and
gold, and to renew with the devil a league, cemented with the blood of
victims shot down whenever fresh returns of the precious metals were to
be hidden. According to the superstitious of Connecticut and Long
Island, it was owing to these bloody charms that honest money-diggers
have ever experienced so much difficulty in removing these buried
treasures. Often, indeed, have the lids of the iron chests rung beneath
the mattock of the stealthy midnight searcher for gold; but the flashes
of sulphurous fires, blue and red, and the saucer eyes and chattering
teeth of legions of demons have uniformly interposed to frighten the
delvers from their posts, and preserve the treasures from their greedy
clutches. But notwithstanding the harrowing sensations connected with
the name of Kidd, and his renown as a pirate, he was but one of the last
and most inconsiderable of that mighty race of sea robbers who, during a
long series of years in the seventeenth century, were the admiration of
the world for their prowess, and its terror for their crimes.
The community of buccaneers was first organized upon the small island of
Tortuga, situated on the north side of St. Domingo, at the distance of
about two leagues from the latter. It was upon this island that the
first European colony was planted in the New World, in the year and
month of its discovery. But although the colony became considerable, and
flourished so long as the natives remained in sufficient numbers to
cultivate the plantations of the Spaniards, yet it did not take vigorous
root. The numbers of the natives were greatly reduced by the arms of
their conquerors, and were afterward still more rapidly diminished by
oppression; and although an attempt was made to supply their places by a
forced importation of forty thousand Indians from the Bahamas, the
experiment was of little avail. In less than half a century, the
aboriginal race was extinct. The country was beautiful beyond
description: rich in its mines, and its soil of unexceeded fertility.
But the Spaniard, if not by nature indolent, is prone to luxury. The
earth producing by handfuls, the colonists saw little necessity of
laborious exertion. They accordingly degenerated from the spirit and
enterprise of their ancestors, and fell into habits of voluptuous
idleness. Agriculture was neglected, and the mines deserted. Contenting
themselves with a bare supply of the wants of nature, they sank into
such a state of indolence, that many of their slaves had no other
employment than to swing them in their hammocks the livelong day. No
colony could nourish composed of such a people. During the first half
century of its existence, it had indeed become considerable; but for a
century afterward it dwindled away, neglected and apparently forgotten
by the parent country, until even the remembrance of its former
greatness was lost.
At length, about the middle of the seventeenth century, the Spaniards
were roused from their repose. So early as the year 1630, the severity
of the French colonial system had driven many of the most resolute of
the colonists from the islands belonging to that nation, especially from
St. Christopher's. Numbers of these men, in order to an unrestrained
enjoyment of liberty, took refuge in the western division of St.
Domingo, supporting themselves with game, and by hunting wild cattle,
for which they continued to find a market, either in the Spanish
settlements, or by trading with vessels visiting the western coast for
that object. Meanwhile the exactions upon the colonists of St.
Christopher's and the submission required of them to exclusive
privileges, induced a further and greater number to abandon the island,
and join the adventures of their own countrymen in the forests of St.
Domingo. Those adventurers--many of whom had already been roaming the
St. Domingo forest for nearly half a century, increasing in numbers by
accessions from time to time--had, in 1630, established a social and
political system of their own, peculiar to their own community. Their
original calling was the hunting of wild boars and cattle, which
abounded in the island. To this was added, to a small extent, the
business of planting, and to this again the more adventurous profession
of sea-roving and piracy. Their vessels were at first nothing larger
than boats, or rather canoes, constructed from the trunks of
trees--excavations after the manner of the ordinary light canoes of our
own aboriginals. But from the size of some descriptions of trees growing
in that climate, these canoes were capable of carrying crews of from
thirty to fifty and seventy-five men, with the necessary supplies for
short voyages among the Antilles. As they had no women among them, nor
other consequent responsibilities, it was their custom to associate in
partnerships of two, called comrades, who lived together, and assisted
each other in the chase and in the domestic duties of their huts or
cabins. Their goods were thrown into common stock; and when one of a
partnership died, the survivor became the absolute heir of the joint
stock--unless the deceased, by previous stipulation, bequeathed his
goods to his relatives, perchance a wife and children in another land.
