CHAPTER I.

THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

DEVOTED TO

LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.

* * * * *

VOL. I.--FEBRUARY, 1862.--NO. II.

* * * * *

OUR WAR AND OUR WANT.

Can this great republic of our forefathers exist with slavery in it?

Whether we like or dislike the question, it must be answered. As the war

stands, we have gone too far to retreat. It clamors for a brave and

manly solution. Let us see if we can, laying aside all prejudices, all

dislikes whatever, discover an honest course, simply with a view to

preserve the Union and insure its future prosperity. Let us avoid all

foregone conclusions, all extraneous issues, adhering strictly to the

one great need of the hour--how to conquer the foe, reëstablish the

Union, and do this in a manner most consonant with our future national

prosperity.

It is manifest enough that in a continent destined at no distant day to

contain its hundred millions, the question whether these shall form one

great nation or a collection of smaller states is one of fearful

importance. He who belongs to a _great_ nation is thereby great of

himself. He has the right to be proud, and will work out his life more

proudly and vigorously and freely than the dweller in a corner-country.

Do those men ever _reflect_, who talk so glibly of this government as

too large, and as one which must inevitably be sundered, to what a

degradation they calmly look forward! No; Union,--come what may,--now

and ever. Greatness is to every brave man a _necessity_. Out on the

craven and base-hearted who aspire to being less than the co-rulers of a

continent. See how vile and mean are those men who in the South have

lost all national pride in a small-minded provincial attachment to a

State, who love their local county better still, and concentrate their

real political interests in the feudal government of a plantation. Shall

_we_ be as such,--_we_, the men who hold the destinies of a hemisphere

within our grasp? Never,--God help us,--_never!_

On the basis of free labor we are pressing onward over the mighty West.

Two great questions now require grappling with. The one is, whether

slavery shall henceforth be tolerated; the other, whether we shall

strengthen this great government of the Union so as to preserve it in

future from the criminal intrigues of would-be seceding, ambitious men

of no principle. Now is the time to decide.

We must not be blind to a great opportunity which may be lost, of

forever quelling a foul nuisance which would, if neglected _now_, live

forever. Do we not see, feel, and understand what sort of _white men_

are developed by slavery, and do we intend to keep up such a race among

us? _Do we want all this work to do over again_ every ten or five years

or all the time? For a quarter of a century, slavery and nothing else

has kept us in a growing fever, and now that it has reached a crisis the

question is whether we shall calm down the patient with cool rose-water.

In the crisis comes a physician who knows the constitution of his

patient, and proposes searching remedies and a thorough cure,--and, lo!

the old nurse cries out that he is interfering and acting unwisely,

though he is quite as willing to adopt her cooling present solace as

she.

If we had walked over the war-course last spring without opposition,--if

we had conquered the South, would we have put an end to this trouble?

Does any one believe that we would? This is not now a question of the

right to hold slaves, or the wrong of so doing. All of that old

abolition jargon went out and died with the present aspect of the war.

So far as nine-tenths of the North ever cared, or do now care, slaves

might have hoed away down in Dixie, until supplanted, as they have been

in the North, by the irrepressible advance of manufactures and small

farms, or by free labor. 'Keep your slaves and hold your tongues,' was,

and would be now, our utterance. But they would not hold their tongues.

It was 'rule or ruin' with them. And if, as it seems, a man can not hold

slaves without being arrogant and unjust to others, we must take his

slaves away.

And why is not this the proper time to urge emancipation? Divested of

all deceitful and evasive turns, the question reduces itself to

this,--are we to definitely conquer the enemy once and for all, the

great enemy Oligarchy, by taking out its very heart? or are we to keep

up this strife with slaveholders forever? It is a great and hard thing

to do, this crushing the difficulty, but we must either do it or be done

for. In a few months 'the tax-gatherer will be around.' If anybody has

read the report of the Secretary of the Treasury without a grave

sensation, he is very fortunate. How would such reports please us

annually for many years? So long as there exists in the Union a body of

men disowning allegiance to it, puffed up in pride, loathing and

scorning the name of free labor, especially as the ally of capital, just

so long will the tax-gatherer be around,--and with a larger bill than

ever.

To such an extent is this arrogance carried of urging utter silence at

present on the subject of slavery, that one might almost question

whether the right of free speech or thought is to be left at all, save

to those who have determined on a certain course of conduct. When it is

remembered that those who wish to definitely conclude this great

national trouble are in the great majority, we stand amazed at the

presumption which forbids them to utter a word. One may almost distrust

his senses to hear it so brazenly urged that because he happens to think

that our fighting and victories may go hand in hand with a measure which

is to prevent future war, he is 'opposed to the Administration,' is 'a

selfish traitor thinking of nothing but the Nigger,' and altogether a

stumbling-block and an untimely meddler. If he protest that he cares no

more for the welfare of the Negro than for that of the man in the moon,

he is still reviled as an 'abolitionist.' If he insist that emancipation

will end the war, his 'conservative' foe becomes pathetic over his

indifference as to what is to become of the four millions of 'poor

blacks.' And, in short, when he urges the great question whether this

country is to tolerate slavery or no, he is met with trivial fribbling

side-issues, every one of which _should_ vanish like foam before the

determined will and onward march of a great, _free_ people.

Now let every friend of the Union boldly assume that _so far as the

settlement of this question is concerned he_ does not care one straw for

the Negro. Leave the Negro out altogether. Let him sink or swim, so far

as this difficulty goes. Men have tried for thirty years to appeal to

humanity, without success, for the Negro, and now let us try some other

expedient. Let us regard him not as a man and a brother, but as 'a

miserable nigger,' if you please, and a nuisance. But whatever he be, if

the effect of owning such creatures is to make the owner an intolerable

fellow, seditious and insolent, it becomes pretty clear that such

ownership should be put an end to. If Mr. Smith can not have a horse

without riding over his neighbor, it is quite time that Smith were

unhorsed, no matter how honestly he may have acquired the animal. And if

the Smiths, father and sons, threaten to keep their horse in spite of

law,--nay, and breed up a race of horses from him, whereon to roughride

everybody who goes afoot,--then it becomes still more imperative that

the Smith family cease cavaliering it altogether.

There is yet another point which the stanch Union-lover must keep in

view. In pushing on the war with heart and soul, we inevitably render

slaveholding at any rate a most precarious institution, and one likely

to be broken up altogether. Seeing this, many unreflectingly ask, 'Why

then meddle with it?' But it _must_ be considered in some way, and

provided for as the war advances, or we shall find ourselves in such an

imbroglio as history never saw the like of. He who cuts down a tree must

take forethought how it may fall, or he will perchance find himself

crushed. He who in a tremendous conflagration would blow up a block of

houses with powder, must, even amid the riot and roar, so manage the

explosion that lives be not wantonly lost. We must clear the chips away

as our work advances. The matter in hand is the war--if you choose,

nothing but the war. But pushing on singly and simply at _the war_

implies _some_ wisdom and a certain regard to the future and to

consequences. The mere abolitionist of the old school, who regards the

Constitution as a league with death and a covenant with hell, may, if he

pleases, see in the war only an opportunity to wreak vengeance on the

South and free the black. But the 'emancipationist' sees this in a very

different light. He sees that we are _not_ fighting for the Negro, or

out of hatred to anybody. He knows that we are fighting to restore the

Union, and that this is the first great thought, to be carried out at

_all_ hazards. But he feels that this carrying out involves some action

at the same time on the great trouble which first caused the war, and

which, if neglected, will prolong the war forever. He feels that the

future of the greatest republic in existence depends on settling this

question now and forever, and that if it be left to the chances of war

to settle itself, there is imminent danger that even a victory may not

prevent a disrupture of the Union. For, disguise it as we may, there is

a vast and uncontrollable body at the North who hate slavery, and pity

the black, and these men will not be silent or inactive. Did the

election of Abraham Lincoln involve nothing of this? We know that it

did. Will this 'extreme left,' this radical party, keep quiet and do

nothing? Why they are the most fiercely active men on our continent. Let

him who would prevent this battle degenerating into a furious strife

between radical abolition and its opponents weigh this matter well.

There are fearful elements at work, which may be neutralized, if we who

fight for the _Union_ will be wise betimes, and remove the bone of

contention.

Above all, let every man bear in mind that, even as the war stands,

something _must_ be done to regulate and settle the Negro question.

After what has been already effected in the border States and South

Carolina, it would be impossible to leave the Negro and his owner in

such an undefined relation as now exists. And yet this very fact--one of

the strongest which can be alleged to prove the necessity of legislation

and order--is cited to prove that the matter will settle itself. Take,

for instance, the following from the correspondence of a daily

cotemporary:--

THE ARMY SPOILING THE SLAVES.--Whatever may be the policy of the

government in regard to the status of the slaves, one thing is

certain, that wherever our army goes, it will most effectually

spoil all the slaves and render them worthless to their masters.

This will be the necessary result, and we think it perfectly

useless to disturb the administration and distract the minds of the

people with the everlasting discussion of this topic. Soon our army

will be in Georgia, Florida, and Louisiana, and the soldiers will

carry with their successful arms an element of liberty that will

infuse itself into every slave in those States. The only hope for

the South, if, indeed, it has not passed away, is to throw down

their arms and submit unconditionally to the government.

That is to say, we are to free the slave, only we must not say so!

Rather than take a bold, manly stand, avow what we are actually doing,

and adopt a measure which would at once conciliate and harmonize the

whole North, we are to suffer a tremendous disorder to spring up and

make mischief without end! Can we never get over this silly dread of

worn-out political abuse and grapple fairly with the truth? Are we

really so much afraid of being falsely called abolitionists and

negro-lovers that we can not act and think like _men!_ Here we are

frightened at _names_, dilly-dallying and quarreling over idle words,

when a tremendous crisis calls for acts. But this can not last forever.

Something must be done right speedily for the myriad of blacks whom we

shall soon have on our hands. Barracooning contrabands by thousands may

do for the present, but how as to the morrow? Let it be repeated again

and again, that they who argue against touching the Negro question _at

present_ are putting off from day to day an evil which becomes terrible

as it is delayed. It can _not_ be let alone. Already those in power at

Washington are terrified at its extent, but fear to act, owing to

'abolition,' while all the time the foul old political ties and

intrigues are gathering closely about. Let us cut the knot betimes, act

bravely and manfully, and settle the difficulty ere it settles us.

Something must be done, and that right early.

But what is to become of the freed blacks? Again and again does this

preposterous bugbear rise up to prove, by the terror which it excites,

the vast ignorance of the subject which prevails in this country, and

the small amount of deliberate reasoning generally bestowed on matters

of the most vital importance. Reader, if you would answer it, go to

facts. You have probably all your life accepted as true the statement

that the black when free promptly becomes an idle, worthless vagabond.

You have believed that a _majority_ of the free blacks in the North are

good for nothing. Now I tell you calmly and deliberately, and

challenging inquiry, that _this is not true_. Admitting that about

one-fifth of them are so, you have but a weak argument. As for the

forlorn, unacclimated exiles in Canada, where there is no demand for the

labor which they are peculiarly fit to render, they are not a case in

point. The black servants, cooks, barbers, white-washers, carpet-beaters

and grooms of Baltimore and Philadelphia, which form the four-fifths

majority of free blacks in those cities, are not idle vagabonds. Above

all, reader, I beg of you to read the dispassionate and calmly written

_Cotton Kingdom_ of Frederick Law Olmstead, recently published by Mason

Brothers, of New York. You will there find the fact set forth by closest

observation that the negroes in part are indeed lazy vagabonds, but that

the majority, when allowed to work for themselves, and when free, _do_

work, and that right steadily. In the Virginia tobacco factories slaves

can earn on an average as much money for themselves, in the 'over hours'

allowed them, as the manufacturer pays their owner for their services

during the day. There are cases in which slaves, hired for one hundred

dollars a year, have made for themselves three hundred.[A]

[Footnote A: 'If the slaves be emancipated, what with their own natural

ability and such aids and appliances as the government and 20,000,000 of

people in the North can furnish, I do not believe but that they will get

employment, and pay, and, of course, subsistence.'--HON. GEORGE S.

BOUTWELL.]

But the vagabond surplus,--the minority? Is it possible that with Union

or disunion before us we can hesitate as to taking on this incumbrance?

In a hard-working land vagabonds must die off,--'tis a hard case, but

the emergency for the white men of this and a coming age is much harder.

After all, there are only some fifteen hundred or two thousand lazy free

negroes in New York city,--the climate, we are told, is too severe for

them,--and this among well-nigh a million of inhabitants. We think it

would be possible to find one single alderman in that city who has

wasted as much capital, and injured the commonwealth quite as much, in

one year, as all the negroes there put together, during the same time.

It would be absurd to imagine that the emancipation of every negro in

America to-morrow would add one million idlers and vagabonds to our

population. _But what if it did?_ Would their destiny or injury to us be

of such tremendous importance that we need for it peril our welfare as a

nation? The standing armies of Germany absorb about one-fifth of the

entire capital of the land. Better one million of negative negroes than

a million of positive soldiers!

There was never yet in history a time when such a glorious future

offered itself to a nation as that which is now within our grasp. In its

greatness and splendor it is beyond all description. The great problem

of Republicanism--the question of human progress--has reached its last

trial. If we keep this mighty nation one and inseparable, we shall have

answered it forever; if not, why then those who revile man as vile and

irreclaimably degraded may raise their pæans of triumph; the black

spectres of antique tyrants may clap their hands gleefully in the land

of accursed shadows, and hell hold high carnival, for, verily, it would

seem as if they had triumphed, and that hope were a lie.

But who are they who dare accuse us of wishing to weaken the

administration and impede its course? Bring the question to light! If

there be one thing more than another which those who demand emancipation

desire, it is that the central government should be _strengthened_--aye,

strengthened as it has never been before; so that, in future, there can

be no return of secession. We have never been a republic--only an

aggregate of smaller republics. If we _had_ been one, the first movement

toward disunion would have hurled the traitors urging it to the dust.

Aye, strengthen the government; and let its first manifestation of

strength and will be the settling of the negro question. Give the

administration as full power as you please--the more the better; it is

only conferring strength on the people. There is no danger that the men

of the North will ever lose a shadow of individual rights. They are too

powerful.

And now let the freemen of America speak, and the work will be done. A

great day is at hand; hasten it. The hour which sees this Union

re-united will witness the most glorious triumph of humanity,--the

greatest step towards realizing the social aim of Christianity, and of

Him who died for all,--the recognition of the rights of every one.

Onward!

* * * * *

BROWN'S LECTURE TOUR.

I.--HOW HE CAME TO DO IT.

My last speculation had proved a failure. I was left with a stock of

fifty impracticable washing-machines on my hands, and a cash capital of

forty-four cents. With the furniture of my room, these constituted my

total assets. I had an unsettled account of forty dollars with Messrs.

Roller & Ems, printers, for washing-machine circulars, cards, etc.;

and--

Rap, rap, rap!

[_Enter boy_.]

'Mr. Peck says as how you'll please call around to his office and settle

up this afternoon, sure.'

[_Exit boy_.]

_New York, Nov. 30, 1859_.

Mr. GREEN D. BROWN,

_TO_ JOHN PECK, _Dr_.

_To Rent of Room to date_ $9 00

_Rec'd Pay't_,

I came to the emphatic conclusion that I was 'hard up.'

I kept bachelor's hall in Franklin Street, in apartments not altogether

sumptuous, yet sufficiently so for my purposes,--to wit, to sit in and

to sleep in; and inasmuch as I took my meals amid the gilded splendors

of the big saloon on the corner of Broadway, I was not disposed to

reproach myself with squalor. Yet the articles of furniture in my room

were so far removed, separately or in the aggregate, from anything like

the superfluous, that when I calmly deliberated what to part with, there

was nothing which struck me as a luxury or a comfort as distinct from a

necessary of life. I took a second mental inventory: two common chairs,

a table, a mirror, a rocking-chair, a bed, a lounge, and a single

picture on the wall.

I declare, thought I, here's nothing to spare.

But things were getting to a crisis. I must 'make a raise,' somehow.

Borrow? Ah, certainly--where was the benevolent moneyed individual? My

credit had gone with my cash; both were sunk in the washing-machines.

I lighted my pipe, and surveyed my household goods once more.

There was the picture: couldn't I do without that?

Possibly. But that picture I had had--let me see--fifteen, yes, sixteen

years. That picture was a third prize for excellence in declamation,

presented me at the school exhibition in ---- Street, when I was twelve

years old. That was in 1843, and here, on the first of December, 1859, I

sat deliberately meditating its sale for paltry bread and butter!

No, no; I'd go hungry a little longer, before I'd part with that old

relic--remembrancer of the proudest day of my life. What a pity I hadn't

permitted that day to give a direction to my life, instead of turning my

attention to the paltry expedients for money-making followed by the

common herd! I might have been an accomplished orator by this time,

capable of drawing crowds and pocketing a thousand a month, or so. But

my tastes had run in other channels since the day when I took that

prize.

Still, when I thought of it deliberately, I made bold to believe there

was that yet in me which could meet the expectant eyes of audiences nor

quail before them.

A thought struck me! Was not here an 'opening' for an enterprising young

man? Was not the lecture-season at hand? Did not lecturers get from ten

to two hundred dollars per night? Couldn't I talk off a lecture with the

best of them, perhaps? Well, perhaps I could, and perhaps not, but if I

wouldn't try it on, I hoped I might be blessed--that--was all.

I thought proper, after having reached this conclusion, to calculate my

wealth in the way of preliminary requisites to success. By preliminary

requisites to success, I mean those which lead to the securing of

invitations to lecture. I flattered myself that all matters consequent

to this point in my career would very readily turn themselves to my

advantage. The preliminary requisites were as follows:--

1. _Notoriety_. I could boast of nothing in this line. I had no

reputation whatever. I had never written a line for publication.

When I had satisfied myself that I lacked this grand requisite, I turned

my attention to the subject again only to find that No. 1 was quite

alone in its glory. It was the Alpha and Omega of the preliminary

requisites. I should never be able to get a solitary invitation.

Here I was for a moment disheartened; but, persevering in my

newly-assumed part of literary philosopher, I proceeded to the

consideration of the consequent requisites:--

1. _Literary ability_. To say the truth, my literary abilities had

hitherto been kept in the background. I was glad they were now going to

come forward. For present purposes, it was sufficient that the Astor

Library was handy, and that I could string words together respectably.

2. _Oratorical ability_. As already indicated, I was conscious of no

mean alloy of the Demosthenic gold tempering the baser metal of my

general composition. My voice was deep and strong.

3. _Facial brass_. I felt brazen enough to set up a bell-foundery on my

personal curve. My cheeks were of that metalline description that never

knew a blush, before an audience of one or many.

4. _Personal appearance_. I consulted my mirror on that point. It showed

me a young man of only twenty-eight, and tall and shapely proportions; a

well-dressed young man, with light-colored hair, prominent nose, and

heavy red beard and moustache. I twisted the latter institution

undecidedly, and ventured the belief that by shaving myself clean and

bridging my nose with a pair of black-bowed spectacles I could pass

muster.

The result total was satisfactory. I resolved to disregard the

preliminary respecting invitations, and to make a modest effort of my

own to secure an audience, by going into the country, and advertising

myself in proper form. I commenced the work of writing a lecture

forthwith; and in a few days I had ready what I deemed a rather superior

production.

II.--HOW HE PROCEEDED TO DO IT.

I gave up my lodgings in town, sold all my salable possessions, settled

up with my landlord, paid my printers in the usual way (i.e., with

promises), and, supplied with a satchel-full of hand-bills (from a rival

establishment), started for the country. My ticket was for Sidon--a

place I knew nothing whatever about; the only circumstance of a positive

character connected with it was, that it was the farthest point from New

York which I could reach by the Rattle and Smash Railroad for the net

amount of funds in my pocket. I stepped into the streets of Sidon with a

light heart, and looked out on the scene of my contemplated triumph. I

made up my mind at once that if ancient Sidon was no more of a place

than modern Sidon, it couldn't lay claim to being much of a town. The

houses, including shops and stores, would not exceed one hundred. I

walked to the tavern, and delivered my satchel to the custody of a

rough-looking animal, whom I subsequently found to be landlord, hostler,

bar-tender, table-waiter, and general manager-at-all-work. He was a very

uninviting subject; but, being myself courteously inclined, and having

also a brisk eye to business, I inquired if there was a public hall or

lecture-room in the place.

'I've got a dance-hall up-stairs. Be you a showman?'

I said I was a lecturer by profession, and asked if churches were ever

used for such purposes in Sidon.

'Never heard of any. 'Ain't got no church. Be you goin' to lecter?'

I replied that I thought some of it, and inquired if it was common to

use his hall for lectures.

'Wal, Sidon ain't much of a place for shows anyhow. When they is any, I

git 'em in, if they ain't got no tent o' their own.'

I would look at the hall.

We went up a rickety stairway, into a dingy room. The plaster had fallen

from the ceiling in several places, and the room had a mouldy smell.

There was a platform at one end, where the musicians sat when saltatory

_fêtes_ were held, and on this I mounted to 'take a view.' I didn't feel

called upon to admire the hall in audible terms; but as I stood there an

inspiring scene arose before my mental vision--a scene of up-turned

faces, each representing the sum of fifteen cents, that being the

regular swindle for getting into shows round here, the landlord said. I

struck a bargain for the hall, at once--a bargain by which I was to have

it for two dollars if I didn't do very well, or five dollars if I had a

regular big crowd; bill-stickers and doorkeeper included, free.

In the evening, I went to the village post-office, which was merely a

corner of the village store, and inquired if there was a letter there

for Professor Green D. Brown. I knew very well there was not, of course,

but I had the not unexpected pleasure of seeing the postmaster's eyes

dilate inquiringly, so that I felt called upon to say:--

'I am a stranger, sir, in Sidon, at present, but I hope to enjoy the

honor of making the acquaintance of a large number of your intelligent

citizens during my brief stay with you. I propose lecturing in this

village to-morrow evening, on a historical, or perhaps I should say

biographical, subject.'

The postmaster, who appeared like an intelligent gentleman, said he was

glad to see me, and glad to hear I was going to lecture; and he shook

hands with me cordially. The store contained about half the adult

population of the village, lounging about the warm stove, talking and

dozing; and the postmaster introduced me to Squire Johnson, and Dr.

Tomson, and Mr. Dickson, and Mr. Dobson and Mr. Potkins, who, five,

constituted the upper ten of Sidon. With these gentlemen I held a very

entertaining conversation, during which I remember I was struck with the

extreme deference paid to my opinion, and the extreme contempt

manifested for the opinions of each other. They all agreed, however,

that my visit would be likely to prove of the greatest importance to

Sidon in a literary and educational point of view.

I returned to the hotel, and retired with heart elate.

In the morning, it was with emotions of a peculiarly pleasurable nature

that I observed, profusely plastered on posts and fences, the

announcement, in goodly capitals:--

LECTURE!!

* * * * *

PROF. G.D. BROWN,

OF NEW YORK CITY,

WILL LECTURE THIS EVENING, DECEMBER 14,

IN JONES'S HALL, SIDON,

AT 7 O'CLOCK.

* * * * *

SUBJECT: 'EURIPIDES, THE ATHENIAN POET.'

* * * * *

ADMISSION 15 CENTS. DOORS OPEN AT 6 O'CLOCK.

The critical reader may experience a desire to propound to me a

question:--'Professor of what?'

Now I profess honesty, as an abstract principle--being, perhaps the

conscientious reader will think, more of a professor than a practicer

herein. But the truth is, in the present mendicant state of the word

'Professor,' I conceived I had a perfect right and title to it, by

virtue of my poverty, and so appropriated it for the behoof and

advantage of Number One. Which explanation, it is hoped, will do.

Friday passed in cultivating still farther the acquaintance of the

previous evening, and receiving the most cordial assurances of interest

on their part in my visit and its object. I was candidly (and I thought

kindly) informed by my good friends, not to get my expectations too

high, as a very large house could scarcely, they feared, be expected;

but I deemed an audience of even no more than fifty or seventy-five a

fair beginning,--a very fair beginning,--and had no fears.

I retired to my room at five o'clock, and remained locked in, with my

lecture before me, oblivious of all external affairs, until a few

minutes past seven, when I concluded my audience had gathered. I then

smoothed my hair, adjusted my spectacles, took my MS. in my hand, and

proceeded to the lecture-room. The doorkeeper was fast asleep, and the

long wicks of the tallow candles were flaring wildly and dimly on a

scene of emptiness. Not an auditor was present!

I descended to the bar-room. It was full of loungers, smoking, dozing,

and drinking. Without entering, I hastened across the way to the

post-office. There was the courteous postmaster, engaged in a sleepy

talk with Squire Johnson and Dr. Tomson and Mr. Dickson and Mr. Dobson

and Mr. Potkins, who sat precisely as they sat the evening previous.

I returned to the hotel and called out the landlord.

'There's no audience, I perceive,' said I.

'Wal, I didn't cal'late much of anybody'd go in. They gen'ally go over

to Tyre when they want shows. Tyre's quite a town. You'd do better over

thar; 's on'y seven mile over to Tyre.'

I explained my position to the landlord at once, and threw myself on his

mercy. I told him I had no money, but would walk over to Tyre that very

evening, rather than task his hospitality longer. After making a little

money in Tyre, I would return to Sidon and settle his little bill. To

which the generous-hearted fellow responded,--

'Yas, I think likely; but ye see I'm _some_ on gettin' my pay outen

these show chaps that go round. I reckon that thar satchel o' yourn's

got the wuth o' my bill in it. I'll hold on to it till ye git back, ye

know.'

Remonstrance was in vain. I found that my sharp landlord had entered my

room while I was looking in at the post-office door, and had taken my

carpet-bag, with everything I had, even my overcoat, and stowed all in a

cupboard under the bar, under lock and key. He would not so much as

allow me a clean shirt; and I started for Tyre, wishing from the bottom

of my heart that the inhuman landlord might engage in a washing-machine

speculation, and involve with himself Mr. Potkins and Mr. Dobson and Mr.

Dickson and Dr. Tomson and Squire Johnson.

I reached Tyre at ten o'clock, and found that I had not been deceived

respecting its size. It was quite a large Tillage, with well laid out

streets, handsome residences, two large hotels, and three or four

churches. I took this inventory of the principal objects in Tyre with

considerable more anxiety than I had ever supposed it possible for me to

entertain concerning any country town in Christendom. I was interested

in the prosperity of Tyre. I sincerely hoped that the hard times had not

entered its quiet and beautiful streets. The streets certainly were both

quiet and beautiful, as I looked upon them in the clear moonlight of ten

o'clock at night, an hour when honest people in the country are, for the

most part, asleep. I entered the handsomest of the hotels, and

registered my name in a bran-new book on the clerk's counter.

Name.

Residence.

Destination.

_Prof. D.G. Brown,

N.Y. City.

Lecture in Tyre_.

'Beautiful evening, sir,' said the clerk, who was also the landlord, but

not also the bar-tender and the hostler.

'You are right, sir,' said I; 'it is truly a lovely evening. I have

rarely seen moonlight so beautiful. Indeed, such were the beauties of

the evening, that I have positively been tempted so far as to walk over

here from Sidon this evening, leaving my baggage to follow me in the

morning.'

'Ah! lectured in Sidon perhaps?'

'Well, ah! um! yes; that is, I intend to do so, but unforeseen

circumstances induced me to relinquish that purpose. Sidon is very

small.'

'Yes, sir, small place. Never heard of a lecture, or any kind of a

performance, there before. Fact is, they're a hard set over to Sidon,

and the place is better known by the name of Sodom around here.'

I felt much encouraged at hearing this; for, to tell the truth, my

cogitations as I tramped over the rough road between Tyre and Sidon had

been anything but cheerful. This was a realization of my fond dreams of

a ten-to-fifty-dollars-a-night lecture tour, such as I had hardly

anticipated, and as I drew nigh unto Tyre I had been thinking whether I

had not better try to get a situation as a farm-hand or dry-goods clerk

before my troubles should have crushed me and driven me to suicide.

But the landlord cheered me. Tyre was a model town. Tyre had a

newspaper, and Tyre patronized literary entertainments. There was a good

hall in Tyre, and the Tyrians had filled it to overflowing last winter

when Chapin spoke there. I went to bed under the benignant influence of

my cheerful host, and dreamed of lecturing to an audience of many

thousands in a hall a trifle larger than the Academy of Music, and with

every nook and corner crowded with enthusiastic listeners, whose joy

culminated with my peroration into such a tumult of delight that they

rushed upon the stage and hoisted me on their shoulders amid cheers so

boisterous that they awoke me. I found I had left my bed and mounted

into a window, with the intention, doubtless, of stepping into the

street and concluding my career at once, lest an anti-climax should be

my fate.

In the morning, I called on the editor of the newspaper.

I desire to recommend my reader to subscribe at once to _The Tyre

Times_, and thus aid to sustain the paper of a gentleman and a scholar,

who was, as editors usually are, a plain-spoken, sensible man, conscious

of the presence of talent in his sanctum, by 'sympathetic attraction.'

The editor of the _Times_ looked into the circumstances of my case with

an experienced and kindly eye, and then said to me,--

'My dear sir, you can not succeed here with a lecture. We have had

several in our village within a few years, but never one which 'paid,'

unless it was one on phrenology, or physiology, or psychology, and

plentifully spiced with humor of the coarsest sort. If you want to make

money in Tyre, you'll take my advice and get a two-headed calf, a

learned pig, or a band of nigger minstrels. Any of these things will

answer your purpose, if you want money; but if you have ambition to

gratify, if you want to lecture for the sake of lecturing, that's a

different thing. At all events, you shall have my good wishes, and I'll

do all I can to get you a house. But it won't pay.'

The reader knows that if I had not been a fool I would have understood

and heeded a statement so plain as this, made by an editor. But then, if

I hadn't been a fool, you know I should never have started on a lecture

tour at all. So, being a fool, I had bills printed, hired a hall (at ten

dollars), and was duly announced to lecture in Tyre on the coming

Tuesday evening. The same afternoon, _The Tyre Times_ appeared, and its

editorial column contained the following notice, which I read with great

interest, it being my first appearance in any periodical:--

LECTURE AT GRECIAN HALL.--We take pleasure in announcing that Prof.

GREEN D. BROWN, of New York city, will favor the citizens of Tyre

with a lecture on Tuesday evening next. From what we know of the

gentleman, we are satisfied our citizens will not regret attending

the lecture. We trust he may not be met with an audience so small

as lectures have heretofore drawn out in Tyre. The apathy of our

citizens in these matters, we have before stated, is disgraceful.

Let there be a good turn-out.

But there was not a good turn-out. The receipts were two dollars and a

half. The proprietor of the hall consented to take the receipts for his

pay, and I returned to the hotel to muse over my unhappy fortunes.

The landlord took occasion the next morning, as I was passing out of the

house, to remind me that my baggage had not arrived.

'No,' said I, 'but, as I soon leave Tyre, I shan't need it.'

The landlord looked at my dirty collar and bosom as if he doubted either

my sanity or my decency, and remarked that perhaps I knew his rules

compelled him to present the bills of strangers semi-weekly.

'O, yes! that's all right,' said I; 'I'll see you when I come back from

the printing-office.'

I noticed that mine host stood watching to see that I entered the

printing-office safely.

The editor remarked, after I had told him all the experience narrated

here, commencing with the washing-machines,--

'It's a bad case, and I don't admire your experience at all, to speak

candidly; but I have a little idea of my own to work out, and you can

help me do it, perhaps. In the first place, though, I want to know

whether you intend to continue in this line of business,--eh?'

'Not I,' was my fervent reply; 'I'm satisfied to leave lecturing to

those who have a reputation, and to earn my bread and butter in a, for

me, more legitimate way. But what is it you have in view?'

'Come and see me this evening, when I am at leisure, and I'll tell you

what my enterprise is. Meantime, will you sell me your lecture? I can't

afford to pay much for it, but I'll agree to settle your hotel bill if

you'll part with it. Not that I think it's worth it, but you need to be

helped somehow right away.'

I jumped at the chance, and thanked my friend heartily. He asked if I

would please go and send the landlord to him, and I retired to perform

that errand.

I was punctual to my appointment in the evening, and listened to the

project my editorial angel had in view; a plan by which he proposed to

inflict a lesson on the negligent Tyrians, and at the same time

replenish my purse. He explained to me the part I was to perform in this

enterprise, and I found I could enter heartily into the spirit of it. We

shook hands in the best of humors, and parted that evening understanding

each other perfectly.

III.--HE MAKES A HIT IN TYRE.

The next day, the entire jobbing facilities of the _Times_ office were

brought into requisition, and toward evening a mammoth bill was posted

around the town, which read as follows:--

MONS. BELITZ'S

CELEBRATED AND MAGNIFICENT EXHIBITION,

THE GREAT TRAVELING HUMBURG!

The most wonderful entertainment, whether

CAININE, PRISTINE, OR QUININE,

ever brought before the astonished Public's visual organs!!!

* * * * *

The _avant courier_ of this monster troupe has the honor of

announcing to the ladies and gentlemen of Tyre, that Mons. BELITZ,

accompanied by his entire retinue of attachés and supes, Female

Dancers and Dogs, Operatic Vocalists and Vixens, Royal Musicians and

Monsters, Bengal Tigers and Time-servers, Magicians and Madmen,

Flying Birds, Swimming Fishes, Walking Cats and Dogs, Crawling

Reptiles, and various other extraordinary and impossible

arrangements, the like of which never before appeared in Bog county,

until the arrival of the present occasion, to wit:--

AT GRECIAN HALL, TYRE,

On Saturday Evening, December 22, 1859.

* * * * *

---> LOOK AT THE ARRAY OF TALENT! <---

* * * * *

MONS. BELITZ,

the celebrated Magician from Egypt, performer general to

THE GRAND FOO FOO,

and professor of the Black Art to all the crowned heads of the

Cannibal Islands and Ham Sandwichlands!!

MADEMOISELLE HELIOTROPE,

the charming Danseuse from all the city theatres, but most recently

from the Imperial _Deutscher Yolks Garten_, Liverpool, Ireland!

SIGNOR STRAWSTEKOWSKI,

the celebrated Demagogue and Snake eater, whose unrivaled feat with

a living _Gryllus_, whose fangs have never been extracted, fills

thousands with awe and delight!

YANKEE SHOCKWIG,

the mirth-splitting and side-provoking delineator of down-east horse

peculiarities. Must be appreciated to be seen.

HERR BALAMSASS,

the distinguished Vocalist from Italy, whose lower notes, as

recently discovered by the celebrated examination before the Council

of Trent, reach so far below the _epigastrium_ as to be utterly

inaudible to the most acute auricular organs!

BRUDDER GEORGE AND AUNTY CLAWSON,

the never-to-be-sufficiently-equaled delineators of Ethiopian

eccentricities, whose performances during the winter of 1869

delighted overflowing houses in the Cape Cod Lunatic Asylum for 4000

consecutive nights.

BENJAMIN BOLT, Esq.,

the justly-celebrated trumpeter from the splendid orchestral band

attached to Marnum's Buseum, New York city, for the past fifty

years!

FANTADIMO FANTODIMUS,

the graceful and efficient master of ceremonies, whose efforts have

been awarded by the entire available population of Blackwell's

Island, in a series of resolutions of the most pathetic description!

* * * * *

Owing to future engagements, the stay of this troupe in Tyre will be

POSITIVELY FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY, when the Programme will be specified

in small bills of the evening.

Admittance, 25 cents. Doors open at 6; Master of Ceremonies makes

his bow at 7.

PROF. BROWN D. GREEN, AGENT.

Against the advice of the editor of the Times, I dispatched an agent

over to Sidon, with a supply of blanked bills from the same form, with

instructions to arrange for a similar 'sell' on the following Monday

evening in that charming village.

I was sufficiently busy during the interval that lay between this and

Saturday evening in rehearsing my part for the entertainment thus

advertised. I was not entirely free from doubts of the success of a

'take-in' so palpable and ridiculous, and even if a house-full of

numbsculls _should_ gather, I deemed the experiment a dangerous one for

me; but my editorial friend took the risk, remarking that he had

calculated his chances, and knew what he was about. Nevertheless, it

was not without some trepidation that I entered Grecian Hall by the

private door, at a little before seven o'clock, and laid my hat behind

the temporary curtain that had been erected for the accommodation of the

great Humbug Troupe. Applying my eye to a chink in the cloth, I

perceived that the hall was crowded to suffocation. My editorial friend

sat in a prominent position near the stage, and the audience was

manifesting those signs of impatience which seem to be equally orthodox

among the news-boys in the pit of the old Bowery Theatre and the coarse

young rustics who go to 'shows' in the back villages of ruraldom. I

tinkled a bell. The uproar grew quiet. I drew aside my curtain, and made

my bow, amid the silent wonderment of my auditors. Then I said:--

'Ladies and gentlemen: You now see before you the redoubtable Fantadimo

Fantodimus, master of ceremonies for the Great Humbug Troupe. You also

see before you, ladies and gentlemen, Mons. Belitz, the renowned

magician, Mademoiselle Heliotrope, the graceful danseuse, Signor

Strawstekowski, Herr Balamsass; and, in short, ladies and gentlemen, you

see before you the sum and substance of the Great Humbug Troupe, as it

exists in all its original splendor. We salute you!

'My friends, you were drawn here to-night by the extravagantly worded

and outlandish representations of a poster which promised you only one

single thing, namely, that you should behold a Great Traveling Humbug.

Nothing could be more honest, though some things might be more

straightforward. Force of circumstances compels me this evening to

represent the Great Traveling Humbug you came to see. I am this evening

the greatest of humbugs. I travel. A week ago, I traveled into this

village with the laudable intention of giving you a sensible lecture on

EURIPIDES, a historical personage of whom some of you may have heard. I

traveled over to this hall on the evening of my lecture, and spoke to a

beggarly array of empty seats. To-morrow morning, I intend to travel to

church in your beautiful village, repent of my sins, and on Monday

travel home to New York, where I shall at once take measures to rid

myself of the title I wear this evening, by earning my bread in the

old-fashioned way, by the sweat of my brow.

'Humbug, ladies and gentlemen, is a pill not at all disagreeable to

take, when gilded carefully. My pill has been prepared by the hand of a

novice, and you have swallowed it with your eyes open. May it benefit

you!'

Symptoms of a disturbance immediately became manifest, when my editorial

angel arose and spread his wings over the troubled audience.

'People of Tyre,' said he, 'the exhibition of the Great Humbug Troupe

is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting and least objectionable

that ever appeared in our village. It remains for us to make it

instructive. I propose that we give three cheers for our brave

entertainer,--hip, hip,

'_Hurrah!_ HURRAH! HURRAH!'

Like young thunder the last cheer arose; and my bacon was saved!

The receipts placed me in possession of fifty dollars, after defraying

all expenses in Tyre and settling my bill and recovering my satchel from

Sidon--which I did by a messenger the same evening after the lecture. My

editorial friend advised me now to stop at Sidon only long enough to

take the first train home, leaving the Sidonites to discover the sell

without expense. But I scouted the idea. I was flushed with the success

of the previous evening (a success mainly due, as the sagacious reader

knows, to the editor of the _Times_ and his _corps_ of confidants

distributed at intervals over the hall); I was chagrined at the turn my

original enterprise had taken, but determined to carry it out 'to the

death;' and, more than all, I was burning to revenge myself on the

perfidious postmaster of Sidon, and Dr. Tomson and Squire Johnson and

Mr. Dickson and Mr. Dobson and Mr. Potkins. And on Monday evening I

faced an audience in Jones's Hall, Sidon, prominent among whom I

noticed, the principal objects of my ire.

IV.--HE DON'T MAKE A HIT IN SIDON, THOUGH SOME PERSON IN THE AUDIENCE

DOES.

No time for contemplation was left on my hands, however; for as soon as

I had articulated the words 'ladies and gentlemen,' an offensive missile

hit me between my eyes, exploded, and deluged me with an odor in

comparison with which that of Limberger cheese would be mere geranium. I

was betrayed. Tyre had sent over a detachment of spies, and the

Sidonites were armed. I briskly dodged several companion eggs whose

foulness was permitted to adorn the walls of Jones's Hall behind me, and

then undertook to escape. Simultaneously with the explosion of the first

shot, a howl had burst from the audience, which boded no good for any

prospects of comfort and profit I might entertain. Escaping on my part

became no joke; and I beg the reader to believe that my chagrin was

quite overwhelmed in the all-impressive desire to protect myself from

total annihilation. In my subsequent gratitude at having accomplished

this feat, I overlooked the little discomforts of an eye in mourning, a

broken finger, and garments perfumed throughout in defiance of _la

mode_.

At present, I am engaged in a business which I deem far more respectable

and lucrative than lecturing, to wit, explaining the merits and

advantages of a patent needle-threader to interested crowds on Broadway.

Here my oratorical abilities are advantageously displayed, my audiences

are attentive, and my profits are good.

[_Exit Brown_]

* * * * *

THE WATCHWORD.

'Trust in the Lord, and keep your powder dry!'

So cried stout OLIVER in the storm, before

That redder rain on bloody Marston Moor,

Which whelmed the flower of English chivalry.

Repeat the watchword when the sullen sky

Stoops with its weight of terror, while the roar

Of the far thunder deepens, and no more

God's gracious sunshine greets the lifted eye!

Not Faith alone, but Faith with Action armed,

Shall win the battle, when the anointed host

Wars with the alien armies, and, unharmed,

Snatch victory from a field where all seemed lost.

Front Death and Danger with a level eye;

Trust in the Lord, _and keep your powder dry!_

* * * * *

TINTS AND TONES OF PARIS.

It is a curious test of national character to compare the prevalent

impressions of one country in regard to another whereof the natural and

historical description is quite diverse: and in the case of France and

England, there are so many and so constantly renewed incongruities, that

we must discriminate between the effect of immediate political jealousy,

in such estimates, and the normal and natural bias of instinct and

taste. To an American, especially, who may be supposed to occupy a

comparatively disinterested position between the two, this mutual

criticism is an endless source of amusement. In conversation, at the

theatre, on the way from Calais or Dover to either capital, at a Paris

_café_, or a London club-house, he hears these ebullitions of prejudice

and partiality, of self-love or generous appreciation, and finds therein

an endless illustration of national character as well as of human

nature. But perhaps the literature of the two countries most

emphatically displays their respective points of view and tone of

feeling. While a popular French author sums up the elements of life in

England as being _la vie de famille, la politique, et les

affaires_,--'domestic life, politics, and business,'--he complacently

infers that _le fond du caractère Anglais_, 'the basis of the English

character,' is nothing more nor less than _le manque de bonheur_--'a

want of anything like happiness.' An English thinker, on the other hand,

finds in the very language of France the evidence of superficial emotion

and unaspiring, irreverent intelligence. 'How exactly,' writes Julius

Ham, 'do _esprit_ and _spirituel_ express what the French deem the

highest glory of the human mind! A large part of their literature is

_mousseux_; and whatever is so, soon grows flat. Our national quality is

sense, which may, perhaps, betray a tendency to materialism; but which,

at all events, comprehends a greater body of thought, that has settled

down and become substantiated in maxims.'[A] How far a Frenchman is from

appreciating this distinction, as unfavorable to his own race, we can

realize from the following estimate of the historical evil which an

admired modern writer considers that race has suffered from the English,

and from the character of the latter as recognized by another equally a

favorite:--

[Footnote A: Guesses at Truth.]

'Iniquitous England,' writes a popular novelist, 'the vile executioner

of all in which France most exulted, murdered grace in Marie Stuart, as

it did inspiration in Jeanne d'Arc, and genius in Napoleon;'--'a race,'

says another, 'gifted with a national feeling which well-nigh approaches

superstition, yet which has chosen the whole world for its country. The

gravity of _these beings_, accidentally brought together and isolated by

mere interest, their life of mechanical activity, and of labor without

relaxation as without life, all interest, yet freeze you at the same

time.' 'The Englishman has made unto himself a language appropriate to

his placid manners and silent habits. This language is a murmur

interrupted by subdued hisses,'--'_un murmure entre-coupé de sifflements

doux_.'

The gregarious hotel life in America commends itself to the time-saving

habits of a busy race; but the love of speciality in France modifies

this advantage: in our inns a stated price covers all demands except for

wine; here each separate necessity is a specific charge--the sheet of

writing paper, the cake of soap, and the candle figure among the

innumerable items of the bill. Thus an infinite subdivision makes all

business tedious, involving so many distinct processes and needless

conditions; at every step we realize of how much less comparative value

is time in the Old World. On the other hand, the rigid system that

governs municipal life, the means adopted to render all public

institutions both accessible and attractive, claim perpetually the

gratitude of artists, students, and philosophers. A programme of

exploration may be arranged at will, yielding a complete insight, and,

when achieved, such has been the order, communicativeness and facility,

that we have a more distinct and reliable idea of the whole circle of

observation than it is possible to obtain elsewhere. We are continually

reminded of Buffon's maxim: '_la genie est la patience_.' A curious

illustration of this systematic habit of the French occurred at

Constantinople, during the Crimean war, where they immediately numbered

the houses and named the streets, to the discomfiture of the passive

Turks--one of whom, in his wonder at the mechanical superiority of these

Frank allies, asked a soldier if the high fur cap on his head would come

off. The _concièrge_ beneath each _porte cochére_, the social

distinction which makes each _café_ and restaurant the nucleus of a

particular class, the organized provision for all exigencies of human

life in Paris, illustrate the same trait on a larger and more useful

scale. If we survey the institutions and the monuments with care, and

refer to their origin, associations and purposes, the historical and

economical national facts are revealed with the utmost clearness and

unity. The old Bastile represented, in its gloomy stolidity, the whole

tragedy of the Revolution; and St. Genevieve combines the holy memories

of the early church with that of the first French kings; the site of a

_fosse commune_ attests the valor of republican martyrs; the Champs

Elysées are the popular earthly fields of a French paradise. One _café_

is famed for the beauty of its mistress, another for the great

chess-players who make it a resort; one is the daily rendezvous of the

liberals, another of royalists, one of military men, another of artists;

they flourish and fade with dynasties, and are respectively the

favorites of provincials and citizens, gourmands and traders, men of

letters and men of state.[A] The _Monte de Piété_ acquaints us with the

vicissitudes and expedients of fortune; the _Hotel Dieu_ is a temple of

ancient charity; the _Hospice des Enfants Trouvées_ startles us with the

astounding fact that half the children born in Paris are illegitimate;

and the Morgue yields no less appalling statistics of suicide. In

Vernet's studio we feel the predominance of military taste and education

in France; in the _Ecole Polytecnique_, the policy by which her youth

are bred to serve their country; at the manufactories of the Gobelines

and Sévres china, we perceive how naturally the mechanical genius of the

race finds development in pottery and fabrics instead of ships and

machines, as across the Channel and beyond the ocean; and in the

self-possession, knowledge of affairs, and variety of occupation of the

middle class of women, we see why they have no occasion to advocate

their rights and complain of the inequality of the sexes.

[Footnote A: 'Mes habitudes de dîner chez les restaurants,' says a

Parisian philosopher, 'ont été pour moi une source intarrissable de

surprises, de decouvertes, et de revelations sur l'humanité.']

All large cities furnish daily material for tragedy, and life there,

keenly observed and aptly narrated, proves continually how much more

strange is truth than fiction; but the impressive manners and

melo-dramatic taste of the people, as well as their intricate police

system, bring out more vividly these latent points of interest, as a

reference to the _Causes Célébres_ and the Memoirs of Vidocq illustrate.

A friend of mine, returning from a trip to Lyons, became acquainted in

the rail-car with an English gentleman, and when they reached the

station, just before midnight, the two left for their hotels in the same

cab. After a short drive, the vehicle suddenly came to a halt, the

cabman sprang to the ground, and his passengers were left to surmise the

occasion of their abrupt abandonment: presently a crowd collected, a

shout was raised, and they learned that a valise had been stolen from

the top of the carriage, and its owner had set off in pursuit of the

thief. He ran with great swiftness, doubled corners, sprang over

obstacles, and was in a fair way to distance his pursuer, when a

soldier thrust out his foot and tripped up the fugitive, who was taken

to the nearest police station. Confronted with the owner of the valise,

he declared it was his own property, placed by mistake on the wrong cab.

