CHAPTER III.

As manager of this exhibition, I would request the orchestra to play

something gloomy and grand, during the remainder of the performance;

something weird, mysterious; something in which you can hear the

soughing of the wind through the pines of the Hartz Mountains or the

Black Forest. A passage from a _Faust_ opera or _Der Freischutz___ might

meet the case; for it began to be intimated to me, now that I was

sufficiently clairaudient to be able to dispense almost entirely with

the pencil, that his Satanic Majesty was no indifferent spectator of the

preparation of the man who was about to interfere so signally with his

plans and pursuits. Thereupon there began to steal over me for the first

time,

'A sense of something dreadful, something near.

However it was managed, from this moment till the end of this phase of

life I am narrating, I had an almost constant sense of the presence of

'genii of the pit,' of vast intelligence, cruel as ever Satan was

imagined, relentless as fate, cold as Dante's ice hells could make them.

At first, some influence led me to review the traditional history and

prospects of my supposed distinguished visitor, at some length. I

discussed the state of his case with no little unction, though shaking

in my boots, and in momentary expectation of being gobbled up, body and

soul, and whisked off in sulphurous smoke, with only a sulphur-burnt

hole in the carpet to mark the spot where I saw the last of earth.

Presently my inseparable companion broke in with:

'He hears you! he hears you! and never may it be my lot again to look

upon--' ... 'There he is again, glaring with inexpressible rage upon the

comparatively insignificant man who just now so plainly revealed to him

'the true state of the case.' I am almost afraid to look upon that

awful visage. 'The state of the case is it?' he exclaims. 'We will see

what is the state.''--

There is a break here in the manuscript, which is resumed thus: 'You

have conquered! frantic with rage he has fled, never, I trust, to

return.'

How will I remember what happened during that awful pause? It was spent,

I suppose, in a hand-to-hand conflict with the Prince of Darkness; the

agreeableness of which was not enhanced by my vivid recollection of the

'bit of a discooshin' between Christian and Apollyon depicted in the old

family Pilgrim's Progress. We are truly 'the stuff that dreams are made

of.' What mattered it to me, on that bland summer afternoon, since I was

of this opinion, whether it was Beelzebub himself or some departed

'blazing tinman,' with a suit of his majesty's old clothes on, while

himself, all snug at home,

'Sat in his easy chair,

Drinking his sulphur tea.'

That was certainly one of the most awful moments of my life, in which I

felt the first dreadful rush of this invisible tiger. It seemed as if he

swooped toward me to annihilate me in a moment; but was restrained by a

higher power. His coming was like the rush of a fifteen-inch shell past

one's head.

As soon as I saw that the first onset did not destroy me, I gathered

strength to face the monster; for a tongue combat seemed all that was

permitted him. He put me through my theological paces at an awful

rate--using the Socratic dialectic--growling out questions in the tones

of a cathedral organ, that made me shiver. Oh that I could remember that

fearful catechism! It would make a tract for which the Tom Paine

Association would pay a high price. He drove me--partly, I suppose, by

magnetic force--step by step, from my cherished religious opinions. My

reasons for believing in the cardinal doctrines of Christianity seemed

to burn like straw before his fiery rhetoric, and to turn to dust

beneath the ponderous blows of his iron logic. He pushed me away from

all I had esteemed reliable in the universe, till I seemed to stand on

the verge of creation. There I hung with the strength of terror. Then I

found poet Campbell true to nature, where he speaks of hope standing

intact ''mid Nature's funeral pyre.' I insisted upon 'hoping,' in spite

of all his fiery hail.

After he had beaten down all my defences, he began to jeer at me with

fierce sneers and goblin laughter that froze my blood. 'So _I_ was the

contemptible manikin who dared to entertain the idea of equality with

him--the Star of the Morning--one breath of whose nostrils would wither

me into nonentity. So _I_ presumed to stand up and face him, who had, in

his time, scattered the hosts of heaven! If it were not for those

cursed, white-livered _things_ (angels) that stood in the way, he would

swoop down and destroy me in an instant.'

Having found and maintained foothold for several minutes on the rock of

hope, I began to consider how weak things had of erst confounded the

things that were mighty, and soon the wirepullers behind the scenes

(whoever they were) had me smiting him hip and thigh. I 'began in

weakness, but ended in power.' At first a few muttered remonstrances,

but finally whole Ironsides broadsides, with the result above named. The

words of my antagonist, during this encounter, rang through my brain

with awful distinctness. For a day or two I had been communicating

partly with the pencil, and partly by clairaudience, eked out by writing

in the air with my forefinger. But this demon, or demon _pro tem._,

needed not to write his words: his 'trumpet gave no uncertain sound.'

The thoughtful reader will perceive what a strong point my magnetizers

gained by this scene. After disappointing me so many times, they could

not, with all their power over me, have kept me from throwing the whole

thing overboard, without resorting to some such _coup d'état_. Being,

doubtless, on better terms with the infernal than with the supernal

regions, these denizens of the Intermediate Limbo (we will suppose that

my strange guests were mostly of this sort of nondescripts) had perhaps

induced some _bona fide_ demon to act the part of the king of them all,

'for this night only.' It certainly was an immense success. I, to be

sure, had not received the expected commission: but had I not fought the

great red dragon, and, like another St. George, pinned him to the earth,

through supernatural aid? Here was a substantial success. I write this

merrily enough now; but was not often merry then--was indeed acting

great, real tragedy.