They were frequently absent from their lodges on their hunting
excursions for twelve months and two years at a time; but their lodges
with their goods were left in perfect safety, for the crime of theft was
unknown among them.
Differences seldom arose among them, and when they did occur, they were
usually adjusted without much difficulty. In obstinate and aggravated
cases, however, their disputes were decided by firearms, in the use of
which the nicest principles of fairness and honor were observed. A ball
entering the back or the side of a party, afforded evidence that he had
fallen by treachery, and the assassin was immediately put to death. The
former laws of their own country were disregarded; and by the usual sea
baptism received in passing the tropic, they considered themselves
expatriated from their native land, and at liberty to change their
family names, which many of them did--borrowing terms from the character
of the profession which they had chosen, as suited their fancy. Their
dress was a shirt and drawers dipped in the blood of the animals they
killed, shoes without stockings, a leathern girdle by which their knife
and a short sabre were suspended, and a hat or cap without a brim. Their
common food was the choicest pieces of bullock's flesh, seasoned with
orange juice and pimento, and cured by smoke; of bread they lost the
use, and, until the trade of piracy was adopted, water was their only
drink. The term _buccaneers_, by which the hunters were first known, was
derived from a tribe of the Caribs, who were called thus from the manner
in which they prepared meats for their food, whether flesh of beasts or
of men. For this purpose they constructed a sort of grate or hurdle,
consisting of twenty bars of Brazil wood, laid crosswise half a foot
from each other, upon which the flesh of prisoners of war or of game was
laid in pieces, and a thick smoke raised beneath from properly selected
combustibles, which gave to the meat the vermil color and a delightful
smell. These fixtures, thus adjusted, were called _buccans_, and the
process of curing the meat _buccaning_. The hunters, having adopted this
process from the savages, were like them called _buccaneers_. In process
of time the name was applied to the sea robbers as well as to the
hunters; and when piracy became the general profession as a substitute
for planting and the chase, all were called buccaneers indiscriminately.
Previously to the great and sudden augmentation of their forces, by the
immigration from St. Christopher's about the year 1660, the buccaneers
had taken possession of Tortuga, the geographical position and character
of which island was well suited to their commercial and piratical
purposes. This little island had been occupied by a few Spaniards as
early as 1591; but their numbers were so small as not to interfere with
the object of the buccaneers, while its rocky conformation afforded
peculiar facilities for defence in the event of attack.
The greatly increasing numbers of the buccaneers at length aroused the
colonial voluptuaries of Spain to a sense of their danger. It was
perceived that while the colonists were dwindling away, the outlaws were
becoming so formidable in their numbers that they soon might be enabled
to contest for the mastery of the island of Hispaniola itself. They
therefore commenced a war upon them, and not being able to prosecute it
with sufficient vigor themselves, they called to their aid troops from
the other Spanish islands, and also from the continent. With these
auxiliaries the barbarians were hunted with great severity, and many of
them massacred. Finding themselves pursued in this manner, the outlaws
banded together for mutual defence. Their avocations required them often
to separate in the daytime; but they assembled in considerable numbers
at night; and if individuals were missing, diligent search was made
until their fate was ascertained. If he returned from an extended chase,
it was well. If not--if it was discovered that he had fallen a victim to
the Spaniards, or had been taken prisoner--his loss was requited with
terrible vengeance. Everything Spanish was devoted to destruction,
without distinction of age or sex. But in this partisan warfare, the
buccaneers maintained a decided advantage. When too hotly pressed, they
could fly to their canoes or hoys, as they were called, and escape to
Tortuga; and if the Spaniards pursued them thither in numbers too
powerful for an open combat, they would return back again to their
principal island. Despairing at length of success in this mode of
warfare, the Spaniards resolved to conquer the ruffians by destroying
their means of subsistence. For this purpose, by a general hunt over the
whole island, the wild bulls were killed, and the droves of cattle
previously roaming the forests were consequently reduced so rapidly that
the buccaneers found it necessary to change their employment--to form
settlements and cultivate the lands. More than two thousand of them
clustered upon Tortuga, where the business of cultivating sugar and
tobacco was begun; but the more general and lucrative employment became
that of piracy. They had as yet no larger craft than the boats and
canoes already mentioned, but with these they managed to navigate the
West India seas, shooting into secure places of refuge among the smaller
islands, or keys, at pleasure.