The official authorized to settle the difficulty not being present, my

friend and his companion were informed they must leave the article in

dispute, and the case itself, until the following morning, when a

hearing would be had before one of the courts. On reaching their

destination, the gentlemen parted with the understanding that they would

dine together at a certain restaurant the next day. The appointed hour

came, but not the Englishman; and my friend's appetite and patience were

keen set, when, after an hour's delay, the truant made his appearance,

looking pale, _triste_ and exhausted. He soon explained the cause of his

detention. He had gone to the police court to prove and regain his

valise, and found at the bar a young man of genteel address and

remarkable beauty; his costume was in the latest fashion, though

somewhat soiled and torn from his fall and rough handling the previous

night; but his countenance was intelligent and refined, and his bearing

that of a gentleman. Upon a table lay the valise and the contents of the

prisoner's pockets, among them a large penknife; he held convulsively to

the rail and kept his eyes cast down; the judge had taken his seat, and

a crowd of idlers and gens d'armes filled the room. The claimant

immediately satisfied the court that the valise belonged to him by

mentioning several articles it contained and producing the key. In the

mean time the accused, earnestly watching the entrance, started and

turned pale and red by turns as a beautiful girl, in the dress of a

prosperous grisette, pushed her way into the crowd, stood on tiptoe, and

exchanged glances with the prisoner. The latter, when asked his name,

replied, 'I have brought disgrace enough upon it already,' and, seizing

the penknife, thrust it into his heart, and fell dead. He was the

descendant of a noble house in one of the southern provinces, and came

to Paris as a medical student, and, through a devoted attachment to his

mistress, whose costly tastes soon drained his purse, was induced to

steal the trunks of travelers as they left the railway stations at

night. In his apartment was found a large wardrobe; and a month's

purloining was thus summarily expiated. Similar incidents occur

elsewhere, but the details, when the scene is laid in Paris, are more

picturesque and dramatic.

Two instances which I heard related will illustrate this same dramatic

significance in the municipal system. After an _émeute_, the _chef_ of

police in a certain _arrondissement_, while engaged in superintending

the removal of corpses from a barricade, noticed the body of a female

whose delicate hands and finely-wrought robe were so alien to the scene

as to excite suspicion. He ordered it to be placed in a separate

apartment for examination. A more careful inspection confirmed his

surmise that this was the body of no amazonian whose warlike zeal or

accidental presence in such an affray could explain its discovery. There

was no trace whereby the remains could be identified except a geranium

leaf that was found imbedded in her long and disheveled tresses. This

was given to a celebrated botanist, with orders to learn, if possible,

from what plant it had been taken. The man of science visited all the

houses of the neighborhood, and critically examined every specimen of

the shrub he could find. At length, in the elegant library of a young

abbé, he not only discovered one of the species, but, by means of a

powerful microscope, detected the very branch whence the leaf had been

nipped. By dexterous management the _chef_, thus scientifically put on

the track, brought home the charge to the priest, who confessed the

murder of the young lady in a fit of jealousy, and, by depositing her

body, at night, amid the dead of humbler lineage, who had fallen in the

revolutionary strife, thought to conceal all knowledge of his crime.

The lessee of an extensive 'hotel' had reason to believe that a child

had entered and left the world in one of his tenants' apartments,

without the cognizance of a human being except the mother; and, aware,

as a landlord in Paris should be, of his responsibility to the municipal

government, he communicated his suspicions to the authorities. The rooms

were searched, the charge denied, and no proof elicited to warrant

further action; and here the matter would have ended in any other

country. But the police agent entrusted with the inquiry raked over the

contents of a pigsty in the courtyard, and discovered a square inch of

thin bone, which he exhibited to an anatomist, who pronounced it a

fragment of a new-born infant's skull; the hogs were instantly killed,

the contents of their stomachs examined, and small portions of the body

found. The question then arose whether the child was born alive; pieces

of the lungs were placed in a basin of water, and the fact that they

floated on its surface proved, beyond a doubt, that the child had

breathed; the crime of infanticide was then charged upon the unhappy

mother, who, appalled by this evidence of her guilt, confessed.

In the gray of the dawn a watchful observer may behold the two extremes

of Paris life ominously hinted;--a cloaked figure stealthily dropping a

swathed effigy of humanity, just 'sent into this breathing world,' in

the rotary cradle of the asylum for _enfants trouvés_, and a cart full

of the corpses of the poor, driven into the yard of a hospital for

dissection.

Summoned one evening at dusk to the sick chamber of a countryman, I

realized the shadows of life in Paris. From the dazzling Boulevard the

cab soon wound through dim thoroughfares, up a deserted acclivity, to a

gloomy porch. A cold mist was falling, and I heard the bell sound

through a vaulted arch with desolate echoes. When the massive door

opened, a lamp suspended from a chain revealed a paved _entresol_ and

broad staircase; there was something prison-like even in the patrician

dimensions of the edifice; the light nickered at every gust. Ascending,

I pulled a _cordon bleu_, and was admitted into the apartment. It

consisted of four places or rooms, the furniture of which was in the

neatest French style, both of wood and tapestry; but the fireplace was

narrow, and so ill-constructed that while the heat ascended the chimney

the smoke entered the room. A nurse, with one of those keen,

self-possessed faces and that efficient manner so often encountered in

Paris, ushered me to the invalid's presence. He was a fair specimen of a

philosophic bachelor inured to the life of the French metropolis;

everything about him was in good taste, from the model of the lamp to

the cover of the arm-chair; and yet an indescribable cheerlessness

pervaded his elegant lodging. The last play of Scribe, the day's

_Journal des Debats_, a bouquet, and a Bohemian glass, were on the

marble table at his side. His languid eye brightened and his feverish

hand tightened convulsively over mine; years had elapsed since he left

our native town; he had drunk of the cup of pleasure, and cultivated the

resources of literature and science in this their great centre; but now,

in the hour of physical weakness, the yearning for domestic and home

scenes filled his heart; and his mind reacted from the blandishments of

a luxurious materialism and a refined egotism of life. It was like

falling back upon the normal conditions of existence thus to behold the

'ills that flesh is heir to' in the midst of a city where such rich

outward provision for human activity and enjoyment fills the senses.

Excessive civilization has its morbid tendencies, and great refinement

in one direction is paralleled by an equal degree of savagery in

another. There is in absolute relation between the facilities for

pleasure and the frequency of suicide. Of all places in the world, Paris

is the most desolate to an invalid stranger. The custom of living there

in lodgings isolates the visitor; the occupants of the dwelling are not

alive to the claims of neighborhood; with his landlord he has only a

business and formal connection; thus thrown upon himself, without the

nerve or the spirits for external amusement, few situations are more

forlorn. The Parisian French are intensely calculating and selfish;

illness and grief are so alien to their tastes that, to the best of

their ability, they ignore and abjure them. As long as health permits,

out-of-door life or companionship solaces that within; the stranger may

be enchanted; but when confined to his apartment and dependent on chance

visitors or hireling services, he longs for a land where domestic life

and household comfort are better cultivated and understood.

The stranger's funeral is peculiarly sad everywhere, but in Paris its

melancholy is enhanced by the interference of foreign usages. Over the

dead as well as the living the municipal authorities claim instant

power, and the bereaved must submit to their time and arrangements in

depositing the mortal remains of the loved in the grave. The black

scarfs and chapeaux of the undertakers and their prescriptive orders

were strangely dissonant to the group of Americans collected at the

obsequies of a young countryman, and seemed incongruous when associated

with the simple Protestant ceremonial performed in another tongue. Under

the direction of those sable officials we entered the mourning coaches

and followed the plumed hearse. It is an impressive custom--one of the

humanities of the Catholic--to lift the hat at the sight of such a

procession; such an act, performed like this by prince and beggar in the

crowded street, so gay, busy, self-absorbed, bears affecting witness to

the common vicissitudes and instincts of mankind. The dead leaves

strewed the avenue of Pere la Chaise, and the bare trees creaked in the

gale as we threaded sarcophagi, tablets, and railed cenotaphs; in the

distance, smoke-canopied, stretched the vast city; around were countless

effigies of the dead of every rank, from the plain slab of the

undistinguished citizen to the wreathed obelisk of the hero, from the

ancient monument of Abelard and Heloise to the broken turf on the new

grave of poverty only designated by a wooden cross; gray clouds flitted

along the zenith, and a pale streak of light defined the wide horizon;

Paris with its frivolity, temples, business, pleasures, trophies and

teeming life, sent up a confused and low murmur in the distance; only

the wind was audible among the tombs. Never had the beautiful Church of

England services appeared to me so grand and pathetic as when here read

over the coffin of one who had died in exile, and with only a few of his

countrymen, most of them unacquainted even with his features, to attend

his burial.

However a change of government may interfere with a Parisian's freedom

of speech and pen, the autocrat is yet to appear who dares place an

interdict on his culinary aptitudes. The science of dining in Paris has,

notwithstanding, its new mysteries; and in order to be abreast of the

times, it is wise, instead of drawing on past experience, to take

counsel of a friend who holds the present clue to the labyrinth of bills

of fare and fair bills. The little cabinet of my favorite restaurant,

sacred to the initiated, had the same marble table, cheerful outlook,

pictured ceiling and breezy curtains,--the same look of elegant

snugness; but, when we had seated ourselves in garrulous conclave over

the _carte_, it was to the member of our party whose knowledge was of

the latest acquisition that we submitted the choice of a repast; and as

he discoursed of the mysterious excellences of _cotelletes a la

Victoria, rissoles a la Orleans, patés de fois gras a la Bonaparte,

paupicettes de veau a la Demidoff, truffes a la Perigord_, etc., we

realized that the same incongruous blending of associations, the same

zest for glory and dramatic instinct, ruled the world of cookery as of

letters, and that, with all the political vicissitudes since our last

dinner in Paris, her prandial distinction had progressed.

From the restaurant to the theatre, is, in Paris, a most natural

transition; and the play and players of the day will be found far more

closely representative of the social tone, the political creed, the

artistic tastes of the hour, than elsewhere. The drama, for instance, in

vogue not long since at the Vaudeville Theatre in the Place de la

Bourse, is one we can scarcely imagine successful in another city, at

least to such a degree. It was _Les Filles de Marbre_; and this is the

plot. The opening scene is at Athens, in the studio of Phidias. It is

the day after that on which Alcibiades cut off his dog's tail; and,

exulting in the effect produced by that exploit, he enters with the rich

Gorgias, who has ordered and paid Phidias in advance for statues of his

three friends, Laïs, Phryné, and Aspasia. He finds Phidias unwilling to

part with the statues, on which he has worked so long and ardently till,

like Pygmalion of old, he has fallen in love with his own creation; he

will not even allow Gorgias to see them, and the latter departs swearing

vengeance. Diogenes enters, and a satirical brisk dialogue ensues, at

the end of which Phidias draws aside a curtain and shows his work to

Diogenes, who, stoic as he is, can not refrain from an exclamation of

delight. The group is admirably arranged on the stage, and the effect is

very fine as Theä, a young slave, holds back the drapery from the group

while the moon illumines it with a soft light. At this moment an

approaching tumult is heard. Theä drops the curtain, and Gorgias with

his friends, heated with Cyprus wine, enters, accompanied by the

'myrmidons of the law.' He again demands the statues, for which Phidias

has already received his gold. Phidias expostulates, then entreats,--no,

Gorgias will have his statues. At this, Theä, who had long loved

Phidias, unknown to him, hardly noticed, never requited, throws herself

at Gorgias's feet and cries, 'Take me, sell me; I am young and strong,

but leave Phidias his statues.' Gorgias says, 'Who are you? Poor

creature, you are not worth over fifty drachmas! Away! Guards, do your

duty! Slaves, seize the statues.' Then Diogenes, hitherto half asleep on

a mat in the corner, cries, 'Stop, Gorgias! You always profess justice,

strict justice. Why don't you ask with whom of you the statues will

prefer to stay?' A shout of laughter from his jolly companions makes

Gorgias accede to this droll proposal. 'So be it!' cries he; and

Diogenes draws aside the curtain, and holds up his lantern, which, with

a strong French reflector, throws a powerful light on the upper part of

the group, with a fine and startling effect. The group represents

Aspasia seated, with a scroll and stylus, Laïs leaning over her, and

Phryné at her feet looking up, all draped, artistically _posed_, and the

three beautiful girls that perform the parts look as like marble as

possible.

'Now, Phidias,' cries Diogenes, 'come, what have you to say to your

marble girls?'

'Laïs, Aspasia, Phryné, I am Phidias. You owe me your existence, and I

love you; you know it, and that I am poor.'

'That's a bad argument, Phidias,' says Diogenes.

'I am poor, and have nothing but you. Stay by him to whom you owe your

glory and your immortality!'

The statues remain immovable.

Gorgias addresses them: 'I am Gorgias, the rich Athenian; I alone am as

rich as all the kings of Asia, and I offer you a palace paved with gold.

Aspasia, Laïs, Phryné, which of us do you choose?'

The statues turn their heads and smile faintly on Gorgias, who starts

and stands as if petrified. The Athenians look horror-struck. Phidias

covers his face with his hands, and, uttering a cry, falls to the

ground. A soft and enervating strain of music fills the air.

'By all the gods!' cries Gorgias, 'I believe the statues moved their

lips as if to smile upon me.'

'I know you by that smile, O girls of marble,' says

Diogenes,--'courtesans of the past, courtesans of the future!' and he

returns to his mat.

At this moment Theä's voice is heard in the far distance, singing a few

mystical, mournful bars of music, and the curtain falls.

This is the 'argument,'--the other four acts work it out.

The next act opens in a restaurant of to-day in the Bois de Boulogne,

near Paris. A young artist lives there, and falls desperately in love

with an actress, for whom he leaves his art, his mother, and his

betrothed, is ruined in purse, and returns at last, heart-broken, to

his old home, to die; the actress all the while sees his despair with

indifference, and proves herself therefore a '_fille de marbre_'

In another recent piece, we are told that a 'procession of nuns, dressed

in white, sing a lay at midnight. In the intervals, a chorus of frogs in

the neighboring swamp croak the refrain in unison. Sax, the great

brass-founder, who made the Last Trumpets for the 'Wandering Jew,' and

the instruments for the Band of the Guides, is engaged upon the

frogpipes required. The illusion will be heightened by characteristic

scenery and mephitic exhalations. M. Sax visited the pool in the Bois de

Boulogne, known as the _Marée d'Auteuil_, and brought back many useful

ideas in reference to the quadruped with whose vocal powers he desired

to become acquainted. The frog voices will be a series of eight,

representing a full octave.'

The Provincial, at Paris, is a standard theme for playwrights; what the

Scotch were to Johnson, Lamb, and Sidney Smith, is the native of

Provence or Brittany to the comic writers of the metropolis,--a nucleus

for wit and an occasion for practical jokes. One of the late pieces,

called 'My Uncle,' turned upon the devices of a wild youth to obtain

money from his simple-hearted relative in the country. For months a

pretended love affair, a marriage, and the birth of an heir, elicited

remittances, which were expended upon banquets, at which a bevy of gay

students applauded the ingenuity of their entertainer. At last the uncle

comes to town, and it becomes quite a study to carry on the game, which

yields occasion for innumerable salient contrasts between rustic

simplicity and city acumen. A diagnosis of the provincial's ways in

Paris, like every form of life there, has been given by a shrewd

observer, who mentions among other signs that the novice may be

recognized by the fact that he keeps his toothpick after dinner and

carries it to the theatre.

I found that marvelous actress, Rachel, before her visit to America,

much attenuated; indeed, she resembled a bundle of nerves electrified

with vitality; her bleached skin, thin arms, large, scintillating eyes,

and that indescribable something which marks the Jewish physiognomy,

gave her a weird, sibyl-like appearance, as of one wasted by long

vigils. There was in her glance and action the spasmodic inspiration

observable in Malibran towards the close of her career. The play was

Racine's Andromache, and the depth and energy of Hermione's emotions

were illustrated by a sudden transition of tone, a working of the

features, that a painter might study forever, and a gesture, bearing,

look and utterance which were the consummation of histrionic art; yet so

exclusively was this the ease, that admiration never lost itself in

sympathy; it was the perfection of acting, not of nature; it won and

chained the scrutinizing mind, but failed to sway the heart; it lacked

the magnetic element; and while the critic was baffled in the attempt to

pick a flaw, and the elocutionist in raptures at the sublime

possibilities of his art, it was Rachel, not Hermione, the genius of the

performer, not the reality of the character, that won the earnest

attention, and woke the constant plaudits. [A] That over-consciousness

which belongs to the French nature, so evident in their 'Confessions,'

their oratory, their manners, their conversation, and their life, and

which is the great reason of their want of persistence and

self-dependence in political affairs, modifies their ideal

representations on the stage as well as in literature. The process

described so philosophically by Coleridge, to lose 'self in an idea

dearer than self,' is the condition of all greatness. It sublimated the

life of Washington, and made it unique in the annals of nations; it

enabled Shakspeare to incarnate the elements of humanity in dramatic

creations, and Kean to reproduce them on the stage; it is the grand law

of the highest achievements in statesmanship, in letters, and in art,

without which they fall short of wide significance and enduring

vitality.

[Footnote A: The very description of her enthusiastic admirers suggests

that such were the original traits and the special character of Rachel.

At first we are told by the patron who earliest recognized her genius,

'a delirious popularity surrounded the young _tragedienne_, and with her

the antique tragedy which she had revived.' How different from the

original relation of Kemble, Kean, or Siddons to the Shaksperian drama!

Then the manner in which she prepared herself for artistic triumph is

equally suggestive of the artificial and the conventional: 'Elle se

drape,' we are told, 'avec un art merveilleux; au theatre elle fait

preuve d'études intelligentes de la statuaire antique.' It was in the

external form rather than by sympathetic emotion that she wooed the

tragic muse. Véron compares her to Thiers. 'C'est la même netteté de

vues, la même ardeur, les mêmes ruses vigéreuses, la même fecondité

d'expedients, la même tableau phllosophique que ne la comprend ni la

vengeance ni les haines, qui se contente de negocier avec les inimities,

d'apaiser les rancunes et de conquerir toutes les influences, toutes les

amitiés qui peuvent devenir utiles.']

Although thus destitute of great central principles, nowhere is human

life more enriched by minor philosophy; it may be a fate, a routine, a

drudgery, and an accident in other parts of the world, but in Paris it

is or can easily be made an art. The science of substitution, the law of

compensation, nowhere more obviously triumphs; taste cheaply gratified

atones for limited destinies; manners yield a charm, which, for the

time, renders us oblivious of age; tact proves as good a resource as

learning, wit as beauty, cheerfulness as fortune. The _boudoir_, by

means of chintz, gauze, and human vivacity, is as prolific of fine talk

and good company as the drawing-room. A bunch of violets or a box of

mignonnette suggests to sensitive imaginations the whole cornucopia of

Flora. Perhaps the eclectic provision for enjoyment in the French

capital was never more apparent than during the sojourn of the allied

armies there after the battle of Waterloo. It was as good as a play

illustrative of national manners and taste, to note how Russian, German,

Cossack, and English, hussar, diplomat, and general, found the dish, the

pastime, and the observance each most coveted, when that vast city was

like a bivouac of the soldiers of Europe.

The communicative habit and social tendency of life, under every aspect,

in Paris, often promotes success by making individuals famous,--a

process far easier of achievement there than in any other metropolis. A

poor fellow who opened a _café_, and had so little patronage as at the

end of his first quarter to be on the verge of bankruptcy, resorted, one

day, to the expedient of firing a heavily-charged musket in the midst of

his neat but unfrequented saloon. The report instantly brought half a

score of policemen, two gens d'armes, and a crowd of idlers, to the

spot; curiosity was on tiptoe to hear of a murder, a suicide, or an

infernal machine; strange rumors began to spread from the crowd within

to the street; and a long investigation was held on the premises.

Meantime people wanted refreshments, which the hitherto indolent waiters

of the _café_ supplied; the place was found to be quite snug and

tasteful, and the proprietor quite a lion; thenceforth his credit was

established in the neighborhood, and a regular set of customers

liberally sustained his enterprise. Dr. Véron informs us that, after

waiting six weeks for a patient, upon first commencing practice, he had

the good fortune to stop the bleeding nose of a _concièrge_, in his

vicinity, which had resisted all the usual appliances; the news of his

exploit was soon noised abroad, its merit exaggerated, and he was

astonished to receive six or seven patients a day, attracted by his

sudden reputation. Unfortunately, however, one day an old lady, of much

consideration in that quartier, requested him to bleed her; she was so

fat that he made two or three unsuccessful attempts to open a vein, when

she rose indignantly and pronounced him an _imbecile_,--a judgment which

was so quickly adopted by the gossips, that in less than a week he sank

into his original obscurity.

Another speciality of Parisian life occurred in the person of an old

man, who came hither in youth, and while pursuing his studies received

news of the loss of his fortune,--a pittance only remained; and so

enamored had he become of the means of study and the monastic freedom

here possible for the poor dreamer, that, hiring a cheap and obscure

lodging, he remained a voluntary exile, unallured by the attractions of

American enterprise, which soon revived the broken fortunes of his

brothers. A more benign cosmopolite or meek disciple of learning it

would be difficult to find; unlike his restless countrymen, he had

acquired the art of living in the present;--the experience of a

looker-on in Paris was to him more satisfactory than that of a

participant in the executive zeal of home.

Such instances form a pleasing contrast to the outward gayety we

habitually associate with Paris. It boasts a world of patient labor.

Emile Souvestre has drawn some faithful and charming pictures of these

scenes, wherein philosophy and cheerfulness illumine the haunts of

modest toil. In England and America only artists of great merit enjoy

consideration; but in Paris the pursuit itself insures countenance and

sympathy, which in themselves yield vast encouragement. There are more

odd characters ensconced in the nooks of this capital than anywhere else

in Europe;--men who have become unconsciously metropolitan

friars--living in celibate dens, haunting libraries and gardens,

subsisting on a bare competence, and working out some darling theory or

speculative problem; lonely in the midst of a crowd, and content in

their self-imposed round of frugality and investigation.

I found the dissatisfied spirit of a young artist, whom I had known in

America, here completely soothed; instead of feeling himself overpowered

by the commercial spirit of his own country, one of a neglected

minority, striving in vain to excite interest in a vocation too

profitless for a community absorbed in trade, politics, and fashion, he

now experienced the advantage of a recognized class, and the excitement

of a fraternity in art; his life, studies, aims were those of hundreds

as limited in their circumstances and as ideal in their aspirations;

galleries, studios, lectures, models, criticism, illustrious men, noble

examples, friendly words and true companionship, made his daily life,

independent of its achievements, one of self-respect, of growing

knowledge, and assured satisfaction. Without some pursuit thus enlisting

the higher powers and justifying, as it were, the independent career of

a resident, it is astonishing how the crust of selfishness gathers over

the heart in Paris; the habit of living with an exclusive view to

personal enjoyment, where the arrangements of life are so favorable,

becomes at last engrossing; and a soulless machine, with no instincts

but those of self-gratification, is often the result, especially if no

ties of kindred mitigate the hardihood of epicurism.

We soon learn to echo Rochefoucauld's words as he entered Mazarin's

carriage,--'everything happens in France;' and, like Goethe, cast

ourselves on the waves of accident with a more than Quixotic

presage,--if not of actual adventure, at least of adventurous

observation; for it is a realm where Fashion, the capricious tyrant of

modern civilization, has her birth, where the '_vielle femme remplissait

une mission importante et tutelaire pour tous les âges_;' where the

_raconteur_ exists not less in society than in literature; the elysium

of the scholar, the nucleus of opinion, the arena of pleasure, and the

head-quarters of experiment, scientific, political, artistic, and

social.

Imagine a disciplined mind alive to the lessons of the past and yet with

sympathy for casual impressions, free, intent and reflective,--and Paris

becomes a museum of the world. Such a visitor wanders about the French

capital with the zest of a philosopher; he warms at the frequent

spectacle of enjoyable old age, notwithstanding the hecatombs left at

Moscow and Waterloo, Sebastopol and Magenta; he reads on the dome of the

Invalides the names of a hundred battle-fields; muses on the proximity

of the lofty and time-stained Cathedral, and the little book-stall,

where poor students linger in the sun; detects a government spy in the

loquacious son of Crispin who acts as porter at his lodgings; pulls the

_cordon bleu_ at a dear author's oaken door on the _quatrième etage_ in

a social mood, and recalls Wellington's marquee on the Boulevard

Italien, in the midst of the gay throng; notes the dexterity of a

peripatetic shoeblack at his work; loves to sup in one of the

restaurants of the Palais Royal, because there Dr. Franklin was

entertained by the Duke of Orleans; remembers, at the church of St.

Genevieve, that Abelard once lectured on its site; and, gazing on the

beautiful ware in one of the cabinets of the Louvre, muses of the holy

patience of Palissy. By the handsome quays and bridges of the Seine, he

tries to realize that once only an islet covered with mud hovels met the

wanderer's view. He smiles at the abundance of fancy names, some chosen

for their romantic sound, and others for the renowned associations,

which are attached to vocalist, shop, and mouchoir. He separates, in his

thought, the incongruous emblems around him at this moment,--tricolor

and cresent, St. George and the Lilies, 'God save the Queen' and High

Mass, banners that have floated over adverse armies since the

crusades,--amicably folded over the corpse of a French veteran! Nor are

character and manners less suggestive to such an observer; if an

American, he beholds with astonishment, after all he has heard of the

proverbial courtesy of the French, women habitually yield the wall to

men, and stops with ill-disguised impatience, on returning from an

afternoon's ride, to have his carriage examined at the gate; contrasts

the degraded state of the lower orders with the general urbanity and

quietness of demeanor and the stern sway of political rule; marks the

little crucifix and cup of holy water at the head of the peasant's bed,

and the diamond cross on the lace kerchief of the kneeling empress;

recognizes the force of character, the self-dependence, the mental

hardihood of the women, the business method displayed in their exercise

of sentiment, and the exquisite mixture in their proceedings of tact,

calculation, and geniality.

* * * * *

THE TRUE BASIS.

Never at any stage of American history was there such a crisis of ideas

as at present, and never was there such urgent necessity of setting

promptly, vigorously and clearly before the people the great and new

principles which this crisis is bringing to life. So vast are the issues

involved, so tremendous their inevitable consequences, that we acquit of

exaggeration the statesman who, in comparing even the gradual unfolding

of the mighty past with this our present, exclaimed, 'Now is the first

of the world's progress.'[A]

[Footnote A: Hon. Daniel S. Dickinson.]

The reader is doubtless perfectly familiar with the fact that in the

battle between the North and the South two opposite principles are

involved,--the same which have been at the bottom of all wars for

freedom, from the beginning of time. The one party believes that one

portion of society must flourish at the expense of another part, of a

permanently sunken class; while the other holds that history proves that

the lot of all persons in a commonwealth is capable of being gradually

ameliorated, and that in any case it is our sacred duty to legislate for

the poor, on this basis, by allowing them equal rights, and making every

exertion to extend the best blessings of education to them, and open to

every man, without distinction, every avenue of employment for which he

is qualified.

The Northern party, or that of equal rights and free labor, like their

predecessors, hold many ideas which coming years will see realized,

for--as has always been the case in these contests--science and learning

are always on the liberal side. By a strange accident, for the first

time almost in history, the Republican party is for once in its

constituted rights, on its own ground, while the feudal or conservative

wing form the aggressors. As of old, too, the Southern conservatives are

enforcing theories once the property of their foes, who have now

advanced to broader, nobler, and more gloriously liberal views.

For instance, the men of the South believe that labor and capital are

still antagonisms. Now it is true enough that they _once_ were, and that

when the _people_ in different ages first began to rebel against their

hereditary tyrants, the workman was only a serf to his capitalist

employer. That was the age when demagogues flourished by setting 'the

poor' against 'the rich.' A painful, sickening series of wars it was,

ending too often by labor's killing itself with its adversary. Then, a

foul, false 'democracy' was evolved, which was virtually a rank

aristocracy, not of nobility, but of those who could wheedle the poor

into supporting them. Such was the history of nearly all 'radicalism'

and 'democracy' from the days of Cleon and Alcibiades down to the

present time.

But the enormous developments of science and of industry have of late

years opened newer and broader views to the world. As capital has

progressed in its action it is seen that at every step labor is

becoming--slowly, but surely, as Heaven's law--identified with it. The

harmony of interests is now no longer a vague Fourieristic notion,--for

nothing is plainer than that the more the operative becomes interested

in the success of the enterprise which employs him, the better is it for

him and it. And all _work_ in it--the owner and the employee. But then,

we are told that 'the owner gets the profits.' Does he? Sum up the

companies and capitalists who have failed during the past

decade,--compare what they have lost with what they have paid their

workmen, and then see who have really pocketed the money, and whether on

the whole the capitalists have been more than properly repaid for their

risks, and wear and tear of _brains_. To be sure we are as yet far from

having realized a regularly arranged harmony of interests. But I see

that here, even in this New England, there is nothing which the great

and most intelligent capitalists desire more than this harmony, or a

system in which every man's brains and labor shall be properly and

abundantly remunerated, since they see (as all must see who reflect)

that the nearer we approach such practical adjustment of forces, the

less liable will they be to fail. And the world, as it has reflected

that labor has flourished among barren rocks, covering them with smiling

villages, under the fostering care of capital, when fertile Southern

lands are a wilderness for want of this harmony between it and capital,

has concluded that the old battle between rich and poor was a folly. The

obscure hamlets of New England, which have within thirty years become

beautiful towns, with lyceums, libraries, and schools, are the most

striking examples on earth of the arrant folly of this gabble of

'capital as opposed to labor.' In the South, however, the old theory is

held as firmly as in the days when John Randolph prophesied Northern

insurrections of starving factory-slaves against manufacturing lords,

and--as President Lincoln recently intimated in his Message--the effort

is there being made to formally enslave labor to capital. That is to

say, the South not only adheres to the obsolete theory that labor is a

foe to capital, but proposes to subdue it to the latter. The progress of

free labor in the North is, however, a constantly increasing proof that

labor _is_ capital.

Let the reader carefully digest this statement, and regard it not as an

abstraction of political economy, but as setting forth a vital truth

intimately allied to our closest interests, and to a future involving

the most serious emergencies. We are at a crisis which demands a new

influx of political thought and new principles. Our Revolution, with its

Constitution, was such an epoch; so too was the old strife between

Federalism and Democracy, in which both sides contended for what were

their rights. Since those days we have gone further, and the present

struggle, precipitated by the madness and folly of the South, sees

those who understand the great and glorious question of free labor with

its affinities to capital, endeavoring to prepare the way for a grand

coming North American Union, in which poor and rich hand in hand shall

press on, extending civilization, and crushing to the ground all

obsolete demagogueism, corruption, and folly.

It is time that the word 'radical' were expunged from our political

dictionary. Under the old system of warfare men were regarded as being

divided into the 'poor,' who were 'out' of capital, and the rich, who

were 'in.' The progress of good, honest, unflinching _labor_ is causing

men to look higher than these old limitations. We want no 'outs' or

'ins'--in this country every man should be 'in,' given heart and soul to

honest industry. And no man or woman who can _work_ is without capital,

for every such person is a capital in self. When politics are devoted,

as they must be, to extending education and protecting industry, we

shall hear no more of these absurd quarrels between the 'conservative'

and 'radical' elements.

When the government shall have triumphed in this great struggle,--when

the South, with its obsolete theories of the supremacy of capital over

labor, shall have yielded to the great advancing truth of the age,--when

free labor, rendered freer and nobler than ever, shall rule all powerful

from ocean to ocean, then we shall see this great American republic

restored to its original strength and beauty, progressing in the path

laid down by our Revolutionary forefathers, and stripped of the cruel

impediments which have clogged its course for years, proving to the

world the great assertion of all time, that man is capable of

self-government. It is this which lies before us,--neither a gloomy

'conservative' prospect of old-fashioned unchangeability, and still less

the gorgeous but preposterous dreams of Fourierite or other socialist;

but simply the healthy future of a hard-working country, in which every

impediment shall be removed from free labor and its every right

respected. And to bring this to pass there is but one first step

required. Push on the war, support the Administration, triumph at any

risk or cost, and then make of this America one great free land.

Freedom! _In hoc signo vinces_.

* * * * *

THE BLACK FLAG.

You wish that slavers once again

May freely darken every sea,

Nor think that honor takes a stain

From what the world calls piracy;

And now your press in thunder tones

Calls for the Black Flag in each street--

O, add to it a skull and bones,

And let the banner be complete.

* * * * *

THE ACTRESS WIFE.

[CONCLUDED.]

After a few moments he arose, and, staggering towards me, grasped my

hand and shook it violently, stuttering out, 'Evelyn Afton is an

angel--that is, your wife, I mean, would have made a greater actress

than Mrs. Siddons. Sefton's a rascal--d----d rascal. You see, Mr. Bell,

I'm not what I was once. The cursed liquor--that's what made me this.

John Foster once held his head as high as anybody. Want, sir, absolute

want, brought me from my "high estate"--_id est_, liquor. Cursed liquor

made me poor, and poverty made me mean.' He continued for some time in a

broken strain, interrupted by hiccoughs and sobs, exhibiting in his

demeanor the remains of former brilliancy, but now everything

impaired--voice, manner, eyesight and intellect--by excessive

indulgence.

The result of my conference was learning that Foster had been the agent

of Sefton in a conspiracy against my wife. Foster had of late years made

a precarious livelihood by occasional engagement on the stages, and a

few weeks since had strayed to this city. Being well known to Sefton,

the latter had promised him ample provision if he would feign illness,

induce my wife to visit him from motives of charity, and subsequently,

when called upon for testimony, allege that her visits were the renewal

of an old licentious intimacy. To these disgraceful propositions

Foster's degradation acceded, though in his better moments he contemned

his employer and himself.

'What,' I meditated, 'can be Sefton's design? Can it be to compel my

wife to his passion through threats of destroying her reputation?' I

smiled as I thought of the futility of such a scheme, for Evelyn would

treat with the most scornful defiance any attempt at coercion, although

resistance would sacrifice not only her honor but her life. But this can

not be his real object, else why would he have advised a divorce? I have

it. He is really infatuated with her, and desires to free her from my

possession that she may come into his--knowing his ability to clear her

character, should it appear contaminated, but reckoning chiefly on its

preservation by my own delicacy from any public stain.

Foster informed me that he always made Sefton aware of my wife's

visits,--as she appointed the evenings for them,--and that Sefton

attended the interviews, concealed in the next room. I therefore

arranged with Foster to inform Sefton that she would be present the next

evening, and then took my leave, Foster repeating again and again,

'Sefton's a rascal--Mrs. Bell's an angel. Only want, absolute want, made

me undertake this. Yes, sir,--I assure you,--_want_.'

In pursuance of the arrangement, I visited Foster the next evening,

arriving before Sefton, and going into the next apartment. Sefton soon

after entered and engaged in a conversation with Foster, which fully

corroborated the information I had previously obtained. During its

progress I entered upon them. Sefton was amazed, and struck with a

consciousness of discovered guilt.

'I am now fully aware,' I said, 'Mr. Sefton, of your cause for interest

in my affairs, and of the manner in which you have evinced it'

He had by a violent effort recovered his equanimity, and

said,--'Prevarication or denial I suppose to be useless. You have

probably outbid me for the confidence of this miserable villain. What do

you propose to do?'

'Were we both young,' I replied, 'there would be only one answer to that

question. It would be necessary to have recourse to a duel. As it is, I

am too old a man to be indulged leniently by the public in such a

proceeding. Moreover, I am conscientiously averse to initiating it.

Besides, it will not be permissible in this case to drag my wife's name

into any publicity. My only alternative, therefore, is to remain content

with the private discovery of your rascality, and hereafter to forbid

you any association with what pertains to me or my affairs.'

'I will obviate all your objections,' he replied. 'I will assume the

initiative, and attribute your acceptance of a challenge to such causes

as will excuse you to the public. Some story may easily be devised which

will cover the real motives for our proceeding.'

'_Now_,' I meditated, 'I have the clue to the mystery. Relying properly

on my wife's pride, and (alas!) her probable want of regard for me, this

man was convinced that she would not relate his attempt upon her, and

that I should never therefore be able to trace his connection with the

conspiracy. My opportune knowledge has counteracted his designs.

Evidently he has determined to possess Evelyn in marriage, since he can

in no other way. Therefore he suggested the divorce; and now, being an

excellent shot (while unaware of my own skill), he counts on removing me

by death--thus destroying all proof of his villany, and at the same time

all obstacles in his path to her. Well, I am not called on to meet him,

but I will take this hazard, as well as every other, for her.'

I signified my assent to his proposals, and there, on the scene of his

detected iniquity, we calmly discussed the necessary arrangements.

The next day, in pursuance of them, we met as by accident in the most

frequented hotel, and, after the usual salutations, engaged in

conversation, handling various papers, as if transacting a negotiation

of some kind. Gradually we warmed and our tones became louder, until

finally he exclaimed, 'It is false, Mr. Bell! Entirely false! I never

made any such representation.'

'Perhaps,' I answered mildly, 'you mean to intimate that I am mistaken,

and would not charge me, as your words imply, with wilful falsehood.'

'You must make your own application, sir,' he rejoined. 'I say your

statement is false--so false that a mere mistake can scarcely be

considered responsible for it.'

'Such a reiteration of your insult,' I said, 'leaves me no redress

except by force. As you gave the first offense, I return it to your

keeping.' So saying, I struck him.

By-standers, who had been attracted around, now seized us, and there

was, of course, much excitement and confusion.

'This is a simple matter of private business, gentlemen,' said Mr.

Sefton, 'and its settlement will take place elsewhere.'

'Yes, gentlemen,' I added, 'your interference now is not required, and

hereafter will be of no avail.' So we separated.

I proceeded to my place of business and retired to my secret chamber,

giving orders to admit no one to me (lest I should be disturbed by the

officiousness of friends seeking to 'arrange' matters), but to send up

any letters. Soon a formal challenge arrived, to which I despatched a

formal answer. At the hour of closing business I sought my chief clerk,

whom I knew to be a sporting man, and briefly informed him of the

anticipated duel, which was appointed for an early hour the next

morning, the weapons pistols, and the place a short distance from the

city, and engaged him to act as my second.

I occupied the evening in the necessary preparations of my affairs for

the contingency of a fatal issue. Near midnight I went to my residence,

and in the seclusion of my sleeping chamber passed an hour in a

tumultuous variety of thought. I had briefly written, for Evelyn's

perusal, a history of my life as connected with her, and a true version

of the circumstances leading to the duel. 'If I fall'--I sadly

thought--'will she appreciate my self-offering? Shall I leave her a

legacy of sorrow, if my death under these circumstances would grieve

her? No! I will die as I have thus far lived--making no expression of

the love which sways my soul.' I tore my letter into fragments and

burned them. Passing silently into her chamber,--the first time I had

entered it for long months,--I kneeled at her bedside and sobbed. By the

dim light I could trace the marks of grief--cold, heart-consuming

grief--on her beautiful features--marks which in the day-time resolute

pride effaced; as the furrows in the rocks of the sea-shore are seen at

ebb-tide, but are concealed when the waters bound at their flood. Slowly

and cautiously I approached my lips to hers, and lightly touched them.

She stirred, and I sank to the floor. Her sleep being but lightly

disturbed, I glided like a ghost from the chamber, and with a

heart-rending groan threw myself on my bed and forced forgetfulness and

slumber.

All parties were on the field at the appointed hour, and the

preliminaries were quickly arranged. There was in Sefton's countenance

the expression of deliberate criminality, encouraged by the expectation

of an easy triumph. Immediately upon the word, he fired. The ball grazed

my breast, tore from my shirt-front a pin, and, glancing off, fell into

a creek which partly encircled the ground. Had he been a moment less

precipitate in his determination to ensure my death, the slight movement

I would have made in raising my arm to fire would probably have changed

my position sufficiently to have received the bullet. My shot followed

immediately upon his. He was seen to stagger, but declared himself

unhurt, and demanded a second shot. The pistols were prepared and

delivered. I noticed that Sefton received his with the left hand. We

were again placed, and just as the word were being given, he fell to the

ground. On examination it appeared that at the first fire my ball had

struck immediately in front of the arm and shattered the clavicle,

thence passing--in one of the freaks peculiar to bullets--immediately

beneath the flesh, half round the body, lodging under the opposite

shoulder. He had fainted from the wound.

Of course the duel was ended. Sefton was confined to his house for

weeks, and on recovering removed to Texas, where in a few months

afterward he died from _mania a potu_.

On returning home, I found that the tidings of my difficulty with

Sefton, and its anticipated consequences, had been communicated to my

wife. She met me in the hall, her eyes flashing, but her manner evincing

more tenderness than I had ever before witnessed in it. 'Is this true,

Mr. Bell,' she asked, 'that public rumor has informed me? Have you had a

quarrel with Mr. Sefton? Have you fought with him?'

'It is true, my dear,' I replied. 'I have just returned from a duel.'

'Are you injured? Tell me,' she exclaimed, passionately.

'Not in the least,' I replied, 'but desperately--hungry.'

'And he?'

'I believe he is quite severely wounded. He was carried from the field

insensible.'

'Thank God,' she exclaimed.

I knew it was on her lips to tell me that I had been drawn into a

conflict by a villain, who had met his just deserts, but I forestalled

all explanations by demanding my breakfast, and after her first emotions

had subsided, merely gave her a matter-of-fact account of our pretended

quarrel, and of the duel.

But I laid up in my heart, as a sweet episode in my desolate life, the

anxiety she had manifested for my safety.

Public conversation and the newspapers were for a time employed on the

duel, but fortunately the truth was not suggested in the remotest

degree.

I provided liberally for Foster, and sent him from the city. Where he

now is I know not. He had informed Evelyn, by a letter, that, his health

having improved, he designed to remove.

I had long since learned Frank's early history, and, through persons to

whose patronage I had commended him and who had visited his studio at

Florence, was well acquainted with all his proceedings. My charity

towards him was producing ample fruits.

A few months after the duel, Evelyn and I were making a tour in Europe.

At a comparatively early hour on the morning after our arrival in

Florence, we proceeded, without previous announcement, to visit Frank's

studio. Being ushered into an antechamber of the rather luxurious range

of apartments, which, as I was aware, he occupied, in company with

several other bachelors, I merely sent him word that a gentleman and

lady had called to see his works, the servant informing us that he was

at breakfast. Of this our own ears received a sufficient evidence, for,

from an adjacent apartment, we heard not only the rattle of table

service in industrious requisition, but conversation and laughter, which

proved that the bachelors were jolly over their meal. Indeed, their

mutual rallying was not altogether of the most delicate kind, and

several favorite signoritas were allude to with various degrees of

insinuation. In all this, Frank, whose voice I could well distinguish

(its echoes had never left my ear), and which I was satisfied, from

Evelyn's peculiar expression, that she also recognized, bore a prominent

part. Evelyn was astonished. Frank soon appeared, looking the least like

the imaginative and love-vitalized artist possible, and entirely like

the gay young dog I knew he had become. The confused character of

_their_ greetings may be conceived. But of this I professed to be

entirely uncognizant, and, after a hasty visit to the studio, gave Frank

an invitation to dinner on the succeeding day, and we departed.

The money with which I had liberally supplied Frank had induced him to

enter with a youthful zest into the pleasures of life, and his dream of

love for Evelyn had attenuated into a mere memory. He was now a

successful and courted artist. I was possessed of another fact in

reference to him--that he was very much domesticated in an American

family residing in the city, one of whose young lady members was greatly

disposed, much to Frank's satisfaction, to recompense to him whatever

subtractions from his fund of love had previously been wasted on Evelyn.

Access to this family had been secured to Frank on my recommendation,

given before they left America. I conveyed Evelyn to their residence,

and, after also inviting them to our proposed dinner, we returned to our

temporary home.

I was careful not to intrude on Evelyn during the evening, leaving her

alone to struggle with the melancholy which I knew the incidents of the

day must induce.

Frank arrived early the next day. Evelyn's presence had evidently

renewed the power of his former feelings. Indeed, had opportunity

offered, he was prepared to give way to them, but I was careful that

none should be afforded. When our other guests arrived he was thrown

into unexpected confusion. The conflict between the past and the present

love--the ideal and the real--the shadow and the substance--the memory

and the actual--was painful, yet ridiculous to look upon. I calmly

watched, without giving any symptom of observation, the results of my

strategy, and never did a chess-player more rejoice over the issue of a

hard-fought contest. Evelyn, as I perceived, soon discovered all the

circumstances, and I could trace the conflict of passions in her

bosom--the revulsion at Frank's infidelity, yet the spontaneous

acknowledgment of her heart that he had acted wisely. She was also

reflecting, I was confident, on the weakness that constrained him to

abandon the worship of her image,--however vain and unsatisfactory it

might be,--and to elevate on the altar of his affections such a goddess

as supplied her place. For the young female in whose service Frank was

enrolled was a plump, merry and matter-of-fact girl, destitute of

genius, though possessing all the qualities which adapt woman to fulfill

the duties of the domestic relations.

My time for a final demonstration had now arrived. In the despair of her

abandonment, Evelyn must, either welcome me as her deliverer, or she

must perish in her pride. Death alone could sever us--death alone

furnished me a remedy for the deprivation of her love.

In one of the large, gloomy apartments of the dilapidated palace we

occupied, I sat alone as the twilight was gathering. My pistol case was

on the table at my side. I rang the bell, and directed the servant who

answered it to desire Evelyn's presence, and bring lights. She soon

appeared--cold, passive, incurious, yet beneath this I could see the

confined struggle of passion.

I remarked on her looks as peculiar, and expressed a fear that she was

unwell. No, she assured me, her health was as usual. Perhaps, then, she

did not find her stay in Florence agreeable. Perfectly so. She had no

desire to go or to remain, except as I had arranged in the programme of

our tour. But, I urged, she seemed dejected. Something must have

occurred to depress her mind. Not at all. She was unaware that her humor

was different from ordinary.

'Indeed, Evelyn,' said I, 'there is deception in this, and I insist on

an explanation.'

She looked surprised, but did not yet comprehend my purport; so

answered, in a proper, wife-like manner, that my anxiety had deceived

me--that in all respects her feelings, and, so far as she knew, her

appearance, differed not from what they had been.

'Well, then,' said I, 'your feelings and appearance must be changed. I

will tolerate them no longer.'

Her features evinced the greatest astonishment. 'You are inexplicable,'

she said. 'May I beg to know your meaning?'

'Know it? You shall, and you shall conform yourself to it. Resistance

will be vain, for (displaying the pistols) I have the means of

coercion.'

She thought I was mad, and rose on the impulse to summon help.

'Do not stir a step,' I said, aiming a pistol at her, 'or it will be

your last.' She stopped, without exhibiting the least symptom of fear,

but simply because she saw that to proceed would be useless.

'Ha! ha! Evelyn,' said I, forcing an imitation of incoherent laughter,

'I am but trifling with you. I am not mad. I sought but to rouse some

passion in you--either of fear or of anger. But, alas! I have not

sufficient power over you even for that. Sit down. I have something to

relate. When I have ended, these pistols may be useful for one or both

of us. But you do not fear them. I have long known that life was too

valueless to you for fear of losing it to make any impression.'

She saw that something unusual was impending--what she did not fully

understand, but calmly took her seat to await it. At this moment a

servant knocked and entered with a letter. I mechanically opened it and

read. It was an announcement from my partners that my inattention to the

business had involved us all in ruin. The clerk to whom I had entrusted

it (the sporting character before mentioned) had defaulted and fled. He

had contracted large debts in the name of the firm, and gambled away all

the accessible funds. The ruin was supposed to be irretrievable, and

with many bitter reproaches I was summoned to return with speed to

extricate affairs, and--make such reparation as I could.

The letter filled me with almost demoniacal joy. I was ruined, and for

her sake. I gloated over the thought.

'These weapons will now be useless,' said I. 'Place them on the shelf

beside you. This letter will answer in their stead.'

She obeyed me, and I then related the information I had received. 'This

ruin comes upon me through you.' She thought I was about to make a

vulgar complaint of extravagance, and for once flushed with anger.

'Remain entirely quiet,' I said. 'Hear me, but do not interrupt by word

or gesture. You do not yet understand me.'

Then I entered on all the particulars of my life; recounted my passion

for her; told how in my mad infatuation I had bargained for her; how in

my selfish exultation I had assumed all the freedoms of love, never

stopping to question my right to exercise them; how I was aroused from

my stupid content by accidentally witnessing her interview with Frank. I

related the feelings this excited within me; how for the first time I

learned the miserable and contemptible part I had acted; how I then

understood the sorrow of her life; how I would have crushed out my love

and given her to Frank, had there been any practicable way; how, knowing

that the only chance for happiness to both was in mutual love, I had

determined to gain hers by every act of devotion; how I sought to give

her the only relation to Frank she could properly bear--his

benefactress. I told her of my secret studies, designed to fit me for

companionship with her; of my withdrawing with her into the wilderness,

that her grief might be alleviated in the inspiring presence of

uncontaminated nature; of my expenditures to gratify her wishes and

tastes. I narrated the incidents which preceded the duel, and informed

her that I was perfectly acquainted with Sefton's object in seeking an

encounter with me; that I gratified him because willing to undertake

every hazard for her sake. Finally, I avowed my knowledge of all the

disappointment her heart had experienced by Frank's inconstancy.' know

you feel, to-night,' I said, 'that existence is an imposture--worse than

the meanest jiggle. So do I. The only thing that can render it a reality

is love. I intended to say to you, let us end it. For two years, I have

borne the mask of a hypocrite that I might thus tell you of my idolatry,

and say give me love or die. This letter necessitates a change of

purpose. I welcome it as announcing that my sacrifice is

complete--inadequate in comparison with the one you made in uniting

yourself to me, but all that I have to give. It is requisite that I must

yet live to do others justice--to provide for our children; although

they have been valueless to me since I knew that their souls were not

links between ours. But you I release. Before dawn I shall be on my

return. The provision for your future, thank heaven, no demands of

justice can infringe. Hereafter know me not as your husband, but as one

who wronged you, devoted his all to reparation, and failed.'