I was not long to enjoy this triumph. The word came: 'Again he comes!'

Then I had another long, hard fight; but this time was not pushed so

near the wall. I was then told by my spiritual adviser and Circe of the

unbounded admiration expressed for me by those who had listened to this

'ever-memorable' disputation.

The attempt to craze me, or--putting the best face on it--to show me

_how spiritists are generally crazed_, now began in downright earnest.

All that night, despite my entreaties to be permitted to sleep, I was

kept awake, and busied with a variety of 'extremely important' business.

I am naturally a solid, regular sleeper, and do not prosper upon

Napoleon or Humboldt portions of repose; but now could only suit my

persecutors by rising on one elbow in bed, and 'wrestling' for the

salvation of my next neighbor. They sedulously poured into my mind all

manner of apocrypha concerning this gentleman's shortcomings--about the

necessity of praying for and at him, and about the effects of my

efforts, i. e., bringing a streak of celestial light upon him--until I

was almost ready to wish that he might be ----, rather than that I

should have any such unseasonable work to perform in his behalf. But

they kept me at it, straight through the night and a large portion of

the next day; and finally induced me to go, much against my will, to

reveal to him some of my experiences, and to endeavor to force from him

an acknowledgment that what I had heard about him was true.

The attempt to cause at least a temporary aberration of my intellect now

becomes very plain in the manuscript. Every idea is uttered in the most

exciting manner. All statements and prognostications about my neighbor

having proved false (he was amazed at my procedure), the invisible

busybodies boiled over thus:

'He has lied! he has lied to you! and if you would preserve your reason,

go and read the papers to him. He had schooled himself to show no

emotion, and you showed enough to excite his worst, most hideous fears.

So go, for Heaven's sake! He quailed once, and only once, before your

not sufficiently steady gaze. Woe! woe! woe! Now what shall be done?'

... [Evidently trying to get up a teapot tempest.] 'Do not strive to

unravel this mystery in that fiercely keen way, or this evil spirit will

have to give place to a more expert deceiver. God will certainly do

something soon to set these matters straight, or I shall cease to be!'

[She had said annihilation was possible!] 'Your father wishes to speak

to you.'

A fatherly spirit it was truly--was for driving me mad off hand, but

overshot the mark.

'Son, this is awful! I can only say to you, be calm and cool, for you

will need to be both to get free from this snare of Satan, so well

conceived. Better go to supper now (for appearance sake): after that,

pray for help. When you took away those books [after reading extracts to

the neighbor], the whole crew of devils,' etc., etc.

This exciting language 'brought me up with a round turn.' I saw at once

the object of the person who was talking with me. So I brought the

affair to a full stop, as far as the use of my hand was concerned. I

simply added, on that leaf--speaking now for myself:

'I will hear no further. This part of my discipline is finished.'

But I was forced to hear, whether I wrote or not. I had come to this

wisdom too late. I fully believe that, as far as my ability to prevent

the catastrophe was concerned, I was then and there a possessed

person--_a slave of spirits_--as utterly bound to do the will of my

magnetizers as ever a 'subject' was. Though I cannot be persuaded that

all these beings, from whom unseen I had heard so much, were 'only evil

continually,' no 'harmonialist' can persuade me that those who now began

to play with me, as a cat plays with a mouse, were other than evil. In

all imaginable ways, they strove to show me how utterly I had lost

self-command and self-control. (I am esteemed obstinate by nature.)

What is very singular, I now lost sight of my 'prima donna.' It would

seem natural that a Delilah would, at least, have come with a jeering

'The Philistines be upon thee, Samson.' But no, not till this great

tribulation was over did I hear from 'her.'

That evening and night were spent, mostly, in showing me that I was no

longer my own master. There was not, however, that continuous hell-blast

upon me that so scorched my soul on the following afternoon. The cats

were tossing me in their velvet paws--only occasionally protruding a

sharp claw as a reminder, until they could feel surer of their victim.

They would say to me: 'Now we will exalt you to heaven;' and up I went,

higher, higher, higher into the empyrean, until I heard the music of the

spheres, and all things were ablaze with light and glory. Again they

would say: 'Now go down into hell;' and the scene changed as suddenly as

do those of a ten-cent panorama, when a midnight storm at sea or a

volcanic eruption is about to be rolled in view: I went down _ad

imis_--'down to the bottom of the sea--the earth with her bars was

around me forever.' Blank horror and anguish seized me. Hope fled to its

impregnable corner of my heart, till the calamity was overpast. A hushed

agony was upon me, as before I had known its boundless bliss. And thus

variously I fared through all that second night of sleeplessness. They

probably sent me up and down this scale of sensation twenty times during

eight hours. This night I was not at all sleepy. A few more such would

have finished the business; and there would have been 'another awful

effect of the spiritual delusion' to chronicle. The honest verdict of

the first century would have been: 'Another possessed of devils or

devil-crazed.' The wretches well knew that insomnia is an excellent

preparation for insanity.