The community had now become so large, in 1660, that something like
order and government was seen to be necessary even by the buccaneers
themselves; and they accordingly sent to the Governor of St.
Christopher's for a governor. The boon was readily granted, and M. le
Passeur was commissioned to that office. He repaired promptly to Tortuga
with a ship of armed men and stores; assumed the command, and
immediately commenced fortifying the island--a work to which nature had
largely contributed by the peculiar conformation of some of the rock
precipices. There was upon one high rock, inaccessible at all points
save by ladders, a cavern large enough for a garrison of a thousand men,
with an abundant spring gushing from the rocks. This post was seized and
provisioned. Twice the Spaniards invaded them from Hispaniola, but were
repulsed--the last time with terrible slaughter. The invaders were eight
hundred in number. They had seized a yet higher point of rock than the
natural fortress occupied by the buccaneers, upon which they were
endeavoring to plant their cannon, in order the better to dislodge the
enemy. The time chosen for the invasion was when a large number of the
freebooters were at sea. These, however, returning suddenly by night,
climbed the mountain upon the heels of the Spaniards, and attacked them
with such fury as to compel them by hundreds to throw themselves from
the rocky parapets into the valley beneath, by which their bodies were
dashed in pieces. Those who were not killed by the fall were put to the
sword; and few or none returned to rehearse the bloody story.
This ill-starred expedition was the last sent from St. Domingo against
the buccaneers, who thenceforward became the masters and lord
proprietaries of Tortuga. Nor were the buccaneers longer exclusively
composed of adventurous Frenchmen. Visions of golden cities in the New
World had been flitting before the eyes of the English for a century
before, and had not even been eclipsed by the signal failures of Sir
Walter Raleigh in the reigns of Elizabeth and James. Indeed the
expeditions of the gallant knight, however bootless to himself, may have
served to stimulate the cupidity of his countrymen for a long time
afterward, inasmuch as some of Sir Walter's officers testified that they
actually approached within sight of the golden city. Sir Walter's great
contemporary, Sir Francis Drake, after committing many depredations upon
the Spanish American coast, had returned to England with a vast amount
of treasure. The expeditions both of Sir Francis and Sir Walter were of
a character bordering closely upon piratical; and in that romantic age,
it was not considered as greatly transcending their examples for daring
spirits to seek their fortunes in the New World, even by associating
themselves with the buccaneers of Tortuga. Be this, however, as it may,
England and Holland and other European states respectively furnished
many reckless and daring recruits to the army of freebooters; and their
piracies increased with their numbers. Ostensibly they directed their
operations only against the commerce of Spain, with whom they were
directly at war, and whose galleons from the continent, freighted with
the produce of the mines, offered golden incentives to bravery. But
however virtuous in this respect might have been the intentions of the
sea robbers, it was not invariably the merchantmen of Spain which
suffered from their depredations, since from 'an imperfection, in the
organs of vision,' or from some other cause 'they were not always able
to distinguish the flags of different nations.' Others than the
Spaniards, were consequently occasional sufferers; and a ready market
was found for their plunder in the French, and English islands,
especially in Jamaica, which England had conquered from Spain in 1655.
This latter island was in fact their principal depot; for although the
British Government, both under the Protectorate and afterward, had
endeavored to direct the attention of the Jamaica colonists to
agricultural pursuits, they had entirely failed, for the reason that the
buccaneers, making it their principal resort, poured in such vast
treasures, that the inhabitants amassed considerable wealth with little
difficulty, and despised the more honest occupations of honest labor.
The population rapidly increased, and in a few years amounted to twenty
thousand, whose only source of subsistence was derived from the
buccaneers.