I rose--weak and tottering--and passed to the door. I caught but a

glimpse of her face. There was in it, and particularly in her

eyes,--which, perhaps, on account of her dramatic cultivation, had the

faculty of concentrating in a wonderful manner the most powerful as well

as the most indefinable expressions,--a peculiar light, which then I did

not understand, but afterwards, oh, too well. Fool, fool, that I was,

after all my anxious scrutiny of her moods through two years of

intensest agony, not to understand this one. The alchemist, who wasted

his life in vigils over his crucible, but stood uncognizant of the gold

when it gleamed lustrously before him, was not more a dolt. Thrice

afterward I beheld that light in her glorious eyes. To my spiritual

sight I can ever recall it. When you asked me her history, those orbs of

beauty beamed out upon me with that same fascinating light.

* * * * *

I went immediately to America. My ruin was entire. I had greatly

embarrassed my fortune in wild extravagances for Evelyn, and the

remainder I surrendered to my partners. Their criminations were somewhat

assuaged, and our partnership relations being dissolved, the business

was reorganized, and I was engaged in a humble clerical capacity. Moody

and taciturn, I was regarded simply as the ordinary victim of a

recklessly spendthrift wife, and was ridiculed and pitied as such. What

cared I for ridicule or pity?

A letter came from Evelyn, stating that she designed resuming her

profession, and would appear immediately in London. Sometime in the

Spring I should hear from her again.

Accompanying the letter was a formal legal surrender of such property as

she possessed by my gift or otherwise, and a demand that I should apply

it to cancel my obligations. She would hereafter, she said, provide for

herself. Except a small reservation for the benefit of the children, I

complied with her direction. No mandate of hers would I disobey.

So existence dragged on. I resided in a humble dwelling with my two

children. Their presence did not soothe me,--their infantile affection

made no appeal to my heart,--but their dependence claimed my

care.--Memories of Evelyn alone possessed me. I secured full files of

London papers, and watched for notices of her appearance. At last they

came. A new star, the papers said, had suddenly appeared, unheralded, in

the theatrical firmament, and rapidly culminated in the zenith. She was

understood to be an American lady, formerly an actress, who had returned

to the stage on account of domestic difficulties. Some papers intimated

that her husband was a brute, who had forsaken her; others, that by a

series of mischances she had been compelled to the stage to support a

husband and numerous dependent relations. Lengthy criticisms on her

various performances were inserted, most of them stuffed with the

pseudo-taste and finical ostentation of knowledge prevalent in that

department of newspaper literature, but all according her the most

exalted merit. The tragedies involving the intense domestic affections

were those she had selected for her _rôles_. Romeo and Juliet, Evadne,

Douglas, Venice Preserved, and others of that class, were mentioned. The

critics, however, devoted their most enthusiastic encomiums to her

performance of Imogen in Shakspeare's Cymbeline, a version of which, it

seems, she had herself adapted. The reproduction of this piece, which

had vanished from the modern _repertoire_, attracted marked attention.

Her rendering of 'Imogen'--was pronounced superb.

The papers also made passing allusions to her personal beauty. Soon

paragraphs appeared concerning the attentions of Lord A---- and the Earl

of B---- to her; of the infatuation of certain members of the various

diplomatic corps. Young men of fashion were reported as throwing to her

bouquets containing diamonds; others sent horses and carriages to her

residence, with requests for her acceptance. One paper alluded

maliciously to the fact that a certain antiquated nobleman had given her

a New Year's present of _bon bons_, every 'sugared particle' being

folded in a five-pound Bank of England note. The paper added some rough

witticism, and informed the nobleman that his 'assiduities' would be

ineffectual, saying that 'the lady, with true Yankee shrewdness, accepts

all offerings at her shrine, but confers no favors in return.'

So the season wore away until the Spring had again come around. I saw an

announcement in a New York paper that Evelyn Afton (her maiden name),

who had recently acquired such a brilliant reputation in London, etc.,

would perform during a short engagement at the Park Theatre. The next

morning saw me on the route to New York. I placed myself in an obscure

corner of the theatre. The curtain rose. There was a brief absence of

all consciousness, and then she came upon the stage. The play was

Cymbeline. I know nothing of what transpired, save that when she

rendered the words,--

'Oh for a horse with wings,'--

that light again appeared in her eyes.

The performance ended, and a man, feeling himself old and weary, passed

into the streets, and wandered through them till morning, wondering if

he had not in some way been connected with the brilliant being he had

seen; it seemed to him that once there had been some entwining of their

fates, but the recollection of it came like the indistinct memory of a

half-impressed dream,--as if it had been in some previous condition of

existence, and the consciousness of it had lingered through a subsequent

metempsychosis.

* * * * *

I was sitting solitary in an apartment of the humble dwelling which I

occupied, poring in a slow, melancholy memory over my past life, and

questioning myself when Evelyn would fulfil the promise of again

informing me of her intentions. My mood was scarcely disturbed by a

knock at the outer door, which was responded to by the maid who had

charge of my children, and the next instant I was thrilled almost to

stupefaction by seeing Evelyn enter the room.

'I've come! I've come!' she cried, in wild eagerness. 'Have you not

expected me? I'm home--home once more. Dearest--lover--husband--I'm

here, never to leave you!'

I only gasped forth--'Evelyn!'

I knew not but it was an illusion.

Then she threw herself upon me, and covered me with kisses, uttered a

volume of passionate endearments, entwined her arms about me in all

tender embraces. I reasoned with myself that it was a dream, and would

not stir lest it should dissolve.

She stood above me, and again I saw that light in her eyes. Then for the

first time I understood its import. Oh! the strange, deep, glorious

light of love and resolute devotion.

I rose falteringly, and asked in feeble accents,--'Is it you, Evelyn?

Have you indeed come?'

'Yes, yes, your Evelyn at last,--come to your arms and your heart. Your

own Evelyn, so long unworthy of you. Will you receive me?'

I but threw my arms around her, and sank down with her on my breast.

Nature exhausted itself in the intensity of that embrace. Language was

denied to emotion. For some moments she lay like a child, nestling to my

heart, then suddenly started up and disappeared in the hall. Again I

thought it was a dream, and that it had fled. She reappeared, bearing a

small casket, which in a quick, frantic sort of way she thrust on the

table, opened and pulled out gold pieces, jewels and bank notes,

flinging them down, some on the table and some on the floor, exclaiming,

'See, you ruined yourself for me, and I have come to repay you. Look,

all these your Evelyn brings to testify to her love. The children!' she

exclaimed, as she threw out the last contents,--'where are they? Come,

show me.' She seized the lamp, and, grasping my arm, dragged me in my

half-bewildered state to the next apartment, where the infants lay

sleeping. She flung herself eagerly but tenderly upon them, and devoured

them with kisses. 'Now you will love them, for my sake,' she said; and,

for the first time since discovering that she loved me not, I bestowed

upon them a voluntary paternal caress--I bowed over them and gently

kissed their foreheads. Her love for them had restored them to my heart.

Then again, with her wild, impetuous manner, she led me back to the

other room. I sat upon the sofa and drew her to my breast. She lay

passive a moment, then started up and paced the floor, with rapid

utterances, broken with half sobs and half laughter. She returned to me,

and again repeated this, till finally interrupted with a violent fit of

coughing, occasioned, as I supposed, by excitement.

'Be calm, Evelyn,' I said. 'Come and lie in my arms. This joy is too

great for me to realize. I must feel you on my bosom to convince me that

I am not deceived.'

So she reposed in my arms, and--with broken sobs, the intervals of which

gradually increased, she finally slept. A lethargy also fell upon me,

which endured how long I know not. As I returned to wakefulness, I

shuddered with a cold thrill, such as one might feel on suddenly finding

himself in the presence of a spirit; for I heard what was of more

terrible meaning to me than any other sound. The rest of the precious

sleeper at my side was disturbed frequently by a short, husky cough,

followed by a low moan as of dull pain. Well I knew the prediction

conveyed by those sounds. Long watchings by the bedside of a

slowly-dying mother had made me fearfully familiar with them. Through

the lingering hours of that night I sat listening to them with an

agonized ear, and in my bitterness I almost cursed Heaven for providing

the doom I anticipated.

At the first glimpse of morning I bore her carefully to the side of the

sleeping children, and, after replacing in the casket its contents, sped

to the house of the physician whom I have previously mentioned, and,

leaving word for immediate attendance, hastened back, and resumed my

watch. Oh! in the dawn how pallid and sunken the features which I had so

often seen flushed and full with the animation of life and genius!

Evelyn woke and smiled peacefully on me, but lay as if still exhausted

with weariness. The physician came. He was already aware that my wife

had been engaged in her profession, though ignorant of the objects which

had induced her to it. I informed him of my apprehensions. Conducting

him to Evelyn, I excused his presence by stating my fear that she might

require his advice after her excitement and fatigue. With skillful

caution he observed her, and in conversation elicited the statement that

some months since she had been ill from exposure. She had recovered, she

said, and was entirely well, except that occasionally slight exertion

prostrated her. Even while she spoke the monitor was continually making

itself heard.

I drew him to the other apartment, and in a hoarse whisper said,--'Well,

your verdict;--but I know it already from your countenance.'

'If you were wealthy,' he replied--

'Wealthy! I am rich--rich,' I interrupted him. 'Look!' (with this I

opened the casket, and run my fingers through the glittering contents,

like a miser through his coin.) 'Tell me what wealth can do, and these

shall do it. To gain these she has imperiled life. Let them restore it

if they can.'

I saw suspicion on his countenance. 'It is false,' I exclaimed, 'false!

I tell you she is as pure as heaven. It was for me that she earned all

these.' And I dashed them on the floor and ground them under my feet.

He seized me and was weeping. 'You are mad,' he said. 'I believe you.

Now I understand all. Do not delay. Take her to Italy, and may Heaven

preserve her to you.'

In a week's time we were on our voyage, accompanied by the children and

the physician--the latter professing to Evelyn that he desired to make

the tour of Europe. My own apology for the voyage was a wish to complete

the tour previously interrupted.

The passage was long and tedious. Before reaching our destination my

hopes of Evelyn's recovery had vanished. Her demeanor was so gentle,

childlike and affectionate, my heart was wrung with anguish. I could not

break her sweet serenity by disclosing the fate which was impending. She

seemed to have reached a period of the most holy and perfect

satisfaction. All the suppressed bitterness of former years--all the

earnest resolution of the later time--had vanished, and she rested happy

in the enjoyment of our mutual love. This quiet assisted the process of

destruction. Had there been something to rouse her old energy, I am

confident she would have made a desperate, perhaps successful, struggle

for life. But I could not force myself to excite it by a warning against

the insidious destroyer.

On our arrival she was in a deplorable condition of weakness. She

imputed this debility to the voyage. Day by day I saw the flame of life

dwindling, but she was unsuspicious, and only wondered that her recovery

was so slow. Once, as she was watching, in a half-declining position,

the setting sun, and talking of the happy days to come, I could contain

myself no longer, but burst forth into a frenzy of sobbing.

'Evelyn,' I said, 'you are dying. You know it not, but, oh God, it is

true. You are dying before me, and I can not save you. Perhaps it is too

late for you to save yourself.'

At first she supposed that my emotion was only the undue result of

anxiety for her, but as I grew calmer, and told her more precisely my

meaning, and the causes of my fears, she said, with something of her old

firmness,--

'If this be true, let me become fully convinced. Call in Dr. ----, and

leave me alone with him. I have not thought of dying, but should have

known that my present happiness was too exquisite to last.'

I sent in the doctor, and he told her all. What passed between us, on my

return, is too sacred for relation. It is enough that the bitterness of

that hour filled all the capacity of the human heart for anguish and

despair. Afterwards we became more reconciled to the dispositions of

Heaven.

The history of her gradual decline need not be related--the hopes, the

suspense, the disappointments--the reviving indications of health, the

increasing symptoms of fatal disease--the flush and brilliancy as of

exuberant vitality--the fading of all the hues of life--all the

vicissitudes of the unrelenting progress of decay--one after another,

resolving themselves into the lineaments of death.

It was indeed too late.

Frank still remained in Florence, but had discarded the society of his

bachelor friends for that of the young lady previously mentioned, who

was now entitled to call him husband.

Soon after our arrival I called upon him, announced Evelyn's illness,

with its hopeless character. The young man was shocked. He had never

thought of disease or death in connection with Evelyn. Who could?

Besides, I could read in his face a horror mixed with thankfulness at

the escape, as his memory recalled the madness which would have urged to

guilt, her who was about to leave the scenes of earthly passion. I

invited him to return with me. He did so, and I left him alone with

Evelyn. I knew that his presence would now give her no shock.

What passed between them I never heard; but it was not beyond

conjecture. The method of his regard for her subsequently, fully

revealed it. It was the most lofty and refined feeling of which humanity

is capable--the worship of the artist--the friendship of the man.

Well,--the last scene arrived. We knew that the time had come. It was,

as she had hoped, at sunset. She gazed long at the changing splendors of

the western sky. 'Such,' she said, 'is death. Life merely revolves away

from us, but the soul still shines the same upon another sphere. The

faith that invests death with terror is a false one. We pass from one

world to another--drop one style of existence for a higher. We enter on

a life in which may be realized all which here we have vainly sought

for. The soul-longings shall all be there fulfilled. Come soon--all of

you. I shall be waiting you. There love and friendship--unsullied and

unruffled--without passion or misconception--will give perpetual

happiness.'

* * * * *

And so she passed away. This is the tenth anniversary of her death. We

bore hither all that was left of her to us, and Frank's chisel has

marked her resting place. Her children are beside her, and I wait

impatiently the time when I may enter with them on that existence where

the budding affections of earth shall blossom into immortal enjoyment.

* * * * *

As Mr. Bell ceased his narrative, I pressed his hand, and without words

departed.

About noon next day the rumor circulated through the streets that he was

dead. I hastened to his house, and learned that it was true. He had been

found at a late hour of the morning lying on his bed, dressed as I had

left him. Physicians made an examination of the corpse, and attributed

the cause to apoplexy. I did not lament him, for I knew his spirit was

in the embrace of the loved ones who went before him.

* * * * *

SELF-RELIANCE.

When the eaglets' tender wings are feathered

The old eagles crowd them from the nest;

Down they flutter till their plumes have gathered

Strength to lift them to the granite crest

Of the hills their eldest sires possessed.

When the one cub of the lordly lions

Strikes the earth and shakes his bristling mane,

Forth they lash him, though he growl defiance,

O'er the sand-waste to pursue his gain,--

Shaggy Nimrod of the desert plain!

Still the eagles watch out from the eyrie

On the mountains, their young heirs to screen;

The old lions on the hot sand-prairie,--

If some peril track their cub,--unseen,

Stealthier than the Bedouin, glide between.

So the noblest of earth's creatures noble

Are cast forth to find their way alone,

So our manhood, in its day of trouble,

Is but crowded from the sheltering zone

And broad love-wings, to achieve its throne.

We are left to battle, not forsaken,

Watched in secret by our awful Sire;

Left to conquer, lest our spirits weaken,

And forget to wrestle and aspire,

Finding all things prompter than desire.

He hath hid the everlasting presence

Of his Godhead from the world he made,

Veiled his incommunicable essence

In thick darkness of thick clouds arrayed,

On our bold search flashing through the shade.

We are gods in veritable seeming

When we struggle for our vacant thrones,

But are earthlings beyond God's redeeming

While we lean, and creep, and beg in moans,

And base kneeling cramps our knitted bones.

Strength is given us, and a field for labor,

Boundless vigor and a boundless field;

Not to eat the harvests of our neighbor,

But our own fate's reaping-hook to wield--

Gathering only what our lands may yield;

If perchance it may be wheat or darnel,

Bitter herbs to medicine a wrong,

Stinging thistles round a haunted charnel,

Or rich wines to make us glad and strong,--

Fitting fruits that to each mood belong.

While such power and scope to us are given,

Who shall bind us to the triumph-car

Of some victor soul, before us driven,

Earlier hero in the work and war,

Him to mimic, humbly and afar?

No! we will not stoop, and fawn and follow;

There are victories for our hands to win,

Rocks to rive, and stubborn glebes to mellow,

Outward trials leagued to foes within;

Earth and self to purify from sin.

No! our spirits shall not cringe and grovel,

Stooping lowly to a low thoughts door,

As if Heaven were straitened to a hovel,

All its star-worlds set to rise no more,

And our genius had no wings to soar.

Truths bequeathed us are for lures to action;

Not for grave-stones fane and altar stand,

Tempting men to wait the resurrection

Of old prophets from their sunsets grand,--

Rather mile-stones towards the Promised Land,

Gird your mantles and bind on your sandals,

Each man marching by his own birth-star;

God will crown us when those glimmering candles

Swell to suns as forth we track them far,--

Suns that bear our throne and victory-bannered car!

* * * * *

THE HUGUENOT FAMILIES IN AMERICA.

The celebrated 'Edict of Nantes' was, to speak accurately, a new

confirmation of former treaties between the French government and the

Protestants, or _Huguenots_--in fact, a royal act of indemnity for all

past offences. The verdicts against the '_Reformed_' were annulled and

erased from the rolls of the Superior Courts, and to them unlimited

liberty of conscience was recognized as a right. This important and

solemn Edict marked for France the close of the Middle Ages, and the

true commencement of modern times; it was sealed with the great seal of

green wax, to testify its irrevocable and perpetual character. In

signing this great document, Henry IV. completely triumphed over the

usages of the Middle Ages, and the illustrious monarch wished nothing

less than to grant to the 'Reformed' all the civil and religious rights

which had been refused them by their enemies. For the first time France

raised itself above religious parties. Still, a state policy so new

could not fail to excite the clamors of the more violent, and the hatred

of factions. The sovereign, however, remained firm. 'I have enacted the

Edict,' said Henry to the Parliament of Paris,--'I wish it to be

observed. My will must serve as the reason why. I am king. I speak to

you as king.--I will be obeyed.' To the clergy he said, 'My predecessors

have given you good words, but I, with my gray jacket,--I will give you

good deeds. I am all gray on the outside, but I'm all gold within.'

Praise to those noble sentiments, peace was maintained in the realm; the

honor of which alone belongs to Henry IV.

In the first half of the seventeenth century, there could be counted in

France more than eight hundred Reformed churches, with sixty-two

Conferences. Such was the prosperity and powerful organization of the

Protestant party until the fall of La Rochelle, which was emphatically

called the citadel of 'the Reform.' This misfortune terminated the

religious wars of France. The Huguenots, now excluded from the

employment of the civil service and the court, became the industrial

arms of the kingdom. They cultivated the fine lands of the Cevennes, the

vineyards of Guienne, the cloths of Caen. In their hands were almost

entirely the maritime trade of Normandy, with the silks and taffetas of

Lyons, and, from even the testimony of their enemies, they combined with

industry, frugality, integrity all those commercial virtues, which were

hallowed by earnest love of religion and a constant fear of God. The

vast plains which they owned in Bearn waved with bounteous harvests.

Languedoc, so long devastated by civil wars, was raised from ruin by

their untiring industry. In the diocese of Nimes was the valley of

Vannage, renowned for its rich vegetation. Here the Huguenots had more

than sixty churches or 'temples,' and they called this region '_Little

Canaan_.' Esperon, a lofty summit of the Cevennes, filled with sparkling

springs and delicious wild flowers, was known as '_Hort-dieu_' the

garden of the Lord.

The Protestant party in France did not confine themselves to

manufactures and commerce, but entered largely into the liberal

pursuits. Many of the 'Reformed' distinguished themselves as physicians,

advocates and writers, contributing largely to the literary glory of the

age of Louis XIV. In all the principal cities of the kingdom, the

Huguenots maintained colleges, the most flourishing of which were those

at Orange, Caen, Bergeracs and Nimes, etc. etc. To the Huguenot

gentlemen, in the reign of Louis XIII. and Louis XIV., France was

indebted for her most brilliant victories. Marshal Rantzan, brave and

devoted, received no less than sixty wounds, lost an arm, a leg, and an

eye, his heart alone remaining untouched, amidst his many battles. Need

we add the names of Turenne, one of the greatest tacticians of his day,

with Schomberg, who, in the language of Madame de Sevigne, 'was a hero

also,' or glorious Duquesne, the conqueror of De Ruyter? He beat the

Spaniards and English by sea, bombarded Genoa and Algiers, spreading

terror among the bold corsairs of the Barbary States; the Moslemin

termed him 'The old French captain who had wedded the sea, and whom the

angel of death had forgotten.' All these were illustrious leaders, with

crowds of distinguished officers, and belonged to the Reformed religion.

Wonderful and strange to relate, in the midst of all this national

happiness and prosperity, the kingdom of France was again to appear

before the world as the persecutor of her best citizens, the destroyer

of her own vital interests. The Edict of Nantes was revoked on 22d

October, 1685. It is not our purpose to name the causes of this suicidal

policy, as they are indelibly written on the pages of our world's

history, nor shall we point to the well-known provisions of this insane

and bloody act. In a word, Protestant worship was abolished throughout

France, under the penalty of arrest, with the confiscation of goods.

Huguenot ministers were to quit the kingdom in a fortnight. Protestant

schools were closed, and the laity were forbidden to follow their

clergy, under severe and fatal penalties. All the strict laws concerning

heretics were again renewed. But, in spite of all these enactments,

dangers and opposition, the Huguenots began to leave France by

thousands.

Many entreated the court, but in vain, for permission to withdraw

themselves from France. This favor was only granted to the Marshal de

Schomberg and the Marquis de Ruoigny, on condition of their retiring to

Portugal and England. Admiral Duquesne, then aged eighty, was strongly

urged by the king to change his religion. 'During sixty years,' said the

old hero, showing his gray hairs,' I have rendered unto Cæsar the things

which I owe to Cæsar; permit me now, sire, to render unto God the thing

which I owe to God.' He was permitted to end his days in his native

land. The provisions of the Edict were carried out with inflexible

rigor. In the month of June, 1686, more than six hundred of the Reformed

could be counted in the galleys at Marseilles, and nearly as many in

those of Toulon, and the most of them condemned by the decision of a

single marshal (de Mortieval). Fortunately for the refugees, the guards

along the coast did not at all times faithfully execute the royal

orders, but often aided the escape of the fugitives. Nor were the, land

frontiers more faithfully guarded. In our day, it is impossible to state

the correct numbers of the Protestant emigration. Assuming that one

hundred thousand Protestants were distributed among twenty millions of

Roman Catholics, we think it safe to calculate that from two hundred and

fifty to three hundred thousand, during fifteen years, expatriated

themselves from France. Sismondi estimates their number at three or four

hundred thousand. Reaching London, Amsterdam or Berlin, the refugees

were received with open purses and arms, and England, America, Germany,

Switzerland, Denmark, Sweden, Russia, Prussia, and Holland, all profited

by this wholesale proscription of Frenchmen. All agree that these

Protestant emigrants were among the bravest, the most industrious, loyal

and pious in the kingdom of France, and that they carried with them the

arts by which they had enriched their own land, and abundantly repaid

the hospitality of those countries which afforded them that asylum

denied them in their own.

The influence which the Huguenot refugees especially exerted upon trade

and manufactures in those countries where they settled, was very

striking and lasting. England and Holland, of all other nations, owe

gratitude to the Protestants of France for the various branches of

industry introduced by them, and which have greatly contributed in

making their 'merchants princes,' and, their 'traffickers the honorable

of the earth.' We refer to these nations particularly, because they are

so intimately connected with the colonization of our own favored land.

The Huguenot refugees in England introduced the silk factories in

Spitalfields, using looms like those of Lyons and of Tours. They also

commenced the manufacture of fine linen, calicoes, sail-cloth,

tapestries, and paper, most of which had before been imported from

France. It has been estimated that these refugees thus brought into

Great Britain a trade which deprived France of an annual income of

nearly ten millions of dollars. Science, arms, jurisprudence and

literature, were also advanced by their arrival. The _first_ newspaper

in Ireland was published by the Pastor Droz, a refugee, who also founded

a library in Dublin. Thelluson (Lord Redlesham), a brave soldier in the

Peninsular war, General Ligonier, General Prevost of the British army,

Sir Samuel Romilly, Majendie, Bishop of Chester, Henry Layard, the

excavator of Nineveh, all are the descendants of the French Huguenots.

Saurin secured the reputation of his powerful eloquence at the Hague;

but in the French Church, Threadneedle street, London, he reached the

summit of his splendid pulpit eloquence. Most of the Huguenots who fled

to England for an asylum were natives of Normandy, Brittany, Picardy,

and Guienne. Their numbers at the revocation may be calculated at eighty

thousand. Hume estimates them at fifty thousand, another writer at

seventy thousand, but we believe these calculations are too low. In

1676, the communicants of the Protestant French Church at Canterbury

reached not less than twenty-five hundred. Of all the services of the

Huguenots to England, none was more important than the energetic support

to the Prince of Orange against James II. The Prince employed no less

than seven hundred and thirty-six French officers, brave men who had

been learned to conquer under the banner of Turenne and Condi. Schomberg

was the hero at the battle of Boyne. One of his standards bore a BIBLE,

supported on three swords, with the motto--'_Ie maintiendray_.' The

gallant old man, now eighty-two years of age, fell mortally wounded, but

triumphing, and with his dying eyes he saw the soldiers of James

vanquished, and dispersed in headlong flight. Ruoigny, in the same

battle, received a mortal wound, and, covered with blood, before the

advancing French refugee regiments, cheered them on, crying, 'Onward, my

lads, to glory! onward to glory!'

In England, the French Protestants long remained as a distinct people,

preserving in a good degree a nationality of their own, but in the lapse

of years this disappeared. One hardly knows in our day where to find a

genuine Saxon,--'pure English undefiled,'--for the Huguenot blood

circulates beneath many a well-known patronymic. Who would imagine that

anything French could be traced in the colorless names of White and

Black, or the authoritative ones of King and Masters? Still it is a

well-known fact that such names, at the close of the last century,

delighted in the designations of Leblanck (White), Lenoir (Black),

Loiseau (Bird), Lejeune (Young), Le Tonnellier (Cooper), Lemaitre

(Master), Leroy (King). These names were thus translated into good

strong Saxon, the owners becoming one with the English in feeling,

language, and religion. Holland, too, glorious Protestant Holland! the

fatherland of American myriads, welcomed the fugitive Huguenots. From

the beginning of the Middle Ages that noble land had been a hospitable

home for the persecuted from all parts of Europe. During the last twenty

years of the seventeenth century, the French emigration into that

country became a political event. Amsterdam granted to all citizenship,

with freemen's privilege of trade, and exemption of taxes for three

years; and all the other towns of that nation rivalled each other in the

same liberal and Christian spirit. In the single year of the revocation,

more than two hundred and fifty Huguenot preachers reached the free soil

of the United Provinces. Pensions were allowed to them, the married

receiving four hundred florins, those in celibacy two hundred. The

Prince of Orange attached two French preachers to his person, with many

French officers to his army against James II.--thanks to the generous

Princess of Orange, who selected several Huguenot dames as ladies of

honor. One house at Harlaem was exclusively reserved for young ladies of

noble birth. At the Hague, an ancient convent of preaching monks was

changed into an asylum for the persecuted ladies. Of all lands which

received the refugees, none witnessed such crowds as the Republic of

Holland; and hence Boyle called it '_the grand arch of the refugees_.'

No documents exactly compute their number; one author calculates it at

fifty-five thousand, and another, in 1686, at nearly seventy-five

thousand souls. In the Dutch Republic and Germany, as was the result in

England, the Huguenots exercised a most powerful influence on politics,

literature, war, and religion, and industry and commerce. Holland,

contrary to the general expectation, outlived the invasion of 1672, the

Prince of Orange fortunately checking the designs of Louis XIV. Refugee

soldiers had powerfully contributed to the triumph of his cause in

England, Scotland, and Ireland, and then they followed him, with valor,

in the war against Louis XIV., which compelled that monarch to sue for

peace.

Literary men and preachers obtained repose and liberty in that land,

with consideration and honor. Amsterdam alone received sixteen banished

refugee ministers; and more than two hundred spread themselves through

all the towns of the United Provinces. Very eloquent French pastors

filled the pulpits of the Hague, Rotterdam, Leyden, and Harlaem. Their

most brilliant orator was James Saurin. Abbaddié, hearing him for the

first time, exclaimed, 'Is this a man or an angel, who is speaking to

us?' Let us dwell a moment upon the character of this wonderful man. By

the elevation of his thoughts and brilliancy of imagination, his

luminous expositions, purity of style, with vigor of expression, he

produced the most profound impression on the refugees and others who

crowded to hear his varied eloquence. What charmed them most was the

union in his style of Genevese zeal and earnestness with southern ardor,

and especially those solemn prayers, with which he loved to close his

discourses. Saurin displayed in these petitions strains of supplication

which up to this time among the Hollanders had never been observed in

any other preacher.

All the branches of human learning were advanced in Holland by the

Protestant Frenchmen. Here no fetters on genius, no secret censorship or

persecution, existed. The boldest democratic theories, with the most

daring philosophic systems, were freely discussed, and the refugees

promoted this spirit of investigation. They also increased the commerce

and manufactures and agriculture of the Netherlands, and rendered

Amsterdam one of the most famous cities of the world. Like the ancient

city of Tyre, which the prophet named the 'perfection of beauty,' her

merchant princes traded with all islands and nations. Macpherson, in his

Annals of Commerce, estimates the annual loss to France, caused by the

refugees establishing themselves in England and Holland, was not less

than 3,582,000 pounds sterling, or about ninety millions of francs.

Until the close of the eighteenth century, the descendants of the

Huguenots in Holland were united among themselves, by intermarriage and

the bonds of mutual sympathies. But in time a fusion with the Dutch

became inevitable. Then, in Holland, as was the case with England and

Germany, many refugees, abjuring their nationality, changed their French

names into Dutch. The Leblancs called themselves De Witt,--the

Deschamps, Van de Velde,--the Dubois, Van den Bosch,--the Chevaliers,

Ruyter,--the Legrands, De Groot, etc. etc. With the change of names,

Huguenot churches began to disappear, so that out of sixty-two which

could be counted among the seven provinces in 1688, eleven only now

remain,--among them those at Hague, Amsterdam, Leyden, Utrecht,

Rotterdam, and Groningen. These are the last monuments of the Huguenot

emigration to Holland, and a certain number of families preserve some

sentiment of nationality, who consider themselves honored by their

French, noble, Protestant origin, while at the same time they are united

by patriotic affection to their newly adopted country.

This rapid chapter of the expulsion of the 'Huguenots,' or

'Protestants,' or 'Refugees,' from their native land, with their

settlement in England and Holland, seem necessary for a better

understanding of our subject. Thence, they emigrated to America, and it

is our object to collect something concerning their origin and

descendants among us. The Huguenots of America is a volume which still

remains fully and correctly to be written. This is a period when

increased attention and study are directed to historical subjects, and

we gladly will contribute what mite we may possess to the important

object.

* * * * *

THE BLACK WITCH.

'A witch,' according to my nurse's account, 'must be a haggard old

woman, living in a little rotten cottage under a hill by a wood-side,

and must be frequently spinning by the door; she must have a black cat,

two or three broom-sticks, and must be herself of so dry a nature, that

if you fling her into a river she will not sink: so hard then is her

fate, that, if she is to undergo the trial, if she does not drown she

must be burnt, as many have been within the memory of man.'

ROUND ABOUT OUR COAL FIRE.

In a bustling New England village there lived, not many years ago, a

poor, infirm, deformed little old woman, who was known to the

middle-aged people living there and thereabout as 'Aunt Hannah.' The

younger members of the little community had added another and very

odious title to the 'Aunt'--they called her 'Aunt Hannah, the Black

Witch.' Not that she was of negro blood. Her pale, pinched and patient

face was white as the face of a corpse; so, also, was her thin hair,

combed smoothly down under the plain cap she always wore. Very white

indeed she was, as to face, and hair, and cap, but otherwise she was all

and always black, especially so as regarded an ugly pair of gloves,

which were never removed from her hands, so far as the youngsters were

aware, and which added to the fearfully mysterious aspect of those

members. Exactly what they covered, the children never knew, but they

saw that one hideous glove enclosed something like a gigantic, withered

bird's claw, while within the other there musts have been a repulsive

and horrid knob, without proper form, and lacking any remotest attempt

at thumb and fingers.

These shapeless members, forever covered from the world, wrought fearful

images in the minds of the children, and their youthful imaginations

conjured up all sorts of uses to which such strange members might be

applied. Upon one point they were agreed. There was no doubt in any

little head among them that Aunt Hannah had at some time sold herself to

Satan, and that he had placed this deformity upon her as a mark of

ownership. Then she had a humped back, poor woman, the result of the

cruel weight of many weary years; and she leaned upon an old-fashioned

staff with a curved and crutch-like handle; and her bleared eyes were

bent forever on the ground; and her thin lips twitched convulsively, and

she muttered to herself as she crawled about the village streets; and

it was said by those who knew, that she was nearly a hundred years of

age. So the youngsters called her the 'Black Witch,' and sometimes

hooted after her in the streets, or hobbled on before her with bowed

heads and ridiculous affectation of infirmity. Thanks to her evil name,

none of them ever ventured to actually assault the poor old creature,

and their taunts she bore with patient meekness, going ever quietly upon

her accustomed, peaceful way.

The older villagers regarded her with a pity that was half pity and half

disgust. Those fearful hands they never could forget, nor the bowed

figure, nor the strange working of the lips. Therefore, they held her in

a sort of dreading, but still her lonely life, and her patient,

uncomplaining spirit, moved their hearts. Then a vague

tradition--nothing more, for neither kith nor kin had ancient Hannah--a

vague tradition said that she had once been very beautiful; that when

she was in her fresh and lovely youth, some strange misfortune had

fallen upon her, and that she had worn since then--most innocently--the

mark of a direful tragedy. One lady, old, nearly, as Aunt Hannah, but

upon whom there had never fallen any blight of poverty or wrong, loved

the poor creature well, and she only, of all the inhabitants of the

village, frequently entered the cottage where the 'Black Witch' dwelt.

This lady, it was said, had known her when both were young, and carried

forever locked in her heart the story of that saddened youth. None

called good Mrs. Marjoram a witch. _Her_ face was clear, her smile

bright, her eyes sparkling, and she bore her years with an upright and

cheerful carriage.

The little, one-storied house where Aunt Hannah dwelt was situated in a

hollow just out of the village, in the shadow of a grove of tangled

hemlocks and pines. It consisted of two rooms only, with an unfinished

attic overhead; and before her door the poor old soul might be seen any

pleasant day, sitting meekly in the sun. She could neither knit nor sew

as other old women do, but she sat there waiting patiently for the time

when her kind Father should call her home, to lose forever the blackness

that clung to her in this weary world.

She did not live here entirely alone, for, true to the universal

reputation of witches, she kept, not one cat only, but several; all

black cats, too. It was the only fancy she indulged in, the only luxury

she allowed herself, and it was sad that this harmless freak should cost

her so many taunts. Sometimes the boys tried to kill her cats, aided in

the murderous attempt by the village dogs, but no dog ever came back

scatheless from those sharp and spiteful claws. Hence the boys were

certain as to the witchcraft, and 'knew' that these savage animals were

true imps of Satan.

This weak and defenceless creature, living thus apart from human

companionship, was supported on a small annuity, paid her quarterly by a

very honest company, that would have been ruined with many such

venerable clients. On pleasant days she crept about the town to do her

meagre marketing, or crawled to the paupers' pew in the old brick

meeting-house. During the warm summer weather her scant life was

somewhat cheered, and a faint attempt at joyousness sometimes winked in

her old eyes, but with the winter's cold came the cruel cramps and

rheumatism, the sleepless nights and painful days. Then Mrs. Marjoram

frequently drove to her door, carrying medicines and nourishing

food,--over and above all, bringing cheerful words and a warm and hearty

smile.

One winter Mrs. Marjoram was taken ill, and, being so very old, her life

was despaired of. During this sickness there came a great fall of snow,

piling up four or five feet on the level, and driving and drifting into

the hollows, so that for several days the less frequented roads in that

part of the country were impassible. And now, when Mrs. Marjoram, but

for her own sad plight, would have thought of poor Aunt Hannah, there

was no one enough interested to give her loneliness a moment's

consideration, till, one morning, one street lad cried out suddenly to

another that Aunt Hannah must be buried alive!

Buried _alive?_ The men, suddenly summoned from their business or their

leisure, hardly thought _that_ possible in the deep hollow, filled

nearly to the level with heavily packed and frozen snow.

Men walked out on the firm crust till they were directly over the spot

where, full twenty feet below, stood Aunt Hannah's little house. And

they shook their heads mournfully at the sickening thought of what must

lie below them.

It was a good day's work for twenty men to open a gradually descending

way to the lonely house,--a good day's work; so that when they reached

the door--finding it locked inside--they sent back to the village for

lanterns and candles before bursting it in.

The sight that startled and horrified them after they had forced the

door, they never liked to speak of. The sounds from the furious,

spitting and snarling cats they never forgot.

Her disfigured and mutilated remains were decently interred, and when

the spring-time carried away the snow, they leveled the house with the

ground. But, though they buried her out of their sight and pulled down

the rotten cottage she had inhabited for so many weary years, the

fearful memory of her evil name and dreadful end remained, and nearly

all the village came to regard her as, in very truth, a witch.

Only Mrs. Marjoram took from the cottage with pious love an ancient and

much-thumbed book, on whose fly-leaf was written 'Jason Fletcher, His

Bible.' Then, having no longer any reason to conceal the early history

of the deceased, she related to the village gossips--as a warning

against trusting too fully to evil appearances--the following

STORY OF POOR HANNAH LEE.

A long time ago--before the middle of the last century, in fact--there

dwelt in one of the most flourishing towns in Western Massachusetts a

family of Puritan extraction named Fletcher. Straitest among the strict,

John Cotton Fletcher and his wife Mehitabel held all lightness of

conduct or gamesomeness of speech as sin most devoutly to be prayed and

striven against, and not only 'kept' the ten commandments with pious

zeal, but, for the better serving of the Lord, invented an eleventh,

which read 'Laugh not at all.' _Holy days_ they knew, in number during

the year fifty-four, namely, the fifty-two 'Sabbaths' and the governor's

Fast and Thanksgiving days; _holidays_ they held in utter abhorrence,

deeming Christmas, especially, an invention of the devil. On 'work-days'

they worked; on 'Sabbath-days' they attended the preaching of the word;

otherwise, on the Lord's day, doing nothing save to eat and drink what

was absolutely necessary to keep them from faintness. They lived to

praise the Lord, and they must eat to live. But no cooking or other

labor was done on that day, and if the old horse was saddled to carry

them to meeting it was because that was a work of necessity. On Fast and

Thanksgiving days--because they were peculiarly of Puritan origin--there

was an especial effort at godliness, and woe, then, to any profaning

youngster who dared to shout or play within sound or sight of Deacon

Fletcher's premises. Every Saturday night, at sunset, all tools for men

and playthings for children were put away, to be disturbed no more till

sunset on Sunday. All papers, books, knitting-work, sewing, were

disposed of 'out of the way.' It was necessary to milk the cows, feed

the pigs, and saddle the horse, but that was all the work that was

allowed. As to any jest on any holy day, that was, beyond all other

things, most abhorrent to their ideas of Christian duty. Life with them

was a continued strife against sin, cheered only by the hope of casting

off all earthly trammels at last, to enter upon one long, never-ending

Sabbath. And their Sabbath of idleness was more dreary than their

'week-day' of work.

Yet were they an humble, honest, and upright pair, walking purely before

God according to the light they had, and as highly respected and honored

in the community, that the fiat of the minister himself--and in those

days the minister's word was 'law and gospel' in the smaller New England

villages--was hardly more potent than that of Deacon Fletcher.

To this couple was born one son, and one only. Much as they mourned when

they saw their neighbors adding almost yearly to their groups of olive

branches, the Lord in his wisdom vouchsafed to them only this one child,

and they bowed meekly to the providence and tried to be content. Why his

father named the boy 'Jason,' no one could rightly tell; perhaps because

the fleece of his flocks had been truly fleece of gold to him; at all

events, thus was the child named, and in the strict rule of this

Christian couple was Jason reared.

It would be sad as well as useless to tell of the dreary winter-Sundays

in the cold meeting-house (it was thought a wicked weakness to have a

fire in a church then) through which he shivered and froze; of the

fearful sitting in the corner after the two-hours sermons and the

thirty-minutes prayers were done; of the utter absence of all cheerful

themes or thoughts on the holy days which they so straitly remembered to

keep; of the visions of sudden death, and the bottomless pit thereafter,

which haunted the child through long nights; of the sighing for green

fields and the singing of birds, on some summer Sundays, when the sun

was warm and the sky was fair; and the clapping of the old-fashioned

wooden seats, as the congregation rose to pray or praise, was sweeter

music than the blacksmith made who 'led the singing' through his nose.

It would be a dreary task to follow the boy through all this youthful

misery, and so I will let it pass. Doubtless all these things brought

forth their fruits when his day of freedom came. He was a large-framed,

full-blooded boy, with more than the usual allowance of animal spirits.

But his father was larger framed and tougher, and in his occasional

contests with his son victory naturally perched upon his banners, so

that the boy's spirit (which rebelled alway against the iron rule of the

household), if not broken down, was certainly so far kept under that it

rarely showed itself. It was a slumbering volcano, ready, when it

reached its strength, to pour out burning lava of passion and

evil-doing.

Thus the boy grew up almost to manhood, with very few rays of sunshine

cast over his early path to look back upon when he should Teach the

middle eminence of life. And the gloom of the present cheerless and

austere way caused him to look forward with the more rapture to that

time, when, with his twenty-first birth-day, should come the power to do

as he pleased with himself: with his hours of labor and of ease, with

his Sabbath-days and his work-days.

A little before the time when big majority was to come and set him

partially free--for then, according to the good old Puritan custom, he

would have his 'freedom-suit,' and probably a few hundred dollars and a

horse, and might remain with his father or go elsewhere--there fell

across Jason's path a sweet gleam of golden sunshine, such as he had

never known before, nor ever dreamed of. When he was in his twenty-first

year, his father, the Deacon,--being urged thereto by the failing health

of his overtasked wife,--adopted as half daughter, half serving maid, a

beautiful and friendless girl, who might otherwise have gone to ruin.

Her name was plain Hannah Lee. No name can be imagined too liquid, sweet

and voluptuous in its sound to typify her loveliness. It was not

strange, therefore, that she had not been long in the house before Jason

Fletcher, hitherto deprived of much cheerful female society, felt

stealing over him a new and strange excitement of mingled joy and

wonder. It is trite and tame to say that for him there came new flowers

in all the fields and by all the road-sides, and a hitherto unknown

fragrance in the balmy air; rosier colors to the sunset, softer tints to

the yellow gray east at dawn, brighter sparkle to the brooks, breezier

glories to the mountain-tops; but, doubtless, this was strictly true, as

it has been many times before and since to many other men, but scarce

ever accompanied by so great and complete a change.

His father might have expected it, and his mother have reckoned upon it,

but no thought of love in connection with their quiet and awkward son

ever entered into their minds, and so they put this sweet creature into

the youth's way, not reflecting that only one result--on his side, at

least--could follow.

They kept no watch upon the pair, and knew not of the many meetings,

accidental, apparently, even to themselves, that took place between the

innocent youth and girl. It needs no reading of light books to make a

successful lover, nor grace, nor elegant carriage; and Nature points the

way to the most modest and untrained wooer. So, without a word having

been spoken on the subject, nor any caress exchanged, except, perhaps,

an occasional momentarily clasped hand, or the necessary and proper

contact, when Hannah rode, sometimes, behind Jason on the pillion (one

arm around him to keep her in her seat), they became lovers, and none

the less so that they had given no verbal or labial utterance to their

loves.

And the summer flew by on wings of the fleetest, and Jason's

twenty-first birth-day approached.

It fell this year upon a Sunday. The family had 'been to meeting' all

the day as usual, no reference being made to the fact that the youth was

now 'free.' (His father had said to him, as they milked the cows on

Saturday night, 'We will put by your "Freedom Day" till Monday.') But

all day Jason had walked, and thought, and eaten, and drunk, not to the

glory of the Lord, as his father and mother piously believed _they_ did,

but to the glory of himself--no longer a child, but a man!

It lacked a full half hour to sunset, and there was no cooler resting

place that warm summer afternoon than beneath the shade of a

thick-leaved grape-vine that overspread a stunted pear tree some little

distance in the rear of the house. Hannah, with her natural love for

pleasant things and places, had induced Jason, some time before, to make

a seat for her in this charming spot. It was quite out of sight from the

house, and the little bower the vine made could be entered only from one

side. In this bower Hannah sat this sunny afternoon, wondering if it

would change Jason very much to be a boy no longer, and devoutly praying

in the depths of her pure little heart that it would not.

She sat, half sadly, and not very distinctly, dreaming over this

problem, when the shade was deepened, and, looking up, she was aware

that Jason stood at the entrance to the arbor. Her heart stopped beating

for half a moment, and she felt quite faint and sick. Then she said,

with a smile, half sad, half jocose, 'You are a _man_ now, Jason, are

you not?'

There was room for two on the seat, and she moved a little toward the

further end as she spoke.

'I am a man to-day, Hannah,' he said. 'Father wants to keep me boy till

to-morrow, because this is the Lord's day, and I suppose it is wicked to

be a man on Sunday. To-morrow I shall go away from here, and not come

back for a long, long time.' His voice trembled, and sounded very cold

and sad.

Hannah put her two elbows on her knees, rested her face in her hands,

and uttered a little, low, wailing cry, most painful to hear.

Then Jason seated himself beside her, put his arms about her, and,

raising her gently up, kissed her on the cheek. He had never before

kissed any woman save his mother.

'When I come back,' he said, 'I will marry you, if you love me, and then

we will always live together.'

The little maid dried her eyes, and a look sweet and calm, such as,

perhaps, the angels wear, stole over her innocent face.

'Oh, do you love me so? Will you?' she said.

'So help me God, I will,' he said.

Then she put her arms about his neck, and lifting up her innocent face

to his, gave him her heart in one long kiss.

(Just then a light foot, passing toward the house from a neighbor's,

paused at the arbor door, all unknown to those within, and little Martha

Hopkins, the neighbor's daughter and Hannah's special pet, looked in

upon them for a moment. Then she sped quickly to Deacon Fletcher's

house, and burst, all excitement, into the kitchen.)

'Will you wait for me, Hannah, darling,' said Jason, 'all the time it

may take me to get ready for a wife, and never love any other man, nor

let any other man love you? Never forget me, for years and years,

perhaps, till I come back for you? Will you always remember that we love

each other, and that you are to be my wife?'

'I will wait for you, dear, if I wait till I die,' she answered.

He folded her yet more closely to his breast.

While they held each other thus, forgetting all else in the world, his

father burst, furious and terrible, into the arbor!

He seized them with a strong and cruel rasp, and tore them pitilessly

asunder.

'Go into the house, boy,' he cried, 'and leave this'--

'Stop!' shouted Jason, springing to his feet, his face as white as death

and his eyes flashing--'Stop! Do not call her any name but a good name!

I would not bear it if you were twenty times my father!'

The old man stood transfixed.

'She is as good as you or as my mother, and will go to heaven as well as

you when she dies,' he continued passionately; 'as well as any of us; as

well as the minister! What did you come here for? Haven't you driven my

life almost to death ever since I can remember; and isn't that enough,

but you must come here and kill my darling, my dear, my love?'

He knelt where she lay on the ground.

'Hear the boy,' cried the father, in a rage equally terrible and far

less noble. 'Hear the boy go on about the baggage!'

The boy still knelt, unheeding anything save the senseless form beside

him.

'Wasn't it enough that you should wanton with a young woman in this

style, but you must do it on the holy Sabbath day?' the old man

continued. 'Mother,' he cried, jerking the words over his shoulder at

his wife, who stood behind him, 'do you bring such profligates as this

into the world, to disgrace a pious man's fame and bring his house to

sorrow? Let him go forth--my oldest and youngest born, and eat husks

with the swine; he shall have no portion, and there shall be no fatted

calf killed when he returns!'

Still the youth knelt, and now his head had fallen upon the prostrate

body, and he was covering her cold hand with kisses.

'Look here, young man,' the father cried, 'leave go that girl's hand and

come into the house; as true as there's a God in Israel I'll teach you

what a stout rawhide is made of!'