Toward morning a new scheme was invented. Some ostensible good friend

informed me, in a business-like way, that the work of the morrow for

me--the new Saul of Tarsus--was to set out for a certain town in

Vermont, where I should find my Ananias; who 'would show me what things

I should do.' So the faithful slave of the genii prepared to obey. I

packed a carpet bag, and went early to the residence of a medical

friend, who had been dabbling in the same arcana. I gave him a sketch of

what I had experienced; yet, for some reason, did not start for Vermont,

but remained with him all the morning. My invisible monitors sent me out

into the street several times, to find people who could not be found.

(Anything to keep up their influence.)

Toward noon the fact came plainly to me that an effort was being made to

disturb, if not destroy, my reason. I began to find my ideas becoming

incoherent in spite of hugest effort. I called my friend, and said to

him, through set teeth, but as coolly as possible:

'I find myself to be thoroughly and utterly a magnetic subject, an

abject subject of mischievous spirits. They are striving to derange my

faculties. I am exceedingly alarmed to find that they are trying, with

much success, to render my ideas incoherent. It is only by a very great

effort of will that I am enabled to speak these words distinctly to you.

As far as my private power of resistance is concerned, I am gone. Do

exert your powerful magnetism; perhaps you can drive them off.'

He was much distressed, and exerted himself mightily (he was a professed

electrician), combining will power with that ancient agent, prayer, to

exorcise the evil influence. But his efforts were useless, as the

vagabonds well knew, before they brought me there on exhibition. They

had not spent the week in vain. I had sold myself to them as squarely as

fools ever did in German legend.

When dinner was announced, the doctor wished me to accompany him. I

refused, and he left me, to take a hasty meal. Finding, when he was

gone, that I was growing worse, I went into the street, determined that

if I was to be crazed, I would not sit there and let him watch the

operation. I walked on, vowing that I would not turn toward home until

my faculties were restored; and execrating _my folly in permitting the

enslavement_! On, on I rushed, my head all ablaze with 'od' that had no

business there, and praying as I never had prayed before. I took the

Gowanus road toward Greenwood. Perhaps it was some defunct rogue there

interred, who was leading me on to 'rave among the tombs.'

Arrived at a spot where a little tree-capped promontory overhangs the

beach, I turned aside, beneath the projection, and sat down on a

log--like Jonah under the gourd--and, gazing out on the rippling waves

of the bay, desired that death or relief might come. I was determined to

sit there until God or Satan made good his claim upon me. Suddenly

relief came. The fierce onset upon my intellect ceased. I was made

whole. I 'leaped and walked.' The means of my relief I never knew.

But my lesson was not complete. I had but just informed my medical

friend of my deliverance (he had scoured the neighborhood, and informed

several of the cause of his fears), when there were mutterings and

growlings of another approaching storm. The messengers of Satan sent to

baffle me gave me to understand that they had not abandoned their prey,

but were sure of it yet. They poured the wrath of hell upon my

defenceless head that afternoon. I have not, hitherto, attempted to

offer much direct proof to the uninitiated that my experiences, in this

connection, were other than hallucination. That which now occurred is,

as it seems to me, in the nature of such proof. Here was I thoroughly

alarmed for my safety, and extremely anxious to get rid of my

tormentors. Yet, not for a single moment now, could I close my mental

ears to their horrid clangor of threats and imprecations; for, throwing

off all restraint, they flooded me with Billingsgate. They cursed and

damned me, and all persons, things, and ideas esteemed by me, in the

most approved style. Indeed, the swearing exceeded anything I ever heard

on the Mississippi and Alabama river boats, when forced, for lack of

room, to sleep on the floor of the saloon, almost under the feet of the

chivalry, during their midnight gambling carousals.

The mode of speech is not easily described. Sometimes the words came

slowly and distinctly. Again there would be merely thought-panorama

presented. A complete statement or view of things can be flashed into

the mind in an instant. Therefore the language of spirits is of vastly

greater compass than that of men. These immortal blackguards could vomit

more oaths and other blasphemy in five minutes, than a mortal one could

in an hour. If it is difficult to translate from one earth-language

into another, how much harder must it be to bring the ideas of an inner

sphere into outward forms of expression!

They told me that it was their intention to open my clairvoyant faculty

now with a vengeance. For, having fairly accomplished it, they would

worry me to death or madness by the continual sight and hearing of all

that hell could show or conjure up. I only wish that a few of those

Sadducees who philosophize all this sort of thing into moonshine, could

be, for a while, as sore beset as I was on that eventful day! It would

need but a few minutes' parley with these 'fierce Ephesian beasts' to

induce them to repeat the language of an older sceptic, who returned

from the dead to the friend who had discussed immortality with him, and

who exclaimed, as he passed from sight:

'Michael! Michael! _vera sunt illa!_'

The scheme of the diabolians seemed so feasible that I was greatly

perplexed. They had shown themselves able to keep me awake the two

preceding nights; and I knew that, if permitted, they could accomplish

their purpose in that way alone. How much, then, would the perpetual

sight of fiery flying dragons, horned satyrs, and other hideous

half-human creatures, tearing around, with mouths agape to take me

in--while other lost souls flitted about as flying serpents, bats, and

owls--hasten the evil work. I thought over all the horrible forms

portrayed in the Catholic purgatory pictures, and described by delirium

tremens subjects, until I was a thousand times more anxious to have the

eyes of my spirit kept shut, than I ever had been to have them opened.