Just at this juncture neighbor Hopkins and his wife, warned by

quick-flying little Martha that something terrible was going on at

Deacon Fletcher's, appeared, hurrying towards the spot.

Peter Hopkins was considered a somewhat ungodly but a very just man, and

while the Deacon most highly disapproved of his spiritual state, and

doubted that he and 'vital piety' were strangers, he still respected

Peter's rugged honesty and directness of purpose, and ranked him

foremost among the 'world's people.' He was a man of powerful frame and

strong impulses, and when his feelings were aroused he stood in awe of

no man, high or low. When he forced his way into the arbor, therefore,

the Deacon paused in his invective and made no remonstrance.

Peter Hopkins at once put the worst construction on the scene before

him. He saw in the son of Deacon Fletcher only a seducer, in poor Hannah

Lee only a victim, and his blood rose to boiling heat. Without pausing

to ask any question, grasping at one guess, as he supposed, the whole

sad history, he seized Jason by the collar, and, lifting him up, dashed

him violently down again, the boy's head striking a corner of the bench

as he fell.

Then he took the girl tenderly up and faced about upon the father,

actually foaming with wrath.

'This comes of psalm singing,' he cried. 'Clear the way there!' and he

bore the still unconscious maiden toward his own house.

Then a sudden and strange revulsion came over Deacon Fletcher. For the

first time, perhaps, in twenty-one years, the father's heart triumphed

over the Deacon's prejudices. As he saw his son--his only son--lying

pale and bleeding on the ground, all recollection of his offense, all

thought of sinfulness or godliness in connection with his conduct,

vanished, and he only considered whether this pride of his, this strong

and beautiful son, were to die there, or to live and bless him. He

stooped, sobbing, over the boy, reconciled, at last, to humanity, and

conscious of a strong human love.

Not more tenderly was poor Hannah Lee borne to the house of Peter

Hopkins than the father carried the son he had only just received into

his own dwelling. There were no thoughts of husks now, but only a

sorrowful joy that one so long dead to him was at length alive, that a

new heart, full of human instincts, had found birth within his bosom.

But mingled with this joy was the fear that he had only, at length,

possessed his son to lose him.

While Jason Fletcher lay tossing, week after week, through the fever

that followed the scene of violence in the arbor, poor Hannah went sadly

but patiently about the light duties that farmer Hopkins and his wife

allowed her to perform.

Thoroughly convinced, through his wife's communications with Hannah, of

the innocence of the pair, Peter Hopkins had gone to Deacon Fletcher and

remonstrated with him on his outrageous conduct.

'Your son is a fine lad,' he said, 'and Hannah is fit to be queen

anywhere; and if you don't give her a fitting out when he's well enough

to marry her, hang me if _I_ won't! I owe the boy something for the ill

trick I played him in my hot-headedness, and he shall have it, too! Say,

now, that they shall be man and wife!'

Deacon Fletcher astonished the hot-hearted man beyond measure by quietly

telling him that, God willing, his dear son should marry Hannah as soon

as the visitation that now kept him on a bed of raving illness was taken

away. He added meekly that he hoped God would forgive him if he had

abused the trust placed in him, and, misled by a vanity of holiness, had

done his son great wrong, these many years.

'Give us your hand, Deacon,' cried the delighted pleader; 'you are a

good man, if you _are_ a Deacon, and that's more'n I'd have said a week

ago! You _have_ hurt that boy, and no mistake! You've either beaten the

spirit all out of him, or you have shut up a devil in him that'll break

out one o' these days, worse'n them that went into the pigs that we read

about! But 'tain't too late to mend, an' if a stitch in time _does_ save

nine, it's better to take the _nine_ stitches than to wait till they are

ninety times nine. You've got to be a thousand times kinder to the boy

than you would if you hadn't been so hard on him all his life.'

It was agreed that while the fever held its course nothing should be

said to poor Hannah, and so the two men parted--warm friends for the

first time in their lives.

And poor Hannah Lee went droopingly and patiently about her duties,

asking quietly from day to day as to the health of Jason, and telling no

soul how her heart seemed breaking within her, and how all the future

looked to her like a dreary waste.

Mrs. Hopkins threw out gentle hints that the Deacon might relent, and

that if he did the wish that was ever in Hannah's heart might be

realized. But the poor child paid little heed to her suggestions, a

foreshadowing of some direful calamity constantly enfolding and

saddening her. Still she kept bravely and quietly about her duties, and

it was only when she was alone in her chamber at night that she gave way

to the terrible wofulness that oppressed her, and prayed, and wept, and

wrestled with her sorrow.

And this sweet and lovely creature was the same pious and patient soul

who was afterwards taunted by rude village boys, and pointed at as one

who had sold herself to Satan.

One night she had cried herself asleep, and lay in an unquiet and fitful

slumber. As she thought of him alway by day, so now in her dreams the

image of Jason Fletcher was fantastically and singularly busy. It seemed

to her that she stood upon an eminence overlooking a peaceful valley of

that charming sort only to be seen in dreams. Afar off, and still, in

some strange way, very near, she beheld the youth of her love, who

reclined upon a bank beside a quiet stream. Everything was at rest. The

soft moonbeams--for, in her dream, evening rested on the valley--bathed

all the prospect in a cool effulgence. There was no sound, save only

that sweet music of never-sleeping nature which is forever heard within

all her broad domain. Still the dreamer felt that there was something

direful and most to be dreaded that threatened to invade and mar the

heavenly peacefulness. She felt it coming, and fearfully awaited its

approach. And she had not long to wait. For presently there appeared,

flying between the calm moonlight and the figure, and casting a doleful

shadow over his form, a scaly and dreadful dragon, like those we read of

that devastated whole countries in the old, old times. This hideous

beast breathed fire and smoke from its horrid nostrils as it flew, and

it flapped its fearful way downwards to scorch and destroy the figure

recumbent by the stream.

Just when it was stooping upon its unconscious victim, a heavy scale,

beaten from its side by the bat-like wings, fell upon the night-mare

stricken sleeper's breast, and she awoke.

The moon was shining peacefully into the room, and she found upon the

bed a black cat that had leaped in through the low window. It was a

gentle and loving animal, that had made friends with her upon her first

arrival, and it had already coiled itself up on the bed with a gentle

purring.

Everything was most quiet and calm as she lay gazing out through the

window; still the dreadful memory of her dream weighed upon and

oppressed her. She arose and leaned out into the cool night air. So

leaning, she could see Deacon Fletcher's house, standing bare and brown

in the moonlight only a few rods distant. She could gaze, with what

pleasure or sorrow she might, at the windows of the room where poor

Jason lay tossing with the fever.

She gazes earnestly thitherward, and her breath comes thick and short,

while her heart seems rising into her throat. For she sees, gathered

thick and dun above the house, a dense, undulating and ever-increasing

shadow, that threatens to obscure the low-floating moon! There is no

wind, and it rises slowly but steadily! Deacon Fletcher's house is on

fire!

Her shrill cries, uttered in wild and rapid succession, aroused the

household of Peter Hopkins to the fact that there was fire

somewhere--fire, that most terrible fiend to awake before in the dead of

night. As for Hannah, it was but an instant's work for her to throw on a

little clothing and spring from the low window into the yard. Then she

ran, with what trembling speed she might, towards the burning house.

The smoke still rose sombre and heavy from the roof, and about one of

the chimneys little tongues of flame leaped up as she approached. She

could hear a fierce crackling, too, of that spiteful sort made by the

burning of dry wood. The house was all of wood, and old, and it was

evidently thoroughly afire within.

She realized this as she hurried up to it. In the brief seconds of her

crossing the field and leaping a small stream that ran near the house,

she thought of Jason, so noble, so self-denying, so persecuted, so

beautiful, lying there in his little upper room, powerless from the

fever, and doomed to die a dreadful death. She thought of him, weak and

helpless, with no strength even to shrink from the flames that should

lap over him and lick him to death with their fiery tongues. All this as

she sped across the field and leaped the stream.

Reaching the house, she glanced upward, and could perceive the light of

the flames already showing itself through the upper front windows, next

the room where slept the Deacon and his wife. Fortunately Jason's room

was in the rear. Then she remembered that an old nurse from the village

watched with him, and she called fiercely on her name, but with no

response.

As she had approached the house, the nearest outer door was that facing

the road, immediately over which the fire was evidently about to break

out, and this door she tried, finding it fast. Then she remembered a

side entrance, through an old wood-shed, that was seldom locked, and she

immediately made her way to it.

Meanwhile the fire was busy with the dry wood-work of the house, and

though there was no wind, it spread with fearful rapidity. Already the

flames had burst out through the roof in two or three places, and in the

front of the house they were cruelly curling and creeping about the

eaves. They seemed confined, however, to the upper portion of the

building, and therein she had hope.

As she had anticipated, she found the side door unfastened, and she made

her way rapidly to the foot of the back stairway. When she opened the

door to ascend, a thick, black smoke rushed down, almost overpowering

her. The opening of the door seemed to aid the fire, too, and there was

a sort of explosive eagerness in the new start it took as it now

crackled and roared above her. Then she recognized in the sickening

smoke a smell of burning feathers, and she felt faint and weak as she

thought that it might be _his_ bed that was on fire.

This was only for an instant. Staggering backward before the cloud of

smoke, with outstretched, groping hands, like one suddenly struck blind,

an 'instinct,' or what you please to call it, struck her, and she tore

off her flannel petticoat, wrapping it about her head and shoulders.

Then, holding her hands over mouth and nose, she rushed desperately up

the stairs.

No one, unless he has been through such a smoke, can conceive of the

trials she had to undergo in mounting those stairs. No one can fancy,

except from the recollection of such an experience, how the fierce heat

beat her back when she reached the upper hall. The walls were not yet

fully on fire, but great tongues of flame curled along the ceiling, and

hot blasts swept across her path.

She knew his room. It was but a step to it, and the door opened easily.

The nurse was fast asleep, so fast that poor Hannah's warning cry, as

she stumbled in, hardly aroused her. On the bed lay Jason, so thin, so

white, so corpse-like, she would hardly have known him. In the fierce

strength of her despair it was no task to lift that emaciated body, but,

ah! how to get out of the house with it? For when she turned she saw

that the hall was now wholly on fire.

But she did not hesitate. Wrapping him quickly and tenderly in a blanket

taken from the bed, she rushed out into the flames.

Meanwhile Peter Hopkins and his 'hired man' had been aroused by Hannah's

first screams, and had hurriedly scrambled on a portion of their

clothing and rushed out. They had been in time--running quickly across

the field--to see Hannah disappear behind the house. Neither of them

supposed for an instant that she had entered it.

Trying the front door, and finding it fast, Peter uplifted his stout

foot and kicked it crashing in, but he found it impossible to enter by

the breach he had made. The front stairway was all in flames, and the

fierce heat drove him hopelessly back. Then they ran around to the rear.

By this time the entire upper portion of the building seemed to be one

mass of fire and smote, and now they could hear shrill and terrible

shrieks, evidently proceeding from the suddenly awakened inmates. They

ran to the kitchen door and burst it in.

As they did so there rushed towards them from the foot of the kitchen

stairs some horrible, blazing, and unnatural shape, that came stumbling

but swiftly forward. With it came smoke and flame and a horrible sound

of stifled moans.

At the approach of this strange and unsightly object they sprang back

amazed, and it passed them headlong into the open air; passed them and

_dropped apart_, as it were, into the stream before the door.

For many years thereafter the slumbers of Farmer Hopkins were disturbed

by visions of what he saw when the two two parts of that terrible

apparition were taken from the water.

There lay Hannah Lee, no longer beautiful and fresh as the morning, but

blackened, crisped, scorched and shrunken, with all her wealth of silken

hair burned to ashes, with all her clear loveliness of complexion gone

forever. And there lay Jason Fletcher, unburned,--so carefully had she

covered him as she fled,--but senseless, and to all appearance a corpse.

Thus Hannah Lee went through fire and water, even unto worse than death,

for the sake of him she loved. And verily she had her reward.

When the sun rose, there only remained a black and ugly pit to mark the

place where Deacon Fletcher's house had stood.

And of all its inmates, only Jason--carefully watched and tended at the

house of Peter Hopkins--was left to tell the tale of that night's

tragedy. And he, poor fellow, had no tale to tell, the delirium of fever

having been upon him all the night. It was very doubtful if he would

recover,--more than doubtful. Not one in a thousand could do so, with

such an exposure at the critical period of his sickness.

Even more tenderly, with even more anxiety, did all in the country round

minister to poor Hannah Lee. The story of her love, of her bravery, of

her heroic self-abnegation, spread throughout all those parts, and there

was no end to what was done for her by neighbors and friends. So widely

did her fame spread, that people from thirty, forty, and even fifty

miles away came to see her, or sent messages, or money, or delicacies to

comfort her.

What _could_ be done for them was done, and they both lived.

When Jason Fletcher arose from his sick bed, he arose another man than

the Jason Fletcher who was thrown down in the arbor by Farmer Hopkins.

He went sick, a dependent, simple, good-hearted, though impatient boy,

worn out by the constraints of twenty years, but capable of future

cultivation and improvement; he arose from his sickness a moody,

cross-grained, dogged and impatient man, whose only memories were tinged

red with wrong, and made bitter by thought of what he had endured. It

was little matter to him that all his father's broad acres were now his

own--the thought of the horrible death his parents had died only

suggested a question in his mind, whether it were not a 'judgment' on

them: they having lived to persecute him too long already. Through all

the vista of his past life he saw only gloom and shadows, and no ray of

brightness cheered the retrospective glance.

No ray? Yes, there was one. He saw a fair young girl, loving and

innocent, whose sweet face scarce ever left his thoughts. She reigned

where father and mother held no sway; and she made, with the sunshine of

her love, a clear heaven for him even in the purgatory of the past. So

he lay, slowly gathering strength, dreaming about her. And presently

they told him--gently as might be--how she had saved him. And they

nearly killed him in the telling.

When he was well enough to be about, it was strange that they would not

allow him to see her. She was still very ill, they said, and the doctor,

a reasonable man enough usually, utterly refused him admission to her

chamber. He fretted at this, and as he gained strength he 'went wrong.'

Mingled with the memory of his old privations was a full assurance of

his present liberty. He was of age, and he owned, by right, all the

extensive property the Deacon, his father, had so laboriously amassed.

During all his boyhood he had never had a shilling, at any one time,

that he could call his own; now hundreds of pounds stood ready at his

bidding, and he proceeded very speedily to spend them. During all his

boyhood he had been cut off from the amusements common to the youth of

that day; now he launched out into the most extravagant pleasures his

money could procure. Money was nothing, for he had it in plenty;

character was nothing, for he had none to lose; only love remained to

him of all the good things he might have held, and love lay bleeding

while he was denied access to Hannah. Love lay bleeding, and he turned

for comfort to the wine-cup, and raised Bacchus to the place Cupid

should have occupied. Alas for Jason Fletcher!

Weeks rolled on and passed into months, and still he was refused speech

with, or right of, Hannah. And he chafed at the denial. Had she not

risked everything to save his life? And he could not even thank her!

At length, being unable to find further excuse wherewith to put him off,

they one day told him he could see his love. They endeavored to prepare

him by hints and suggestions as to the probable consequences of the

trial she had passed through, but all that they could say or he imagine

had not prepared him for the fearful sight.

Poor Hannah Lee! This scarred, deformed and helpless body, without

proper hands--oh! white hands, how well he remembered them!--without

comeliness of form or feature, was all that was left of the once

glorious creature, whose heaven-given beauty had ensnared his fresh and

untutored heart! Poor Hannah Lee!

The rough youth, loving her yet, but repelled by the horrible aspect she

presented, fell sobbing upon his knees and buried his face in the

bed-clothing. He spoke no word, but the tumultuous throes of his agony

shook the room as he knelt beside her. And from the bed arose a wail

more terrible in its utter, eternal sorrowfulness than had ever fallen

upon the ears of those present. It was the wail of a soul recognizing

for the first time that the loveliness of life had passed away forever.

They mingled their cries thus for a little time, and then Jason arose

and staggered from the room. He would have spoken, but the dreadful

sorrow rose up and choked him. All the memories of the past were linked

with youth and beauty. He could not speak to the blight before him, as

to his love and his life, and so, with blind and lumbering footsteps, he

toiled heavily from the house.

The fires of the Revolution had broken forth and swept over New England,

burning out like stubble the little loyalty to the crown left in men's

hearts.

At the battle of Bunker Hill Jason Fletcher fought like a tiger. Last

among the latest, he clubbed his musket, and was driven slowly backward

from the slight redoubt.

He was heard of at White Plains, at Trenton, Princeton, Brandywine,

Germantown, and always with marvelous mention of courage and prowess.

Then he was promoted from the ranks, and was mentioned as 'Lieutenant

Fletcher.' Then there were rumors of some dishonor that had sullied the

brightness of his fame; and then it came to be hinted about that in all

the rank and file of the patriot army there was no one so utterly

dissolute and drunken as he. And then came news of his ignominiously

quitting the service, and a cloud dropped down about him, and no word,

good or bad, came home from the castaway any more.

Meanwhile poor Hannah Lee languished upon her bed of suffering, but did

not die. And finally, when spring after spring had spread new verdure

over the rough hills among which she dwelt, she got, by little and

little, to venturing out into the village streets. And when they saw her

bowed form and her ugly, misshapen hands, the village children, knowing

her history, forbore to sneer at or taunt her. All the village loved the

unfortunate creature, and all the village strove together to do her

kindness.

One man in the town--a cousin of Jason the wanderer--was supposed to

hold communication with him. This man notified Hannah one day that a

safe life annuity had been purchased for her, and thereafter she lived

at the house of Farmer Hopkins, not as a loved dependent, but as a

cherished and faithful friend. Thus freed from the bitter sting of

helpless poverty, Hannah sank resignedly into a quiet and honorable

life.

At length, one warm summer day, when Jason Fletcher should have been

about forty years of age, there strayed into the village a blind

mendicant, with a dog for guide, and a wooden leg rudely fastened to one

stiff stump. This stranger, white-headed and with the care-lines of many

years on his sadly furrowed face, sought out poor Hannah Lee, and told

her that he had, by the grace of God, come back, at last, to die.

Leading him with gentle counsels to that Mercy Seat where none ever seek

in vain, poor Hannah saw him bend with contrite and humble spirit, and

seek the forgiveness needed to atone for many years of sin. Patient and

penitent he passed a few quiet years, and then she followed to the tomb

the earthly remains of him for whom she had sacrificed a life.

And this being done, she removed to a distant town, where Martha

Hopkins, now kind Mrs. Marjoram, dwelt.

And many years afterwards Mrs. Marjoram told her story, as a lesson that

men should never judge a living soul by its outward habiliments.

* * * * *

FREEDOM'S STARS.

From Everglades to Dismal Swamp

Rose on the hot and trembling air

Cloud after cloud, in dark array,

Enfolding from their serpent lair

The starry flag that guards the free:--

One after one its stars grew dun,

Heaven given to shine on Liberty.

But swifter than the lightning's gleam

Flashed out the spears of Northern-light,

And with the north wind's saving wings,

The cloud-host, vanquished, took to flight.

Then in her white-winged radiance there

The angel Freedom conquering came,

Relit once more her brilliant stars,

To burn with an eternal flame.

* * * * *

ON THE PLAINS.

The plains is the current designation of the region stretching westward

from Missouri--or rather from the western settlements of Kansas and

Nebraska--to the eastern base of the Rocky Mountains. Part of it is

included under the vague designation of 'the Great American Desert;' but

that title is applicable to a far larger area westward than eastward of

the Rocky Mountains. The Great Basin, whereof Salt Lake is the lowest

point, and the Valley of the Colorado, which skirts it on the east, are

mainly sterile from drouth or other causes--not one acre in each hundred

of their surface being arable without irrigation, and not one in ten

capable of being made productive by irrigation. Arid, naked, or thinly

shrub-covered mountains traverse and chequer those deep yet elevated

valleys, wherein few savages or even wild animals of any size or value

were ever able to find subsistence. Probably that of the Colorado is, as

a whole, the most sterile and forbidding of any valley of equal size on

earth, unless it be that of one of the usually frozen rivers in or near

the Arctic circle. Even Mormon energy, industry, frugality and

subservience to sacerdotal despotism, barely suffice to wrench a rude,

coarse living from those narrow belts and patches of less niggard soil

which skirt those infrequent lakes and scanty streams of the Great Basin

which are susceptible of irrigation; mines alone (and they must be rich

ones) can ever render populous the extensive country which is interposed

between the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevada.

The Plains differ radically from their western counterpoise. They have

no mountains, and very few considerable hills; they are not rocky: in

fact, they are rendered all but worthless by their destitution of rock.

In Kansas, a few ridges, mainly (I believe) of lime, rise to the

surface; beyond these, and near the west line of the new State,

stretches a thin-soiled, rolling sandstone district, perhaps forty miles

wide; then comes the Buffalo range, formerly covering the entire valley

of the Mississippi, and even stretching fitfully beyond the Rocky

Mountains, but now shrunk to a strip hardly more than one hundred and

fifty miles in width, but extending north and south from Texas into the

British territory which embosoms the Red River of the North. Better soil

than that of the Buffalo region west of Kansas is rarely found, though

the scarcity of wood, and the unfitness of the little that skirts the

longer and more abiding streams for any use but that of fuel, must be a

great drawback to settlement and cultivation. The coarse, short, hearty

grass that carpets most of this region, and which is allowed to attain

its full growth only in the valleys of the Chugwater and a few other

streams which have their course mainly within or very near the Rocky

Mountains, and which the Buffalo no longer visit, seems worthy at least

of trial by the farmers and shepherds of our older States. Its ability

to resist drouth and overcropping and hard usage generally must be

great, and I judge that many lawns and pastures would be improved by it.

That it has merely held its ground for ages, in defiance of the crushing

tread and close feeding of the enormous herds of the Plains, proves it a

plant of signal hardihood and tenacity of life; while the favor with

which it is regarded by passing teams and herds combines with its

evident abundance of nutriment to render its intrinsic value

unquestionable.

The green traveler or emigrant in early summer has traversed, since he

crossed the Missouri, five hundred miles of almost uniformly arable

soil, most of it richly grassed, with belts of timber skirting its

moderately copious and not unfrequent water-courses, and he very

naturally concludes 'the American Desert' a misnomer, or at best a

gross exaggeration. But, from the moment of leaving the Buffaloes behind

him, the country begins to _shoal_, as a sailor might say, growing

rapidly sterile, treeless, and all but grassless. The scanty forage that

is still visible is confined to the immediate banks or often submerged

intervales of streams, though a little sometimes lingers in hollows or

ravines where the drifted snows of winter evidently lay melting slowly

till late in the spring. By-and-by the streams disappear, or are plainly

on the point of vanishing; of living wood there is none, and only

experienced plainsmen know where to look for the fragments of dead trees

which still linger on the banks of a few slender or dried-up brooks,

whence sweeping fires or other destructive agencies long since

eradicated all growing timber. The last living, or, indeed, standing

tree you passed was a stunted, shabby specimen of the unlovely

Cotton-wood, rooted in naked sand beside a water-course, and shielded

from prairie-fires by the high, precipitous bank; for, scanty as is the

herbage of the desert, the fierce winds which sweep over it will yet,

especially in late spring or early summer, drive a fire (which has

obtained a start in some fairly grassed vale or nook) through its dead,

tinder-like remains. How far human improvidence and

recklessness--especially that of our own destructive Caucasian race--has

contributed to denude the Plains of the little wood that thinly dotted

their surface at a period not very remote, I can not pretend to decide;

but it is very evident that there are far fewer trees now standing than

there were even one century ago.

Of rocks rising above or nearing the surface, the Plains are all but

destitute; hence their eminent lack first of wood, then of moisture.

Your foot will scarcely strike a pebble from Lawrence to Denver; and the

very few rocky terraces or perpendicular ridges you encounter appear to

be a concrete of sand and clay, hardened to stone by the persistent,

petrifying action of wind and rain. Of other rock, save the sandstone

ridges already noticed, there is none: hence the rivers, though running

swiftly, are never broken by falls; hence the prairie-fires are nowhere

arrested by swamps or marshes; hence the forests, if this region was

ever generally wooded, have been gradually swept away and devoured,

until none remain. In fact, from the river bottoms of the lower Kansas

to those of the San Joaquin and Sacramento, there is no swamp, though

two or three miry meadows of inconsiderable size, near the South Pass,

known as 'Ice Springs' and 'Pacific Springs,' are of a somewhat swampy

character. Beside these, there is nothing approximating the natural

meadows of New England, the fenny, oozy flats of nearly all inhabited

countries. Bilious fevers find no aliment in the dry, pure breezes of

this elevated region; but this exemption is dearly bought by the absence

of lakes, of woods, of summer rains, and unfailing streams.

Vast, rarely-trodden forests are wild and lonely: the cit who plunges

into one, a stranger to its ways, is awed by its gloom, its silence, its

restricted range of vision, its stifled winds, and its generally

forbidding aspect. He may talk bravely and even blithely to his

companions, but his ease and gayety are unnatural: Leatherstocking is at

home in the forest, but Pelham is not, and can not be. On the better

portion of the Plains--say in the heart of the Buffalo region--it is

otherwise: though you are hundreds of miles from a human habitation

other than a rude mail-station tent or ruder Indian lodge, the country

wears a subdued, placid aspect; you rise a gentle slope of two or three

miles, and look down the opposite incline or 'divide,' and up the

counterpart of that you have just traversed, seeing nothing but these

gentle, wave-like undulations of the surface to limit your gaze, which

contemplates at once some fifty to eighty square miles of unfenced,

treeless, but green and close-cropped pasturage; and it is hard to

realize that you are out of the pale of civilization, hundreds of miles

from a decent dwelling-house, and that the innumerable cattle moving and

grazing before you--so countless that they seem thickly to cover half

the district swept by your vision--are not domestic and heritable--the

collected herds of some great grazing county, impelled from Texas or New

Mexico to help subdue some distant Oregon. It seems a sad waste to see

so much good live-stock ranging to no purpose and dying to no profit:

for the roving, migrating whites who cross the Plains slaughter the

buffalo in mere wantonness, leaving scores of carcasses to rot where

they fell, perhaps taking the tongue and the hump for food, but oftener

content with mere wanton destruction. The Indian, to whom the buffalo is

food, clothing, and lodging (for his tent, as well as his few if not

scanty habiliments, is formed of buffalo-skins stretched over

lodge-poles), justly complains of this shameful improvidence and

cruelty. Were _he_ to deal thus with an emigrant's herd, he would be

shot without mercy; why, then, should whites decimate his without

excuse?

Beyond the Buffalo region the Plains are bleak, monotonous, and

solitary. The Antelope, who would be a deer if his legs were shorter and

his body not so stout, is the redeeming feature of the well-grassed

plains next to Kansas, and which recur under the shadow of the Rocky

Mountains; but he is an animal of too much sense to remain in the

scantily grassed desert which separates the buffalo range from the

latter. There the lean Wolf strolls and hunts and starves; there the

petty Prairie-Wolf, a thoroughly contemptible beast, picks up such a

dirty living as he may; while the sprightly, amusing little Prairie-Dog,

who is a rather short-legged gray squirrel, with a funny little yelp and

a troglodyte habitation, lives in villages or cities of from five

hundred to five thousand dens, each (or most of them) tenanted in common

with him by a harmless little Owl and a Rattlesnake of questionable

amiability. The Owl sits by the mouth of the hole till driven away by

your approach, when he follows his confrere's example by diving; the

Rattlesnake stays usually below, to give any prowling, thieving

prairie-wolf, or other carnivorous intruder, the worst of the bargain,

should he attempt to dig out the architect of this subterranean abode.

But for this nice little family arrangement, the last prairie-dog would

long since have been unearthed and eaten. As it is, the rattlesnake gets

a den for nothing, while the prairie-dog sleeps securely under the

guardianship of his poison-tongued confederate. The owl, I presume,

either pays _his_ scot by hunting mice and insects for the general

account, or by keeping watch against all felonious approaches. Even man

does not care to dig out such a nest, and prefers to drown out the

inmates by pouring in pail after pail of water till they have to put in

an appearance above ground. The only defense against this is to

construct a prairie-dog town as far as possible from water, and this is

carefully attended to. I heard on the Plains of one being drowned out by

a sudden and overwhelming flood; but of the hundreds I passed, not one

was located where this seemed possible.

Absence of rock in place--that is, of ridges or strata of rock rising

through the soil above or nearly to the surface--has determined the

character not only of the Plains but of much of the roll of the great

rivers east and south of them. Even at the very base of the Rocky

Mountains, the Chugwater shows a milky though rapid current, while the

North Platte brings a considerable amount of earthy sediment from the

heart of that Alpine region. After fairly entering upon the Plains,

every stream begins to burrow and to wash, growing more and more turbid,

until it is lost in 'Big Muddy,' the most opaque and sedimentary of all

great rivers. I suspect that all the other rivers of this continent

convey in the aggregate less earthy matter to the ocean than the

Missouri pours into the previously transparent Mississippi, thenceforth

an unfailing testimony that evil company corrupts and defiles.

Louisiana is the spoil of the Plains, which have in process of time

been denuded to an average depth of not less than fifty and perhaps to

that of two or three hundred feet. I passed hills along the eastern base

of the Rocky Mountains where this process is less complete and more

active than is usual,--hills which are the remaining vestiges of a

former average level of the plain adjacent, and which have happened to

wear away so steeply and sharply that very little vegetation ever finds

support on their sides, which every rain is still abrading. At a single

point only do I remember a phenomenon presented by some other mountain

bases,--that of a water-course (dry perhaps half the year, but evidently

a heady torrent at times), which had gradually built up a bed and banks

of boulders, pebbles and gravel, washed down from a higher portion of

its headlong course, so that its current, when it had a current, was

considerably above the general surface on either side of it. Away from

the mountains, however, boulders or loose stones of any size are rarely

seen in the beds of even the largest and deepest channeled streams,

which are usually swift, but never broken by a fall, because never down

to the subjacent rock in place, assuming that such rock must be.

In the rare instances of rocky banks skirting the immediate valley of a

stream, the seeming rock is evidently a modern concrete of clay and the

usual sand or gravel composing the soil,--a concrete slowly formed by

the action of sun and rain and wind, on a bank left nearly or quite

perpendicular by the wearing action of the stream. In the neighborhood

of Cheyenne Pass,--say for a distance of fifty to a hundred miles S.S.W.

of Laramie,--this effect is exhibited on the grandest scale in repeated

instances, and in two or three cases for an extent of miles. Along

either bank of the Chugwater, at distances of twenty to forty miles,

above its junction with the Laramie affluent of the North Platte,

stretch perpendicular rocky terraces, thirty to forty feet high,

looking, from a moderate distance, as regular and as artificial as the

façade of any row of city edifices. I did not see 'Chimney Rock,'

farther down the Platte; but I presume that this, too, is a relic of

what was once the average level of the adjacent country, from which all

around has been gradually washed away, while this 'spared monument' has

been hardened by exposure and the action of the elements from earth to

enduring rock--a gigantic natural _adobe_.

The Plains attest God's wisdom in usually providing surface-rock in

generous abundance as the only reliable conservative force against the

insidious waste and wear of earth by water. Storms, rills, and rivers

are constantly at work to carry off the soil of every island and

continent, and lose it in the depths of seas and oceans. Rock in place

impedes this tendency, by arresting the headlong course of streams, and

depositing in their stiller depths the spoils that the current was

hastening away; still more by the formation of swamps and marshes, which

arrest the sweep of fires, and so protect the youth and growth of trees

and forests. An uninhabited, moderately-rolling or nearly flat country,

wherein no ridges of stubborn rock gave protection to fire-repelling

marshes, would gradually be swept of trees by fires, and converted into

prairie or desert.

Life on the Plains--the life of white men, by courtesy termed

civilized--is a rough and rugged matter. I can not concur with J.B.

Ficklin, long a mail-agent ranging from St. Joseph to Salt Lake (now, I

regret to say, a quarter-master in the rebel army), who holds that a man

going on the Plains should never wash his face till he comes off again;

but water is used there for purposes of ablution with a frugality not

fully justified by its scarcity. A 'biled shirt' lasts a good while. I

noted some in use which the dry, fine dust of that region must have been

weeks in bringing to the rigidity and clayey yellow or tobacco-stain hue

which they unchangeably wore during the days that I enjoyed the society

of the wearers. Pilot-bread, a year or so baked, and ever since

subjected to the indurating influences of an atmosphere intensely dry,

is not particularly succulent or savory food, and I did not find it

improved by some minutes' immersion in the frying-pan of hot lard from

which our rations of pork had just been turned out; but others of more

experience liked it much. The pork of the Plains is generally poor,

composed of the lightly-salted and half-smoked sides of shotes who had

evidently little personal knowledge of corn. The coffee I did not drink;

but, in the absence of milk, and often of sugar also, and in view of its

manufacture by the rudest and rawest of masculine cooks, I judge that

the temptation to excessive indulgence in this beverage was not

irresistible. Most of the water of the Plains, unlike that of the Great

Basin, is pretty good; but as you near the Rocky Mountains, 'alkali'

becomes a terror to man and beast.

The present Buffalo range will, doubtless, in time, be covered with

civilized herdsmen and their stock; but beyond that to the fairly

watered and timbered vicinity of the Rocky Mountains, settlers will be

few and far between for many generations. What the Plains universally

need is a plant that defies intense protracted drouth, and will

propagate itself rapidly and widely by the aid of winds and streams

alone. I do not know that the Canada thistle could be made to serve a

good purpose here, but I suspect it might. Let the plains be well

covered by some such deep-rooting, drouth-defying plant, and the most of

their soil would be gradually arrested, the quality of that which

remains, meliorated, and other plants encouraged and enabled to attain

maturity under its protection. Shrubs would follow, then trees; until

the region would become once more, as I doubt not it already has been,

hospitable and inviting to man. At present, I can only commend it as

very healthful, with a cooling, non-putrefying atmosphere; and, while I

advise no man to take lodgings under the open sky, still, I say that if

one must sleep with the blue arch for his counterpane and the stars for

its embellishments, I know no other region where an out-door roll in a

Mackinaw blanket for a night's rest is less perilous or more

comfortable.

* * * * *

SEVEN DEVILS:

A REMEMBRANCE OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.

Once upon a time--see the Arabian Nights Entertainments--as the Caliph

Haroun Alraschid--blessed be his memory!--walked, disguised, as was his

wont, through the streets of Bagdad, he observed a young man lashing

furiously a beautiful, snow-white mare to the very verge of cruelty.

Coming every day to the same place, and finding the spectacle repeated,

the curiosity of the humane Caliph, was excited to learn the cause of

such treatment. Mr. Rarey had not yet been born; but the Arab knows, and

always has known, how to subdue and to control his steed with equal

skill, without resort to severity. The explanation of this afterwards

appears in that wonderful book.

One Sidi Norman having married, as the custom was, without ever having

seen his bride, was agreeably surprised, when the veil was removed, at

finding her dazzlingly beautiful. He enfolded her in his arms with joy

unspeakable, and so the honeymoon began. Short dream of bliss; she

became capricious at once, and seven devils at least seemed to have

nestled in her lovely bosom. Sid was touchy himself, and not the man to

bear with such humors. Every day she sat at his bountiful board, and,

instead of partaking the food which he set before her, she would

daintily and mincingly pick out a few grains of rice with the point of a

bodkin. Sid asked her what she meant by such conduct, and whether his

table was not well supplied. To this she deigned no reply. When she ate

no rice, she would choke down a few crumbs of bread, not enough for a

sparrow. His indignation was aroused, but his curiosity also. He looked

daggers; but he was a still man, kept his counsel to himself, and set

himself to study out the solution of this problem.

One night, when his wife stole away from his side,--she thought he was

asleep, did she?--he followed her with the stealthiness of a cat; and,

oh horrible! tracked her steps to a graveyard, where she began to cut

and carve; and he then discovered, to his great loathing, that he had

been married to a ghoul!

Amina came home after a good feast. Sid was snoring away, apparently in

the profound depths of sleep, hiding away from any Caudle lectures. He

was about as sound asleep as a weasel. Breakfast passed off most

charmingly without a word said by any one; and he walked round to the

khan to scrutinize some figs.

'How does the lady?' said Ben Hadad, sarcastically.

'Very well indeed, I thank you,' replied Sid.

The dinner-bell rang, down they sat, and out came the bodkin. It did

not, however, 'his quietus make.'

'My dear,' he said, smothering up his Arabian fury, 'do you not like

this bill of fare, or does the sight of me take away your taste for

food? Could you obtain a better meal even at the Bagdad St. Nicholas?'

No answer.

'All well,' said he; 'I suppose that this food is not so toothsome to

you as dead men's flesh!'

Thunder and furies! A more dreadful domestic scene was never beheld. The

lovely Amina turned black in the face, her eyes bulged out of her head,

she foamed at the mouth, and, seizing a goblet of water, dashed it into

the face of the unfortunate man.

'Take that,' said she, 'and learn to mind your own business.' Whereupon

he became a dog, and a miserable dog at that.

Many adventures he then had. For full particulars, see the Arabian

Nights. He used to fight for a bone, or lick up a mouthful from a

gutter. He had not the spirit to prick up his ears, or to wag or curl up

his tail, if he had one--for, shortly after his transformation, the end

of it was wedged into a door by his wife, and he was cur-tailed.

Happy is he who gets into trouble by necromancy, who can get out of it

by the same. The devil rarely bolts and unbolts his door for his own

guests. He is not wont to say, 'Walk in, my friend,' and afterward,

'Good-by.' But it so turned out in the case of Sid Norman, because he

had not been knowingly bewitched; and Mrs. Amina Ghoul Sid Norman

learned to respect the motto, _Cave canem!_

While his canine sufferings lasted, he fell in with various masters, and

nosed about to see if he could substitute reason for instinct, and get

established on two legs again. He looked up wistfully into the faces of

passers-by, as if to say, 'I am not a dog, but the man for whom a large

reward has been offered.' On one occasion, seeing Amina come from a shop

where she had just purchased a Cashmere shawl of great size and value,

he set his teeth like a steel trap, and made a grab at her ankles. But

she recognized him on all fours, with a diabolical grin, and fetching

him a kick with her little foot, caused him to yelp most pitifully.

Running under a little cart which stood in the way, he skinned his

teeth, and growled to himself, 'By the prophet, but I can almost love

her again; she distinguished herself by that kick, which was aimed with

infinite tact; it went right to the spot, and struck me like a

discharge from a catapult, drove all the wind out of me, and left an

absolute vacuum, as if a stomach-pump had sucked me out.

Yap--yow--eaow--yeaow--yap--snif--xquiz;' and, after a good deal of

panting and distress, he at last yawned so wide as nearly to dislocate

his jaws, sneezed once or twice, and then trotted off on three legs,

with his half a tail tucked up underneath, and lay down disconsolate in

an ash-hole.

'Oh, how distressing it is,' said he, 'to be bewitched by a bad woman!

It metamorphoses one entirely. He loses all semblance to his former

self, parts with all his reason, no more walks upright, and bids

philosophy adieu. One drop from the cup of her incantations, and the

gossamer net-work which she threw about him is changed into prisonbars,

her silken chain into links of forged iron; strong will is dwindled, and

he who on some 'heaven-kissing hill' stood up to gaze upon the stars, is

fit to grovel in a sty.--Miserable dog! Bow-wow, bow-wow!'

One day, as the story proceeds, Sid's master was offered a base coin in

his shop, when this 'learned dog' at once put his foot upon it, and in

fact put his foot in the bargain.

'Ah, indeed!' said a Bagdad lady, who stood by; 'that's no dog, or, if

he is, the Caliph ought to have him.' So, snapping her fingers slyly as

she went out, he followed her.

'Daughter,' said she to the fair Xarifa, who was working embroidery, 'I

have brought the baker's famous dog that can distinguish money. There is

some sorcery about it.--You have once walked on two legs,' said she,

looking down upon the fawning animal, 'have you not? If so, wag your

tail.'

Sid thumped the floor most furiously with the stump of it, whereupon she

poured liquid into a phial, threw it into his face, and he stood up once

more a man,--Sid Norman, lost and saved by a woman, his eyes beaming one

moment with the tenderest gratitude, but on the next flashing with the

most deadly revenge. Heaven and hell, the one with its joyous sunshine,

the other with its lurid lights, appeared to struggle and mix up their

flashes on Sid Norman's countenance, till gratitude, that rarest grace,

was quenched, and hell triumphed.

'Than all the nectar ever served in golden cups and brewed by houries in

Mahomet's paradise, revenge is sweeter,' he murmured to himself.

'Stay,' said Xarifa, who divined his thoughts; 'you will transform

yourself back again. There will be no transmigration of soul for you, if

you are lost by your own sorcery. Let dogs delight to bark and bite.'

'Hold your tongue, Xarifa,' said the mother, who was not so amiable.

'The man shall have revenge. Since he has trotted about so long on all

fours, he must be paid for it. It is not revenge, it is sheer justice.'

'True as the Koran,' exclaimed Sid Norman, who was becoming infatuate

again, and would have fallen down at the knees of this new charmer and

worshiped her. The fact is, that he was too easily transformed, and

submitted too quickly to the latest magic; otherwise he would have

always walked erect, instead of wearing fur on his back, and a tail at

the end of it. A coat of tar and feathers would have been a mere

circumstance compared with such an indignity. Well, it was the fault,

perhaps it should rather be called the misfortune, of character.

'Sidi Norman,' said the lady, fixing upon him an amorous glance, 'you

shall not only have revenge, but the richest kind of it. You have a bone

to pick with your wife. She was brought up in the same school of magic

that I was, hence I hate her. She has the secret of the same rouge, and

concocts the same potions and love-filters; but she shall smart for it.

Excellent man! injured husband! Monopolize to yourself all the

whip-cords of Bagdad.'

Sid Norman kneeled and kissed her hand. Xarifa looked up from her

embroidery and frowned.

The benefactress withdrew to consult her books, but returned presently.

'Your wife,' she said, 'has gone out shopping, also to leave some cards,

to fulfil an engagement with the French minister, and to engage a band

of music for an entertainment at which Prince Schearazade is expected to

be present. Wait patiently for her return, then confront her boldly,

upbraid her, toss this liquor in her eyes, and then you shall see what

you shall see.'

Sid Norman went to his late home, which was in the West End, the Fifth

Avenue of Bagdad. He opened the door, but silence prevailed. Costly

silks, and many extravagant and superfluous things, lay strewn about. He

sat down in a rocking-chair and gazed at a full-length portrait of the

Haroun Alraschid.

About noon the lady came in, with six shop clerks after her, bearing

packages, tossed off her head-dress, and flung herself inanimately on

the sofa.

'Ahem,' grunted Sid Norman, who was concealed in the shadow of an

alcove.

Amina looked up. Furies! what an appalling rencontre! She looked as pale

as the corpses which she adored; she would have shrieked, but had no

more voice than a ghost; she would have fled, but was riveted as with

the gaze of a basilisk.

'Dear,' said Sid Norman, with an uxorious smile, 'what ails you? Has the

fast of Kamazan begun? Hardly yet, for this looks more like the

carnival. How much gave you for this Cashmere, my love?'

A great sculptor was Sid Norman, for, without lifting a hand, or using

any other tool than a keen eye and a sharp tongue, he had wrought out

before him, carved as in cold marble, the statue of a beautiful, bad

woman. Such is genius. Such is conscience!

'Mrs. Amina Sidi Ghoul Norman,' proceeded the husband, giving his wife

time to relax a little from her rigor, 'is dinner ready? We want nothing

but a little rice. Set on only two plates, a knife and fork for me, and

a _bodkin_ for you, if you please, madam.'

(_A symptom of hysterics, checked by a nightmare inability of action_.)

'Have you nothing to say? Is thy servant a dog? Why have you wrought

this deviltry? Take that.'

Therewith he flung some liquid in her face, and the late fashionable

lady of Bagdad became a mare. Sid seized a cow-skin, and laid on with a

will.

'You may now cut up as many capers as you please,' said he, reining her

in with a bit and bridle, and cutting her with the whip until the blood

rolled. 'To-morrow you may go to grass in the graveyard.'

Every day he made a practice of lashing her around the square, if

possible, to get the devil out of her. When the Caliph Haroun Alraschid

learned the true cause of such conduct, he remarked that it was

punishment enough to be transformed into a beast; and, while the stripes

should be remitted, still he would not have the woman to assume her own

shape again, as she would be a dangerous person in his good city of

Bagdad.

* * * * *

The moral of this tale of sorcery, which is equal to any in Æsop's

Fables, may be drawn from a posthumous letter which was found among the

papers of Sidi Norman, and is as follows:--

'TO BEN HADAD, SON OF BEN HADAD.

'You, who stand upon the verge of youth,--for that is the age, and there

is the realm, of genii, fairies, and wild 'enchantments,--learn wisdom

from the said story of Sidi Norman.

'I was brought up to respect the laws of God and the prophet. When I

came to marriageable age, and, "unsight, unseen," was induced to espouse

the veiled Amina, it was, as we say in Bagdad, like "buying a pig in a

poke," although rumor greatly magnified her charms, and a secret

inclination prompted me. I longed eagerly for the wedding-day; and when

her face was revealed to conjugal eyes, methought that Mahomet had sent

down a houri from his paradise. Yet I found out, to my cost, that a

little knowledge of a woman is worse than ignorance, and that the

blinding light of beauty hides the truth more than the thick veil of

darkness. Oh, her bosom was white as the snows of Lebanon, and her eyes

were like those of the dear gazelle. Cheeks had she as red as the

Damascus rose, and a halo encircled her like that of the moon. Her

smiles were sunshine, her lips dropped honey. I thought I saw upon her

shoulders the cropping out of angelic wings. I sought out the carpets of

Persia for the soft touch of her tiny feet, and hired all the lutes of

Bagdad to be strung in praise of my beloved. I sent plum-cake to the

newspapers, and placed a costly fee in the hand of the priest. Oh,

blissful moments! But I purchased hell with them, for she began to lead

me a dog's life. She had no taste for home, no appetite for healthful

food; she ran me into debt, hated my friends, loved my enemies, and

changed her soft looks into daggers to stab me with. Her bloom became

blight; her lips oozed out poison, and she dabbled in corrupt things. I

tracked her footsteps from my sacred couch as they led to the very brink

of the grave.

'O, my son, beware of your partner in the dance of life; for, as Mahomet

used to say, in his jocular moods, 'those who will dance must pay the

fiddler.' To be tied, forever, for better, for worse, to such a ---- as

Amina Ghoul, is to be transformed in one's whole nature. It is the

transmigration of a soul from amiability to peevishness, from activity

to discouragement, from love to hate, and from high-souled sentiment to

the dog-kennel of humility. Go thou, and don't do likewise.

'Woe is me! Who takes one wrong step, gets out of it by another; and so

I went on from enchantment to enchantment, and fell out of the

frying-pan into the fire. If I stood erect, and no longer groveled, if I

was not any more a beast, I became like the devils which possessed them.

So did I scourge and lash the object of my hatred with feelings of the

deadliest revenge.

'Oh, my Ben Hadad, presume not from my ultimate escape. If I have ceased

to snap and snarl and growl,--if I now, in the decline of life, pursue

the even tenor of my way,--if I have been redeemed from snares, and

learned even to forgive my enemies, it is because the fair Xarifa

represented my better nature, and that has triumphed because I took

counsel of her. Farewell, my son, and, in the pilgrimage of life,

reflect upon the dear-bought experience of SIDI NORMAN.'

* * * * *

'WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH US?'

What will we do with you, if God

Should give you over to our hands,

To pass in turn beneath the rod,

And wear at last the captive's bands?'

'What will we do?' Our very best

To make of each a glorious State,

Worthy to match with North and West,--

Free, vigorous, beautiful and great!

As God doth live, as Truth is true,

We swear we'll do all this to you.

* * * * *

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

A late _National Review_ asserts with true English shrewdness that

American literature is yet to be born,--that it has scarcely a

substantive existence. 'Its best works,' says this modern Scaliger, 'are

scarcely more than a promise of excellence; the precursors of an advent;

shadows cast before, and, like most shadows, they are too vague and

ill-defined, too fluctuating and easily distorted into grotesque forms,

to enable us to discriminate accurately the shape from which they are

flung.... The truth is, that American literature, apart from that of

England, has no separate existence.... The United States have yet to

sign their intellectual Declaration of Independence: they are mentally

still only a province of this country.' With a gallantry too

characteristic to be startling, a discernment that does all honor to his

taste, and a coolness highly creditable to his equatorial regions of

discussion, the critic continues by assuring his readers that Washington

Irving was not an American. He admits that by an accident, for which he

is not responsible, this beloved scholar, writer and gentleman claimed

our country as his birthplace, and even, perhaps, had a 'full appetite

to this place of his kindly ingendure,' but informs us he was an

undeniable contemporary of Addison and Steele, a veritable member of the

Kit-Cat Club. We may reasonably anticipate that the next investigation

of this penetrative ethnologist may result in the appropriation to us of

that fossil of nineteenth-century literature, Martin Farquhar Tupper, an

intellectual _quid pro quo_, which will doubtless be received gratefully

by a public already supposed to be lamenting the unexpected loss of its

co-nationality with Irving.

What species of giant the watchful affection of Motherland awaits in a

literature whose unfledged bantlings are Cooper, Emerson, Holmes, Motley

and Lowell, our imagination does not attempt to depict. We venture,

however, to predict that the _National Review_ will not be called upon

to stand sponsor for the bairn, whose advent it so pleasantly announces,

and for whose christening should be erected a cathedral more vast than

St. Peter's, a temple rarer than that of Baalbec. But while our

sensitive cousin across the water would pin us down to a _credo_ as

absurd as that of Tertullian, and hedge us in with the adamantine wall

of his own lordly fiat, let us, who fondly hope we have a literature,

whose principal defect--a defect to which the one infallible remedy is

daily applied by the winged mower--is youth, inquire into its leading

characteristics, seeing if haply we may descry the elements of a golden

maturity.

It has been asserted that we are a gloomy people; it is currently

reported that the Hippocrene in which of old the Heliconian muses bathed

their soft skins, is now fed only with their tears; that instead of

branches of luxuriant olive, these maidens, now older grown and wise,

present to their devout adorers twigs of suggestive birch and thorny

staves, by whose aid these mournful priests wander gloomily up and down

the rugged steeps of the past. We have begun to believe that our writers

are afflicted with a sort of myopy that shuts out effectually sky and

star and sea, and sees only the pebbles and thistles by the dusty

roadside. Truly, the prospect is at first disheartening. The great

Byron, who wept in faultless metre, and whose aristocratic maledictions

flow in graceful waves that caress where they mean to stifle, has so

poisoned our 'well of English undefiled,' that wise men now drink from

it warily, and only after repeated filterings and skillful analyses by

the Boerhaaves of the press. And Poe, who, with all the great poet's

faults, possessed none of his few genial features, has painted the fatal

skull and cross-bones upon our banners, that should own only the

oriflamme. Yet it is Poe whom the English critic honors as exceeding all

our authors in intensity, and approaching more nearly to genius than

they all.

Now may St. Loy defend us! At the proposition of Poe's intensity we do

not demur. All of us who have shrieked in infancy at the charnel-house

novelettes of imprudent nurses, shivered in childhood at the mysterious

abbeys and concealed tombs of Anne Radcliffe, or rushed in horror from

the apparition of the dead father of the Archivarius of Hoffman,

tumbling his wicked son down stairs in the midst of the onyx quarrel,

will willingly and with trembling fidelity bear witness to the intensity

of Poe. He was indeed our Frankenstein (of whom many prototypes do

abound), wandering in the Cimmerian regions of thought, the graveyards

of the mind, and veiling his monstrous creations with the filmy drapery

of rhyme and the mists of a perverted reason. In his sad world eternal

night reigns and the sun is never seen.

'Tristis Erinnys,

Prætulit infaustas sanguinolenta faces,'

by whose red light awed audiences see the fruit of his labors.

But what right has he to a place in our van, who never asked our

sympathy, whose every effort was but to widen the gulf between him and

his fellow-man, whose sword was never drawn in defence of the right?

Genius! The very word is instinct with nobility and heartiness. Genius

clasps hands with true souls everywhere: it wakes the chord of

brotherhood in rude hearts in hovels, and quickens the pulses under the

purple and ermine of palaces. It has a smile for childhood and a

reverent tone for white-haired age. Its clasp takes in the frail flower

bending from slender stems and the stars in their courses. There is

laughter in its soul, and a huge banquet-table there to which all are

welcome. And to us, on its borders, come the summer-breath of Pæstum

roses and the aroma of the rich red wine of Valdepeñas; and there toasts

are given to the past and to the future, for genius knows no nation nor

any age. It sparkles along the current of history, and under its warm

smile deserts blossom like the rose.

And Poe? With a mind neither well balanced nor unprejudiced, and an

imagination that mistook the distorted fantasies of a fevered brain for

the pure impulses of some mysterious muse, and gave the reins to

coursers that even Phaeton would have feared to trust, he can only

excite our pity where he desires our admiration. _Qui non dat quod amat,

non accipit ille quod optat_, was an inscription on an old chequer-board

of the times of Henry II. And what did Poe love? Truth shrugs her

shoulders, but forbears to answer,--Himself. His were the vagaries of

genius without its large-hearted charities; its nice discrimination

without its honesty of purpose; its startling originality without its

harmonious proportions; its inevitable errors without its persevering

energies. He acknowledged no principle; he was actuated by no high aim;

he even busied himself--as so many of the unfortunate great have

done--with no chimera. From a mind so highly cultured, an organization

so finely strung, we expected the rarest blossoms, the divinest

melodies. The flowers lie before us, mere buds, from which the green

calyx of immaturity has not yet curled, and in whose cold heart the

perfume is not born; the melodies vibrate around us, matchless in

mechanism, wondrous in miraculous accord, but as destitute of the _soul_

of harmony as the score of Beethoven's sonata in A flat to unlearned

eyes. If his analyses and criticisms are keen and graceful, they are

unreliable and contradictory, for he was often influenced by private

piques, and unpardonable egotism, and the opinions of those whose favor

he courted. He was Byron without Byron's wonderful perceptions of

nature, Byron's consciousness of the good.

And is it from a genius like this that our literature has taken its

tone? Heaven forbid! Wee Apollos there may be, 'the little Crichtons of

the hour,' who twist about their brows the cypress sprays that have

fallen from this perverted poet's wreath, and fancy themselves crowned

with the laurel of a nation's applause. But these men are not types of

our literature. The truly great mind is never molded by the idol of a

day, a clique, a sect. Pure-hearted and strong the man must be whose

hands take hold of the palaces of the world's heart, who grasps the

spirit of the coming time. Errors may be forgiven, vices may be

forgotten, where only a noble aim has influenced, as a true creative

genius gleamed.

But larger constellations have appeared in our literary sky, that burn

with undimmed lustre even beside that great morning star that rose above

the horizon of the Middle Ages. Historians we have, with all of

Chaucer's truthfulness and luxuriance of expression, and poets with his

fresh tendernesses, his flashing thoughts, and exquisite simplicity of

heart. And perhaps, if we inquire for the distinguishing features of our

literature, we shall discover them to be the strength and cheerfulness

so pre-eminently the characteristics of Chaucer, which we have so long

been accustomed to deny to ourselves. Observe the stately but flowing

periods of Motley; his polished courtliness of style, the warm but not

exaggerated coloring of his descriptions, the firm but never ungraceful

outlines of his sketches of character that mark him the Michael Angelo

among historians. In his brilliant imagery, his splendid scholarship,

his fine analytical power, he is not surpassed by Macaulay, while he far

exceeds him in impartiality,--that diamond of the historian,--and in his

keen comprehension of the great motive-principles of the age which he

describes. Neither are Prescott, Bancroft, or Irving inferior to Gibbon,

Hume, or Robertson.

And over and through our poetry blow fresh and inspiring the winds from

our own vast prairies. Those names, few, but honorable, that have become

as household words among us, are gilded, not with the doubtful lustre of

a moonlit sentimentality, but with the real gold of day-dawn. If they

are few, let it be remembered that we are now but first feeling our

manhood, trying our thews and sinews, and must needs stop to wonder a

little at the gradual development of our unsuspected powers. The most of

our great men have been but stalwart mechanics, busied with the

machinery of government, using intellect as a lever to raise ponderous

wheels, whereon our chariot may run to Eldorado. We have a right to be

proud of our poets; their verses are the throbs of our American heart.

And if we do but peer into their labyrinth of graceful windings and

reach their Chrimhilde Rose-garden, we shall find it begirt with the

strong, fighting men of humor. This element lurks under many a musical

strophe and crowns many a regal verse. And yet in real humorous poetry

we have been sadly deficient. Only of late years have the constant lions

by the gate begun to rouse from their strong slumber, to shake their

tawny manes, and rumble out a warning of their future prowess.

Nor is it strange that we, who were scarcely an organized people, should

have lacked this great witness to the vitality and stability of a race.

The features of a national character must be marked and prominent, and a

strong sense of a national individuality be developed, before that last,

best faculty of man is aroused, and leaps forth to maturity in verse.

The one magnificent trait of true humorous poetry is, that in its very

nature it is incapable of trivialities. It must grasp as its key-note

some vast truth, must grapple with some great injustice, must hurl its

lances at some wide-spread prejudice, or toy with the tangles of some

mighty Nærea's hair. Undines and satyrs, cupids and merry fauns, may

spring laughing from under the artist's hand, but it is from the

unyielding marble that these slender children of his mirthful hours are

carved. It was not in her infancy that Rome produced her Juvenal.

Martial and Plautus caricatured the passions of humanity after Carthage

had been destroyed and Julius Cæsar had made of his tomb a city of

palaces. Aristophanes wrote when Greece had her Parthenon and had

boasted her Pericles. France had given birth to Richelieu when Molière

assumed the sack, and England had sustained the Reformation and

conquered the land of the Cid when Butler, with his satires, shaking

church and state, appeared before her king. So with America. It was not

until wrongs were to be redressed, and unworthy ambitions to be checked,

that the voice of LOWELL'S scornful laughter was heard in the land,

piercing, with its keen cadences and mirth-provoking rhyme, the policy

of government and the ghostly armor of many a spectral faith and ism.

True, we had the famous 'Hasty Pudding' of Joel Barlow, the 'Terrible

Tractoration' of Fessenden, and Halleck's 'Fanny,' but these were mere

_jeux_, gallant little histories, over which we laughed and _voila le

tout!_ And our Astolfo, Holmes, flying by on his winged horse, sends

down now and then

'His arrowes an elle long

With pecocke well ydight,'

which we gather, and our fair dames weave into brilliant fans that

flutter and snap in many a gay assembly, and whose myriad eyes of blue

and purple smile with irresistible mirthfulness into the most hostile

countenances. Still Holmes apparently likes best the unrestrained

freedom of prose. His genius delights in periods finished after its own

heart,--pyramidal, trapezoidian, isoscelesian, rhomboidical. But

Lowell's genius is infinitely pliable, accommodating itself without

hesitation to the arbitrary requirements of the Sieur Spondee, and

laughing in the face of the halting Dactyl. His Birdofredom could, we

doubt not, sail majestically in the clouds of a stately hexameter, make

the aristocratic Alexandrine cry for quarter, and excel the old

Trouveurs in the _Rime équivoquée_. From the quiet esteem which his

early poems and essays had won for him, he leaped at once into the high

tide of popularity, and down its stream

'Went sailing with vast celerity,'

with the 'Biglow Papers' for his sail. This work electrified the public.

It pierced the crust of refinement and intelligence, and roused the

latent laughter of its heart. Even newsboys chuckled with delight over

its caustic hits at the powers that were, against which, with the

characteristic precocity of Young America, each had his private

individual spite; while they found in its peculiar phraseology a mine of

fun. Patriots rejoiced that one vigilant thinker dared stand guard over

our national honor, with the two-edged sword of satire in his hand. Men

in authority, at whom the shafts of its scathing rebukes were leveled,

writhed on their cushions of state, while, in sheer deference to his

originality and humor, they laughed with the crowd at--themselves. And

in sooth it was a goodly sight, the young scholar, who had hitherto only

dabbled delicately with the treasures of poetry, whose name was a very

synonym for elegance and the repose of a genial dignity, whom we

suspected of no keen outlooks into the practical world of to-day,--to

see this man suddenly flashing into the dusty arena, with indignation

rustling through his veins and breathing more flame

'Than ten fire-kings could swallow,'

scorching with his burning words, which an inimitable carelessness made

doubly effective, the willful absurdities of government and the palpable

wrongs of society, to question which had seemed before almost a heresy.

But Lowell's humor was the chrism, snatching together parallels whose

apparent inequalities, yet real justice, were powerfully convincing. He

never sought the inconsistencies of his subject, they flocked to meet

him uninvited. And his infinite cheerfulness, his freedom, even in his

most daring onslaughts, from ill-nature, these were the influences meet,

'That bowed our hearts like barley bending.'

Scarcely did we know our knight in his new armor. Off with the hauberk

and visor, down with the glittering shield of his mediæval crusade, and,

lo! with his hand on the plow and his eyes on the fair fields of his own

New England, our country boy sings his _Ave Aquila!_ while other men are

rubbing the sunbeams of of the new-born day into their sleepy eyes.

And it was not alone in our own country that this newly developed phase

of our poet's genius was acknowledged and applauded. Says a British

Review, with an admiration whose reservations are unfortunately too just

to be disputed: 'All at once we have a batch of small satirists,--Mr.

Bailey at their head,--in England, and one really powerful satirist in

America, namely, Mr. J.R. Lowell, whose "Biglow Papers" we most gladly

welcome as being not only the best volume of satires since the

Anti-Jacobin, but also the first work of real and efficient poetical

genius which has reached us from the United States. We have been under

the necessity of telling some unpleasant truths about American

literature from time to time, and it is with hearty pleasure that we are

now able to own that the Britishers have been for the present utterly

and apparently hopelessly beaten by a Yankee in one important department

of poetry. In the United States, social and political evils have a

breadth and tangibility which are not at present to be found in the

condition of any other civilized country. The "peculiar domestic

institution," the fillibustering tendencies of the nation, the

charlatanism which is the price of political power, are butts for the

shafts of the satirist, which European poets may well envy Mr. Lowell.

We do not pretend to affirm that the evils of European society may not

be as great in their own way as those which affect the credit of the

United States, with the exception, of course, of slavery, which makes

American freedom deservedly the laughing-stock of the world; but what we

do say is, that the evils in point have a boldness and simplicity which

our more sophisticated follies have not, and that a hundred years hence

Mr. Lowell's Yankee satires will be perfectly intelligible to every

one.'

The predictions of the English reviewer are fulfilled already. The

prescribed century has not elapsed, and in a decade the 'Yankee satires'

are comprehended as perhaps even their author failed to comprehend as he

created them. There is something positively startling and uncanny in his

prophetic insight into the passions that have attained their majority in

this present year of grace,--passions that,

'Like aconite, where'er they spread, they kill.'

He does not approach with the old show of superstitious reverence the

altar of our vaunted destiny, where men have sung their

in-secula-seculorums, while pagans at the chancel rail have been

distributing to infidel hordes the relics of their holiest saints, and

threatening the very fane itself with fire. Mere words will never strike

him dumb. He does not bow to the shadow of Justice or kneel with the

ignorant and unsuspicious at the shrine of every plausible Madonna by

the roadside. Hear him on the constitutional pillars that heaven and

earth are now moved to keep in place, and let us commiserate what must

now be the distracting dread of Increse D. O'Phace, Esquire, lest some

Samson in blind revenge entomb himself in the ruins of the Constitution.

'Wy, all o' them grand constitootional pillers,

Our four fathers fetched with 'em over the billers,

Them pillers the people so soundly hev slept on,

Wile to slav'ry, invasion an' debt they were swept on,

Wile our destiny higher an' higher kep mountin'

(Though I guess folks'll stare wen she hands her account in).

Ef members in this way go kickin' agin 'em,

They won't hev so much ez a feather left in em.'

Not less wonderful than his penetration into political affairs is

Lowell's command of the pure Yankee dialect. His knowledge of it is

perfect; he elevates it to the dignity of a distinct tongue, having its

own peculiar etymology, and only adopting the current rules of prosody

in tender consideration for its thousands of English readers. There is,

however, we are tolerably assured, a certain class of critics who

venture to lament that this laughter-inspiring muse should have

descended from the sunny Parnassus of its own vernacular to the meads

below, where disport the unlearned and uninspired, the mere kids and

lambs of its celestial audience: a generous absurdity, at which the very

Devil of Delphos might have demurred. These are the dapper gentlemen,

who, tripping gayly along to the blasts and tinklings of Lanner's

Waltzes, would judge every man's intellect by the measure of their own.

Know, oh dwarfed descendants of Procustes, that the quality of humor is

not strained, but droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven; and if, after

patient blending with grains of intolerance and egotism, in the mortar

of your minds, it seems to you but that poisonous foam that of old

sorcerers drew, by their incantations, from the moon, we can only smile

with Voltaire at your 'foolish ingenuities,' and recommend to you a new

career. 'Go pype in an ivy lefe,' Monsieur Mustard-seed, or 'blow the

bukkes' horne.'

It is no trifling merit in a work of so extraordinary a character that

the original programme should have been so perfectly carried out. The

poet never relaxes, even into a Corinthian elegance of allusion; his

metaphors are always fresh and ungarnished; they no more shine with the

polish of the court than do those of Panurge. In fact, there is a flavor

of the camp about them, a pleasant suspicion, and more than a suspicion,

of life in the open air, the fresh smell of the up-turned earth, the

odor of clover blossoms. The poet is walking in the _fresco_, and the

sharp winds cut a pathway across every page. Equally remarkable and

pervaded by a most delightful personality are the editorial lucubrations

of the Rev. Homer Wilbur. The very lustre of the midnight oil shines

upon their glittering fragments of philosophy, admirably twisted to suit

the requirements of an eminently unphilosophical age; moral axioms from

heathen writers applied judiciously to the immoral actions of Christian

doers; distorted shadows of a monstrous political economy, and

dispassionate and highly commendable views '_de propagandâ fide_.' Like

Johnson,

'He forced Latinisms into his line,

Like raw undrilled recruits,'

that have yet done immense service in his conflicts with the enemy. This

pedantry, so inimitable, is unequaled even by the most weighty pages of

the 'Pseudodoxia Epidemica' of Sir Thomas Browne. That it should prove

obnoxious to some critics only testifies to its perfection and their own

incapacity for enjoyment. If a man does not relish the caviare and

truffles at a dinner, he does not question the wisdom of his Lucullus in

providing them; the fault is in his own palate, not in the judgment of

his host. The aggrieved individuals, who are either too weak or too

indolent to scale the numberless peaks of Lowell's genius, may comfort

themselves with the reflection that the treasures of their minds will

never be tesselated into the mosaic of any satirist's fancy, for in them

can abound only emptiness and cobwebs--as saith the Staphyla of

Plautus:--

'Nam hic apud nos nihil est aliud qua sti furibus,

Ita inaniis sunt oppletæ atque araneis.'

Caricatures have never been disdained by the greatest minds. They were

rather the healthful diversion of their leisure hours. Even the stern

and rugged-natured artist, Annibale Caracci, was famous for his humorous

inventions, and the good Leonardo da Vinci esteemed them as most useful

exercises. We all remember the group of the Laocoon that Titian sketched

with apes, and those whole humorous poems in lines found in Herculaneum,

where Anchises and Æneas are represented with the heads of apes and

pigs. Lessing even tells us in his Laocoon that in Thebes the rage for

these _caricatura_ was so great that a law was passed forbidding the

production of any work conflicting with the severe and absolute laws of

beauty.

In quite another vein, yet transfused with the same irrepressible mirth,

we have Lowell's 'Fable for Critics,' which, with its 'preliminary notes

and few candid remarks to the reader,' is a literary curiosity whose

parallel we have not in any work by an American author. It is all one

merry outburst of youth and health, and music and poetry, with the spice

of a criticism so rare and genial, that one could almost court

dissection at his hands, for the mere exquisitely epicurean bliss of an

artistic euthanasia. It is genius on a frolic, coquetting with all the

Graces, and unearthing men long since become gnomes,

'In that country

Where are neither stars nor meadows,'

to join in his merry carousing. They float on floods of Chian and moor

their barks under 'hills of spice.' What golden wine of inspiration has

our poet drunk, whose flush is on his brow and its fire in his veins?

For every sentence of this poem is aglow with vigor and life and power;

'Its feeldes have een and its woodes have eeres.'

And if he sometimes stumbles over a metre or lets his private

friendships and preferences run away with his cool discretion and

judgment, why, _bonus dormitat Homerus_, let us, like the miser Euclio,

be thankful for the good the gods vouchsafe us. Taken in themselves and

without regard to their poetical surroundings, no more comprehensive,

faithful, concise portraitures of our authors have ever been produced.

They unite in the highest degree candor and justice, and there is withal

a tone so kindly and a wit so pure, that we almost believe him to be

describing a community of brothers affiliated by the close ties of deep

mutual appreciation. He flings his diamonds of learning upon the page,

and we recognize the scholar whom no extravagance in knowledge can make

bankrupt. We seem to have come by rare chance upon one of those

wardrobes of the early kings, wherein are all savory treasures,--the

rose and violet colored sugars of Alexandria, sweet almonds, and

sharp-toothed ginger. We pardon his puns, indeed we believe them to be

inevitable, the flash of the percussion cap, the sparks of electricity,

St. Elmo's stars, phosphorescent gleams, playing over the restless ocean

of his fruitful imagination. And we are persuaded that if the venerable

Democritus (who was uncanonized only because the Holy See was still

wavering, an anomalous body, in _Weissnichtwo_, and who existed forty

days on the mere sight of bread and honey) had been regaled with the

piquant delicacies of Lowell's picture of a Critic, he might have

continued unto this present. It is a satire so pleasantly constructed,

so full of palpable hits at the 'musty dogmas' of the day, so rich in

mirthful allusion, and with such a generously insinuated tribute to the

true and earnest-hearted critic, that we know not which most to admire,

the sketch, or the soul whence it emanated. The following description of

a 'regular heavy reviewer' is complete:

'And here I must say he wrote excellent articles

On the Hebraic points, or the force of Greek particles,

They filled up the space nothing else was prepared for;

And nobody read that which nobody cared for;

If any old book reached a fiftieth edition,

He could fill forty pages with safe erudition;

He could gauge the old books by the new set of rules,

And his very old nothings pleased very old fools.

But give him a new book fresh out of the heart,

And you put him at sea without compass or chart,--

His blunders aspired to the rank of an art;

For his lore was engraft, something foreign that grew in him,

Exhausting the sap of the native, and true in him,

So that when a man came with a soul that was new in him,

Carving new forms of truth out of Nature's old granite,

New and old at their birth, like Le Verrier's planet,

Which, to get a true judgment, themselves must create

In the soul of their critic the measure and weight,

Being rather themselves a fresh standard of grace,

To compute their own judge and assign him his place,

Our reviewer would crawl all about it and round it,

And reporting each circumstance just as he found it,

Without the least malice--his record would be

Profoundly æsthetic as that of a flea,

Which, supping on Wordsworth, should print, for our sakes,

Recollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes,

Or, borne by an Arab guide, venture to render a

General view of the ruins of Denderah.'

He draws with a few strokes of his magical charcoal a sharp silhouette

of Brownson upon the wall of our waiting curiosity, fills in his sketch

of Parker with a whole wilderness of classical shades, disposes of

Willis with a kiss and a blow, gives pages of sharp pleasantries to

Emerson, pays a graceful tribute to Whittier, and Hawthorne,--

'His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek,

That a suitable parallel sets one to seek,--

He's a John Bunyan Fouqué, a Puritan Tieck;

When Nature was shaping him, clay was not granted

For making so full-sized a man as she wanted,

So to fill out her model, a little she spared

From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared,

And she could not have hit a more excellent plan

For making him fully and perfectly man.'

Turning backward from these evidences of Lowell's ripening powers to his

early poems, astonishment at his versatility is the first emotion

produced. It is hard to believe that the 'Biglow Papers' slid from under

the hand that wrote the 'Prometheus' and the 'Legend of Brittany.' His

genius flashes upon us like a certain flamboyant style of poetic

architecture--the flowing, flame-like curves of his humor blending

happily with the Gothic cusps of veneration for the old, with quaint

ivy-leaves, green and still rustling under the wind and rain, springing

easily out of its severer lines. What resistless magic is there in the

fingers whose touch upon the same rich banks of keys, summons solemn,

vibrant peals as of Beethoven's grandest fugues, endless harmonies as of

the deep seas, and the light and graceful fantasies of Rossini, which

are as the glad sunshine upon their waves. Truly the poet's gift is a

divine and an awful one. His heart must needs be proud and humble too,

who is claimed as nearer of kin than a brother by myriads of stranger

souls, each, perhaps, owning its separate creed, and in whose unspoken

prayers his name is ever present. In his 'Conversations on some of the

old Poets,' we discover the alembic through which his crude opinions,

his glowing impulses, his exquisitely minute discrimination were

distilled;--the old poets, to whom the heart turns ever lovingly as to

the wide west at eve. They were the nursing mothers of his intellectual

infancy, and it is probably to his reverent but not blind esteem for

them, his earnest study of them, not merely as poets, but as men,

citizens, and friends, that much of the buoyancy and vigor of his poetry

is to be attributed. The 'Conversations' themselves are alive with that

enthusiasm and sympathetic inquiry that disproves the false saying of

the Parisian Aspasia of Landor--'Poets are soon too old for mutual

love.' They are the warm photographs of feeling as it bubbles from a

burning heart; sometimes burned over-deep, with a leaning to fanaticism,

but with so much of the generosity and justice of maturity in their

decisions that these necessary errors of an ardent youth are overlooked,

and the more as they have disappeared almost entirely from the

productions of later years. He betrays in his quick conception of an

author's mood and meaning a delicacy so extreme, an organization so

nervously alive to beauties and discords, and a religious sentiment so

cultured to the last degree of feeling, that we dread lest we shall

encounter the weakness, morbidness or bigotry that naturally results

from the contact of such a soul with the passions of everyday life,

recalling the oft-quoted '_Medio in fonte leporum_'--

'In the bowl where pleasures swim,

The bitter rises to the brim,

And roses from the veriest brake

May press the temples till they ache.'

But among the roses of his criticisms we look in vain for thorns. In

style, it is true, these essays are halting and unequal. His adoption of

the colloquial form for the expression of opinion to the public has

never seemed to us remarkably felicitous, in spite of its venerable

precedents. Where his imagery becomes lofty and his flow of thought

should be continuous, we are indignant at its sudden arrest, and

involuntarily devote the intruder to a temporary bungalow in Timbuctoo.

It is refreshing to lose the moony Tennysonian sensuousness which

induced, with Lowell's vigorous imagination, the blank artificiality of

style which was visible in several of his early poems. There was a

tendency, too, to the Byzantine liberty of gilding the bronze of our

common words, a palpable longing after the _ississimus_ of Latin

adjectives, of whose softness our muscular and variegated language will

not admit. Mr. Lowell's Sonnets, too, we could wish unwritten, not from

any defect in their construction, but from a fancied want of

congeniality between their character and his own. In spite of its

Italian origin, the sonnet always seems to demand the severest classical

outlines, both in spirit and expression, calm and steadfastly flowing

without ripples or waves, a poem cut in the marble of stately cadences

that imprison some vast and divine thought. Lowell is too elastic,

impulsive, for a sonneteer. But considered apart from our peculiar ideas

of the sonnet, the following is full of a very tender beauty:--

'I ask not for those thoughts that sudden leap

From being's sea, like the isle-seeming Kraken,

With whose great rise the ocean all is shaken,

And a heart-tremble quivers through the deep;

Give me that growth which some perchance deem sleep,

Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise,

Which by the toil of gathering energies

Their upward way into clear sunshine keep,

Until, by Heaven's sweetest influences,

Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green

Into a pleasant island in the seas,

Where, 'mid tall palms, the cave-roofed home is seen

And wearied men shall sit at sunset's hour,

Hearing the leaves and loving God's dear power.'

And what could be more drippingly quaint than his song to 'Violets,'

which breathes so gentle and real a sympathy with its subject, that we

almost imagine it was written in those early times when men communed

with Nature in her own audible language. It is even more beautiful than

Herrick's

'Why do ye weep, sweet babe? Can tears

Speak grief in you, who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?'

We give but a fragment of the Violet.

'Violet! sweet violet!

Thine eyes are full of tears;

Are they wet

Even yet

With the thought of other years?

Or with gladness are they full,

For the night is beautiful,

And longing for those far-off spheres?

Thy little heart, that hath with love

Grown colored, like the sky above

On which thou lookest ever--

Can it know

All the woe

Of hope for what returneth never,

All the sorrow and the longing

To these hearts of ours belonging?'

And there are touches of what we are wont to call dear, womanly feeling,

as when the 'Forlorn,' out in the bitter cold,

'Hears a woman's voice within

Singing sweet words her childhood knew,

And years of misery and sin

_Furl off and leave her heaven blue_.'

The 'Changeling' alone would sustain a reputation. It seems always like

the plaintive but sweet warble of some unknown bird rising from the

midst of tall water-rushes in the day's dim dawning. A wonderful melody

as of Mrs. Browning's best efforts pervades every verse, priceless and

rare as some old intaglio. But when we come to his 'Odes to the Past and

the Future,' the full power of poesy unfolds before us. Their images are

not the impalpable spectres of a poet's dream, but symbols hardened into

marble by his skill, and informed with the fire of life by his genius.

'Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls,

O kingdom of the past!

There lie the bygone ages in their palls,

Guarded by shadows vast;

There all is hushed and breathless,

Save when some image of old error falls,

Earth worshiped once as deathless.'

Was ever picture of silence more effective and complete? We can see the

desolate quiet of the vast arched halls, left undisturbed by centuries,

and as the moldering statue totters forward from its niche, we feel a

faith has fallen which was once the heaven of nations, and the awful

tumult is audible as a voice from the drear kingdom of death. And the

hymn to the Future, with all the joyful Titian hues of its opening

strophes, the glowing fervor of its deep yearning, swelling through

'golden-winged dreams' of the 'Land of Promise':--

'To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands

And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile

Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands,

And her old woe-worn face a little while

Grows young and noble: unto thee the Oppressor

Looks and is dumb with awe;

The eternal law

Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser,

Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding,

And he can see the grim-eyed Doom

From out the trembling gloom

Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading.'

We pass by the 'Legend of Brittany,' which, as a mere artistic study of

light and shade in words, is worthy an extended notice. Its fine polish

and refinement of feeling remind us of Spencer's silver verses, frosted

here and there with the old fret-work of his lovable affectations. But

we pause at the 'Prometheus,' honestly believing that no poem made up of

so many excellences was ever written in America. Its defects are not of

conception, but in an occasional carelessness of execution--a gasp in

the rhythm; and when we consider its richness and majesty, when we feel

its resistless grasp upon the heart, we could pardon it if its great

pearls were strung on straws or its diamonds hidden in a sand-hill of

sentimentality. But never was poem freer from morbidness: it repels the

sickly pallor of our modern stereotyped sorrow, and is made up only of a

grief that is regal--more--divine. If any place by its side the

Prometheus of Æschylus and appeal to the unapproachable dignity of their

model, we can only say that we hold these two poems distinct as the East

is from the West, only between them springs boldly the blue arch of a

universal humanity that suffered and enjoyed as now when the earth was

young. But it must not be forgotten that the Greek lived when with men

was born a boundless sympathy for, and pride in, their gods; that what

are now to us but the wonderful dreams of a primeval poesy, shadowing

mighty truths, were to the ancients living influences that molded their

lives. And if it be urged that already faith must have grown dim in so

great a mind as that of Æschylus, then indeed we wonder not at the

marvels of magnificent despair, the death-in-life of a godlike suffering

which reach in his 'Prometheus Chained' a height of sublimity we may

scarcely hope to see approached in modern times, for the mind that

created it stood in a light shallop, drifting away from the old

landmarks of a worn-out creed into the dark, unknown night of doubt and

speculation. But the Prometheus of Lowell is not the god-man writhing in

an awful conflict with his slavery but begun. His heart

'For ages hath been empty of all joy,

Except to brood upon its silent hope,

As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now.'

The defiant pride and scornful dignity that raised him above our

sympathy in Æschylus, are tempered by Lowell with a human longing for

comfort that, in its mighty woe, might melt adamant, or draw from the

watchful heavens

'Mild-eyed Astarte, his best comforter,

With her pale smile of sad benignity.'

Chained to the rock in utter loneliness he lies. Long since the 'crisped

smiles' of the waves and the 'swift-winged winds' had ceased to listen

to his call.

'Year after year will pass away and seem

To me, in mine eternal agony,

But as the shadows of dark summer clouds,

Which I have watched so often darkening o'er

The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first,

But, with still swiftness lessening on and on,

Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where

The gray horizon fades into the sky,

Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet

Must I lie here upon my altar huge,

A sacrifice for man.'

'A sacrifice for man.' The theme has won a high significance with time.

One more passage, and we are done--a passage which rivals Shakspeare in

its startling vividness, as it whispers with awful power close to our

ears. All night had the prisoned god heard voices,--

'Deeper yet

The deep, low breathings of the silence grew

* * * * *

And then toward me came

A shape as of a woman; very pale

It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move,

And mine moved not, but only stared on them.

Their fixed awe went through my brain like ice;

A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart,

And a sharp chill, as if a dank night-fog

Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt.

And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh,

A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips

Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought

Some doom was close upon me, and I looked

And saw the red morn, through the heavy mist,

Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling,

Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead

And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged

Into the rising surges of the pines,

Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins

Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength,

Sent up a murmur in the morning wind,

Sad as the wail that from the populous earth

All day and night to high Olympus soars,

Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!'

Mr. Lowell is no fine dreamer, no enthusiast in the filmy questions of

some cloud-land of poetry: the sword of power is in his hand, and the

stern teachings of Right and Justice ring through his heart. To such

men, Destiny looks for her unfolding. Woe to them, if upon their

silence, inaction or irresolution in these great days, the steadfast

gaze of her high expectation falls unheeded.

* * * * *

RESURGAMUS.

Go where the sunlight brightly falls,

Through tangled grass too thick to wave;

Where silence, save the cricket's calls,

Reigns o'er a patriot's grave;

And you shall see Faith's violets spring

From whence his soul on heavenward wing

Rose to the realms where heroes dwell:

Heroes who for their country fell;

Heroes for whom our bosoms swell;

Heroes in battle slain.

God of the just! they are not dead,--

Those who have erst for freedom bled;--

Their every deed has boldly said

We all shall rise again.

A patriot's deeds can never die,--

Time's noblest heritage are they,--

Though countless æons pass them by,

They rise at last to day.

The spirits of our fathers rise

Triumphant through the starry skies;

And we may hear their choral song,--

The firm in faith, the noble throng,--

It bids us crush a deadly wrong,

Wrought by red-handed Cain.

AND WE SHALL CONQUER! for the Right

Goes onward with resistless might:

His hand shall win for us the fight.

WE, too, shall rise again!

* * * * *

AMONG THE PINES.

My last article left the reader in the doorway of the Colonel's mansion.

Before entering, we will linger there awhile and survey the outside of

the premises.

The house stands where two roads meet, and, unlike most planters'

dwellings, is located in full view of the highway. It is a rambling,

disjointed structure, thrown together with no regard to architectural

rules, and yet there is a kind of rude harmony in its very

irregularities that has a pleasing effect. The main edifice, with a

frontage of nearly eighty feet, is only one and a half stories high, and

is overshadowed by a broad projecting roof, which somehow, though in a

very natural way, drops down at the eaves, and forms the covering of a

piazza, twenty-feet in width, and extending across the entire front of

the house. At its south-easterly angle, the roof is truncated, and made

again to form a covering for the piazza, which there extends along a

line of irregular buildings for sixty yards. A portion of the verandah

on this side being enclosed, forms a bowling-alley and smoking-room, two

essential appendages to a planter's residence. The whole structure is

covered with yellow-pine weather boarding, which in some former age was

covered with paint of a grayish brown color. This, in many places, has

peeled off and allowed the sap to ooze from the pine, leaving every here

and there large blotches on the surface, which somewhat resemble the

'warts' I have seen on the trunks of old trees.

The house is encircled by grand, old pines, whose tall, upright stems,

soaring eighty and ninety feet in the air, make the low hamlet seem

lower by the contrast. They have stood there for centuries, their rough,

shaggy coats buttoned close to their chins, and their long, green locks

waving in the wind; but man has thrust his long knife into their veins,

and their life-blood is fast oozing away.

With the exception of the negro huts, which are scattered at irregular

intervals through the woods in the rear of the mansion, there is not a

human habitation within an hour's ride; but such a cosey, inviting,

hospitable atmosphere surrounds the whole place, that a stranger does

not realize he has happened upon it in a wilderness.

The interior of the dwelling is in keeping with the exterior, though in

the drawing-rooms, where rich furniture and fine paintings actually

lumber the apartments, there is evident the lack of a nice perception of

the 'fitness of things,' and over the whole hangs a 'dusty air,' which

reminds one that the Milesian Bridget does not 'flourish' in South

Carolina.

I was met in the entrance-way by a tall, fine-looking woman, to whom the

Colonel introduced me as follows:--

'Mr. K----, this is Madam ----, my housekeeper; she will try to make you

forget that Mrs. J---- is absent.'

After a few customary courtesies were exchanged, I was shown to a

dressing-room, and with the aid of 'Jim,' a razor, and one of the

Colonel's shirts,--all of mine having undergone a drenching,--soon made

a tolerably presentable appearance. The negro then conducted me to the

breakfast-room, where I found the family assembled.

It consisted, besides the housekeeper, of a tall, raw-boned,

sandy-haired personage, with a low brow, a blear eye and a sneaking

look, the Overseer of the plantation; and of a well-mannered,

intelligent lad,--with the peculiarly erect carriage and uncommon

blending of good-natured ease and dignity which distinguished my

host,--who was introduced to me as the housekeeper's son.

Madam P----, who presided over the 'tea things,' was a person of perhaps

thirty-five, but a rich olive complexion, enlivened by a delicate

red-tint, and relieved by thick masses of black hair, made her appear to

a casual observer several years younger. Her face showed vestiges of

great beauty, which time, and, perhaps, care, had mellowed but not

obliterated, while her conversation indicated high cultivation. She had

evidently mingled in refined society in this country and in Europe, and

it was a strange freak of fortune that reduced her to a menial condition

in the family of a backwoods planter.

After some general conversation, the Colonel remarked that his wife and

daughter would pass the winter in Charleston.

'And do _you_ remain on the plantation?' I inquired.

'Oh yes, I am needed here,' he replied; 'but Madam's son is with my

family.'

'Madam's son!' I exclaimed in astonishment, forgetting in my surprise

that the lady was present.

'Yes, sir,' she remarked, 'my oldest boy is twenty.'

'Excuse me, Madam; I forgot that in your climate one never grows old.'

'There you are wrong, sir; I'm sure I _feel_ old when I think how soon

my boys will be men.'

'Not old yet, Alice,' said the Colonel, in a singularly familiar tone;

'you seem to me no older than when you were fifteen.'

'You have been long acquainted,' I remarked, not knowing exactly what to

say.

'Oh yes,' replied my host, 'we were children together.'

'Your Southern country, Madam, affords a fine field for young men of

enterprise.'

'My eldest son resides in Germany,' replied the lady. 'He expects to

make that country his home. He would have passed his examination at

Heidelberg this autumn had not circumstances called him here.'

'You are widely separated,' I replied.

'Yes, sir; his father thinks it best, and I suppose it is. Thomas, here,

is to return with his brother, and I may live to see neither of them

again.'

My curiosity was naturally much excited to learn more, but nothing

further being volunteered, and the conversation turning to other topics,

I left the table with it unsatisfied.

After enjoying a quiet hour with the Colonel in the smoking-room, he

invited me to join him in a ride over the plantation. I gladly assented,

and 'Jim' shortly announced the horses were ready. That darky, who

invariably attended his master when the latter proceeded from home,

accompanied us. As we were mounting I bethought me of Scip, and asked

Jim where he was.

'He'm gwine to gwo, massa. He want to say good-by to you.'

It seemed madness for Scip to start on a journey of seventy miles

without rest, so I requested the Colonel to let him remain till the next

day. He cheerfully assented, and sent Jim to find him. While waiting for

the darky, I spoke of how faithfully he had served me during my journey.

'He's a splendid nigger,' replied the Colonel; 'worth his weight in

gold. If affairs were more settled I would buy him.'

'But Colonel A---- tells me he is too intelligent. He objects to

"knowing" niggers.'

'_I_ do not,' replied my host, 'if they are honest, and I would trust

Scip with uncounted gold. Look at him,' he continued, as the negro

approached; 'were flesh and bones ever better put together?'

The darky _was_ a fine specimen of sable humanity, and I readily

understood why the practiced eye of the Colonel appreciated his physical

developments.

'Scip,' I said, 'you must not think of going to-day; the Colonel will be

glad to let you remain until you are fully rested.'

'Tank you, massa, tank you bery much, but de ole man will spec me, and I

orter gwo.'

'Oh, never mind old ----,' said the Colonel, 'I'll take care of him.'

'Tank you, Cunnel, den I'll stay har till de mornin.'

Taking a by-path which led through the forest in the rear of the

mansion, we soon reached a small stream, and, following its course for

a short distance, came upon a turpentine distillery, which the Colonel

explained to me was one of three that prepared the product of his

plantation for market, and provided for his family of two hundred souls.

It was enclosed, or rather roofed, by a rude structure of rough boards,

open at the sides, and sustained on a number of pine poles about thirty

feet in height, and bore a strong resemblance to the usual covering of a

New England haystack.

Three stout negro men, divested of all clothing excepting a pair of

coarse gray trowsers and a red shirt,--it was a raw, cold, wintry

day,--and with cotton bandannas bound about their heads, were 'tending

the still.' The foreman stood on a raised platform level with its top,

but as we approached very quietly seated himself on a turpentine barrel

which a moment before he had rolled over the mouth of the boiler.

Another negro was below, feeding the fire with 'light wood,' and a third

was tending the trough by which the liquid rosin found its way into the

semi-circle of rough barrels intended for its reception.

'Hello, Junius, what in creation are you doing there?' asked the

Colonel, as we approached, of the negro on the turpentine barrel.

'Holein' her down, Cunnel; de ole ting got a mine to blow up dis mornin;

I'se got dis barrl up har to hole her down.'

'Why, you everlasting nigger, if the top leaks you'll be blown to

eternity in half a second.'

'Reckon not, massa; de barrl and me kin hole her. We'll take de risk.'

'Perhaps _you_ will,' said the Colonel, laughing, 'but I won't. Nigger

property isn't of much account, but you're too good a darky, June, to be

sent to the devil for a charge of turpentine.'

'Tank you, massa, but you dun kno' dis ole ting like I do. You cudn't

blow her up nohow; I'se tried her afore dis way.'

'Don't you do it again; now mind; if you do I'll make a white man of

you.' (This I suppose referred to a process of flaying with a switch;

though the switch is generally thought to _redden_, not _whiten_, the

darky.)

The negro did not seem at all alarmed, for he showed his ivories in a

broad grin as he replied, 'Jess as you say, massa; you'se de boss in dis

shanty.'

Directing the fire to be raked out, and the still to stand unused until

it was repaired, the Colonel turned his horse to go, when he observed

that the third negro was shoeless, and his feet chapped and swollen with

the cold. 'Jake,' he said, 'where are your shoes?'

'Wored out, massa.'

'Worn out! Why haven't you been to me?'

''Cause, massa, I know'd you'd jaw; you tole me I wears 'em out mighty

fass.'

'Well, you do, that's a fact; but go to Madam and get a pair; and you,

June, you've been a decent nigger, you can ask for a dress for Rosey.

How is little June?'

'Mighty pore, massa; de ma'am war dar lass night and dis mornin', and

she reckun'd he's gwine to gwo sartain.'

'Sorry to hear that,' said the Colonel. I'll go and see him. Don't feel

badly, June,' he continued, for the tears welled up to the eyes of the

black man as he spoke of his child; 'we all must die.'

'I knows dat, massa, but it am hard to hab em gwo.'

'Yes, it is, June, but we may save him.'

'Ef you cud, massa! Oh, ef you cud!' and the poor darky covered his face

with his great hands and sobbed like a child.

We rode on to another 'still,' and there dismounting, the Colonel

explained to me the process of gathering and manufacturing turpentine.

The trees are 'boxed' and 'tapped' early in the year, while the frost is

still in the ground. 'Boxing' is the process of scooping a cavity in the

trunk of the tree by means of a peculiarly shaped axe, made for the

purpose; 'tapping' is scarifying the rind of the wood above the boxes.

This is never done until the trees have been worked one season, but it

is then repeated year after year, till on many plantations they present

the marks of twenty and frequently thirty annual 'tappings,' and are

often denuded of bark for a distance of thirty feet from the ground. The

necessity for this annual tapping arises from the fact that the scar on

the trunk heals at the end of a season, and the sap will no longer run

from it; a fresh wound is therefore made each spring. The sap flows down

the scarified surface and collects in the boxes, which are emptied six

or eight times in a year, according to the length of the season. This is

the process of 'dipping,' and it is done with a tin or iron vessel

constructed to fit the cavity in the tree.

The turpentine gathered from the newly boxed or virgin tree is very

valuable, on account of its producing a peculiarly clear and white

rosin, which is used in the manufacture of the finer kinds of soap, and

by 'Rosin the Bow,' and commands, ordinarily, nearly five times the

price of the common article. When barreled, the turpentine is frequently

sent to market in its crude state, but more often is distilled on the

plantation, the gatherers generally possessing means sufficient to own a

still.

In the process of distilling, the crude turpentine is 'dumped' into the

boiler through an opening in the top,--the same as that on which we saw

Junius composedly seated,--water is then poured upon it, the aperture

made tight by screwing down the cover and packing it with clay, a fire

built underneath, and when the heat reaches several hundred degrees

Fahrenheit, the process of manufacture begins. The volatile and more

valuable part of the turpentine, by the action of the heat, rises as

vapor, then condensing flows off through a pipe in the top of the still,

and comes out spirits of turpentine, while the heavier portion finds

vent at a lower aperture, and comes out rosin.

No article of commerce is so liable to waste and leakage as turpentine.

The spirits can only be preserved in tin cans, or in thoroughly seasoned

oak barrels, made tight by a coating of glue on the inner side. Though

the material for these barrels exists at the South in luxuriant

abundance, they are all procured from the North, and the closing of the

Southern ports has now entirely cut off the supply; for while the

turpentine farmer may improvise coopers, he can by no process give the

oak timber the seasoning which is needed to render the barrel

spirit-tight. Hence it is certain that a large portion of the last crop

of turpentine must have gone to waste. When it is remembered that the

one State of North Carolina exports annually nearly twenty millions in

value of this product, and employs fully three-fourths of its negroes in

its production, it will be seen how dearly the South is paying for the

mad freak of secession. Putting out of view his actual loss of produce,

how does the turpentine farmer feed and employ his negroes? and, pressed

as these blacks inevitably are by both hunger and idleness, those

prolific breeders of sedition, what will keep them quiet?

'What effect would secession have on your business?' I asked the

Colonel, after a while.

'A favorable one. I should ship my crop direct to Liverpool and London,

instead of selling it to New York middlemen.'

'But is not the larger portion of the turpentine crop consumed at the

North?'

'Oh, yes. We should have to deal with the Yankees anyhow, but we should

do as little with them as possible.'

'Suppose the Yankees object to your setting up by yourselves, and put

your ports under lock and key?'

'They won't do that, and if they did England would break the blockade.'

'We might rap John Bull over the knuckles in that event,' I replied.

'Well, suppose you did, what then?'

'Merely, England would not have a ship in six months to carry your

cotton. A war with her would ruin the shipping trade of the North. Our

marine would seek employment at privateering, and soon sweep every

British merchant ship from the ocean. We could afford to give up ten

years' trade with you, and have to put down seccession by force, for the

sake of a year's brush with John Bull.'

'But, my good friend, where would the British navy be all the while?'

'Asleep. The English haven't a steamer that can catch a Brookhaven

schooner. The last war proved that vessels of war are no match for

privateers.'

'Well, well! but the Yankees won't fight.'

'Suppose they do. Suppose they shut up your ports, and leave you with

your cotton and turpentine unsold? You raise scarcely anything

else--what would you eat?'

'We would turn our cotton-fields into corn and wheat. Turpentine-makers,

of course, would suffer.'

'Then why are not _you_ a Union man?'

'My friend, I have two hundred mouths to feed. I depend on the sale of

my crop to give them food. If our ports are closed, I can not do

it,--they will starve, and I be ruined. But sooner than submit to the

domination of the cursed Yankees, I will see my negroes starving and my

child a beggar.'

At this point in the conversation we arrived at the negro shanty where

the sick child was. Dismounting, the Colonel and I entered.

The cabin was almost a counterpart of the 'Mills House,' described in my

previous paper, but it had a plank flooring, and was scrupulously neat

and clean. The logs were stripped of bark, and whitewashed. A bright,

cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, and an air of rude comfort

pervaded the whole interior. On a low bed in the farther corner of the

room lay the sick child. He was a boy of about twelve years, and

evidently in the last stages of consumption. By his side, bending over

him as if to catch his almost inaudible words, sat a tidy,

youthful-looking colored woman, his mother, and the wife of the negro we

had met at the 'still.' Playing on the floor, was a younger child,

perhaps five years old, but while the faces of the mother and the sick

lad were of the hue of charcoal, _his_ skin, by a process well

understood at the South, had been bleached to a bright yellow.