I tried to exorcise the foe by reading the Bible; but this only

increased their jeering at the '---- fool,' whom they had worked hard to

get, had got, and meant to keep, in spite of 'hell, book, and candle.'

Truly 'their mouths were full of cursing and bitterness.'

Did space permit, and were it not that the printing of oaths, which has

become so fashionable even in respectable periodicals, is hurtful to

morals, I could fill pages with their jeers, taunts, blasphemies,

threats, and execrations.

I left my private room, and went among the household, in hopes that,

amid busy outer scenes, the hold of the invisible tigers would be

loosed. But then, while conversing on commonplace subjects, I realized

more fully than ever upon what a _fearful precipice_ the heedless

spiritist is ever sporting. For, clearer, more distinct, came threats,

curses, goblin laughter; and 'Fool! dolt!' was the cry.

'Simpleton, etc., think you that the company of women and children will

save you, when the mightiest spirits (angels they call themselves)

cannot now rend you from our grasp? As soon as we choose, we will tear

your silly soul out of your carcase; and _then_ we will make a veritable

Lucifer of you. '_Lucifer_! LUCIFER! star of the morning! how

art thou fallen, and become as one of us!' Ha! ha! ha! yes! yes! you

must go with us. We fancy you. For a callow priest, you have a deal of

music in you. Would-be Samson, you must grind in our prison house and

sport in our temple; the pillars whereof you can never cause to

tremble.'

They said that I was a 'coward--dared not face a set of shadows,

figments of the brain, empty nothings.' I saw that 'vain was the help of

man;' and, retiring to my room, had an awful season of worse than

'temptation combats.'

Then came the last scene in the tragic part of my unromantic experience.

One of the artful dodgers, having transformed himself into an angel of

light (in my hearing, not in my sight), informed me, at about eight

o'clock in the evening, that, though my destruction appeared imminent,

there was one way of escape left. My own prayers were useless: but if I

would get down on my knees, and repeat a confession and supplication at

his dictation, it might avail. Enslaved as I was, I of course complied;

and then underwent a humiliation that, even in my horrified state, was

very bitter. I had always, in my most puritanical days, kicked at the

doctrine that we are all such abominable, hell-deserving,

_self_-degraded creatures, responsible for our own ruin, that it is the

wonder of creation that God would give our souls any least chance of

heaven. I had always felt with Tennyson:

'Thou wilt not leave us in the dust;

Thou _madest_ man, and Thou art _just_.'

But now I was forced to change all this; and for once I uttered a

perfectly orthodox prayer. Slow and distinct came the words, which I

must perforce repeat as slowly, though every one was a bitter pill. I

was made to say that I was entirely mistaken in supposing myself a

Christian (in the 'evangelical' sense); that I had been a fool, a

braggart, a sort of impostor; that my life had been one series of shams

and follies; that I had disgraced my religious profession, etc., etc.,

_ad nauseam_, winding up with the abject declaration that I deserved to

go straight to 'the city of Dis, and the three-headed dog;' and that if

I was spared, it would be 'a miracle of mercy.'

The higher powers must have thought that I had swallowed enough of this

hell-broth; for, at this juncture, the dictation and compulsion suddenly

ceased. I stood upon my feet, no longer a slave. It seemed as if some

grand, calm Ithuriel had touched with his spear-point the venomous toad

that sat by my ear, or the wily serpent that 'held me (enchanted) with

his glittering eye.' From that moment to this, I have not been, for an

instant, seriously annoyed by invisible disturbers of the peace.

A sweet quiet came over me; I went to bed and slept soundly. The next

day I determined to complete the exorcism by walking a dozen miles into

the country, to visit a relation. The only trace of the fearful scenes

through which I had passed, consisted in the fact that my head was still

all ablaze with the foul, gross magnetic fluids of my ex-tormentors; and

was so hot that I found it agreeable to walk with my hat off. I was two

days getting rid of the heat.

Though I had no more sulphur tea to drink, I was not yet weaned from the

invisible milk and water. I was at once informed, by 'respectable

appearing' spirits, that my trials had appeared necessary, because I had

thrown myself open to promiscuous communication with the other world--a

thing peculiarly dangerous in my case; and that I could now see the

propriety of never again surrendering my manhood, my individuality, and

my common sense to any brigand in or out of the body. I was also told

that it never had been intended to use me for any important mediumistic

purpose, except so far as my experience might be useful. So I gradually

let the thing drop. Regarding the new light as scientific rather than

religious, I long since pigeon-holed it among my sciences. I

sardonically tell total Sadducees that I have placed it among the

_exact_ sciences.

I am sorry that I am unable to enlighten the novel-reading reader

further concerning the 'prima donna;' but that is a delicate subject

under existing circumstances. So presenting, herewith, the bright and

sulphurous end of the Lucifer Match under the nose of a discerning

public, I will watch the upcurling and dilating of nostrils. As I pen

these last lines, the live body looking over my shoulder smiles

scornfully.

SKETCHES OF AMERICAN LIFE AND SCENERY.

III.--MOUNTAIN WAYS.