The woman took no notice of our entrance, but the little fellow ran to

the Colonel and caught hold of the skirts of his coat in a free-and-easy

way, saying, 'Ole massa, you got suffin' for Dickey?'

'No, you little nig,' replied the Colonel, patting his woolly head as I

might have done a white child's, 'Dickey isn't a good boy.'

'Yas, I is,' said the little darky; 'you'se ugly ole massa, to gib

nuffin' to Dickey.'

Aroused by the Colonel's voice, the woman turned towards us. Her eyes

were swollen and her face bore traces of deep emotion.

'Oh massa!' she said, 'de chile am dyin'! It'm all along ob his workin'

in de swamp,--no _man_ orter work dar, let alone a chile like dis.'

'Do you think he is dying, Rosey?' asked the Colonel, approaching the

bedside.

'Shore, massa, he'm gwine fass. Look at 'em.'

The boy had dwindled to a skeleton, and the skin lay on his face in

crimpled folds, like a mask of black crape. His eyes were fixed, and he

was evidently going.

'Don't you know massa, my boy?' said the Colonel, taking his hand

tenderly in his.

The child's lips slightly moved, but I could hear no sound. The Colonel

put his ear down to him for a moment, then, turning to me, said,--

'He _is_ dying. Will you be so good as to step to the house and ask

Madam P---- here, and please tell Jim to go for Junius and the old man.'

I returned in a short while with the lady, but found the boy's father

and 'the old man'--the darky preacher of the plantation--there before

us. The preacher was a venerable old negro, much bowed by years, and

with thin wool as white as snow. When we entered he was bending over the

dying boy, but shortly turning to my host, said,--

'Massa, de blessed Lord am callin' for de chile,--shall we pray?'

The Colonel nodded assent, and we all, blacks and whites, knelt down on

the floor, while the old preacher made a short, heart-touching prayer.

It was a simple, humble acknowledgment of the dependence of the creature

on the Creator,--of His right to give and to take away, and was uttered

in a free, conversational tone, as if long communion with his Maker had

placed the old negro on a footing of friendly familiarity with Him, and

given the black slave the right to talk with the Deity as one man talks

with another.

As we rose from our knees my host said to me, 'It is my duty to stay

here, but I will not detain you. Jim will show you over the plantation.

I will join you at the house when this is over.' The scene was a painful

one, and I gladly availed myself of the Colonel's suggestion.

Mounting our horses, Jim and I rode off to the negro house where Scip

was staying.

Scip was not at the cabin, and the old negro woman told us he had been

away for several hours.

'Reckon he'll be 'way all day, sar,' said Jim, as we turned our horses

to go.

'He ought to be resting against the ride of to-morrow. Where has he

gone?'

'Dunno, sar, but reckon he'm gwine to fine Sam.'

'Sam? Oh, he's the runaway the Colonel has advertised.'

'Yas, sar, he'm 'way now more'n a monfh.'

'How can Scip find him?'

'Dunno, sar. Scipio know most ebery ting,--reckon he'll track him. He

know him well, and Sam'll cum back ef he say he orter.'

'Where do you think Sam is?'

'P'raps in the swamp.'

'Where is the swamp?'

''Bout ten mile from har.'

'Oh, yes! the shingles are cut there. I should think a runaway would be

discovered where so many men are at work.'

'No, massa, dar'm places dar whar de ole debil cudn't fine him, nor de

dogs nudder.'

'I thought the bloodhounds would track a man anywhere.'

'Not t'ru de water, massa; dey lose de scent in de swamp.'

'But how can a negro live there,--how get food?'

'De darkies work dar and dey take 'em nuff.'

'Then the other negroes often know where the runaways are; don't they

sometimes betray them?'

'Neber, massa; a darky neber tells on anoder. De Cunnel had a boy in dat

swamp once, good many years.'

'Is it possible? Did he come back?'

'No, he died dar. Sum ob de hands found him dead one mornin' in de hut

whar he lib'd, and dey buried him dar.'

'Why did Sam run away?'

''Cause de Oberseer flog him. He use him bery hard, massa.'

'What had Sam done?'

'Nuffin', massa.'

'Then why was he flogged? Did the Colonel know it?'

'Oh, yas; Moye cum de possum ober de Cunnel, and make him b'lieve Sam

war bad. De Cunnel dunno de hull ob dat story.'

'Why didn't _you_ tell him? The Colonel trusts you.'

'Twudn't hab dun no good; de Cunnel wud hab flogged _me_ for tellin' on

a wite man. Nigga's word ain't ob no account.'

'What is the story about Sam?'

'You won't tell dat _I_ tole you, massa?'

'No, but I'll tell the Colonel the truth.'

'Wal den, sar, you see Sam's wife am bery good-lookin', her skin's most

wite,--her mudder war a mulatter, her fader a wite man,--she lub'd Sam

'bout as well as de wimmin ginrally lub dar husbands,' (Jim was a

bachelor, and his observation of plantation morals had given him but

little faith in the sex), 'but most ob 'em, ef dey'm married or no, tink

dey must smile on de wite men, so Jule she smiled on de Oberseer,--so

Sam tought,--and it made him bery jealous. He war sort o' sassy, and de

Oberseer strung him up and flog him bery hard. Den Sam took to de swamp,

but he didn't know whar to gwo, and de dogs tracked him; he'd ha' got

'way dough ef de Oberseer hadn't shot him; den he cudn't run. Den Moye

flogged him till he war 'most dead, and arter dat chained him up in de

ole cabin and gabe him 'most nuffin' to eat. De Cunnel war gwine to take

Sam to Charles'on and sell him, but sumhow he got a file and sawed fru

de chain and got 'way in de night to de 'still.' When de Oberseer cum

dar in de mornin', Sam jump on him and 'most kill him. He'd hab sent him

whar dar ain't no niggas ef Junius hadn't a holed him. _I'd_ a let de

ole debil gwo.'

'Junius, then, is a friend of the Overseer.'

'No, sar; _he_ hain't no friends, 'cep de debil; but June am a good

nigga, and he said 'twarn't right to kill ole Moye so sudden, for den

dar'd be no chance for de Lord forgibin' him.'

'Then Sam got away again?'

'O yas; nary one but darkies war round, and dey wouldn't hole him. Ef

dey'd cotched him den, dey'd hung him, shore.'

'Why hung him?'

''Cause he'd struck a wite man; it 'm shore death to do dat.'

'Do you think Scip will bring him back?'

'Yas; 'cause he 'm gwine to tell massa de hull story. De Cunnel will

b'lieve Scipio ef he _am_ brack. Sam'll know dat, and he'll come back.

De Cunnel'll make de State too hot to hole ole Moye, when he fine him

out.'

'Does Sam's wife "smile" on the Overseer now?'

'No; she see de trubble she bring on Sam, and she bery sorry. She won't

look at a wite man now.'

During the conversation above recorded, we had ridden for several miles

over the western half of the plantation, and were then again near the

house. My limbs being decidedly stiff and sore from the effects of the

previous day's journey, I decided to alight and rest at the house until

the hour for dinner.

I mentioned my jaded condition to Jim, who said,--

'Dat's right, massa; come in de house. I'll cure de rumatics; I knows

how to fix dem.'

Fastening the horses at the door, Jim accompanied me to my

sleeping-room, where he lighted a pile of pine knots, and in a moment

the fire blazed up on the hearth and sent a cheerful glow through the

apartment; then, saying he would return after stabling the horses, the

darky left me.

I took off my boots, drew the sofa near the fire, and stretched myself

at full length upon it. If ever mortal was tired, 'I reckon' I was. It

seemed as if every joint and bone in my body had lost the power of

motion, and sharp, acute pains danced along my nerves, as I have seen

lightning play along the telegraph wires. My entire system had the

toothache.

Jim soon returned, bearing in one hand a decanter of 'Otard,' and in the

other a mug of hot water and a crash towel.

'I'se got de stuff dat'll fix de rumatics, massa.'

'Thank you, Jim; a glass will do me good. Where did you get it?' I

asked, thinking it strange the Colonel should leave his brandy-bottle

within reach of the darkies, who have an universal weakness for spirits.

'Oh, I keeps de keys; de Cunnel hisself hab to come to me wen he want

suffin' to warm hisself.'

It was the fact; Jim had exclusive charge of the wine-cellar; in short,

was butler, barber, porter, footman, and body-servant, all combined.

'Now, massa, you lay right whar you is, and I'll make you ober new in

less dan no time.'

And he did; but I emptied the brandy-bottle. Lest my temperance friends

should be horror-stricken, I will mention, however, that I took the

fluid by external absorption. For all rheumatic sufferers, I would

prescribe, hot brandy in plentiful doses, a coarse towel, and an active

Southern darky, and if on the first application the patient is not

cured, the fault will not be the nigger's. Out of mercy to the

chivalry, I hope our government, in saving the Union, will not

annihilate the order of body-servants. They are the only perfect

institution in the Southern country, and, so far as I have seen, about

the only one worth saving.

The dinner-bell sounded a short while after Jim had finished the

scrubbing operation, and I went to the table with an appetite I had not

felt for a week. My whole system seemed rejuvenated, and I am not sure

that I should, at that moment, have declined a wrestling match with

Heenan himself.

I found at dinner only the Overseer and the young son of Madam P----,

the Colonel and the lady being still at the cabin of the dying boy. The

dinner, though a queer mixture of viands, would not have disgraced,

except, perhaps, in the cooking, the best of our Northern hotels.

Venison, bacon, wild fowl, hominy, poultry, corn-bread, French

'made-dishes,' and Southern 'common doin's,' with wines and brandies of

the choicest brands, were placed on the table together.

'Dis, massa,' said Jim, 'am de raal juice; it hab ben in de cellar eber

since de house war built. Massa tole me to gib you some, wid him

complimen's.'

Passing it to my companions, we drank the Colonel's health in as fine

wine as I ever tasted.

I had taken an instinctive dislike to the Overseer at the

breakfast-table, and my aversion was not lessened by learning his

treatment of Sam; curiosity to learn what manner of man he was, however,

led me, towards the close of our meal, to 'draw him out,' as follows:--

'What is the political sentiment, sir, of this section of the State?'

'Wal, I reckon most of the folks 'bout har' is Union; they're from the

"old North," and gin'rally pore trash.'

'I have heard that the majority of the turpentine getters are

enterprising men and good citizens,--more enterprising, even, than the

cotton and rice planters.'

'Wal, they is enterprisin', 'cause they don't keer for nuthin' 'cep'

money.'

'The man who is absorbed in money-getting is generally a quiet citizen.'

'P'raps that's so. But I think a man sh'u'd hev a soul suthin' 'bove

dollars. Them folks will take any sort o' sarce from the Yankees, ef

they only buy thar truck.'

'What do you suffer from the Yankees?'

'Suffer from the Yankees? Don't they steal our niggers, and hain't they

'lected an ab'lishener for President?'

'I've been at the North lately, but I am not aware that is so.'

'So! it's damnably so, sir. I knows it. We don't mean to stand it eny

longer.'

'What will you do?'

'We'll secede, and then give 'em h--l, ef they want it!'

'Will it not be necessary to agree among yourselves before you do that?

I met a turpentine farmer below here who openly declared that he is

friendly to abolishing slavery. He thinks the masters can make more

money by hiring than by owning the negroes.'

'Yes, that's the talk of them North County[A] fellers, who've squatted

round har. We'll hang every mother's son on 'em, by G----.'

[Footnote A: The 'North Counties' are the north-eastern portion of North

Carolina, and include the towns of Washington and Newberne. They are an

old turpentine region, and the trees are nearly exhausted. The finer

virgin forests of South Carolina, and other cotton States, have tempted

many of these farmers to emigrate thither, within the past ten years,

and they now own nearly all the trees that are worked in South Carolina,

Georgia, and Florida. They generally have few slaves of their own, their

hands being hired of wealthier men in their native districts. The

'hiring' is an annual operation, and is done at Christmas time, when the

negroes are frequently allowed to go home. They treat the darkies well,

give them an allowance of meat (salt pork or beef), as much corn as they

can eat, and a gill of whisky daily. No class of men at the South are so

industrious, energetic, and enterprising. Though not so well informed,

they have many of the traits of our New England farmers; in fact, are

frequently called 'North Carolina Yankees.' It was these people the

Overseer proposed to hang. The reader will doubtless think that 'hanging

was not good enough for them.']

'I wouldn't do that: in a free country every man has a right to his

opinions.'

'Not to sech opinions as them. A man may think, but he mustn't think

onraasonable.'

'I don't know, but it seems to me reasonable, that if the negroes cost

these farmers now one hundred and fifty dollars a year, and they could

hire them, if free, for a hundred, that they would make by abolition.'

'Ab'lish'n! By G----, sir, ye ain't an ab'lishener, is ye?' exclaimed

the fellow, in an excited tone, bringing his hand down on the table in a

way that set the crockery a-dancing.

'Come, come, my friend,' I replied, in a mild tone, and as unruffled as

a basin of water that has been out of a December night; 'you'll knock

off the dinner things, and I'm not quite through.'

'Wal, sir, I've heerd yer from the North, and I'd like to know if yer an

ab'lishener.'

'My dear sir, you surprise me. You certainly can't expect a modest man

like me to speak of himself.'

'Ye can speak of what ye d---- please, but ye can't talk ab'lish'n har,

by G----,' he said, again applying his hand to the table, till the

plates and saucers jumped up, performed several jigs, then several

reels, and then rolled over in graceful somersaults to the floor.

At this juncture, the Colonel and Madam P---- entered.

Observing the fall in his crockery, and the general confusion of things,

the Colonel quietly asked, 'What's to pay?'

I said nothing, but burst into a fit of laughter at the awkward fix the

Overseer was in. That gentleman also said nothing, but looked as if he

would like to find vent through a rat-hole or a window-pane. Jim,

however, who stood at the back of my chair, gave _his_ eloquent thoughts

utterance, very much as follows:--

'Moye hab 'sulted Massa K----, Cunnel, awful bad. He hab swore a blue

streak at him, and called him a d---- ab'lishener, jess 'cause Massa

K---- wudn't get mad and sass him back. He hab disgrace your hosspital,

Cunnel, wuss dan a nigga.'

The Colonel turned white with rage, and, striding up to the Overseer,

seized him by the throat, yelling, rather than speaking, these words:

'You d---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----, have you dared to insult a

guest in my house?'

'I didn't mean to 'sult him,' faltered out the Overseer, his voice

running through an entire octave, and changing with the varying pressure

of the Colonel's fingers on his throat; 'but he said he war an

ab'lishener.'

'No matter what he said,' replied the Colonel; 'he is my guest, and in

my house he shall say what he pleases, by G----. Apologize to him, or

I'll send you to h---- in a second.'

The fellow turned cringingly to me, and ground out something like this,

every word seeming to give him the toothache:--

'I meant no offence, sar; I hope ye'll excuse me.'

This satisfied me, but, before I could make a reply, the Colonel again

seized him by the throat, and yelled,--

'None of your sulkiness; get on your knees, you d---- white-livered

hound, and ask the gentleman's pardon like a man.'

The fellow then fell on his knees, and got out, with less effort than

before,--

'I 'umbly ax yer pardon, sar, very 'umbly, indeed.'

'I am satisfied, sir,' I replied. 'I bear you no ill-will.'

'Now go,' said the Colonel; 'and in future, take your meals in the

kitchen. I have none but gentlemen at my table.'

The fellow went. As soon as he had closed the door, the Colonel said to

me,--

'Now, my dear friend, I hope you will pardon _me_ for this occurrence. I

sincerely regret you have been insulted in my house.'

'Don't speak of it, my dear sir; the fellow is ignorant, and really

thinks I am an abolitionist. It was his zeal in politics that led to his

warmth. I blame him very little,' I replied.

'But he lied, Massa K----,' chimed in Jim, very warmly; 'you neber said

you war an ab'lishener.'

'You know what _they_ are, don't you, Jim?' said the Colonel, laughing,

and taking no notice of Jim's breach of decorum in wedging his black

ideas into a white conversation.

'Yas, I does dat,' said the darky, grinning.

'Jim,' said the Colonel, 'you're a prince of a nigger, but you talk too

much; ask me for something to-day, and I reckon you'll get it; but go

now, and tell Chloe (the cook) to get us some dinner.'

The darky left, and, excusing myself, I soon followed suit.

I went to my room, laid down on the lounge, and soon fell asleep. It was

nearly five o'clock when a slight noise in the apartment awoke me, and,

looking up, I saw the Colonel quietly seated by the fire, smoking a

cigar. His feet were elevated above his head, and he appeared absorbed

in no very pleasant reflections.

'How is the sick boy, Colonel?' I asked.

'It's all over with him, my friend. He died easy; but 'twas very painful

to me, for I feel I have done him wrong.'

'How so?'

'I was away all summer, and that cursed Moye sent him to the swamp to

tote for the shinglers. It killed him.'

'Then you are not to blame,' I replied.

'I wish I could feel so.'

The Colonel remained with me till supper-time, evidently much depressed

by the events of the morning, which had affected him more than I could

have conceived possible. I endeavored, by cheerful conversation, and by

directing his mind to other topics, to cheer him, and in a measure

succeeded.

While we were seated at the supper-table, the black cook entered from

the kitchen,--a one-story shanty, detached from and in the rear of the

house,--and, with a face expressive of every conceivable emotion a negro

can feel,--joy, sorrow, wonder, and fear all combined,--exclaimed, 'O

massa, massa! dear massa! Sam, O Sam!'

'Sam,' said the Colonel; 'what about Sam?'

'Why, he hab--dear, dear massa, don't yer, don't yer hurt him--he hab

come back!'

If a bombshell had fallen in the room, a greater sensation could not

have been produced. Every individual arose from the table, and the

Colonel, striding up and down the apartment, exclaimed,--

'Is he mad? The everlasting fool! Why in h---- has he come back?'

'Oh, don't ye hurt him, massa,' said the black cook, wringing her hands.

'Sam hab ben bad, bery bad, but he won't be so no more.'

'Stop your noise, aunty,' said the Colonel, but with no harshness in his

tone. 'I shall do what I think right.'

'Send for him, David,' said Madam P----; 'let us hear what he has to

say. He would not come back if he meant to be ugly.'

'_Send_ for him, Alice!' replied my host. 'He's prouder than Lucifer,

and would send me word to come to _him_. I will go. Will you accompany

me, Mr. K----? You'll hear what a runaway nigger thinks of slavery: Sam

has the gift of speech, and uses it regardless of persons.'

'Yes, sir, I'll go with pleasure.'

Supper being over, we went. It was about an hour after nightfall when we

emerged from the door of the mansion and took our way to the negro

quarters. The full moon had risen half way above the horizon, and the

dark pines cast their shadows around the little collection of negro

huts, which straggled about through the woods for the distance of a

third of a mile. It was dark, but I could distinguish the figure of a

man striding along at a rapid pace a few hundred yards in advance of us.

'Isn't that Moye?' I asked the Colonel, directing his attention to the

receding figure.

'I reckon so; that's his gait. He's had a lesson to-day that'll do him

good.'

'I don't like that man's looks,' I replied, carelessly; 'but I've heard

of singed cats.'

'He _is_ a sneaking d----l,' said the Colonel; 'but he's very valuable

to me. I never had an overseer who got so much work out of the hands.'

'Is he cruel to them?'

'Yes, I reckon he is; but a nigger is like a dog,--you must flog him to

make him like you.'

'I judge your niggers haven't been flogged into liking Moye,' I replied.

'Why, have you heard any of them speak of him?'

'Yes; though, of course, I've made no effort to draw gossip from them. I

had to hear.'

'O yes; I know; there's no end to their gabble; niggers will talk. But

what have you heard?'

'That Moye is to blame in this affair of Sam, and that you don't know

the whole story.'

'What _is_ the whole story?' asked the Colonel, stopping short in the

road; 'tell me before I see Sam.'

I then told him what Jim had recounted to me. He heard me through

attentively, then laughingly exclaimed,--

'Is that all! Lord bless you; he didn't seduce her. There's no seducing

these women; with them it's a thing of course. It was Sam's d---- high

blood that made the trouble. His father was the proudest man in

Virginia, and Sam is as like him as a nigger can be like a white man.'

'No matter what the blood is, it seems to me such an injury justifies

revenge.'

'Pshaw, my good fellow, you don't know these people. I'll stake my

plantation against a glass of whisky there's not a virtuous woman with a

drop of black blood in her veins in all South Carolina. They prefer the

white men; their husbands know it, and take it as a matter of course.'

We had here reached the negro cabin. It was one of the more remote of

the collection, and stood deep in the woods, an enormous pine growing up

directly beside the doorway. In all respects it was like the other huts

on the plantation. A bright fire lit up its interior, and through the

crevices in the logs we saw, as we approached, a scene that made us

pause involuntarily, when within a few rods of the house. The mulatto

man, whose clothes were torn and smeared with swamp mud, stood near the

fire. On a small pine table near him lay a large carving-knife, which

glittered in the blaze, as if recently sharpened. His wife was seated on

the side of the low bed at his back, weeping. She was two or three

shades lighter than the man, and had the peculiar brown, kinky hair,

straight, flat nose, and speckled, gray eyes which mark the metif.

Tottling on the floor at the feet of the man, and caressing his knees,

was a child of perhaps two years.

As we neared the house, we heard the voice of the Overseer issuing from

the doorway on the other side of the pine-tree.

'Come out, ye black rascal.'

'Come in, you wite hound, ef you dar,' responded the negro, laying his

hand on the carving-knife.

'Come out, I till ye; I sha'n't ax ye agin.'

'I'll hab nuffin' to do wid you. G'way and send your massa har,' replied

the mulatto man, turning his face away with a lordly, contemptuous

gesture, that spoke him a true descendant of Pocahontas. This movement

exposed his left side to the doorway, outside of which, hidden from us

by the tree, stood the Overseer.

'Come away, Moye,' said the Colonel, advancing with me toward the door;

'_I'll_ speak to him.'

Before all of the words had escaped the Colonel's lips, a streak of fire

flashed from where the Overseer stood, and took the direction of the

negro. One long, wild shriek,--one quick, convulsive bound in the

air,--and Sam fell lifeless to the floor, the dark life-stream pouring

from his side. The little child also fell with him, and its

greasy-grayish shirt was dyed with its father's blood. Moye, at the

distance of ten feet, had discharged the two barrels of a

heavily-loaded shot-gun directly through the negro's heart.

'You incarnate son of h----,' yelled the Colonel, as he sprang on the

Overseer, bore him to the ground, and wrenched the shot-gun from his

hand. Clubbing the weapon, he raised it to brain him. The movement

occupied but a second; the gun was descending, and in another instant

Moye would have met Sam in eternity, had not a brawny arm caught the

Colonel's, and, winding itself around his body, pinned his limbs to his

side so that motion was impossible. The woman, half frantic with

excitement, thrust open the door when her husband fell, and the light

which came through it revealed the face of the new-comer. But his voice,

which rang out on the night air as clear as a bugle, had there been no

light, would have betrayed him. It was Scip. Spurning the prostrate

Overseer with his foot, he shouted,--

'Run, you wite debil, run for your life!'

'Let me go, you black scoundrel,' shrieked the Colonel, wild with rage.

'When he'm out ob reach, you'd kill him,' replied the negro, as cool as

if he was doing an ordinary thing.

'I'll kill you, you black ---- hound, if you don't let me go,' again

screamed the Colonel, struggling violently in the negro's grasp, and

literally foaming at the mouth.

'I shan't lef you gwo, Cunnel, till you 'gree not to do dat.'

The Colonel was a stout, athletic man, in the very prime of life, and

his rage gave him more than his ordinary strength, but Scip held him as

I might have held a child.

'Here, Jim,' shouted the Colonel to his body-servant, who just then

emerged from among the trees, 'rouse the plantation--shoot this d----

nigger.'

'Dar ain't one on 'em wud touch him, massa. He'd send _me_ to de hot

place wid one fist.'

'You ungrateful dog,' groaned his master. 'Mr. K----, will you stand by

and see me handcuffed by a miserable slave?'

'The black means well, my friend; he has saved you from murder. Say he

is safe, and I'll answer for his being away in an hour.'

The Colonel made one more ineffectual attempt to free himself from the

vice-like grip of the negro, then relaxed his efforts, and, gathering

his broken breath, said, 'You're safe _now_, but if you're found within

ten miles of my plantation by sunrise, by G---- you're a dead man.'

The negro relinquished his hold, and, without saying a word, walked

slowly away.

'Jim, you d---- rascal,' said the Colonel to that courageous darky, who

was skulking off, 'raise every nigger on the plantation, catch Moye, or

I'll flog you within an inch of your life.'

'I'll do dat, Cunnel; I'll kotch de ole debil, ef he's dis side de hot

place.'

His words were echoed by about twenty other darkies, who, attracted by

the noise of the fracas, had gathered within a safe distance of the

cabin. They went off with Jim, to raise the other plantation hands, and

inaugurate the hunt.

'If that d---- nigger hadn't held me, I'd had Moye in h---- by this

time,' said the Colonel to me, still livid with excitement.

'The law will deal with him. The negro has saved you from murder, my

friend.'

'The law be d----; it's too good for such a -- hound; and that the d----

nigger should have dared to hold me,--by G----, he'll rue it.'

He then turned, exhausted with the recent struggle, and, with a weak,

uncertain step, entered the cabin. Kneeling down by the dead body of the

negro, he attempted to raise it; but his strength was gone. Motioning to

me to aid him, we placed the corpse on the bed. Tearing open the

clothing, we wiped away the still flowing blood, and saw the terrible

wound which had sent the negro to his account. It was sickening to look

on, and I turned to go.

The negro woman, who was weeping and wringing her hands, now approached

the bed, and, in a voice nearly choked with sobs, said,--

'Massa, oh massa, I done it! it's me dat killed him!'

'I know you did, you d---- ----. Get out of my sight.'

'Oh, massa,' sobbed the woman, falling on her knees, 'I'se so sorry; oh,

forgib me!'

'Go to ----, you ---- ----, that's the place for you,' said the Colonel,

striking the kneeling woman with his foot, and felling her to the floor.

Unwilling to see or hear more, I left the master with the slave. A

quarter of a mile through the woods brought me to the cabin of the old

negress where Scip lodged. I rapped at the door, and was admitted by the

old woman. Scip, nearly asleep, was lying on a pile of blankets in the

corner.

'Are you mad?' I said to him. 'The Colonel is frantic with rage, and

swears he will kill you. You must be off at once.'

'No, no, massa; neber fear; I knows him. He'd keep his word, ef he loss

his life by it. I'm gwine afore sunrise; till den I'm safe.'

Of the remainder of that night, more hereafter.

* * * * *

MR. SEWARD'S PUBLISHED DIPLOMACY.

With the executive capacity and marked forensic versatility of William

Henry Seward whilst Governor and Senator of the Empire State, the great

public have long been familiar. That public are now for the first time

practically discussing his diplomatic statesmanship. A world of

spectators or auditors witness or listen to the debate, and are eager to

pronounce favorable judgment, because so much of national honor is now

entrusted to him. Our national history discloses no crisis of domestic

or foreign affairs so momentous as the present one. The most remarkable

chapter in that history will be made up from the complications of this

crisis, and from the disasters to or the successes of our national fame.

Hence to himself and to his friends, more than to the watchful public

even, Mr. Seward's course attracts an interest which may attend upon the

very climacteric excellence of his statesman-career during a

quarter-century.

Much, that remains obscure or is merely speculative when these pages at

the holiday season undergo magazine preparation, will have been unfolded

or explained at the hour in which they may be read. The national

firmament, which at the Christmas season displayed the star of war and

not of peace, may at midwinter display the raging comet; or that star of

war may have had a speedy setting, to the mutual joy of two nations who

only one year ago played the role of Host and Guest, whilst the young

royal son of one government rendered peaceful homage at the tomb of the

oldest Father of the other nation.

Hence, it is not the province of this paper to indulge in speculations

regarding the future of Mr. Seward's diplomacy;--only to collect a few

facts and critical suggestions respecting the diplomatic labors of

Secretary Seward since his accession to honor, with some interesting

references to our British complications which have passed under his

supervision.

Fortunately for the enlightenment of the somewhat prejudiced audience

who listen to our American discussion, there appeared simultaneously

with the publications of British prints the governmental volume of

papers relating to foreign affairs which usually accompanies a

President's Message. It is not commonly printed for many months after

reception by Congress. But the sagacity of Mr. Seward caused its

typographical preparation in advance of presidential use. It therefore

becomes an antidote to the heated poison of the Palmerston or Derby

prints, which emulate in seizing the last national outrage for party

purposes. And its inspection enables the great public, after perusing

what Secretary Seward has written during the past troublous half year,

to acquire a calm reliance upon his skill in navigating our glorious

ship of state over the more troublous waters of the next half year.

The most cursory inspection of this volume must put to shame those

Washington news-mongers, who from March to December pictured the

Secretary as locked up in his office, in order to merely shun

office-seekers, or as idling his time at reviews and sham-fights. The

collection demonstrates, that his logic, persuasion, and rhetorical

excellence have in diplomatic composition maintained their previous

excellences in other public utterances; and that his physical capacity

for labor, and his mental sympathy with any post of duty, have been as

effective, surrounded by the dogs of war, as they were when tasked amid

the peaceful herds of men. The maxim, _inter arma silent leges_, is

suspended by the edicts of diplomacy!

Mr. Seward entered the State Department March the fifth (according to

reliable Washington gossip), before breakfast, and was instantly at

work. He found upon his table, with the ink scarcely dry, the draft of a

(February 28th) circular from his predecessor, Mr. Black (now U.S.

Supreme Court reporter), addressed to all the ministers of the United

States. That circular very briefly recited the leading facts of the

disunion movement, and instructed the ministers to employ all means to

prevent a recognition of the confederate States. The document in

question is dated at the very time when President Lincoln was perfecting

his inaugural; and why its imperative and necessary commands were

delayed until that late hour, is something for Mr. Buchanan to explain

in that volume of memoirs which he is said to be preparing at the

falling House of Lancaster.

From the dates of Mr. Seward's circulars, it is evident that he devoted

small time to official 'house-warming' or 'cleaning up.' Some time, no

doubt, was passed in consulting the indexes to the foreign affairs of

the past eventful four months, and in making himself master of the

situation. His first act is to transmit to all the (Buchanan)

subordinates abroad copies of the President's Message, accompanying it

with a score of terse and sparkling paragraphs regarding the rebellion;

yet, in those few paragraphs, demonstrating the illusory and ephemeral

advantages which foreign nations would derive from any connection they

might form with any 'dissatisfied or discontented portion, State, or

section of the Union.' In this connection, he refers to the

'governments' of J. Davis, Esq., as 'those States of this Union in whose

name a provisional government has been _announced_;'--which is the

happiest description yet in print.

There is apparently a fortnight's interregnum, during which a procession

of would-be consuls and ministers marches from the State Department to

the Senate chamber to receive the _accolade_ of diplomacy. The Minister

to Prussia, Mr. Judd, first finds gazette, and on March 22d the

Secretary prepares for him instructions suitable to the crisis. There

are 'stars' affixed to the published extracts, showing _coetera desunt_,

matters of _secret_ moment perchance! And here we may fitly remark, that

whilst the labors of the diplomatist which came before the public for

inspection display his industry, it is certain that quite as voluminous,

perhaps more, must be the unpublished and secret dispatches. 'The note

which thanked Prince Gortchacow through M. De Stoeckl was reprehensibly

brief,' the leading gazettes said; _but are they sure nothing else was

prepared and transmitted, of which the public must remain uncertain?_

Are they ready to assert that Russia has become a convert to an _open_

diplomacy? Or does she still feel most complimented with ciphers and

mystery?

So early as the date of the Judd dispatch, the text of the Lincoln

administration appears. 'Owing to the very peculiar structure of our

federal government, and the equally singular character and habits of the

American people, this government _not only wisely, but necessarily,

hesitates to resort to coercion and compulsion to secure a return of the

disaffected portion of the people to their customary allegiance_. The

Union was formed upon popular consent, and must always practically stand

on the same basis. The temporary causes of alienation must pass away;

_there must needs be disasters and disappointments resulting from the

exercise of unlawful authority by the revolutionists_, while happily it

is certain that there is a general and profound sentiment of loyalty

pervading the public mind throughout the United States. While it is the

intention of the President to maintain the sovereignty and rightful

authority of the Union everywhere, with firmness as well as discretion,

he at the same time relies with great confidence on the salutary working

of the agencies I have mentioned to restore the harmony and union of the

States. But to this end, it is of the greatest importance that the

disaffected States shall not succeed in obtaining favor or recognition

from foreign nations.'

Two months prior to this, and on the Senate floor, Mr. Seward had said,

'taking care always that speaking goes before voting, voting goes before

giving money, and all go before a battle, which I should regard as

hazardous and dangerous; and therefore the last, as it would be the most

painful measure to be resorted to for the salvation of the Union.'

A day or two succeeding the Judd dispatch, Mr. Seward writes for

Minister Sanford (about to leave for Belgium) instructions; commingling

views upon non-recognition with considerations respecting tariff

modifications. In these appears a sentence kindred to those just

quoted--'_The President, confident of the ultimate ascendency of law,

order, and the Union, through the deliberate action of the people in

constitutional forms_,' etc.

From those diplomatic suggestions, which are accordant with _European_

exigencies, Mr. Seward readily turns his attention to Mexican affairs,

in a carefully considered and most ably written letter of instructions

for Minister Corwin. He touches upon the robberies and murder of

citizens, the violation of contracts, and then gracefully withdraws them

from immediate attention until the incoming Mexican administration shall

have had time to cement its authority and reduce the yet disturbed

elements of their society to order and harmony. He avers that the

President not only forbids discussion of our difficulties among the

foreign powers, but will not allow his ministers '_to invoke even

censure against those of our fellow-citizens who have arrayed themselves

in opposition to authority_.' He refers to the foreshadowed protectorate

in language complimentary to Mexico, yet firm in assurance that the

President neither has, nor can ever have, any sympathy with

revolutionary designs for Mexico, _in whatever quarter they may arise,

or whatever character they may take on_.'

Within one week (and at dates which contradict the prevailing gossip of

last April, that Messrs. Adams, Dayton, Burlingame, Schurz and Co. were

detained _awaiting_ Mr. Seward's advices) still more elaborate and

masterly instructions are given out to these gentlemen. The paper to Mr.

Adams will in future years be quoted and referred to as a model history

of the rise and progress of the secession enormity. It may be asked, Why

are such dispatches and instructions needed? Why such elaborate briefs

and compendiums required for gentlemen each of whom may have said,

respecting his connection with subject-matter of the Secretary (none

more emphatically so than Messrs. Adams and Burlingame), _quorum pars

magna fui?_ Yet, it must be remembered that diplomacy, like

jurisprudence (with its red tape common to both), taketh few things for

granted, and constantly maketh records for itself, under the maxim _de

non apparentibus non existentibus eadem est ratio_; and ever beareth in

mind that when _certioraris_ to international tribunals are served, the

initiatory expositions and the matured results must not be subjected to

a pretence of diminution, but be full and complete.

The early dispatch for Mr. Burlingame contains the caustic sentence,

'Our representatives at Vienna seem generally to have come, after a

short residence there, to the conclusion that there was nothing for them

to do, and little for them to learn.' But 'the President expects that

_you_ will be diligent in obtaining not only information about political

events, but also commercial and even scientific facts, and in reporting

them to this department.'

Although the Austrian mantle was soon transferred to the classic

shoulders of Mr. Motley,--another honored Bay-state-ian,--the caustic

reference to predecessors, and the implied compliment of request, did

not at all lose their respective significance.

What a compact statement is contained in the following sentence of the

instructions to the representative of foreign affairs at Vienna!--'The

political affairs in Austria present to us the aspect of an ancient and

very influential power, oppressed with fiscal embarrassments,--the

legacy of long and exhausting wars,--putting forth at one and at the

same time efforts for material improvement and still mightier ones to

protect its imperfectly combined dominion from dismemberment and

disintegration, seriously menaced from without, aided by strong and

intense popular passions within.' A lyceum lecturer might consume an

evening over the present political condition of Austria, and yet not

convey a more perfect idea thereof than is comprehended by the preceding

paragraph!

Mr. Seward in first addressing Mr. Dayton discusses the slavery element

of the rebellion, and elucidates more particularly the relations of

France to a preserved or a dismembered Union; and evolves this plucky

sentence: 'The President neither expects nor desires any intervention,

_or even any favor_, from the government of France, or any other, in

this emergency.' But a still more spirited paragraph answers a question

often asked by the great public, 'What will be the course of the

administration should foreign intervention be given?' Foreign

intervention _would oblige us_ to treat those who should yield it as

allies of the insurrectionary party, and to carry on the war against

them as enemies. The case would not be relieved, but, on the contrary,

would only be aggravated, if _several_ European states should combine in

that intervention. _The President and the people of the United States

deem the Union which would then be at stake, worth all the cost and all

the sacrifices of a contest with the world in arms, if such a contest

should prove inevitable_.'

In the advices to Mr. Schurz, at Madrid, occurs a most ingenious

application of the doctrine of secession to Spanish consideration in

respect to Cuba and Castile; to Aragon and the Philippine Islands; as

well as a most opportune reference to the proffered commercial

confederate advantages. 'What commerce,' asks the Secretary, 'can there

be between states whose staples are substantially identical? Sugar can

not be exchanged for sugar, nor cotton for cotton.' And another sentence

is deserving remembrance for its truthful sarcasm: 'It seems the

necessity of faction in every country, that whenever it acquires

sufficient boldness to inaugurate revolution, it then alike forgets the

counsels of prudence, and stifles the instincts of patriotism, and

becomes a suitor to foreign courts for aid and assistance to subvert and

destroy the most cherished and indispensable institutions of its own.'

Thus, within six weeks succeeding his entrance into the chambers of

State, Mr. Seward had mapped out in his own brain a much more

comprehensive policy than he had even laboriously and ably outlined upon

paper. He had placed himself in magnetico-diplomatic communication with

the great courts of Europe; surrounded by place-seekers, dogged by

reporters, and paragraphed at by a thousand newspapers, from 'Fundy' to

'Dolores.' And the most remarkable rhetorical feature of these many

dispatches is the absence of iteration, notwithstanding they were

written upon substantially one text. It is characteristic of them, as of

his speeches, that no one interlaces the other; each is complete of

itself. Mr. Seward has always possessed that varied fecundity of

expression for which Mr. Webster was admired. A gentleman who

accompanied him upon his Lincoln-election tour from Auburn to Kansas,

remarked, that listening to and recalling all the bye-play, depot

speeches, and more elaborate addresses uttered by Mr. Seward during the

campaign, he never heard him repeat upon himself, nor even speak twice

in the same groove of thought. Neither will any reader discover

throughout even these early dispatches a marked haste of thought, or a

slovenly word-link in the Saxon rhetoric.

So far, we have alluded only to the instructions prepared before

plenipotentiary departure. But the executive axe in the block of foreign

affairs having been scoured, and new faces having fully replaced the

decapitated heads in foreign diplomatic baskets, circulars, instructions

and dispatches daily accumulate, 'treading on each other's heels.' The

volume contains _one hundred and forty emanations_ from the pen of

Secretary Seward. How many more there exist is only known to the Cabinet

or the exigencies of secret service. Is not the bare arithmetical

announcement sufficient to satisfy the inquirer into Mr. Seward's

diplomatic assiduity? If not, will he please to remember as well Mr.

Seward's perusals of foreign mails, cabinet meetings, consultation of

archives or state papers or precedents, examinations into the relation

of domestic events to foreign policy, and the inspection of the sands of

peace or war in the respective hour-glasses of his department?

The circulars of Secretaries Black and Seward are promptly answered by

Mr. Dallas about a month after the inauguration, and whilst awaiting the

arrival of Charles Francis Adams. He said, among other things, 'English

opinion tends rather, I apprehend, to the theory that a peaceful

separation may work beneficially for both groups of States, and not

injuriously affect the rest of the world. The English can not be

expected to appreciate the weakness, discredit, complications and

dangers which _we_ instinctively and justly ascribe to disunion.'

In this connection, let us remark, that we recently listened to a very

interesting discussion, at the 'Union' club, between an English traveler

of high repute, and a warm Unionist, upon the attitude of England. The

former seemed as ardent as was the latter disputant in his abhorrence of

the Southern traitors; but he constructed a very fair argument for the

consistency of England. Taking for his first position, that foreign

nations viewed the Jeff Davis movement as a revolution, self-sustained

for nearly a year, his second was, that the most enlightened American

abolitionists, as well as the most conservative Federalist, coincided in

the belief that disunion was ultimate emancipation. Then, acquiescing in

the statement of his antagonist, that the English nation had always

reprehended American slavery, and desired its speedy overthrow, he

inquired what more inconsistency there was in the English nation

construing disunion in the same way wherein the American abolitionist

and conservative Unionist did, as the inevitable promotion of slavery's

overthrow? When it was rejoined that the canker of slavery had eaten

away many bonds of Union, and promoted secession, the English disputant

demanded whether the war aimed at rebuking slavery in a practical way,

or by strengthening it as a locally constitutional institution? When the

question was begged by the assertion that recognition of the Southern

confederacy, although granted to be of abolition tendencies, was

ungenerous and unfraternal, the position assumed was that nations, like

individuals, cherished self-love, and always sought to turn intestine

troubles among competitive powers into the channels of

home-aggrandizement; and it was asked whether, should Ireland maintain

a provisional government for nearly a year, there would not be found a

strong _party_ in the States advocating her recognition?

But Mr. Seward, in replying to Mr. Dallas in a dispatch to Mr. Adams,

dismissed all arguments of policy or consistency, and remarked: 'Her

Britannic Majesty's government is at liberty to choose whether it will

retain the friendship of this government, by refusing all aid and

comfort to its enemies, now in flagrant rebellion against it, _as we

think the treaties existing between the two countries require_, or

whether the government of her Majesty will take _the precarious benefits

of a different course_.'

So early as May 2d, the British Secretary told Mr. Dallas that _an

understanding existed between the British and French governments which

would lead both to take one and the same course as to recognition_. Mr.

Seward comments upon this in one of the most manly letters ever written

by an American Secretary. It will be preserved upon the same historic

shelf whereon reposes the manuscript of Daniel Webster's letter to the

Chevalier Hulsemann. To Mr. Adams he says, that the communication loses

its value because withheld until the knowledge was acquired from other

sources, together with the additional fact that other European states

are apprized by France and England of the agreement, and _are expected

to concur with or follow them in whatever measures they adopt on the

subject of recognition!_ Great Britain, if intervening, is assured that

she will calculate for herself the ultimate as well as the immediate

consequences; and must consider what position she will hold when she

shall have lost forever the sympathies and affections of the only nation

upon whose sympathies and affections she has a natural claim. In making

that calculation she will do well to remember that in the controversy

she proposes to open, we shall be actuated neither by pride, nor

passion, nor cupidity, nor ambition; but we shall stand simply upon the

principle of self-preservation, our cause involving the independence of

nations and the rights of human nature. These utterances were doubtless,

in their book form, perused by the British cabinet during the Christmas

holidays.

Taking the pages which close up the word-tilts of the diplomatists at

date of November first (and we dare say our Board-of-Brokers readers

regret that complete dispatches down to the sailing of the Africa, with

that interesting pouch of letters on board, are not to be had at all the

book-stores!) we may imagine Messrs. Russell, Adams, Seward and Lyons

resolved into a conversational club, and talking as follows from week to

week:--

_Mr. Adams_. It is gratifying to the grandson of the first American

Minister at this court to feel that there are now fewer topics of direct

difference between the two countries than have, probably, existed at any

preceding time; and even these are withdrawn from discussion at St.

James, to be treated at Washington. It would have been more gratifying

to find that the good will, so recently universally felt at my home for

your country, was unequivocally manifested here.

_Lord Russell (smiling blandly)_. To what do you allude?

_Mr. Adams_. It is with pain that I am compelled to admit that from the

day of my arrival I have felt in the proceedings of both houses of

Parliament, in the language of her Majesty's ministers, and in the tone

of opinion prevailing in private circles, more of uncertainty about this

than I had before thought possible. (_Lord Russell silent and still

smiling blandly_). It is therefore the desire of my government to learn

whether it was the intention of her Majesty's ministers to adopt a

policy which would have the effect to widen, if not to make irreparable

a breach which I believe yet to be entirely manageable.

_Lord Russell_. I beg to assure your Excellency there is no such

intention. The clearest evidence of this is to be found in the assurance

given by me to Mr. Dallas, before your arrival. But you must admit that

I hardly can see my way to bind my government to any specific course,

when circumstances beyond our agency render it difficult to tell what

might happen.

_Mr. Seward (aside)_. But the future will care for itself. We deal with

the 'Now.' '_There is "Yet" in that word "Hereafter."_' Great Britain

has already acted on the assumption that the Confederate States (so

called) are _de facto_ a self-sustaining power. After long forbearance,

designed to soothe discontent and avert the need of civil war, the land

and naval forces of the United States have been put in motion to repress

insurrection. The _true_ character of the pretended new state is

revealed. It is seen to be a power existing in pronunciamento only. It

has obtained no forts that were not betrayed into its hands or seized in

breach of trust. It commands not a single port, nor one highway from its

pretended capital by land.

_Mr. Adams_. Her Majesty's proclamation and the language of her

ministers in both houses have raised insurgents to the level of a

belligerent state.

_Lord Russell_. I think more stress is laid upon these events than they

deserve. It was a necessity to define the course of the government in

regard to the participation of the subjects of Great Britain in the

impending conflict. The legal officers were consulted. They said war _de

facto_ existed. Seven States were in open resistance.

_Mr. Adams_. But your action was very rapid. The new administration had

been but sixty days in office. All departments were demoralized. The

British government then takes the initiative, and decides practically it

is a struggle of two sides, just as the country commenced to develop its

power to cope with the rebellion. It considered the South a marine power

before it had exhibited a single privateer on the ocean. The Greeks at

the time of recognition had 'covered the sea with cruisers.'

_Lord Russell (smiling yet more blandly)_. I cite you the case of the

Fillmore government towards Kossuth and Hungary. Was not an agent sent

to the latter country with a view to recognition?

_Mr. Seward (aside)_. The proclamation, unmodified and unexplained,

leaves us no alternative but to regard the government of Great Britain

as questioning our free exercise of all the rights of self-defence

guaranteed to us by our Constitution, and the laws of nature and of

nations, to suppress insurrection. But now as to the propositions sent,

viz. (1.) Privateering abolished. (2.) Neutral flag covers enemy's goods

except contraband of war. (3.) Neutral goods safe under enemy's flag,

with same exception. (4.) Effective blockades.

_Mr. Adams (aside to Mr. Seward)_. It is to be agreed to, if there be

received a written declaration by Great Britain, to accompany the

signature of her minister,--'Her Majesty does not intend thereby to

undertake any engagement which shall have any bearing, direct _or

indirect_, on the internal differences now prevailing in the United

States.'

_Mr. Seward (still aside)_. I am instructed by the President to say it

is inadmissible. (1.) It is virtually a new and distinct article

incorporated into the projected convention. (2.) The United States must

accede to the Declaration of the Congress of Paris on the same terms

with other parties, or not at all. (3.) It is not mutual in effect, for

it does not provide for a melioration of _our_ obligations in internal

differences now prevailing in, or which may hereafter arise in, Great

Britain. (4.) It would permit a foreign power for the first time to take

cognizance of, and adjust its relations upon, _assumed_ internal and

purely domestic differences. (5.) The general parties to the Paris

convention can not adopt it as one of universal application.

_Lord Russell_. Touching the disagreements as to acquiescing in the

Paris convention and the proposed modification, I ask to explain the

reason of the latter. The United States government regards the

confederates as rebels, and their privateersmen as pirates. We regard

the confederates as belligerents. As between us and your government,

privateering would be abolished. We would and could have no concurrent

convention with the confederate power upon the subject. We would have in

good faith to treat the confederate privateersmen as pirates. Yet we

acknowledge them belligerents. Powers not a party to the convention may

rightfully arm privateers. Hence, instead of an agreement, charges of

bad faith and violation of a convention might be brought in the United

States against us should we accept the propositions unreservedly.

_Mr. Adams_. Your Lordship's government adhere to the proposition of

modification?

_Lord Russell_. Such are my instructions.

_Mr. Adams_. Then, refraining for the present from reviewing our past

conversations to ascertain the relative responsibilities of the parties

for this failure of these negotiations, I have to inform you that they

are for the time being suspended.

* * * * *

_Mr. Adams_. But your Lordship has many time _unofficially_ received the

confederate ambassadors, so styled. This has excited uneasiness in my

country. It has, indeed, given great dissatisfaction to my government.

And, in all frankness and courtesy, I have to add, that any further

protraction of this relation can scarcely fail to be viewed by us as

hostile in spirit.

_Lord Russell_. It has been custom, both here and in France, for a long

time back, to receive such persons unofficially. Pole, Hungarians,

Italians, and such like, have been allowed unofficial interviews, in

order that we might hear what they had to say. But this never implied

recognition in their case, any more than in yours!