'Lucy D----,' said Aunt Sarah Grundy, 'I really cannot conceive what you

and Elsie find to entertain you in the desolate, out-of-the-way places

where you are in the habit of wasting your summers. Why can you not be

content with the ordinary highways, where people travel comfortably in

good boats and rail cars? Why must you leave tolerably convenient

hotels, regular meals, and agreeable, proper people, to bury yourself in

some mountain fastness, where the inns are poor, the food plain, and the

people--well! such as are totally unfit associates for two well-bred

young women?'

'O auntie! auntie! we thought you called yourself a democrat!' said

Elsie.

'Politically, my dear, but not socially,' was the reply.

'And a Christian!' added Lucy D----.

'I see,' continued Mrs. Grundy, 'that, by raising other issues, you hope

to escape an explanation of the mystery to which I have referred.'

'A mystery indeed!' replied Lucy D----. 'The mystery of nature, of

creation, of the communion of the creature with the infinitely bountiful

Creator. Have you never wandered away from the beaten track, from

tiresome dinners, with mercenary waiters and elaborate courses, from

yawning, _blasé_ men, and over-dressed, artificial, weakly women, and,

resting upon some quiet hillside, suffered the glories of external

nature to fill your soul as you drained the cup of beauty, until

sunrises and sunsets, storm clouds and morning mists, broad bands of

light and darksome shadows, steep mountains and curving valleys,

hurrying brooks and tidal oceans, dusky pine forests and tremulous

bluebells, dreamily floated before the vision, soothing care and the

petty wounds inflicted by the human denizens of this nether world? I

love my kind, I share their faults and follies, I pity their sorrows,

and would do my utmost to succor or to soothe; but I do not understand

them as I do the woods: their faces I readily forget, but never the

forms of mountain crag, of noble tree, or of first spring wild flower.

Among men I may be misunderstood, disliked perhaps, or, more generally,

simply ignored and overlooked; but among the hills I fear no harsh, no

indifferent word: each treasure of beauty breathes to me of One who

knows my every heart-beat, One whom I can love without fear of wound or

disenchantment. The mountain clefts have no unkind words, no

fault-finding, no ridicule, no rash judgments for the sons of men. They

offer clear springs, fresh fruits, and festal flowers, peace and rest

and pure joy!'

'Really, Lucy,' said Aunt Sarah, 'I am not sure your rhapsody has made

the mystery any plainer than before. May I not, in my turn, ask if your

feelings are quite Christian? Are you not afraid you entertain a species

of repulsion toward your fellow men?'

'Aunt Sarah, I nearly always feel more for them than they for me.

Perhaps they hurt my vanity by overwhelming me with the sense of my own

insignificance. Be that as it may, their everlasting wrangling among

themselves is more than I can endure. When people begin to quarrel, even

to disagree warmly, the blood rushes to my brain, and I long for a cool

breeze from some piny height, a mossy seat by some calm lake, that

mirrors only the blue of heaven, the measured flow of falling waters,

the rustle of leaves, the hum of bees, or the song of birds.'

'You are not strong, and have grown nervous, I fear,' said Aunt Sarah.

'I can remember when you greatly enjoyed a good discussion, and never

shrank from an encounter of opinions.'

'I was young then,' replied Lucy; 'I am older now, and have less

confidence in my argumentative powers. I love truth as well, but doubt

my capacity to lift her veil, the willingness of mortals to seek her

humbly, or the certainty of their yielding to conviction, even were she

bodily, in unclouded radiance, to stand before them. I hope I may always

have courage sufficient to support my honest convictions, but I must

confess the effort has become a painful one, and I instinctively fly all

wrangling as I would the plague.'

'Do you then desire to lead an isolated life?' asked Mrs. Grundy.

'By no means,' replied Lucy. 'Duty and affection both bind me to active

service in the ranks of the world, and, to return to the subject of a

retired country sojourn, the freedom from _gêne_, the absence of hurry,

the _confidentiality_ of nature, lead us in a week to a better

comprehension and appreciation of the few persons surrounding us than

could be obtained in years of ordinary city acquaintance. Bricks and

mortar and cut stones tend to the revelation of but few secrets, but the

evening twilight, the crescent moon, the morning dawn, the forest shade,

and the noonday repose are persuasive openers of hearts and weavers of

sympathy. A walk with Elsie is far more to me than a solitary ramble.

Then, too, the country population frequently exhibit an originality and

individuality of development more often missed than found in the

assimilating atmosphere of cities.'

'I should weary in a week of such a dull, sentimentalizing mode of

existence,' said Aunt Sarah, with a significant shrug of her prettily

drooping shoulders.

'Sentimentalizing!' cried Lucy; 'nothing can be more healthfully real,

more conducive to strength and will to work, when the last red leaf has

fallen, and the gray November clouds remind one that Paradise is not yet

gained, and that a world of toil and strife and passion has a claim upon

each mortal's earnest labor. Also, the comic side of life is by no means

wanting among the hills, and many an innocent laugh is to be enjoyed

with, not at, one's fellow creatures. Humor I love dearly; satire is

simply hateful--filled with pain. I can always see the victim (if he

only knew!) writhing and blenching beneath the bitter glances and

blasting words of fiendish tormentors.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Elsie, 'many a merry evening have we spent laughing

over the day's adventures. The singular coincidences and strange

incongruities of American life are nowhere more strikingly exhibited

than among the hills and lakes bordering the great thoroughfares of

travel. Do you remember, Lucy, the transit of our friends, the foreign

professor and the artist, from the Catskill Mountain House to the head

of the Kauterskill Falls?'

'Can I ever forget it?'

'What transit was that, Lucy?' asked Mrs. Grundy.

'You know, Aunt Sarah, that midway up the Clove, nestled against the

side of the South Mountain, is Brockett's, and two miles up the ravine,

at the head of the Kauterskill Falls, stands the Laurel House, where we

passed a portion of last summer. Two miles farther east is the steep

brink of the Pine Orchard, crowned by the White colonnade of the

Mountain House. Early one morning, a much-esteemed friend, one of our

best artists, left Brockett's, and, climbing the ravine, passed our

house on his way to the North Mountain, whence a sketch was desired. We

had had nearly four weeks of continued rain, the brooks were full, the

falls magnificent, the roads in some parts under water, and every

pathway a running stream. We were daily expecting the arrival from

abroad of a gentleman whom I had never seen, but who was well known to,

and highly regarded by, sundry members of our family. He had written to

announce his coming, but we had failed to receive his letter, and,

consequently, when he, on the afternoon of the day already mentioned,

arrived at the Mountain House, he found no one waiting to receive him,

and no carriage to convey him to his final destination. No vehicle was

to be obtained at the great caravansary, and he was vainly endeavoring

to have at least a note despatched to our address, when the artist, who

had meantime finished his sketch and descended the North Mountain on his

way home, entered the office. He was weary from a toilsome walk under

heavy trappings, but hearing a fellow mortal in distress, and partially

learning the cause, his habitual kindness of heart induced him to say to

the stranger that he was about to walk over to the Laurel House, and

would lead the way, if he chose to follow. The professor, despairing of

his ability to make any more comfortable arrangement, accepted the

offer, and prepared to follow his guide.

'Our foreign visitor was a tall, athletic man, with a noble forehead and

piercing black eyes. His attire was irreproachably neat, his

patent-leather boots rather thin for so rough a walk, especially as he

was just then much out of health, and he carried a heavy basket of

fruit, which he had kindly brought from a tropical clime to give

pleasure to his friends. He added to a generous and affectionate

disposition profound learning in languages, science, and philosophy, and

was a devoted patriot and lover of liberty. He had, however, landed in

New York during the terrible riots of last summer, and had hence imbibed

no very exalted idea of the orderliness of our population. He was of

course totally unaware of the frank confidence placed by man in his

brother man among our Northern mountains.

'When the outside door was reached, the artist paused to gather together

his pointed staff, sketching box, and other _traps_. These implements

were evidently not familiar objects in the professor's experience, as he

supposed they might be part of the gear of a peddler, and hence

conceived a certain distrust of his guide. The artist was tall and

handsome, with a vigorous frame, a long, waving beard, a slouched hat,

and garments rather the worse for much exposure to the suns, winds, and

rains of a summer spent in the open air. One who did not examine the

clear eyes raying the essence of truth, and the high-cut features

bearing the unmistakable impress of manly honor, might perhaps have

erred with the stranger, and have supposed it possible that 'the man'

(as the professor invariably called his guide when he related the

adventure) might be a brigand intent upon luring travellers into byways

for sinister purposes. This idea was strengthened by the character of

the pathway chosen by the artist as the shortest route between the two

hotels. It passed through a dense forest, and was ankle deep in water.

Fallen trunks lay across its sinuous track, and no sound save a

twittering bird or crackling branch broke the silence of the rugged,

lonely way. The active guide strode on from stone to stone, returning

short answers to his companion, whose doubts began to take the form of

questions as to 'the man's' knowledge of the road, and the certainty of

finding the Laurel House at the end of this will-o'-the-wisp journey.

Weariness from a long day's walk and work, and the dawning perception of

the stranger's suspicions, were not calculated to induce a very bland

frame of mind or tone of manner, and the replies received confirmed the

professor's determination to keep a watchful eye upon his leader. He

fell behind a few paces, and prepared his only weapon, a strong

penknife, in case the enemy should suddenly turn upon him, meantime

consoling himself that, should matters culminate in a hand-to-hand

fight, he was rather the stouter and heavier man of the two. The thin

boots had soon been saturated with water, the basket of fruit grew

heavier and heavier, and the way seemed interminable. The guide, now

fully awake to the absurdity of the situation, and perhaps as much

provoked as amused, strode rapidly on, and, at a fork in the pathway,

momentarily struck into a wrong route. He was forced to retrace a few

paces, and the stranger's dismay was now complete--the way was surely

lost, and a night in the damp wood the least evil to be anticipated.

'A wide meadow was soon after reached, but no sign of human habitation

greeted the longing eyes of the expectant traveller. Another band of

woodland was entered, and a deserted charcoal hut for a moment cheered

the heart and then dashed the hopes of our weary friend. The woodland

crossed, an open field and a cheery farmhouse broke upon his view.