_Mr. Adams_. I observe in the newspapers an account of a considerable

movement of troops to Canada. In the situation of our governments this

will excite attention at home. Are they ordered with reference to

possible difficulties with us?

_Lord Russell_. Canada has been denuded of troops for some time back.

The new movement is regarded, in restoring a part of them, as a proper

measure of _precaution_ in the present disordered condition of things in

the United States. But Mr. Ashmun is in Canada, remonstrating as to

alleged breaches of neutrality.

(_Lord Lyons_. I viewed the subject as cause of complaint.

_Mr. Seward_. And I instantly recalled Mr. Ashmun.)

_Mr. Adams_. He was in Canada to watch and prevent just such a

transaction as the fitting out of a pirate or privateer--the Peerless

case.

_Lord Russell_. Mr. Seward threatened to have the Peerless seized on

Lake Ontario.

_Mr. Adams_. I respectfully doubt your Lordship's information. It was

surely an odd way of proceeding to furnish at once the warning in time

to provide against its execution!

* * * * *

_Mr. Adams_. I deeply regret a painful necessity which compels me to

make a representation touching the conduct of Consul Bunch at

Charleston. A private and opened letter, intercepted on the person of a

naturalized American citizen and colonel in the confederate

army,--Robert Mure, bearer of dispatches to Great Britain,--disclosed

these words: 'Mr. Bunch, on oath of secrecy, communicated to me that the

first step to recognition was taken. _So prepare for active business_ BY

THE FIRST OF JANUARY.'

_Lord Russell_. I will without hesitation state to you _that, in

pursuance of an agreement between the British and French governments,

Mr. Bunch was instructed to communicate to the persons exercising

authority in the so-called confederate States, the desire of those

governments that certain articles of the declaration of Paris should be

observed by them in their hostilities(!)_ But regarding the other

statement, I as frankly say, Her Majesty's government have not

recognized, and are not prepared to recognize, the so-called confederate

States as a separate and independent power.

_Mr. Seward (aside to Mr. Adams)_. The President revokes the exequatur

of Consul Bunch, who has not only been the bearer of communications

between the insurgents and a foreign government in violation of our

laws, but has abused equally the confidence of the two governments by

reporting, without the authority of his government, and in violation of

their own policy, as well as of our national rights, that the proceeding

in which he was engaged was in the nature of a treaty with the

insurgents, and the first step toward a recognition by Great Britain of

their sovereignty. His whole conduct has been, not that of a friend to

this government, nor of a neutral even, but of a partisan of faction and

disunion.

* * * * *

_Lord Lyons_. My government are concerned to find that two British

subjects, Mr. Patrick and Mr. Rahming, have been subjected to arbitrary

arrest.

_Mr. Seward_. At the time of arrest it was not known they were British

subjects. They have been released.

_Lord Lyons_. They applied for habeas corpus, and its exercise was

refused. Congress has not suspended the writ. Our law officers say that

the authority of Congress is necessary to justify this arrest and

imprisonment.

_Mr. Seward (with suavity, but profound dignity, as if the nation

spoke)_. I have to regret that, after so long an official intercourse

between the governments of the United States and Great Britain, it

should be necessary now to inform her Majesty's ministers that _all_

executive proceedings are of the President. Congress has no executive

power or responsibility. The President constitutionally exercises the

right of suspending the writ of habeas corpus. This government does not

question the learning of the legal advisers of the British Crown, or the

justice of the deference which her Majesty's government pays to them;

nevertheless, the British government will hardly expect that the

President will accept _their_ explanation of the Constitution of the

United States!

* * * * *

Are not the following inferences legitimately to be made from a close

and calm study of the published dispatches respecting our foreign

relations with Great Britain, and in connection with much that has

transpired since their congressional publication?--

1. The British government officers were in some way prepared to expect

that the election of Mr. Lincoln would result in an attempted disruption

of the Union. The arrival of Governor Pickens in England just before the

presidential election, and his arrival in New York, and immediate

journey to South Carolina, on the day of that election, may be cited as

one of many coincidences--showing that the spirit of Cobb, Floyd, and

Thompson, if not their doings and plans, were parodied on the other side

of the Atlantic.

2. The British government were not averse to disunion from the outset,

and seized every pretext of tariff, or of inaction respecting the

rebellion, that it might quibble with the United States authority.

3. The tone of the press, ministry and people was early heard, and

echoed by Mr. Dallas to our government. Mr. Seward therefore, at the

outset, knew his position, and most opportunely and dignifiedly

maintained a bearing all the more noble because it proceeded from a

government which had taken arms against a sea of troubles.

4. The British government waited _only_ so long as international decency

technically warranted before proclaiming an acknowledgment of _civil_

war in the United States, and accepting the government of Mr. Davis as

an equal belligerent with that of Mr. Lincoln. This was a matured step,

and a strong link in a chain of ultimate recognition.

5. The Crown ministers early sought and obtained an understanding with

France for mutual action: an understanding palpably hostile to the

United States and tantalizingly acknowledged by open diplomacy.

6. The British ministry construed strictly as against the Washington

government, but liberally as toward that of Jeff Davis, in regard to all

arising complications.

7. The British government palpably permitted purchases and shipments of

contraband articles by Southern emissaries, but exercised the utmost

vigilance when the United States agents entered the market for similar

purposes.

8. The action of Lord Russell respecting the proposition to abolish

privateering was covertly insulting. It asked to interpolate a new

condition as between France and England of the one part and the United

States of the other; and a condition conceived in a spirit of liberality

toward Jeff Davisdom, and promulgated in a meddlesome mood toward the

United States government.

9. The tone of Lord Lyons was a more permissible manifestation of

British spleen than the higher functionaries at home displayed, yet none

the more acrid. This appears in all his letters and dispatches

respecting blockade, privateering, the arrest of spies, and the

detention of British subjects, or the seizure of prizes. It is

especially offensive in the letter to Mr. Seward which drew forth a

diplomatic rebuke upon a dictation by English law authority regarding

constitutional construction.

10. The correspondence of the State Department was conducted by Mr.

Seward (as was well said by the N.Y. Evening Post, Dec. 21) with great

skill and adroitness. It was also firm in the defence of our national

honor and rights. His rhetoric was always measured by the dignified,

tasteful, and cautious rules of international intercourse. Its entire

tone in correspondence was earnest but restrained, and in style fully

equaling his best, and most ornate efforts.

What are Mr. Seward's views in the 'Past' respecting England and the

emergency of a war with her, is a question now much mooted. It can be

readily answered by reference to a speech made at a St. Patrick's Day

dinner whilst he was Governor. 'Gentlemen, the English are in many

respects a wise as they are a great and powerful nation. They have

obtained an empire and ascendancy such as Rome once enjoyed. As the

Tiber once bore, the Thames now bears the tribute of many nations, and

the English name is now feared and respected as once the Roman was in

every part of the world. England has been alike ambitious and

successful. England too is prosperous, and her people are contented and

loyal. But contentment and loyalty have not been universal in the

provinces and dependencies of the English government. The desolation

which has followed English conquest in the East Indies has been lamented

throughout the civilized world. Ireland has been deprived of her

independence without being admitted to an equality with her

sister-island, and discontent has marked the history of her people ever

since the conquest. England has not the magnanimity and generosity of

the Romans. She derives wealth from her dependencies, but lavishes it

upon objects unworthy of herself. She achieves victories with their aid,

but appropriates the spoils and trophies exclusively to herself. For

centuries she refused to commit trusts to Irishmen, or confer privileges

upon them, unless they would abjure the religion of their ancestors.'

Ten years later, in the United States Senate, during the debate upon the

Fisheries dispute, Mr. Seward said, after discussing England's financial

and commercial position: 'England can not wisely desire nor safely dare

a war with the United States. She would find that there would come over

us again that dream of conquest of those colonies which broke upon us

even in the dawn of the Revolution, when we tendered them an invitation

to join their fortunes with ours, and followed it with the sword--that

dream which returned again in 1812, when we attempted to subjugate them

by force; and that now, when we have matured the strength to take them,

we should find the provinces willingly consenting to captivity. A war

about these fisheries would be a war which would result either in the

independence of the British Provinces, or in their annexation to the

United States. I devoutly pray God that _that_ consummation may come;

the sooner the better: but I do not desire it at the cost of war _or of

injustice_. I am content to wait for the ripened fruit which must fall.

I know the wisdom of England too well to believe that she would hazard

shaking that fruit into our hands.'

Another question, now asked,--'Will Mr. Seward exhaust

negotiation?'--may be in like manner answered by himself. In a

succeeding debate on the same 'fisheries' controversy, commenting upon

negotiation, he said: '_Sir, it is the business of the Secretary of

State, and of the government, always to be ready, in my humble judgment,

to negotiate under all circumstances, whether there be threats or no

threats, whether there be force or no force: but the manner and the

spirit and the terms of the negotiation will be varied by the position

that the opposing party may occupy_.'

It can not be denied that more cordial relations exist between the

President and the Secretary of State than ever any previous

administration disclosed: so that when Mr. Seward acts, the government

will prove a powerful unit. Indeed, in this connection, history will

hereafter write precisely what Mr. Seward, in his speech on the

'Clayton-Bulwer treaty,' said respecting the Taylor

administration:--'Sir, whatever else may have been the errors or

misfortunes of that administration, want of mutual confidence between

the Secretary of State and his distinguished chief was not one of them.

They stood together firmly, undivided, and inseparable to the last.

_Storms of faction from within their own party and from without beset

them, and combinations and coalitions in and out of Congress assailed

them with a degree of violence that no other administration has ever

encountered_. But they never yielded.'

We can not better conclude this paper, while the volumes of Mr. Seward's

works are open on the table, than by quoting still again, and asking the

reader to apply his own remarks on Secretary of State Webster in the

fisheries-war speech, before alluded to: 'I shall enter into no encomium

on the Secretary of State; he needs none. I should be incompetent to

grasp so great a theme, if it were needed. The Secretary of State! There

he is! Behold him, and judge for yourselves. There is his history; there

are his ideas; his thoughts spread over every page of your annals for

near half a century. _There are his ideas, his thoughts impressed upon

and inseparable from the mind of his country and the spirit of the age_.

The past is at least secure. The past is enough of itself to guarantee a

future of fame unapproachable and inextinguishable.'

* * * * *

TO ENGLAND.

The Yankee chain you'd gladly split,

And yet begin by heating it!

But when the iron is all aglow,

'Twill closer blend at every blow.

Learn wisdom from a warning word,

Beat not the chain into a sword.

* * * * *

THE HEIR OF ROSETON.

CHAPTER 1.

Qui curios simulant, et Bacchanalia vivunt. JUV.

Odi Persicos apparatus. HOR.

Indulge Genio: carpamus dulcia. PERS.

Roseton awoke. A silver clock upon the mantle, so constructed as to

represent Guido's 'Hours,' had just struck the hour of eight,

accompanying the signal with the festal _la ci darem_ of Don Giovanni.

This was Roseton's invariable hour of waking, no matter what might be

the season, or what might have been his time of retiring. Slightly

stirring upon the couch, the night drapery became relaxed, and from his

sleeve of Mechlin lace appeared a hand and wrist of unspeakable

delicacy, yet of iron strength. Another slight movement, and one saw the

upper portions of the form of the late slumberer; 'a graceful

composition in one of Nature's happiest moments.' It was indeed

difficult properly to estimate either the beauty of his proportions or

their amazing strength. The most celebrated sculptors of Europe had made

pilgrimages across the sea to refresh their perceptions by gazing upon a

figure which, even in the unclassic habiliments of modern dress, caused

the Apollo to resemble a plowboy; and the athletes of both hemispheres

had, singly, and in pairs, and even in triplets, measured their powers

vainly against his unaided arms. To keep ten fifty-sixes in the air for

an hour at a time was to him the merest trifle; but the _ennui_ of such

diversions had long since crept upon him, and only on occasions of the

extremest urgency did he exercise any other faculties than those of the

will. In compliance with an effort of the latter nature, his favorite

servant now entered the apartment. The Rev. Geo. Langford had but a

moment before been deeply engaged in solving the problem of the fourth

satellite of Jupiter, when a sharp, tingling sensation in the rear of

his brain convinced him that a master will desired his attendance. The

scholar, who thus rose to be the servant of Roseton,--a position that

even the President of a Western college might envy, such were its

dignities and emoluments,--stood for a moment at the foot of Roseton's

couch, and in silence received the silent orders of the day. No words

passed, but in an incredibly short space of time Roseton's commands had

flashed into the mind of his attendant, and the latter withdrew to

reduce them to writing for the benefit of the four masters of the four

departments of the House. They in turn methodized them for their

forty-eight deputies, and one hundred and ninety-two servants--in

addition to the female who came to the house to receive the weekly

wash--performed their daily task intelligently and harmoniously.

A bath of atar of roses next received the master of the House of

Pont-Noir. This was renewed every hour of the day; for Roseton's fancy

indulged the frequent and the casual lavation, and his exacting taste

demanded the strictest purity. A careless servant once ventured to leave

the bath filled without a change of the fluid, after it had been

occupied; but the negligence was at once detected by the master of

Pont-Noir, and his weekly allowance of cologne-water was summarily

reduced. Upon the ceiling, over the bath, were frescoed, in Titianelli's

richest style, the most graceful legends of mythology. Here Theseus

toyed with Ariadne; here the infant Mercury furtively enticed the

Grecian Short-horns; here Triton blew his seaweed-tangled horn, and

troops of ocean-nymphs threw the surface of the deep into 'sparkling

commotions of splendor;' here Venus allured Anchises, by sweetly calling

him to the leafy tops of Ida; here Deucalion surmounted the miraculous

floods; and here Pyrrha first instructed wondering men in the knowledge

of the existence, beauties and duties of the fairer part of creation.

Here, reclining in dreamful ease, and indulging in the perpetual warmth

by which the bath confessed the power of unseen caloric agency, Roseton

was wont ever to sport with delicious memories, now with rapturous

hopes, and at times to compose those elegant sonnets for the New York

weekly newspapers, for each one of which a thousand dollars was joyfully

given by the delighted proprietors to the poor of the city.

Carefully wiped, and clothed in a morning robe by twelve gentlemanly

attendants, each one a scion of the first families of the metropolis,

Roseton was borne to the breakfasting apartment. Here, indeed, a scene

presented itself, among whose splendors imagination only could safely

dwell, and before which the practical and the prosaic mind might well

grow comatose or skeptical. Malachite tables of every conceivable shape

from the Ural; carpets to whose texture the shawls of Cashmere had

become tributary; paintings by all the known, and many of the unknown,

old masters; these were only rivaled by chairs of the most undeniable

and gorgeous curled maple; and a beaufet of true cherry acknowledged, in

common with a Jerome horologe, a Connecticut origin. These incredible

adjuncts to luxury were, however, eclipsed by the dazzling glory of a

vast pyramid of purest oreide, which at its apex separated into four

divisions to the sound of slow music, by forty hidden performers,

revealing, as it descended to the floor, an equal number of tables, on

which plate, Sévres China, Nankin porcelain, and the emerald glass of

New England, rivaled the display of damask, fruits, liqueurs, and

delicatest meats. Here smoked a sweetbread, here gleamed a porgy, not

yet forty-eight hours caught, and here the strawberry crimsoned the

cream that lapped its blushing sides. Here the Arabian berry evolved

clouds of perfume; here Curaçoa glistened from behind its strawy shield;

and here a decanter of warranted real French brandy, side by side with a

bottle of Stoughton's bitters, suggested that a cocktail might not only

be desirable, but possible. But Roseton's eyes gazed languidly upon the

spectacle, and the walls of the pyramid again ascending, shut the

quadruple banquets from the sight.

A moment elapsed, and they fell once more. A fountain of cool, fragrant

distillation threw showers of delight into the atmosphere, under the

canopy of which again appeared four luxurious tables. Upon one, tea and

toast suggested the agreeable and appropriate remedy for an over-night's

dissipation; upon another, an array of marmalades, icy tongues reduced

by ether to a temperature of minus sixty, Finnane haddock, and oaten

meal of rarest bolting, indicated and offered to gratify the erratic

taste of a Caledonian. Again, upon another, a Strasburg pie displayed

its delicious brown, the members of the emerald songster of the fen lay

whitely delicate, and accompanying absinthe revealed the knowledge of

Gallic preferences. Upon the fourth, smoking and olent Rio, puddings of

Indian, cakes composed of one third butter, one third flour, one third

saleratus, and the crisping bean, surmounted by crimped pork, showed

that a Providence Yankee might well find an appropriate entertainment.

But again the eyes of Roseton looked vacantly on, and again, amid

strains of music, the walls of the pyramid ascended.

A short pause, and they sunk again. Now appeared, as a central figure,

an odalisque. In each ivory hand she bore a double fan of exquisite

workmanship, on each of which again glistened a delicate and fairy

banquet. Here were ultimate quintessences--pines reduced to a drop of

honeyed delight; bananas whose life lay in points of bewildering

sweetness; enormous steamboat puddings compressed within the compass of

a thimble, exclusive of the sauce; chocolates, oceans of which lay in

mimic lakes, each of which the bill of a humming-bird might expand;

tongues of most melodious singing birds--the nightingale, the thrush,

and the goldfinch; lambs _en suprême_, each eliminated of earthly

particles, and spiritualized in scarcely tangible results. Over all

hovered the memories of exquisite beverages, which became realities when

you approached, and stole over the sense with insidious deliciousness.

These, too, faded away amid the disregard of their owner, though the

odalisque shed floods of tears of disappointment; and others succeeded,

but they tempted Roseton vainly, and a glance at the clock showed that

it was now ten o'clock by New Haven time. At this moment the Rev. George

Langford experienced another biological sensation; Roseton had conceived

a breakfast.

Repairing to a battery in a recess of his laboratory, Langford

attentively studied the ebullitions occasioned by an ultimate dilution

and aggregation of the chemicals in the formula HP + O^(22). During this

time the sensations in his brain successively continued to rack and

agonize him; but, faithful to his mission, he remained immersed in

thought until his intellect grasped the key of the problem. Issuing then

from the recess, he promulgated the results of his investigation to the

four masters of the house, These, with the aid of the forty-eight

deputies, executed the inchoate idea, and once more--and finally--the

pyramid unfolded. But now a single table appeared, bearing upon its

snowy mantle a Yarmouth bloater, and a bottle of Dublin stout. Roseton's

eyes lighted up with unaccustomed pleasure, and he gave instant commands

for the duplication of the salary of his esteemed attendant-in-chief.

In accordance with the custom of the house, the morning journals now

appeared; and here the fancy of Roseton had therein a living and

distinctive character over each. Youths, of perfect beauty, who had,

during the three previous hours, diligently studied the sheets in

question, passed before him, one by one, dressed in appropriate costume,

and each one delivered to him in mental short-hand the entire contents

of the journal which he represented. These were rendered wholly in the

Sanscrit tongue, in which Roseton was an adept; with the exception of

the _Tribune_, the language of which, Roseton was accustomed to say, is

unique, and incapable of translation. First appeared the representative

of the _Herald_, dressed as a jockey; an irresistible air of assurance

accompanied him, and he threw frequent summersaults with inconceivable

quickness. Next marched the _Tribune_;--a youth shrouded in inexplicable

garments, and the living centre of a whirlwind of exploding theories.

Then stepped the _Times_ in rapid succession; a blooming boy dressed

with precision, and delicately balancing himself as he delivered his

part. Next appeared the _World_, habited as a theological student, and

sorrow for irreparable loss was indicated by a Weed upon his hat. One

looked for the embodiment of the _News_ in vain, but a Wooden figure,

wheeled in silence through the apartment, was thought to convey a

mysterious lesson. A martial ghost, wearing upon his head a triple

crown, like the vision of Macbeth, yet bravely supporting himself under

the three-fold encumbrance, seemed the _Courier_ of Wall Street. The

pageant passed, but Roseton seemed unsatisfied; and it soon occurred to

him that the deep draughts of secession news, which he had been

accustomed to receive each morning from the _Journal of Commerce_, had,

on this occasion, failed him. But on further reflection his infallible

logic convinced him that the existence of this paper must have ceased at

the same time with that of the Southern mails.

It now remained to perform the morning toilet; and a corps of attendants

conveyed Roseton to his dressing-room. Here the lavish wealth of the

Pont-Noirs found another appropriate field for its display. The floor

was of Carrera marble, curiously tesselated, rising in the centre to the

support of a fountain, where water-nymphs breathed forth shattered

columns of fragrant spray, whose parabolic curves filled a spacious lake

below. Vases of diamond, emerald and ruby crowded the mantles, each

filled with some unknown perfume--the result of Roseton's miraculous

chemistry; for in this science Roseton was supreme. In a single day he

exhausted the resources of American laboratories, and a short visit to

Europe convinced him that henceforth he must be his own instructor.

Savants in vain solicited his formulas. 'Why,' he reasoned, 'should I

furnish children in science with tools of which they can not comprehend

the use?' Delicate tables, chiseled from the humbler gems, were

scattered about the chamber; agate, topaz, lapis-lazuli, amethyst, and a

smaragdus of miraculous beauty. Chairs of golden wire completed the

furniture of this unequaled apartment.

The hangings of the walls were a freak at once of genius and lavishness.

They consisted of the bills of the Valley Bank, extravagantly lapped,

and of untold denomination. But the ceiling--how shall I describe it?

Did you, indeed, look up inimitably into a Hesperian sky, or was this

firmament the creation of the painter's art? Nothing flecked the

profound, unsearchable, impassive blue. There brooded the primeval

heavens, undimmed by earthly vapors, unfathomed by earthly instruments;

forever indescribable by earthly tongues.

Two hundred years before, a Pont-Noir of the Roseton branch accumulated

immense wealth from a diamond mine in East Haddam, Connecticut. He was a

man of deep and ardent imagination, and uncomprehended by the simple

villagers, who irreverently styled him the 'mad Roseton.' He died, and

left a singular will. It provided that his estates, money, and jewels,

should be realized and invested on interest for the space of two hundred

years, by a committee of trustees, consisting of the governors of the

six New England States, to be assisted by the fiscal board of

Mississippi, whenever such a State should be organized. At the

expiration of that time, the avails were to be paid to Roseton, of

Pont-Noir, provided but one of that name should exist; if more were

living, the estate was to remain in abeyance until such a condition

should be reached. Not undiscerningly had he foreseen the probability

that his will would be disputed, and a short time before his death he

caused a formal attestation of his sanity to be made by the entire body

of clergymen comprising the Middlesex Conference. His mode of proof was

simple, consisting only of an original manuscript, refuting the Arminian

heresy; but it sufficed, and the will was obeyed. Not unwisely, also,

had he calculated upon the energies of population; for, during one

hundred and fifty years, the Pont-Noirs spread over both continents.

Then they paused, and but two of the race--chosen by lot--were allowed

to marry. At the expiration of twenty-five years, a single male of the

race, also chosen by lot, married, and became the father of the present

Roseton. On the day that Roseton was twenty-four years old, his father

summoned him to his apartment. 'To-morrow,' said he, 'the mystical two

hundred years expire, and an estate of inconceivable magnitude will vest

in the single Roseton--if there be but one. My son, my life is of less

consequence than yours, since it is farther spent; but it still has

sweetness, and it is the _only_ life that I possess. Here are three

goblets of wine--one is Scuppernong, the other two are harmless. I will

apportion our chances fairly, and will drink two; you shall drink one.

The lawyers are at hand to arrange the inquest, and to confer the

title-deeds to the estate.' In silence the son consented, and the

devoted pair drank off the goblets as proposed, and at once sat down to

a banquet prepared for them, and for the legal gentlemen attendant. When

the ices came in, the elder Roseton was carried out; and the heir of

Pont-Noir, having seen the remains properly bestowed in a place of

safety, and a special inquest held, finished the night with the

counsellors in the enjoyment of a tempered hilarity, and rose next

morning the possessor of wealth so boundless, so unspeakable, that my

brain reels as I endeavor to grasp at even its outlying fragments.

In the hope of presenting some of its details to the reader, I procured,

at an enormous expense, a Babbage calculating engine, and during three

successive weeks worked it without pause upon the illimitable figures.

It then became clogged, and the village Vulcan, whose impartial hand

corrects at once the time-pieces and the plowshares of the neighborhood,

having knocked the machinery to pieces with a sledge, declared himself

incompetent to explain and unable to repair. My results therefore are

maimed and imperfect, but I trust they will show that I have not

exaggerated the difficulty of the process of reduction and estimation.

The fragmentary portions of the estate, then, are: the entire capital

stock of thirty-eight of the Banks of New York city (though here a wise

policy has suggested the employment of various respectable names as

those of shareholders, in order to protect these institutions from the

fury of a mob); all that portion of the metropolis lying between the

Twelfth and Twenty-second Avenues, from Canal Street to the suburb of

Poughkeepsie, comprising of necessity the water rights and quarries;

eighteen thousand millions of bullion specially deposited in the State

Bank of Mississippi, to the order of the six New England Governors,

trustees; the Pont-Noir mansion on Nultiel Street, surrounded by

twenty-five acres of land, the very heart of the best New York

residences, and variously estimated from six to eight millions of

dollars; the remote but tolerably well known villages of Boston and

Philadelphia in their entirety; and one undivided tenth of the stock of

the Valley Bank. It was upon the last investment that Roseton chiefly

drew for his expenses. 'My fancy,' said he, 'inclines me to convert

Boston into an observatory, and Philadelphia into a tea-garden, and

nothing but an amiable regard for the comfort of a handful of families

prevents at once from carrying such plans into effect. My mansion is of

necessity unproductive; and the Mississippi bullion is greatly needed

where it already is. City property is a dreadful nuisance, the taxes are

outrageous and the tenants pay poorly; and although the New York Banks

announce dividends, yet when you come to look at their actual condition,

hum, hum;--is that door shut?--just put your ear a little this way, so;

there, I say nothing; there are Banks and Banks; but a building may have

two doors, and what goes _out_ at one may come _in_ again at the other,

eh? Mind, I say nothing. So you see, beside the East Haddam diamond

mines, which are at present badly worked; and a few South American

republics which are chiefly occupied in assassinating their presidents;

and a border State or two that usually leave me to provide for their

half-yearly coupons;--besides these resources, you see, I have really

little else to look to but the Valley Bank.'

While the possessor of this wealth is undergoing his morning toilet, let

us attend the steps of his butler in chief, whose duty it was to prepare

the eleven-o'clocker with which Roseton was accustomed to fortify

himself against the fatigues of the middle part of the day. Passing down

a succession of flights of stairs, each one consisting of two hundred

and twenty-five steps of the finest ebony, we at last find ourselves in

an immense cavern, dimly lighted by the internal fires of the earth,

which are here approached and verified. It was, however, left for

Roseton to discover that these flames consisted of negative qualities as

to caloric; and a project for cooling the streets of Newport by night,

in summer, by means of floods of brilliant radiance, every point of

which shall surpass the calcium light of the Museum, will soon evince to

society that Roseton has not lived in vain. It was indeed a place of

rarest temperature, and a sublime sense of personal exaltation thrilled

you as you entered. The butler approached an arch, and unlocking a

wicker door which was ingeniously contrived to admit air, but to exclude

the furtive or the inquisitive hand, threw open to your inspection the

immense wine-cellar within.

Such indeed were the dimensions of the crypt that some little time might

elapse before your eye could fully gauge them: but on accustoming

yourself to the enlarged mensuration occasioned by the unearthly light,

you saw that the cavity in question could not be less than six feet high

at the top of the arch, three feet wide, and at least forty-eight inches

deep. It was musty, cobwebbed, and encrusted with stalactic nitre, but

the spirit of rare old vintages exhaled from its depths, and visionary

clusters of purplest grapes dangled in every direction. And first your

eye lighted upon a half dozen real old India Port, picked up by golden

chance at an assignee's sale in Rivington Street. The chalk-mark on the

bottles was intended to be cabalistically private, but an acquaintance

with the occult dialect of Spanish Zingari convinced you that 1/2, meant

nothing else than that the bottles represented twelve and a half cents

each, with three years interest,--a fabulous sum, but lavished in a

direction where the pledge of a dukedom had not been irrational, if the

object could not have been otherwise accomplished. Next a row of Medoc

claimed the enraptured attention; delicately overspread with the dust of

years, but flashing through the filmy covering the undeniable blood of

the Honduras forest. Here might one well pause and indulge in Clautian

memories: the violent remonstrances of Nature against, and her

subsequent acquiescence in, the primal draughts of _vin ordinaire_,

whether expertly served by a Delmonico, or carelessly decanted by the

Hibernian attendant in the gorgeous saloon of a Taylor; next the ascent

to St. Julien, Number 2, when haply a friend from the country lingers at

the office, and you see no way of escape but an exodus in quest of

chicken and green peas; a blushing crimson at the surface and unknown

clouds below; then the _De Grave_ in delicate flagons, a fit sacrifice

to the exquisite tastes of the editor who is to notice your forthcoming

volume, or to the epicurean palate of some surcharged capitalist, into

whose custody you are about to negotiate some land-grant bonds.

Recovering from these delicious souvenirs, your attention was drawn to

the Sauternes, indisputably titled at a Wall Street sale, and priceless.

This wine had never yet been tasted, for Roseton was wont to say, 'I

only care for vitriol when it is a hundred years old,' and this had only

seen the summer of twenty. But a precious odor breathed from the casks,

and the corroding capsules confessed the mighty powers that lurked

within. Inhaling this odor, you seemed to see the Original White Hermit

himself, brooding over his tiny principality of barren rock, and

performing miracles with the aid of the imported carboy and the

indigenous rill. As the evening gloomed, and twilight fell among the

crags, a faint snicker spread upon the air, and in the dim light of the

rising moon one might fancy a finger laid to the side of the nose of the

holy man. From these reveries, a smart blow on the back, neatly executed

by the butler, recalled your active attention to a demi-john of

warranted French brandy, and a can of Bourbon certified by the

hand-writing of Louis Capet himself. Upon the sawdust in the lower

niches of the vault lay packages of the finest Hollands, wicker

casements of Curaçoa, and the apple-jack of Jersey in gleaming glass.

But the eye dwelt finally, and with a crowning wonder and approval, upon

an entire basket of the celebrated eleven-dollar Heidsieck champagne,

blue label, that lay upon the floor of the crypt.

The acquisition of this treasure was one of those rare good-fortunes by

which the life of here and there an individual is illustrated. About a

year previous to this, in the dead of night, a mysterious stranger

solicited audience of the master of Pont-Noir. Attended by the entire

force of the house in complete armor, Roseton granted the interview. The

stranger advanced within easy gun-shot, and said:--'The great house of

Boscobello, Bolaro and Company is in imminent peril. Unless a certain

sum can be raised by two o'clock to-morrow, their acceptances will lie

over. These acceptances constitute the entire loan and discount line of

thirty-eight of the Banks of this city, for they have latterly made it a

rule to take nothing else.' A meaning glance shot from the stranger's

eye as he delivered this fearful announcement, but Roseton remained

firm, though a cold shiver passed through the frames of his domestics,

who were aware how vitally he was interested. 'The pledge of their stock

of wine alone,' continued the mysterious visitant, 'will relieve them

from their difficulties, and the capitalists then stand ready to carry

them forward if they will retire from the Southern trade. Ten hundred

nickels is the sum required, and I stand prepared to deliver the

security by ten o'clock, A.M. The discount is immense, but the

exigencies of the case are weighty.'

A consultation ensued. The bill for the kitchen crockery had just come

in, and a set of three-tined forks were badly needed; but Roseton's

intellect grasped the necessities of the operation, and the necessary

funds were ordered to be advanced; and the pledge, now forever forfeited

by the loan clause of the Revised Statutes, lay upon the floor of the

vault.

The aged butler delicately lifted a flask from its encampment of straw,

and bore it to that section of the apartment where the light was

clearest. 'I wonder if the boss would miss it, if we should just smell

of this here bottle,' said the faithful servitor. Turning it his hand,

it flashed brilliant rays on every side. Entangled among these played

vivid and beautiful pictures, changeable as auroras, yet perfect, during

their brief instant of existence, as the imaginations of Raphael, or the

transcripts of Claude.

Here then you saw a sunny hill, and troops of vintagers dispersed along

its sides, whose outlines wavered in the afternoon heats. But you

rapidly outlived this scene, and now the broad plains of Hungary lay

before your gaze. Speeding over the contracted domains of the Tokay, you

entered upon the Sarmatian wastes, where the wild vines fought for life

with the icy soil and the chill winds of the desert. Uncouth proprietors

urged on the unwilling peasants to the acrid press, and rolled out

barrels of the 'Rackcheekzi' and the 'Quiteenough-thankzi' vintage,

curiously labeled to a New York destination. Soon you beheld Water

Street, and long low cellars, where groups of boys cleansed now the

clouded flask, and now the imperfectly preserved cork. Now bubbles of

the rarest carbonic acid gas flow, in obedience to the powerful machine,

in all directions through the glassy prison; and rows of gleaming

bottles indicate the activity of the enterprise. Then you saw the dining

rooms of the Saint Sycophant and the Cosmopolitan Hotels. Here flew the

resounding cork, to be instantly snatched up by the attendant Ethiopian,

and scarcely were the champagne flasks emptied before they were reft

from the tables with unimpaired labels. At the rear doors, there seemed

to wait handcarts, and soon in these the corks, the bottles, and the

baskets were carefully bestowed for their down-town journey, and money

appeared to pass from hand to hand. Then you saw a sleighing party in

the country, and soon a hostel of goodly size. The travelers entered and

demanded banquet; and while they masticated the underdone and tendonous

Chanticleer, quaffed deeply of the amber vintage of the previous

visions. Again you saw morning couches, where lovely woman tore her

Valenciennes night-cap in agonies of headache, and where her ruder

partner filled the air with cries for 'soda-water!'

Engaged with these enchanting dreams, the butler made a false step, and

the precious package, falling to the floor, was instantly shattered. The

fluid trickled away in rivulets, but the ascending odors made amends for

the untimely loss, and you felt that it might all be for the best, and

haply a bill for medical attendance avoided. But the butler brooded over

the scene of the calamity in hopeless despair; and you perceived that it

would be necessary for him deeply to infringe upon his master's stores

of cordial before his former serenity might be regained.

It was now after eleven, and Roseton's carriage waited. He entered,

simply saying to the footman who lifted him in, 'To Mundus;' and shortly

the vehicle stopped before the most palatial mansion in the entire

extent of the Fifth Avenue.

I pause a moment before I attempt the portraiture of the young wife of

Mundus. Her shadow has indeed flitted once before across these pages

(see Chapter Four of the Novel), but the dim outlines of a shadow may be

traced by a hand that is powerless to paint the living, breathing

figure. The boudoir where she sat was draped with the fairest pinks of

the Saxony loom, and the carpet confessed an original Axminster

workmanship. With this one, the pattern was created and extinguished,

and, though it cost Mundus five thousand dollars, he drew his check for

the bill with a smile. The sofas and chairs were of hand-embroidered

velvet, representing the delicate adventures of Wilhelm Meister; and the

paintings that profusely lined the walls gave form to the warmest scenes

of Farquahar's 'gayest' comedies. Bella herself sat near a window,

negligently posed, reading the 'Journal of a Summer in the Country,'

over which she had now hung for three hours in speechless admiration,

breakfastless, and with her slipper-ribbons not yet tied. 'I _must_ see

what becomes of Wigwag,' she replied to Mundus, as he called through the

door that he was eating all the eggs. 'Thank Heaven,' she finally

exclaimed, as he went down into the smoking room, 'that's the last of

_him_ to-day; and now I shall have this delicious book all to myself,

and all myself to this delicious book.'

'That's very prettily turned now,' said a silvery voice; 'nothing could

have been prettier,--but you'--

'Oh, you naughty man, is that you already?' said Bella; 'didn't you meet

the Bear as you came in?'

'He is in the front basement, sucking his paws,' replied Roseton, for it

was indeed he, 'and he is trying to do a stupider thing, if possible.'

'What's that?' asked the fair Bella. 'Now don't tire me with any of your

nonsense.'

'To read himself,' answered Roseton.

'You alarm me,' exclaimed she; 'it can't be possible that the servants

have let him have a looking-glass, contrary to my express instructions!'

'No, no,' said the master of Pont-Noir, 'he is at work over the

_World_.'

'The _World?_' said Bella, inquiringly. 'Pray don't give me a headache.'

Roseton leaned over her shoulder, and placed in her lap a miniature

Andrews and Stoddard's Lexicon, open at the eight hundredth page. 'You

take?' he said: '_Mundus_, the World.'

'Ah, Percy,' sighed Bella, 'why do you thus unnecessarily fatigue me?

Have I not often told you that, faultless as you are in every other

department of life, and how I love to dwell upon this fact, still,

still, my Percy, your puns, or rather your attempts, are worse than

those of a Yale College freshman? You are cruel, indeed you are, thus to

disappoint and wound me. Be persuaded by me, and _never_ try again.'

Roseton paused, irresolute--it was a great struggle; but what will not

one do for the woman one loves? 'I promise,' said he, at last; and,

bending over her, laid a kiss--like an egg--upon her brow. 'This will

forever bind me.'

'Thank you, dear Percy,' said Bella; 'and I hope you'll keep your

promise better than you did the last one you made about giving up

smoking. You're sure you haven't tumbled my collar, and that you wiped

the egg off your moustache before you came in; get me the toilet-glass,

there's a good boy. You men are _so_ careless, and I shouldn't like it

to dry on my forehead.'

Let us approach, and gaze into the mirror. Can one describe that

face--the lovely brown eyebrows; the eyes, like a spring sky, just as

the light, fleecy clouds are leaving it after a shower; the perfect

roses, dipped in milk, of the skin; the lips where good-nature,

sprightliness, and love, lay mingled in ambush; the dewy teeth never

quite concealed? It is, indeed, useless to attempt it. And, what is very

remarkable, Bella knew it. 'There, Percy,' said she, 'your indiscretion

is cleared away, and now upon my word I don't know which flatters me

most, you or the glass.'

'Why, I haven't tried yet,' replied Roseton.

'That's only because you know you can't,' said she;' neither can this

poor little mirror. But to think what Mundus said yesterday!'

'What did he say?'

'He said--he said--he saw a pretty apple-girl in Wall Street, and I

presume the wretch paid her some compliment or other while he was buying

her apples, for he appeared very much pleased after he came home, and he

hasn't bestowed a compliment on me since the month after we were

married. Ah, fated word! Ah, Percy, Percy!--on that ill-omened day, what

caused you to linger? We _might_ even then have retraced our steps, and

been--happy.'

'I was waiting--at the dock--for the news--of the Heenan prize-fight,

Bella,' gasped Roseton, turning away to conceal his emotion, and to

assuage the tears that fell from his manly eyes. It is a mournful sight,

a strong man, in the morning of life, weeping; but Roseton's agony might

well excuse it. 'I know it was unpardonable, but my card of invitation

had been tampered with, the date altered; and, Bella--my Bella--we were

the victims of a base deception!'

'Oh, yes, my Percy,' faintly cried Bella, letting the book fall to the

ground in her confusion; 'traitorous wiles, indeed, encompassed us, and

the arts of a Mundus were too subtle for my girlish brain. I sometimes

fear that my poor frame will sink under the agonies I endure.'

Roseton raised the volume from the floor. 'I am told,' said he, 'that

this is a very ingenious work, and that no gentleman's library is

complete without it; but I never read. My days, my nights, are filled,

Bella, with thoughts of you. Yes,' continued he, seating himself upon

the sofa by her side, and passing his arm about her throbbing waist,

'yes, you are my muse--my only volume. You are the inspiration of the

poetical trifles that I send to the weekly newspapers, and which I may

say, without vanity, are considered equal to Mrs. Sigourney's. Without

you, life were indeed a dreary void; and without you, I should be

dreadfully bored of a morning.'

'Ah, Percy,' murmured the fair listener, 'so could I hear you talk

forever.'

'Bella,' whispered Roseton, in her fairy ear, 'could you prepare your

mind to entertain the idea of flight with me?'

'To Staten Island?' cried she, jumping up and clapping her hands. 'Oh,

let's go to Staten Island! Mundus can never follow us there, the boats

are so dangerous.'

'But, Bella _mia_' said Roseton, in the soft accent of Italy, 'as the

eminent but slightly impractical Hungarian--I refer to Kossuth--said,

Staten Island "is lovely, but exposed." We should not be safe there.

Listen; in my house I have prepared a secret chamber, fifty feet square,

plentifully supplied with healthful though plain provisions, and

furnished with a tolerable degree of comfort. There will we dwell, until

the curiosity of Mundus and the whispers of the metropolis are overpast.

We will then re-appear in society, and assert our happiness. Bella,

_mia_ Bella, shall it be so?'

'Ah, Percy,' sighed she, leaning back in his arms, 'let it be just as

you say.'

Their lips--

'Bella,' said Mundus, leaning over the pair, and fumbling among the

vases over the fireplace, 'is there any stage change on the mantlepiece,

or have either you or Roseton got such a thing about you as a sixpence?

I have nothing in my pocket but hundred-dollar city bills, and those

infernal omnibus drivers make change with Valley Bank notes, which a

certain _person_ furnishes them,'--and Mundus fixed his eyes full on the

master of Pont-Noir.

'Mr. Roseton,' he continued, 'will you be so kind as to call at my

office after the Second Board, to-day? I have matters of importance to

discuss with you.' And so saying, the haughty banker strode from the

apartment.

Roseton's eyes mechanically followed him. In an instant he turned to

Bella. She had fainted upon the sofa. His first impulse was to apply his

vinaigrette; but 'no,' he said to himself, 'this will probably last

twenty minutes, and do her good. During that time I can smoke a cigar,

and arrange my plans. But stop,'--and here a cold sweat broke out upon

him, and a livid paleness overspread his features,--'what did Mundus say

about the notes? He refuses them! Strange, strange, indeed! Can it then

be that the Valley Bank has bu--?'[A]

[Footnote A: This is all of this interesting family tale that will

appear in this place. The remainder will be published in the _New York

Humdrum_; the week after next number of which was issued week before

last. Get up early and secure a copy.]

* * * * *

OUR DANGER AND ITS CAUSE.

It is certain that when this page comes under the eye of the reader, the

relations of the United States, both foreign and domestic, will have

been changed materially. At the present moment, however, the condition

of the country is unpromising enough; yet not so gloomy as to preclude

the hope of a fortunate issue. The sacrifices and sufferings of the

people are greater in civil than in foreign wars, and the ultimate

advantages and benefits are proportionately large. We speak now of those

civil wars which have occurred between people inhabiting the same

district of country,--as the civil wars of England. Other contests, as

the revolutions of Hungary, Poland, and Ireland even, were not, strictly

speaking, civil wars. The parties were of different origin, and had

never assimilated in language, customs, or ideas. The struggle was for

the reëstablishment of a government which had once existed, and not for

the reformation or change of a government that at the moment of the

conflict was performing its ordinary functions.

The civil war in America does not belong to either of the classes named.

To be sure, in Missouri, Kentucky, and Western Virginia, the contest has

been between the inhabitants of the several localities, aided by forces

from the rebel States on the one hand, and forces from the loyal States

on the other. But those States, as such, were never committed to the

rebellion; and the struggle within their limits has demonstrated the

inability of the so-called Confederate States to command the adhesion of

Missouri, Kentucky, and Western Virginia by force; but it does not, in

the accomplished results, demonstrate the ability of the United States

to crush the rebellion. The border States were debatable ground; but the

question has been settled in favor of the government so far, at least,

as Western Virginia and Missouri are concerned.

In the eleven seceded States there is no apparent difference of opinion

among those in authority, or among those accustomed to lead in public

affairs. The sentiment of attachment to the old Union has been

disappearing rapidly since the secession of South Carolina, until there

are now no open avowals of adherence to the government, unless such are

made by the mountaineers of Eastern Tennessee and Western North

Carolina. These men are for the present destitute of power. Should our

armies penetrate those regions, the inhabitants may essentially aid in

the reëstablishment of the government. Still, for the present, we must

regard the eleven States as a unit in the rebellion. Thus we are called

to note the anomalous fact that the rebels seek a division between a

people who speak the same language, occupy a territory which has no

marked lines or features of separation, and who have from the first day

of their national existence been represented by the same national

government. Hence it is plain, whatever may be the immediate result of

the contest, that there can be no permanent peace until the territory

claimed as the territory of the United States is again subject to one

government. This may be the work of a few months, it may be the work of

a few years, or it may be the business of a century. Without the

reëstablishment of the government over the whole territory of the Union

there can be no peace; and without the reëstablishment of that

government there can be no prosperity.

The armies of the rebel States will march to the great lakes, or the

armies of the loyal States will march to the gulf of Mexico. We are

therefore involved in a war which does not admit of adjustment by

negotiation. In a foreign war, peace might be secured by mutual

concessions, and preserved by mutual forbearance. In ordinary civil

strife the peace of a state or of an empire might be restored by

concessions to the disaffected, by a limitation of the privileges of the

few, or an extension of the rights of the many. But none of these

expedients meet the exigency in which we find ourselves. The rebels

demand the overthrow of the government, the division of the territory of

the Union, the destruction of the nation. The question is, _Shall this

nation longer exist?_ And why is the question forced upon us? Is there a

difference of language? Not greater than is found in single States.

Indeed, Louisiana is the only one of the eleven where any appreciable

difference exists, and the number of French in that State is less than

the number of Germans in Pennsylvania. Nor has nature indicated lines of

separation like the St. Lawrence and the lakes on the north and the

Rocky Mountains on the west. The lines marked by nature--the Rocky

Mountains, the Mississippi River, and the Alleghanies--cut the line

proposed by the confederates transversely, and force the suggestion that

each section will be put in possession of three halves of different

wholes, instead of a single unit essential to permanent national

existence.

Do the products of the industry of the two sections so conflict with

each other in domestic or foreign markets as to encourage the idea that

by separation the South could gain in this particular? Not in the least.

The North has been a large customer for the leading staple of the South,

and the South is constantly in need of those articles which the North is

fitted to produce. The South complains of the growth of the North, and

vainly imagines that by separation its own prosperity would be promoted.

The answer to all this is, that there has never been a moment for fifty

years when the seceded States had not employment, for all the labor that

they could command, in vocations more profitable than any leading

industry of the North; and, moreover, every industry of the North has

been open to the free competition of the South. Not argument, only

statement, is needed to show that by origin, association, language,

business, and labor interests, as well as by geographical laws, unity

and not diversity is the necessity of our public life. Yet, in defiance

of these considerations, the South has undertaken the task of destroying

the government. Nor do the rebels assert that the plan of government is

essentially defective. The Montgomery constitution is modeled upon that

of the United States; though the leaders no longer disguise their

purpose to abolish its democratic features and incorporate aristocratic

and monarchical provisions. They hope, also, to throw off the restraints

of law, bid defiance to the general public sentiment of the world, and

reopen the trade in slaves from Africa. It remains to be seen whether

the desire of England for cotton and conquest, and her sympathy with the

rebels, will induce her to pander to this inhuman traffic.

It has happened occasionally that a government has so wielded its powers

as to contribute, unconsciously, to its own destruction. But our

experience furnishes the first instance of a government having been

seized by a set of conspirators, and its vast powers used for its own

overthrow.

It is now accredited generally that several members of Mr. Buchanan's

cabinet were conspirators, and that they used the power confided to them

for the purpose of destroying the government itself. Hence it appears,

whatever the test applied, that the present rebellion is distinguished

from all others in the fact that it does not depend upon any of the

causes on which national dissensions have been usually based.

The public discontents in Ireland, in their causes, bore a slight

analogy to our own. There were existing in that country various systems

and customs that were prejudicial to the prosperity of the island. Among

these may be mentioned the Encumbered Estates and Absenteeism; and it is

worthy of remark that whatever has been done by the British government

for the promotion of the prosperity of Ireland, and the pacification of

its people, has been by a reformation of the institutions of the

country.

Rebels in arms may be overthrown and dispersed by superior force, but

the danger of rebellion will continue so long as the disposition to

rebel animates the people. This disposition can not be reached by

military power merely; the exciting cause must be removed, or, at least,

so limited and modified as to impair its influence as a disturbing force

in the policy of the country. As we have failed to trace this rebellion

to any of the causes that have led to civil disturbances in other

countries, it only remains to suggest that cause which in its relations

and conditions is peculiar to the United States. All are agreed that

slavery is the cause of the rebellion. Yet slavery exists in other

countries,--as Brazil, for example,--and thus far without exhibiting its

malign influence in conspiracy and rebellion. This is no doubt true; but

it should be borne in mind that, in the United States, slavery has power

in the government as the basis of representation, and that the slave

States are associated in the government with free States. If the

institution of slavery had not been a basis of political power, or had

all the States maintained slavery, it is probable that the rebellion

would never have been organized, or, if organized, it could never have

attained its present gigantic proportions.

We have now reached a point where we can see the error of our public

national life. The doctrine announced by President Lincoln, while he was

only Mr. Lincoln, of Springfield, that the nation must be all free or

all slave, was not new with him. The men who framed the constitution

acted under the same idea, though they may not have so distinctly

expressed the truth. There is, however, abundant circumstantial evidence

that they so believed, and that their only hope for the country was

based on the then reasonable expectation that slavery would disappear,

and that the nation would be all free. It was reserved for modern

political alchemists to discover the idea on which the leading

politicians have been acting for thirty or forty years, that one half of

a nation might believe in the fundamental principle on which the

government is based, and the other half deny it, and yet the government

go on harmoniously, wielding its powers acceptably and safely to all.

This is the error. Our failure is not in the plan of government; the

error is not that our fathers supposed that a government could be based

and permanently sustained upon slavery and freedom advancing _pari

passu_. They indulged in no such delusion. The error is modern. When

slavery demanded concessions, and freedom yielded; when slavery

suggested compromises, and freedom accepted them; when slavery,

unrebuked, claimed equal rights under the constitution, and freedom

acknowledged the justice of the claim,--then came the test whether the

government itself should be administered in the service of slavery or in

behalf of freedom. Two considerations influenced the slaveholders.

First, even should they be permitted to wield the government, they

foresaw that its provisions were inadequate to meet the exigencies of

slavery. No despotism can be sustained by the voluntary efforts of its

subjects. Slavery is a despotism; and as such can only be supported by

power independent of that of the slaves themselves, and always

sufficient for their control. The slaves were yearly increasing in

numbers and gaining in knowledge. These changes indicated the near

approach of the time when the slaves of the South would reenact the

scenes of St. Domingo. The plantations of the cotton region are remote

from each other, and the proportion of slaves on a single plantation is

often as many as fifty for every free person, The sale of negroes from

the northern slave States has introduced an element upon the plantations

at once intelligent and hostile, and, of course, dangerous, The time

must come when the white populations of plantations, districts, or

States even, would disappear in a single night, In such a moment of

terror and massacre how, and to what extent, would the United States

government, acting under the constitution, afford protection, aid, or

even secure a barren vengeance? These were grave questions, and admitted

only of an unsatisfactory answer at best. The government has power to

put down insurrections; but for what good would a body of troops be

marched to a scene of desolation and blood a fortnight or a month after

the servile outbreak had done its work? These considerations controlled

the intelligent minds of the South, and they were driven irresistibly to

the conclusion that the government of the United States was insufficient

for the institution of slavery, even though the friends of slavery were

entrusted with the administration. What hope beyond? They dared to

believe that by separation and the establishment of a military

slaveholding oligarchy, to which the public opinion and public policy of

the seceded States now tend, they would be able to guard the institution

against all tumults from within and all attacks from without. If success

were to crown their present undertakings, is it probable that the

government contemplated would be strong enough for the task proposed? If

Russia could not hold her serfs in bondage, can the South set up a

government which can guard, and defend, and secure slavery? Or will a

French or English protectorate render that stable which the government

of the United States was incompetent to uphold? These questions remain,

but the one first suggested is settled:--That the government of the

United States, howsoever and by whomsoever administered,

constitutionally, is inadequate to meet the exigencies of slavery.

Secondly. The leaders of the rebellion foresaw, a long time since, that

slavery had no security that the government would be administered in the

interest of that institution. The admission of California, followed by

the admission of three other free States, forced the slaveholders into a

hopeless minority in the Senate of the United States. The census of 1860

promised to reduce the delegation of the slave States in the House of

Representatives. Previous to 1870 other free States were likely to be

admitted into the Union; and thus by successive and unavoidable events,

the government was sure to pass into the hands of the non-slave States.

It would not be just to the South to omit to say that apprehensions

there existed that the North would disregard the constitution. These

apprehensions were fostered for unholy purposes; and so sealed is the

South to the progress of truth, through the domination of the

slaveholders over the press and public men, and by the consequent

ignorance of the mass of the people, that these misapprehensions have

never been removed in any degree by the declarations of Congress or of

political parties in the North.

The mind of the South was thus brought logically to two conclusions:

First, that the government of the United States was inadequate to meet

the exigencies of slavery, even though it should be administered

uniformly by the friends of slavery. Secondly, that the administration

of the government would be controlled by the ideas of the free States.

These conclusions would have been sufficiently unwelcome to the Southern

leaders, if they had had no purpose or policy beyond the maintenance of

slavery where it exists; but they had already determined to extend the

institution southward over Mexico and Central America, and they knew

full well the necessity of destroying the Union and the government

before such an enterprise could be undertaken with any hope of success.

Hence they denied the right of the majority to rule unless they ruled in

obedience to the will of the minority. Thus the slaveholders came

naturally and unavoidably to the denial of the fundamental principle of

the government; and, having denied the principle, there remained no

reason why they should not undertake the overthrow of the government

itself. And thus the conspiracy and the rebellion sprung naturally and

unavoidably from the institution of slavery.

Further, slavery is the support of the conspiracy and the rebellion both

in Europe and America. However disastrous slavery may be to the mass of

the whites, it affords to the governing class the opportunity and means

for constant attention to public affairs.

In all our history the North has felt the force of this advantage. As a

general thing, a northern member occupies a seat in Congress for one or

two terms, and then his place is taken by an untried man. And even

during his term of service, his attention is given in part to his

private affairs, or to plans and schemes designed to secure a

re-election. The Southern member takes his seat with a conscious

independence due to the fact that his slaves are making crops upon his

plantation, and that his re-election does not depend upon the hot breath

of the multitude. He enjoys a long and independent experience in the

public service; and he thus acquires a power to serve his party, his

country or his section, which is disproportionate even to his

experience. A good deal of the consideration which the South enjoys

abroad, and especially in England, is due to the fact that in the South

a governing class is recognized, which corresponds to the governing

classes wherever an aristocracy or monarchism exists. By a community of

ideas the South commands the sympathy, and enjoys the confidence and

secret support of the enemies of democracy the world over. Through the

political and pecuniary support which the public men of that section

have derived from slavery, they have been able to take and maintain

social positions at Washington, which, by circumstances, were denied to

much the larger number of northern representatives, and thus they have

influenced the politics of this country and the opinions of other

nations. Consider by how many sympathies and interests England is bound

to encourage the policy and promote the fortunes of the South. There is

the sympathy of the governing class in England for the governing class

in the South, even though they are slaveholders; there is the hostility

of the ignorant operatives in their manufacturing towns, who, through

exterior influences, have been led to believe that whatever hardships

they are brought to endure are caused by the desire of the North to

subjugate the South; there is the purpose of English merchants and

manufacturers to cripple, or if possible to destroy the manufactures and

commerce of the North; and, finally, there is the hope of all classes

that by the alienation or separation of the two sections England would

derive additional commercial advantages, and that the scheme of here

establishing a continental republic would be abandoned, never to be

again revived. There is, moreover, a reasonable expectation, founded in

the nature of things, and possibly already supported by positive

promises and pledges, that England is to stand in the relation of

protector to the confederated States. Nor will she be in the least

disturbed by the institution of slavery, if perchance that institution

survives the struggle. If she can be secure in the monopoly of the best

cotton lands on the globe, if she can be manufacturer and shop-keeper

for the South, if she can deprive the North of one half of its

legitimate commerce, if she can obtain the control of the gulf of

Mexico, of the mouth of the Mississippi, if she can command the line of

sea-coast from Galveston to Fortress Monroe or even to Charleston, and

thus compel us to make our way to the Pacific by the passes of the Rocky

Mountains exclusively, there is no sacrifice of men, or of money, or of

principle, or of justice, that would be deemed too great by the English

people and government. But what then? Are we to make war upon England

because her sympathies and interests run thus with the South? Is it not

wiser to consider why it is that the South is sustained by the interests

and sympathies of England? If slavery for fifty years had been unknown

among us, could there be found a hundred men, within the limits of the

United States, who would accept a British protectorate under any

circumstances or for any purpose whatever? And is it not therein

manifest, that our foreign and domestic perils are alike due to slavery?

And shall we not have dealt successfully with all our foreign

difficulties when we shall have established the jurisdiction of the

United States over the territory claimed by the rebels? But until that

happy day arrives, we shall not be relieved for an instant from the

danger of a foreign war; and if the rebellion last six months longer,

there is no reason to suppose that a foreign war can be averted. When we

offer so tempting a prize to nations that wish us ill, can we expect

them to put aside the opportunity which we have not the courage and

ability to master? We have observed the hot haste of England to

recognize the rebels as belligerents; we have seen the flimsy covering

of neutrality that she has thrown over the illegitimate commerce that

her citizens have carried on with the South, and from the time, manner,

and nature of her demand for the release of Mason and Slidell, we are

forced to infer that she will seize every opportunity to bring about an

open rupture with the United States. And though Mr. Seward has carried

the country successfully through the difficulty of the Trent, we ought

to expect the presentation of demands which we can not so readily and

justly meet. Indeed, enough is known of the Mexican question to suggest

the most serious apprehensions of foreign war on that account.

The necessity for speedily crushing the rebellion is as strong as it was

at the moment when Lord Lyons made the demand for the release of the

persons taken from the deck of the Trent.

Is there any reason, even the slightest, to suppose that by military and

naval means alone the rebellion can be crushed by the 19th of April

next?

Yet every day's delay gives the confederate States additional strength,

and renders them in the estimation of mankind more and more worthy of

recognition and independent government. Their recognition will be

followed by treaties of friendship and alliance; and those treaties will

give strength to the rebels and increase the embarrassments of our own

government. It is the necessity of our national life that the settlement

of this question should not be much longer postponed.

By some means we must satisfy the world, and that speedily, that the

rebellion is a failure. Nor can we much longer tender declarations of

what we intend to do, or offer promises as to what we will do, in the

face of the great fact that for eight months the capital of the Republic

has been in a state of siege. If, in these circumstances of necessity

and peril to us, the armies of the rebels be not speedily dispersed, and

the leaders of the rebellion rendered desperate, will the government

allow the earth to again receive seed from the hand of the slave, under

the dictation of the master, and for the support of the enemies of the

constitution and the Union? If there were any probability that the

States would return to their allegiance, then indeed we might choose to

add to our own burthens rather than interfere their internal affairs.

But there is no hope whatever that the seceded States will return

voluntarily to the Union.

There could be no justifying cause for the emancipation of the slaves in

time of peace by the action of the general government; and now it must

be demanded and defended as the means by which the war is to be closed,

and a permanent peace secured. If before the return of seed-time the

emancipation of the slaves in several or in all of the disloyal States

be declared as a military necessity, and the blacks be invited to the

sea-coast where we have and may have possession, they will raise

supplies for themselves, and the rebellion will come to an ignominious

end, through the inability of the masters, when deprived of the services

of their slaves, to procure the means of carrying on the war.

* * * * *

SHE SITS ALONE.

She sits alone, with folded hands,

While from her full and lustrous eyes

Imperial light wakes love to life,--

Love that, unheeded, quickly dies.

She sits alone, among them all

So near, and yet so far,--they seem

But our coarse waking thoughts, while she

Is the reflection of a dream.

She sits alone, so still, so calm,

So queenly in her grand repose,

You wish that Love would slap her cheeks

And make the white a blush-red rose!

* * * * *

LITERARY NOTICES.

CHEAP COTTON BY FREE LABOR. By a Cotton Manufacturer. Second

edition. Boston: A. Williams & Company, 100 Washington Street.

1861. Price 12 cents.

It seldom happens that we find so many weighty facts within so short a

compass as are given in this pamphlet. For many years the assertion that

only the negro, and the negro as a slave, could be profitably employed

in raising cotton in America, has been accepted most implicitly by the

whole country, and this has been the great basis of pro-slavery

argument. But of late years, doubt has been thrown, from time to time,

on this assumption, and in the little work before us there is given an

array of concise statements, which, until their absolute falsehood is

proved, must be regarded as conclusive of the fact, that the white man

is _better_ adapted than the negro to labor at the cultivation of

cotton.

Our 'cotton manufacturer' begins properly by bursting the enormous

bubble of the failure of free labor in the British West Indies; showing,

what is too little known, that the decrease in the export of sugar from

Jamaica began and rapidly continued for thirty years before the

emancipation of slaves, but has _since_ been well-nigh arrested. With

this decrease of export the _import of food has decreased, although the

population, has increased_; but, at the present day, the aggregate value

of the exports of _all_ the British West Indies is now nearly as great

as it was in the palmiest days of slavery, while on an average the free

blacks now earn far more for themselves than they formerly did for their

masters, and are therefore 'better off.' Even those who regard the

negro, whether a slave or free, as fulfilling his whole earthly mission

in proportion to the profit which he yields Lancashire spinners, have no

just grounds of complaint. But as regards the United States, there are

certain facts to be considered. According to the census of 1850, there

were in our slave States, 'where it is frequently asserted that white

men can not labor in the fields,' eight hundred thousand free whites

over fifteen years of age employed exclusively in agriculture, and over

one million exclusively in out-door labor. Again, wherever the

free-white labor and small-farm system of growing cotton has been tried,

it has invariably proved more productive than that of employing slaves.

It can not be denied that, deducting the expense of maintaining decrepit

and infant slaves, every field hand costs $20 per month, and German

labor could be hired for less than this, the success of such labor in

Texas fully establishing its superiority,--and Texas contains cotton and

sugar land enough to supply three times the entire crop now raised in

this country. Such being the case, has not free labor a _right_ to

demand that these fields be thrown open to it, without being degraded by

comparison to and competition with slaves? Our author consequently

suggests that Texas, at least, shall be made free, and a limit thereby

established to slavery in the older States. It would cost less than one

hundred millions of dollars to purchase all the slaves now there, and

the completion of the Galveston railroad would have the effect of giving

to Texas well-nigh the monopoly of the cotton supply. Such are, in

brief, the main points of this pamphlet, which we trust will be

carefully read, and so far as possible tested by every one desirous of

obtaining information on the greatest social and economical question of

the day.

A DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. By Joseph E. Worcester, LL.D.

Boston: Swan, Brewer & Tileston. 1862.

To boldly declare in favor of any _one_ dictionary at the present day,

would be as bold, and we may add as untimely and illogical a proceeding

as to endorse any one grammar, when nothing can be clearer to the

student of language than that our English tongue is more unfixed and

undergoing changes more rapidly than any other which boasts a truly

great literature. The scholar, consequently, generally pursues an

eclectic system, if timid conforming as nearly as may be to 'general

usage,' if bold and 'troubled with originality,' making up words for

himself, after the manner of CARLYLE, which if 'apt,' after being more

or less ridiculed, are tacitly and generally adopted. But, amid the 'war

of words' and of rival systems, people must have dictionaries, and

fortunately there is this of WORCESTER'S, which has of late risen

immensely in public favor. We say fortunately, for whatever discords and

inconvenience may arise at the time from the rivalry of different

dictionaries, it can not be doubted that each effort contributes vastly

to enrich our mother-tongue, and render easier the future task of the

'coming man' who is, years hence, to form from the whole one perfect

work. Our own verdict in the matter would, accordingly, be, that we

should most unwillingly dispense with either of the great candidates for

popular orthographic favor.

RELIGIO MEDICI, A LETTER TO A FRIEND, CHRISTIAN MORALS, URN BURIAL,

AND OTHER PAPERS. By Sir Thomas Browne, Kt., M.D. Boston: Ticknor

and Fields. 1862.

Beautiful indeed is the degree of typographic art displayed in this

edition of one of the raciest and most readable of our sterling English

classics. The antique lettering of the title alone, in which words of

carmine-red alternate with the 'letters blake,' the counterpart

portrait, and the neat red-illumined capitals of every chapter, not to

mention the type and binding, all render this volume one of the most

appropriate of gift-books for a friend of true scholarly tastes. Few

writers are so perfectly loved as Sir THOMAS BROWNE is by such

'friends;' as in BACON'S or MONTAIGNE'S essays, his every sentence has

its weight of wisdom, and he who should read this volume until every

sentence were cut deeply in memory, would never deem the time lost which

was thus spent. Yet, while so deeply interesting to the most general

reader, let it not be forgotten that it was with the greatest truth that

Dr. JOHNSON testified of him that 'there is scarcely a writer to be

found, whose profession was not divinity, that has so frequently

testified his belief of the sacred writings, has appealed to them with

such unlimited submission, or mentioned them with such unvaried

reverence.'

TRAGEDY OF ERRORS. _Aux plus déshérités le plus d'amour_. Boston:

Ticknor & Fields. 1862.

The extraordinary conception of a blank verse dramatic novel of Southern

slave life. We can not agree with its very talented author in finding so

much that is touching and beautiful in the negro, believing that the

motto which prefaces this work is simply a sentimental mistake. The

negro _is_ degraded, vile if you please, and not admirable at all, and

therefore we should work hard, and induce him too to work, rise, and

purify himself. Apart from this little difference as to a fact, we have

only praise for this work, which is most admirably written, abounding in

noble passages of brave poetry, and bearing, like the 'Record of an

Obscure Man,' genial evidence of scholarship and refined thoughts and

instincts. It will, we sincerely hope, be very widely read, and we are

confident that all who _do_ read it will be impressed, as we have been,

by the true genius of the author, even though they may dissent, as we

do, from the idealization of the negro as is here done. The cause of the

poor was never yet aided by false gilding.

EDITOR'S TABLE

During the past month our domestic difficulties have threatened to

become doubly difficult, owing to the demand made upon this country by

England, and to the circumstances attending it.

Very recently it became known that on board of an English mail steamer,

'The Trent,' were two men, Messrs. SLIDELL and MASON, accredited agents

from a portion of the United States which is in open and flagrant

rebellion against a constituted government which has been recognized as

such by every nation in the world. Those men, calling themselves

ambassadors, and just as much entitled to that dignity or to official

recognition as two agents from NENA SAHIB would have been during the

revolt stirred up by that Hindoo, were taken by an officer of the United

States government from the Trent, under the full impression by him that

the seizure was in every sense legal.

The British government regarded this arrest an outrage, and promptly

responded by a demand for the restoration of Messrs. SLIDELL and MASON.

Numerous 'indignation meetings' held in the great centres of English

commerce and manufactures echoed this demand, which received a

threatening form from the fact that great military and naval

preparations, evidently aimed against the United States, were at once

put under way.

Was the seizure illegal?

The vast amount of international law which has been brought to light on

this subject, not merely in the press, but from the researches and pens

of eminent jurists, led us to no severely definite conclusion. That an

emissary is not a contraband of war as much as a musket or a soldier,

appears preposterous, and offers a distinction which, as Mr. SEWARD

observes, disappears before the spirit of the law, M. THOUVENEL to the

contrary, notwithstanding. It was therefore in the mode of procedure in

regard to the seizure of the emissaries that the trouble lay. According

to law, the vessel, if carrying contraband of war, is liable to seizure.

But if this assumed contraband be _men_, these may not be guilty, and

are entitled to a trial. Still, as the law--or want of law--stands, the

seizure of the vessel is the requisite step, the minor issue being

practically regarded as the major; an anomaly not less striking than

that which still prevails in certain courts, where, to recover damages

for seduction, the defendant can only be mulcted in a penalty for the

loss of time caused to his victim. It was not possible for Captain

WILKES to seize the vessel, Great Britain declined to waive her claim to

the execution of every jot and tittle of the letter of the law, and

consequently the 'contrabands' were surrendered.

The absurdity of involving two great nations in a war, on account of a

legal paradox of this nature, requires no comment. The dry comment of

General SCOTT, that the 'wrong' would have been none had it only been

greater, recalls the absurd line in the old play:--

'My wound is great because it is so small;'

and the supplement,--

'Then 'twould be greater were it none at

all.'

But, absurd or not, the law must be followed. Great nations must settle

their disputes by the law, even as individuals do, and there is no shame

in submitting to it, for submission to the constituted authorities is

the highest proof of honor and of civilization. And if England chooses

to strain the law to its utmost tension, to thereby push her neutrality

to the very verge of sympathy with our rebels, and manifest, by a

peremptory and discourteous exercise of her rights, total want of

sympathy with our efforts to suppress rebellion,--why, we must bear it.

And here, leaving the letter of the law, we may appropriately say a few

words of the _animus_ which has inspired the 'influential classes' in

England as regards this country, during our struggle with the South. We

are assured that the mass of the English people sympathize with us, and

we are glad to hear it,--just as we are to know that Ireland is friendly

in her disposition. But we can not refrain--and we do it with no view to

words which may stir up ill-feeling--from commenting, in sorrow rather

than anger, on the fact that such a majority of journalists,

capitalists, yes, and the mass of inhabitants of English cities, have so

unblushingly, for the mere sake of money, turned their backs on those

principles of freedom of which they boasted for so many years, flouting

us the while for being behind them in the race of philanthropy! It is

pitiful and painful to see pride brought so low. We of the Federal Union

are striving, heart and soul, to uphold our government--a government

which has been a great blessing to England and to the world. Who shall

say what revolutions, what tremendous disasters, would not have

overtaken Great Britain had it not been for the escape-valve of

emigration hither? If ever a situation appealed to the noblest

sympathies of mankind, ours does. Struggling to maintain a government

which has given to the poor man fuller rights and freer exercise of

labor than he has ever before known on this earth; fighting heroically

to uphold the best republic ever realized;--who would have dreamed that

'brave, free, honest Old England' would have regarded us coldly, sneered

at our victories, grinned over our defeats? But more than this. Though

not avowed as an aim, and though secondary to our first great

object,--the reëstablishment of the Union and a constitutional

government,--we _all_ know, and so does every Englishman, that the

emancipation of the slave, to a greater or less degree, _must_

inevitably follow our success. Here comes the test of that English

abolition of the blackest and fiercest stamp which has for years been

avowed in Great Britain, and which has done as much as aught else

towards stirring up this foul rebellion. Where be your gibes _now_, O

Britannia? Where be your bitter jeers against the 'lying Constitution,'

against the 'stars for the white man and the stripes for the negro,'

against everything American, because America was the land of the slave?

We are fighting--dying--to directly uphold ourselves, and indirectly to

effect this very emancipation for which you clamored; we are losing

cotton and suffering everything;--but _you_, when it comes to the pinch,

will endure nothing for your boasted abolition, but slide off at once

towards aiding the inception of the foulest, blackest, vilest

slaveocracy ever instituted on earth! Disguise, quibble, lie, let them

that will--these are _facts_. Because we, in our need, have instituted a

protective tariff, which was absolutely necessary to keep us from utter

ruin, and on the flimsy pretext that we are not fighting directly for

emancipation, proud, free, and honest Old England, as publicly

represented, eats all her old words, and, worse than withholding all

sympathy from us, shows in a thousand ill-disguised ways an itching

impatience to aid the South! Men of England, _we_ are suffering for a

principle common to all humanity; can not you suffer somewhat with us?

Can you not, out of the inexhaustible wealth of your islands, find

wherewithal to stave off the bitter need, for a season, of your

cotton-spinners? Feed them?--why we would, for a little aid in our dire

need, have poured in millions of bushels of wheat to your poor,--one

brave, decided act of sympathy on your part for us would ere this have

trampled down secession, and sent cotton to your marts, even to

superfluity. Or, were you so minded, and could 'worry through' a single

year, you might raise in your own colonies cotton enough, and be forever

free of America.

Or is it really true, as many think, that your statesmen would gladly

dismember this Union? The suggestion reveals such a depth of infamy that

we will not pause on it. Let it pass--if the hour of need _should_ come

we will revive it, and out of that need will arise a giant of Union such

as was never before dreamed of. Let the country believe _that_, and from

Maine to California there will be such a blending into one as time can

never dissolve!

But be it borne in mind;--and we would urge it with greater earnestness

than, aught which we have yet said,--there is in England a large, noble

body of men who do _not_ sympathize with the Southern rebels; who are

_not_ sold, soul and body, to cotton; who see this struggle of ours as

it is, and who would not willingly see us divided. These men believe in

industry, in free labor, in having every country developed as much as

possible, in order that the industry of each may benefit by that of the

other. Honor to whom honor is due,--and much is due to these men.

Meanwhile we can wait,--and, waiting, we shall strive to do what is

right. England has her choice between the cotton of the South and the

market of the North. Let her choose the former, and she will grasp ruin.

We should suffer for a time, bitterly. But out of that suffering we

should come so strengthened, so united, and so perfectly able to

dispense with all foreign labor, that where we were before as rough ore,

then we should be pure gold in our prosperity.

The first statesmen of England have shown by their speeches, as the

first British journals have indicated in their articles, that they

earnestly believe what Stephens and hundreds of other Southerners have

asserted, that _all_ the wealth of the Northern States has come from the

South, and that the South is the great ultimate market for the major

portion of our imports. Glancing over our map,--as was done by _The

Times_,-the Englishman may well believe this. He sees a vast extent of

territory,--he has heard and witnessed the boasts and extravagance of

Southerners abroad,--he knows that where so many million bales of cotton

go out, just so much money must flow in; he is angry at our Northern

tariff of emergency, and so believes that by opening to himself the

South he will secure a vast market. Little does he reflect on the fact

that, this step once taken, he will close up in the North and West his

greatest market, one worth ten times that of the South, and constantly

increasing, just in proportion as our population progresses more rapidly

than that of the slave States. It is no exaggeration,--strange as it may

seem,--but this extraordinary ignorance has been manifested time and

again by high authority in England since the war began. But supposing

the balance struck, and cotton found to be worth more to England than

the market of the North. Does not our very independence of English

manufactures imply such a stimulus to our own, as to threaten that we

shall thereby be in a much shorter time in a condition to compete with

her in every market of the world? Drive us to manufacturing for

ourselves, and we shall manufacture for every one. Already every year

witnesses American inventiveness achieving new triumphs over British

rivalry. Has England forgotten the report of Messrs. Whitworth and

Wallis on American manufactures, in which they were told that of late

years they have been more indebted to American skill for useful

inventions than to their own? War and non-intercourse will doubtless

compel us to economy, and render labor cheaper in America, but they can

not quench our innate Yankee-Saxon inventiveness and industry. But if

labor is made cheaper in America, then our final triumph will only be

hastened. If England seeks her own ruin, she could not advance it more

rapidly than she would do by a war or a difference with us. And this

many think that she will do for the sake of one season's supply of

American cotton! The fable of him who killed the goose for the sake of

the golden egg becomes terrible when acted out by a great nation. And if

this be true, then the uplifted sword of Albion is, verily, nothing but

a goose-killing knife.

'God is not dead yet.' If we are in the right, He will guide and guard

us, and they who contend for right and justice and the liberty of the

poor, first fully taught on earth by the Saviour Jesus Christ, will not

suffer in the end. When we first entered on this struggle with the

South, it was soon realized that we had undertaken the greatest struggle

of history, the reformation of the modern age, the grandest battle for

progress and against the old serpent of oppression ever known. Let them

laugh who will, but such a trial of republicanism against the last of

feudalism is this, and nothing less. God aid us! But it may be that, as

the contest widens, grander accomplishments lie before us. Whether it be

done by the sword, or by peaceful industry; whether as victors, or as

the unrighteously borne-down in our sorest hour of need,--it is not

impossible that, in one way or the other, it is yet in our destiny to

refute the monstrous theory that whatever the most powerful nation on

earth does is necessarily right, and that all considerations must yield

to its enormous interests. Such has been till the present the morality

of English and of all European diplomacy,--who will deny it? Can it be

possible that this is to last forever, and that nations are in the

onward march of progress privileged to adopt a different course from

that enjoined by God on individuals? 'Was Israel punished for this?' No,

it can not be. We stand at the portal of a new age; step by step Truth

must yet find her way even into the selfish camarilla councils of

'diplomacy.' Storms, sorrows, trials, and troubles may be before

us,--but we are working through a mighty time. 'Nothing without labor.'

_Our_ task for the present is the restoration of the sacred Union. From

_this_ let _nothing_ turn us aside, neither the threats of England or of

the world. If we must be humiliated by the law, then let us bear the

humiliation. Our Great Master bore aforetime the most cruel disgrace in

the same holy cause of vindicating the rights of man. If new struggles

are forced upon us, let us battle like men. We are living now in the

serious and the great,--let us bear ourselves accordingly, and the end

shall crown the work.

* * * * *

There is no use in disguising the fact--the people of the North,

notwithstanding their sufferings and sacrifices, are not yet _aroused_.

While immediate apprehensions--were entertained of war with England, it

was promptly said, that if this state of irritation continued, we should

be able to sweep the South away like chaff.

Meanwhile, the North is full of secession sympathizers and traitors, and

they are most amiably borne with. There are journals which, in their

extreme 'democracy,' defend the South as openly as they dare in all

petty matters, and ridicule or discredit to their utmost every statement

reflecting on our enemies. They are, it is true, almost beneath contempt

and punishment; but their existence is a proof of an amiable, impassive

state of feeling, which will never proceed to very vigorous measures.

Were the whole people fairly aflame, such paltry treason would vanish

like straw in a fiery furnace.

Yet all the time we hold the great weapon idly in our hands, and fear to

use it! By and by it will be too late. By and by emancipation-time will

have gone by, and when it is too late, we shall possibly see it adopted,

and hear its possible failure attributed to those who urged the prompt,

efficient application of it betimes.

The article in this number of the Continental entitled The Huguenot

Families in America, is the first of a series which will embrace a great

amount of interesting details relative to the ancestry of the early

French Protestant settlers in this country. Those who are familiar with

the English version of WEISS'S History of the Huguenots, and who may

recall the merits of that concluding portion which is devoted to the

fortunes of the exiles in this country, will be pleased to learn that

its writer and our contributor are the same person--a gentleman whose

descent from the stock which he commemorates, and whose life-long

studies relative to his ancestral faith and its followers, have

peculiarly fitted him for the task. Descendants of _any_ of the Huguenot

families, in any part of this country, would confer a special favor by

transmitting to the author, through the care of the editor, any details,

family anecdotes, short biographic sketches, or other material suitable

for his history. It is especially desirable that some account should be

given of all those descendants of Huguenots who have in any way whatever

distinguished themselves in this country.

* * * * *

According to the report of the N.Y. Central Railroad it appears that the

average reduction of wages of the employes of that company, since the

beginning of the war, has been from $1.12 1/2 _per diem_ to 75 cents.

Taking increased taxation and the rise in prices into consideration, we

may assume that the working men of the North have lost fifty per cent.

of their usual gains.

So far as this is an honorable sacrifice for the war, it is good. But

how long is it to last? It will last until the _whole_ country shall

have lost a sneaking sympathy for the enemy and their institutions, and

until every man and woman shall cease to openly approve of those

principles which, as the secessionists truly maintain, constitute us

'two peoples.' With what consistency can any one avow fidelity to the

Union and yet profess views according in the main with the platform of

Messrs. DAVIS and STEPHENS?

* * * * *

Divested of all other issues, the great complaint of Europe against our

conduct of the war is our 'inefficient blockade.' If we are to attach

faith to those arch-factors of falsehood, the New Orleans newspaper

editors, a vessel leaves their port daily and securely for the Havana.

It was the same journals which some months since announced in each

succeeding issue that 'the fifteen millions loan is all taken;' 'the

loan is very nearly taken;' 'it gives us pleasure to announce that the

loan is now completed,' and so on, backing up their assertion's by a

series of truly amusing details of 'proof.'

That sundry vessels _have_ broken the blockade is as palpable as that it

was for some time most inefficiently conducted. Yet, at the same time,

let the enormous difficulties of the task be remembered, and our great

want of means at the beginning of the war, when, stripped by the

machinations of traitors for years, we had indeed to _begin_ from almost

nothing. The coast from Maryland to Mexico is a different affair from

that of France or England. The great Napoleon himself, with all his

efforts, could never keep his coast-line unbroken by smugglers. Had

foreign critics of our war made the slightest friendly or kindly

allowance, they would never have spoken as they do of our 'inefficient

blockade.' But the great majority of their comments have been neither

kindly nor friendly.

Meanwhile, the work goes bravely on. 'The Stone Fleet' will soon have

effectually stopped that 'rat-hole,' Charleston, and it is evident that,

unless distracted by foreign intervention, the whole coast will be well

walled in and guarded. It must, will, and shall be done in time. 'It is

more difficult to move a mountain than a marble.'

* * * * *

It would be interesting to trace the probable European results of a war

between America and England. Russia, threatened with a servile war,

would find in a war with England the most effectual means of settling

home difficulties. Louis NAPOLEON, it is said, tacitly encourages

England to get to war. How long would he remain her ally when an

opportunity would present itself of avenging Waterloo? Or if Hungary

and the Sclavonian provinces blazed up in insurrection, what price less

than the long-coveted Rhine, and perhaps Belgium, would Louis NAPOLEON

accept for his services in aiding Austria? Or would he not take it

without rendering such problematic service? Let England beware his

friendship. He is a great man, and for his subjects a good one,--but woe

to those who trust him for their own ends or believe in his lore! There

was one VICTOR EMMANUEL who trusted him once--with the result set forth

in the following merry lay:--

A TRUE FABLE, WITHOUT A MORAL.

'This LOUIS is a rascal, friend;

From all his arts may Heaven defend!

And be thou ever on thy guard,

Lest thy faith meet a sad reward.

And if he swear he loves thee, laugh!

For give him thy little finger half,

And the iron chains of his stern control

Will sink like fire on thy poor soul!'

Now VICTOR heard all this, one day,

And smiled--'It's queer how men can say

Such things to injure their neighbors!

For do but look at this wonderful man,

So rich in thought, so fertile in plan,

Who, to place all tyranny under ban,

Never remits his labors,--

This dear, good soul, who, with magical art,

Brings freedom and peace to my trembling heart.'

Soon after, Sir LOUIS rode over the moor:

'My VICTOR, how comes it you're still so poor,

When I have paid all your debts, sir?

I've made you so rich, I've made you so great;

I've brought you gifts of money and plate;

Is there anything more to complete your state,

That you'd like to have, _I_ can get, sir?

Come, VICTOR, confess to your faithful friend,

Who to make you happy his honor would lend.'

'Oh, worthy man,--my tower and strength!

How sweet it is that I may, at length,

Confide in you as a brother!'

'Yes, take what you will, my statesman hold,

Only ask not whence comes the shining gold.

Just see what a beauty here I hold;

If you're good I may bring you another!--

A crown so rich in costly gems

It will match the Eastern diadems!'

Little VICTOR gazed at the sparkling crown,

Then fell at the feet of his LOUIS down,

Overcome by deep emotion.

'Oh! oh! is it true? is it all for me?

This beautiful crown, with its diamonds _three?_

And he clapped his hands in boundless glee,

And vowed eternal devotion;

While LOUIS looked on with a happy heart,

And blessed himself for his consummate art.

'Yes, VICTOR,' he said, 'it gives me joy

To present you, to-day, with this pretty toy,

With such freedom from envy or rancor!

But get up from your knees; 'tisn't quite orthodox

To kneel to a man; you might get on the rocks

Of his HOLINESS' anger.

Now lay the crown in your jewel-box,

And, lest some wandering, cunning fox

Should steal it, be sure to secure the locks.'

'Oh, a friend in need is a friend indeed!'

Quoth VICTOR; 'but this is beyond my meed.

And what gift of mine can repay you?'

'The key of the casket, friend, if you please,

I will take to my safe beyond the seas.

Your grateful heart will thus rest at ease;

So give it to me, I pray you.'

But VICTOR'S eyes grew large with fright,

And he cried, 'Oh, LOUIS! this can't be right;

For how can I get of my jewels a sight?

You might as well take them away too.'

'Give me the key!' screamed his guardian angel,

'Or receive the curse of the LORD'S evangel!'

Poor VICTOR trembled with fear and pain,

When he found his entreaties were all in vain,

And the key was lost forever.

Alas, alas for the counsel scorned;

For the jewels hid and the freedom mourned.

And the faith returning never!

For link after link of the adamant chain

Mounted endless guard over heart and brain.

* * * * *

The London _Times_ of Dec. 12 contained the following:--

Blind indeed must be the fury of the Americans if they can

voluntarily superadd a war with this country to their present

overwhelming embarrassments. It is clear, notwithstanding the

sanguine spirit in which small successes are regarded, that the

Federal Government is making no material progress in the war.

That is to say, 'We have you at disadvantage. Now is our time to strike.

A year ago we might have been afraid, but not now.' When John Bull is

next cited as the standard authority for fair play, let his very manly

vaunts at this time be quoted in illustration!

Up through the misty medium of 'News from the South' have struggled of

late divers rumors to the effect that the triumphant HOLLINS, of Steam

Ram and Greytown memory, has been somewhat shorn of his 'lorrels.' How

his stock fell below par is solemnly narrated in the second and

following instalment of our' Chronicles:'--

CHRONICLES OF SECESSIA.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

There was a man and his name was HOLLINS.

He was of those that go down to the sea in ships, and sometimes across

the bay in very different conveyances.

Bold of speech, with a face like unto a brazen idol of Gath, and a voice

even as a bull of Bashan; a man such as Gog and Magog, and ever agog for

to be praised of men, or any other man.

Now this HOLLINS was greatly esteemed of the South, howbeit he was held

of but little worth in the North, since they who made songs and jokes

for the papers had aforetime laughed him to scorn.

For it had come to pass that sundry niggers, the children of Ham, with

others of the heathen, walking in darkness, had built unto themselves

shanties of sticks and mud, and dwellings of palm-leaves, and given unto

the place a name; even Greytown called they it;

And, waxing saucy, had reviled the powers that be, and chosen unto

themselves a king, wearing pantaloons.

And HOLLINS said unto himself, 'Lo! here is glory!

'Verily here be niggers who are not men of war, strength is not in them,

and their habitations are as naught.'

So he went against them with cannon and sailors, men of war and

horse-marines, and made war upon the children of Ham,

Bombarding their town from the rising of the sun even unto the going

down of the same--there was not left one old woman there, no, not one.

Now when the men of the South, and they which dwell in the isles of the

sea, with those of the uplands,

Heard that HOLLINS had battered down the cabins of the niggers and slain

their hens,

Then they said, 'This is a great man, and no abolitionist.'

And his fame went abroad into all lands, and they made a feast for him,

where they sung aloud, merrily,

'We will not go home, no, not until the morning.

'Until the dayspring shineth we will not repair unto our dwellings.

'Advance rapidly in the days of thy youth,

'For it will come to pass that in thy declining years it will not be

possible.

'Let the tongue of scandal be silent, and let the foot of dull care be

no longer in our dwelling.

'It was in the centre of the Boomjalang, even on a summer day did it

come to pass,--rip snap, let her be again exalted!

'Now let all the elders who are not wedded, even they that are without

wives, fill up the goblet, and let those who are assembled live for many

years!

'Let them drink each unto the handmaid of his heart. May we live for

many years!

'_Vive l'amour, vive le vin, vive la compagnie!_

'We will dance through the hours of darkness to the dayspring, and

return with the damsels, even unto their dwellings.

'There was a man named JOHN BROWN; he owned a little one and it was an

Indian, yea, two Indian boys were among his heritage.

'The ten spot taketh the nine, but is itself taken by the ace, and since

we are here assembled let us drink!

'I will advance on my charger all night, even by day will I not tarry;

lo! I have wagered my shekels on the steed with a shortened tail; who

will stake his gold on the bay?

'Great was COCK ROBIN, and JAMES BUCHANAN was not small, neither is

WIKOFF,

'But greater than all is HOLLINS,--who shall prevail against him?'

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

In the days of war, even after the South had seceded,

When the arrows of the North were pointed, and the strong men had gone

forth unto battle;

When the ships had closed up the ports of the great cities, and their

marts were desolate;

When the damsels that had aforetime walked in fine linen and purple, and

precious stones, were clad in homespun and went to indigenous parties;

When the Mississippi was blockaded by the Preble and Vincennes, and many

more and several such;

Then HOLLINS got himself ready for battle: with great boasting and

mighty words did he gird on his armor,

Saying, 'Be not afraid, it is I who will unfold the terrors of my wrath;

the Yankees shall utterly wither away, their ships will I burn, and

their captains will I take captive, in a highly extra manner.

'Did I not burn Greytown? was it not I who made the niggers run? who

shall stand before me?'

Now they had made a thing which they called a steam-ram, an iron-covered

boat, like unto a serpent, even like unto the evil beast which crawleth

upon its belly, eating dirt, as do many of those who made it.

And all the South rejoiced over it, the voices of many editors were

uplifted,

According to the Revised Statutes,

Prophesying sure death and sudden ruin, on back action principles.

Yea, there were those who opined that the ram would suffice to destroy

the whole North, or at least its navy--there or thereabouts.

And they cried aloud that the rams of Jericho were nowhere, and that the

great ram of Derby, was but as a ramlet compared to this.

And the reporters of the _Crescent_ and _Bee_, and _Delta_, and

_Picayune_, and they of the kangaroon Creole French press, went to see

it,

And returned with their eyes greatly enlarged, so that they seemed as

those of the fish men take from a mile depth in the Gulf of Nice,--which

are excessively magnocular,--even as large as the round tower of

Copenhagen were their optics,

Declaring that on the face of the earth was no such marvel as the ram;

the wonderful wonder of wonders did it seem unto them; sharp death at

short notice on craft of all sizes.

Then HOLLINS got unto himself divers tugs and clam-boats, ferry-boats,

and one or two larger craft, which thieves had stolen privily aforetime

from the government,

For in that land all was done in those days by stealing; pilfering and

robbing were among them from the beginning.

And he went forth to battle.

* * * * *

Chapter III.

Now it was about the middle of the third watch of the night,

Came a messenger bearing good tidings unto the Philistines, even unto

the Pelicans and Swampers of New Orleans,

Saying, 'He has done it, well he has. _C'est un fait accompli_.'

Then got they all together in great joy, crying aloud, '_Vive_

Hollane!--hurrah for Hollins! _viva el adelantado!_ Massa Hollums fur

ebber! _Der_ Hollins _soll leben!_ Go it, old Haulins! _Evviva il

capitano_ Hollino! Hip, hip, hurroo, ye divils, for Hollins!'

Then there stood up in the high place one bearing a dispatch, which was

opened, the words whereof read he unto them:

[THE DISPATCH.]

'I have peppered them.

'Peppered, peppered, peppered, peppepa-peppered them.

'Pip, pap, pep, pop, pup-uppered 'em.

'I drove 'em all before me--glory, g'lang; knocked 'em higher 'n a kite

and peppered 'em.

'I sunk the Preble, and the Vincennes did I send to thunder. I peppered

'em.

'The ram has rammed everything to pieces, and the rest did I drive high

and dry ashore, where I peppered 'em.

'What was left did my ships destroy; verily I peppered 'em.

'The residue thereof, lo! was it not burnt up by my fire-ships?--yea,

they were peppered.

'The remainder I am even now peppering, and the others will I continue

to pepper.

'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers--even so did I--such a

peppering never yet was seen, neither aforetime, or aftertime, not in

the land where the pepper grows, or any other time.

'I peppered 'em.'

And lo! when this was read there arose such a cry of joy as never was

heard, no, not at the Tower of Babel on Saturday night.

And he who read, said: 'Rome was redeemed for a thousand pounds of

pepper and a thousand of gold, pound for pound did they weigh it out.

But such pepper as this is beyond price--yea, beyond all gold.

'But what are they whom he has conquered, oh my soul? Dirt and Iniquity

is their name, evil are their ways, cuss and confound them!

'It was not worth the while for a gentleman to fight such

scallawags--behold, a blind nigger in a mud-scow could have put them to

flight--even a blind nigger should we have sent against them.

'Great and glorious is HOLLINS, splendid is his fame, great is his

victory, beyond all those of the Meads and Prussians, Cherrynea and

Chepultapec, Thermopilus and Vagrom.'

Then it was telegrammed all over the South, and the rest of mankind,

that HOLLINS had peppered the fleet, and pulverized the last particle

thereof into small-sized annihilation.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV.

But on the evening of the first day there came yet other tidings of a

reactive character,

Saying that a confounded abolitionist man-of-war was still there giving

block-aid to Uncle Sam.

And HOLLINS, who was in town, being asked what this might mean,

Said, 'Fudge!

'Go to, it is naught. Now I come to think of it, there _was_ one

infernal little sneaking 90-gun Yankee frigate,

'Which, hearing of my coming, ran away six hours before the battle--ere

that I had peppered 'em.'

But lo! even as he spake came yet another message, declaring there were

twain.

Then HOLLINS declared, 'It is a d----d lie, and he who says it is

another--an abolitionist is he in his heart. Did I not pepper 'em?'

But lo, even as he sware there came yet another,

Saying, 'Let not my lord be angry, but with these eyes have I seen it;

by many others was it perceived.

'Whether the ships which my lord peppered have risen again I know not,

but if the whole Yankee fleet isn't there again, all sound and right

side up with care, I hope I may be drotted into everlasting turpentine.'

Then the newspapers arose and reviled HOLLINS,

Calling him a humbug--even a humbug called they him.

As for the multitude, they laughed him to scorn; such a blackguarding

never received man before,

Calling him an old blower and bloat, a gas-bag and _fanfaron_, a Gascon

and a _carajo_, _alma miserabile_, and a pudding-head, a _sacre menteur_

and a _verfluchte prahlerische Hauptesel_, a brassy old blunder-head and

a spupsy, _un sot sans pareil_ and a darned old hoffmagander; a

pepper-_pot-pourri_, a thafe of the wurreld and an owld baste, the

divil's blissing an him!

In French, English, Dutch, Spanish and Irish, Yankee and Creole, yea,

even in Nigger and in Natchez Indian, reviled they him.

And the rumor thereof went abroad into all lands, that HOLLINS had been

compelled to hand in his horns.

How are the mighty fallen, how is he that was exalted cut down in his

salary!

Beware, oh my son, that thou pullest not the long bow ere the bowstring

be twisted, or ever the arrow be at hand--send not in thy bill ere the

customer have bought the goods.

Sell not the skin ere thou catchest the bear, and give not out thy

wedding cards before thou hast popped the question.

For all these things did HOLLINS--verily he hath his reward.

* * * * *

CHRISTOPHER NORTH, in _Blackwood_, and many others since him, have

popularized this style of chronicle-English of the sixteenth century,

and our contributor has sound precedent for his imitations. 'Should time

permit, nor the occasion fail,' we trust to have him with us in the

following number. Our thanks are due to some scores of cotemporaries who

have republished the last Chronicle, and for the praise which they

lavished on it.

* * * * *

To HENRY P. LELAND we are indebted for a

SONNET TO JOHN JONES.

Thou who dost walk round town, not quite unknown,

I have a word to speak within thy ear.

Hast thou no dread to hear in trumpet tone

'John Jones has got a contract!'--dost not fear

Thy children, yet unborn, may then disown

The parent, with whose name they thus may hear

Transactions worse than usury's heaviest loan

Of twenty odd per cent. and more a year?

Oh, John! I pray thee that within thy heart

The lesson that 'Police Court' teaches thee,

That other Jones' rob hen-roosts, and take part

In many a rousing fight and drunken spree,

May have its influence; and that thou wilt start

And have thy name changed, quickly as may be.

Who has not had his attention called to the small, black carpet-bags

which so greatly prevail in this very traveling community? Who has not

heard of mistakes which have occurred owing to their frequency and

similarity, and who in fact has not lost one himself? That these

mistakes may sometimes lead to merrily-moving, serio-comic results, is

set forth, not badly, as it seems to us, in the following story:--

THE THREE TRAVELLING-BAGS.

CHAPTER I.

There were three of them, all of shining black leather: one on top of

the pile of trunks; one on the ground; one in the owner's hand;--all

going to Philadelphia; all waiting to be checked.

The last bell rang. The baggageman bustled, fuming, from one pile of

baggage to another, dispensing chalk to the trunks, checks to the

passengers, and curses to the porters, in approved railway style.

'Mine!--Philadelphia!' cried a stout, military-looking man, with

enormous whiskers and a red face, crowding forward, as the baggageman

laid his hand on the first bag.

'Won't you please to give me a check for this, now?' entreated a pale,

slender, carefully-dressed young man, for the ninth time, holding out

bag No. 2. 'I have a lady to look after.'

'Say! be you agoin' to give me a check for that 'are, or not?' growled

the proprietor of bag No. 3, a short, pockmarked fellow, in a shabby

overcoat.

'All right, gen'l'men. Here you are,' says the functionary, rapidly

distributing the three checks. 'Philadelfy, this? Yes,

sir,--1092--1740.11--1020. All right.'

'All aboard!' shouted the conductor.

'Whoo-whew!' responded the locomotive; and the train moved slowly out of

the station-house.

The baggageman meditatively watched it, as it sped away in the distance,

and then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, slapping his thigh, he

exclaimed,

'Blest if I don't believe--'

'What?' inquired the switchman.

'That I've gone and guv them three last fellers the wrong checks! The

cussed little black things was all alike, and they bothered me.'

'Telegraph,' suggested the switchman.

'Never you mind,' replied the baggageman. 'They was all going to

Philadelfy. They'll find it out when they get there.'

They did.

* * * * *