Suffering the artist to hasten on, he eagerly bent his steps to the

farmhouse door, and there inquired concerning the way to the Laurel

House. He was in fact rather surprised to learn that he was on the

direct route, and now not far away. Narrowly escaping the fangs of a

cross dog, he hurried on, and overtook the now thoroughly amused artist

before the latter reached the long-expected Laurel House. That goal won,

the two gentlemen entered the office, and, as the rest of the family

were out walking, the professor sent to me the note already prepared at

the Mountain House. Not knowing that he had himself brought it, I went

into the bar room, where the first person I saw was the artist. I gave

him as usual a cordial greeting, noticing his travel-stained appearance

as bearing honorable evidence to a good day's work, and said I had come

to order a carriage for a foreign friend just arrived at the other

hotel. The artist asked a question or two, then said he presumed he had

brought over the very gentleman, and, with a quizzical expression,

offered to introduce me. The professor meantime had been watching the

interview with some surprise. He recognized me from my resemblance to

other members of my family known to him, and wondered to see 'the man'

so high in my esteem. He afterward remarked that he had thought it

strange that when he invited 'the man' to a joint punch at the bar

counter, the stranger should have drawn forth a two shilling note, and

insisted upon paying the whole scot. Night was rapidly approaching, and

the artist hastened down the glen while the summer twilight might serve

to illuminate the somewhat intricate way.

'Bursts of laughter greeted the comical recital of the adventure as

good-naturedly given by the professor. The only drawback upon our mirth

was the fear lest wet feet and over fatigue might perhaps have increased

his malady.'

'You see now,' said Aunt Sarah, with an ominous shake of the head, 'if

you will go to such forlorn, wild places, what may be expected to

happen. Had I been in your friend's place, I should never have forgiven

you for causing me such an uncomfortable, and, in one sense, dangerous

walk.'

'Oh yes, you would,' cried Elsie; 'the remembrance would have added a

zest to the monotony of your every-day life, you would never willingly

have resigned.'

'I presume, then, Elsie, you also have had adventures?'

'Have I not?' replied Elsie; 'from the young Southerner who informed me

he would like the mountains very much if the roads were not so terribly

up and down, to the infuriated bull that took especial offence at my

white umbrella, and came charging toward me, with flashing eyeballs,

horns tearing up the sod, and hoofs threatening a leap over a low stone

wall, the only barrier dividing us.'

'I suppose you call that pleasure, too!' said Aunt Sarah. 'Well, I must

confess I am more mystified than ever.'

'I presume, Aunt Sarah, you could as little appreciate the attractions

to be found in a walk of over twenty miles in ten hours?'

'Very well for men, my dear Elsie, but I think such excursions scarcely

fitting for ladies, especially for young and pretty ones. One of Lucy's

wild-goose chases, I doubt not! However, I am quite ready to listen to

your experience.'

'One morning, at nine o'clock, Lucy and I left the Laurel House,

intending to visit the valley of the East Kill, a fine trout stream that

rises near the North Mountain, and flows into the Schoharie. The first

three miles being well-known ground, we preferred to drive, but left the

little carriage on the stony road to East Jewett, soon after that road

branches from the main Clove stage route. The day was magnificent, and

the view from the fir-garlanded sides of the Parker Mountain novel and

bewitching. The North and South Mountains, Round Top, the jagged peaks

bounding the Plattekill Clove, the narrow cleft of the Stony Clove, and

the terraced slope of Clum's Hill swept across the horizon bathed in a

soft September shimmer. A few birds were still piping, golden rods and

purple asters lighted up the wayside, and luscious blackberries, large

as Lawtons, hung in great clusters, from which no mortal hand had as yet

plucked a single berry. There they grew all for us and the birds, and

you may be sure we enjoyed this feast so lavishly spread in the

wilderness. The crown of the hill passed, we left the lovely view

behind, and began the descent into the valley of the East Kill. The

forest growth was here dense and of various species, and the road,

although solitary, apparently well worn. An ominous rustling among the

trees was the only sound we heard until we again reached the open

country, where a market cart, driven by a woman, assured us of some near

habitation. A long, broken valley lies between the hills bordering the

Schoharie, and the river range, and contains the settlements of East

Jewett, Big Hollow, and Windham Centre. Near the first-named place (a

scattered collection of farmhouses), we struck the East Kill, and began

to follow it up toward its source. It is a clear, rapid stream, and we

did not wonder the trout still loved to linger in its cool waters. On a

rustic bridge we sat down and ate our simple lunch of gingerbread,

crackers, plums, and almonds. The sun was in the meridian, and

counselled return, but curiosity led us on to further explorations.

'The winding road crossed and re-crossed the stream. It was bordered by

lofty summits, and led through many a clearing and past many a

farmhouse. At one of these we met a man hiving swarms of bees. He lived

below, and told us we were eight miles from Cairo, a town near the

eastern foot of the Catskills. The friendly mistress of the cottage

informed us that the pass at the summit was only three miles distant,

and we hence concluded to return home by descending the eastern slope of

the mountains, crossing the lower portion of the intervening spur, and

reascending by the Mountain House road. Mountain miles are proverbial

for their length, and so we found them, as we wandered on until

civilization and the last good piece of road was left behind at a large

steam sawmill. Our way now skirted the near hills, and passed through an

upland bog of apparently interminable width. Fortunately, the last few

weeks had been comparatively dry, and hence it was possible to make

one's way by springing from clump to clump of rank grass, or more

frequently from hurdle to hurdle, as long stretches of half-decayed

branches covered the partially hidden quagmire. The air had become

close, the sun hot; a dense, low growth of wood shut in the devious way;

desolation and neglect marked the environs, and we were by no means

sure we were on the right road. Even Lucy began to doubt the prudence

and final success of the expedition. A very suspicious circumstance was

the fact that this road, by which we expected to cross the mountain top,

had lately made very little of an ascent.

'At length a fresh, cool breeze began to fan our cheeks, such a breeze

as is never felt except upon mountain heights, and steep piles of rock

rose upon our left. The road had shortly before become hard and dry,

and, as it now commenced to descend, we could not doubt the summit of

the pass was reached. Fine trees, however, so closely hemmed us in that

we could see nothing beyond, and not until we were some distance down,

did we come to an opening whence the lower country was visible, with the

Berkshire hills, the river, the city of Hudson directly opposite, and

Kiskatom Round Top lying to our right. We exchanged glances, for we knew

something of the distance signified by this situation of landmarks.

However, there was nothing to be done except to press on, which we did,

down a road at first enchanting, but finally detestable, where it had

been neglected, and had become the rocky bed of a stream then dry. We

could fancy it in the spring, at the melting of the snows, with the wild

water dashing down the steep pathway, and the white foam gleaming and

glittering, as a newly risen Undine, in the sight of the astonished,

far-off beholders.

'Lovely vistas over the rolling lands beneath, and up to the mountains

we were leaving behind, charmed away fatigue, and made the way like

fairyland. Near the first cottage we again sat down to rest and consider

our route. We hoped to find some near wood road leading over the wide

base of the North Mountain into the Mountain House road; but never a

wood road was to be seen. On and on we walked, descending lower and

lower into the valley, and coming nearer and nearer to Kiskatom Round

Top. At a turn in the way we asked a party of carpenters working on a

house, if this was the right route to the Mountain House tollgate. Some

laughed, all stared, and one answered, 'Yes.' On and on we plodded along

a dusty highway, till we reached a house by a brook, with ducks and

geese, a garden filled with autumn flowers, and a pleasant old lady

sitting near the door. She also opened her eyes at our question, and

said the distance to the tollgate was eight miles. Eight miles to the

gate, three thence up the steep mountain, and then again two to the

Laurel House! This, added to the many miles we had already walked, and

the lateness of the hour, was indeed alarming. She added, we might

obtain fuller information at a red farmhouse to be found some distance

on. Again we walked and walked, passing through a wild region, Kiskatom

Round Top continually most provokingly near, the road evidently leading

due east, and sinking lower and lower toward the river. At the end of

two or three miles we reached the red farmhouse, and were glad to rest

in a neat sitting room, with a cheerful woman and two bright, handsome

children. The harvest work being nearly done, the husband was absent on

a day's hunt, but the aged father was soon called in to give us the

desired information. The distance to the tollgate was only two miles,

and while the boy made ready the team to take us over, the honest,

intelligent farmer gave us a few sketches from his life history. His

daughter wished him to don his better coat, but he replied that he had

never been able to think that clothes could make or unmake a gentleman.

He also observed that early adversity had been the greatest boon he had

ever received, as, had he never failed in his city trading projects, he

never would have come to the country, or have enjoyed his present health

and happiness. He was a good patriot, and eagerly asked the latest news

of the war. He had also pleasant reminiscences to relate of a Carolina

Senator, who, with his family, had one summer beneath his roof sought

health and strength under the shadow of the Catskills.

'A lively lad and fleet team soon placed us at the gate, which the stage

from the boat was just passing. The little rest and drive had greatly

invigorated us, and we bravely pushed on to the summit, outstripping the

heavy coach, and reaching the top of the mountain just as the red rays

of the setting sun were flushing the hills with crimson. The hour was

too late to risk the dark path through the wood, and we continued upon

the main highway, making but one deviation down a stony road, and over

Spruce Creek, until we reached the Laurel House, where the twilight was

still lingering, and where we found our friends a little anxious.'

'I do not wonder,' said Aunt Sarah. 'Such vagaries are enough to keep a

whole household in a chronic state of anxiety. And I really cannot see

what you had gained!'

'I have only given you a simple statement of the facts,' replied Elsie;

'to know our feelings by the way, the delight we experienced, all we

learned, including geography and topography, and the life and health we

drank in at every step, you must take that very same walk.'

'More inscrutable mysteries!' returned Aunt Sarah.

'Yes,' said Lucy D----, 'inscrutable, and yet subtilely vivifying as the

breath of their Author, the Great Architect of this glorious universe.'

OUR GOVERNMENT AND THE BLACKS.

All thoughtful minds are profoundly conscious that the problems of war

are not the last and most important to be solved in our national

affairs. It is clear enough that this great convulsion must end; and

end, too, in the total extinction of that stupendous system of iniquity

in the interests of which it was projected. President Lincoln's

Proclamation of emancipation throughout rebeldom, and the recent order

to enlist the slaves throughout the Border States in military service to

the Government, emancipating all thus enlisted, whether slaves of loyal

or disloyal masters, with the certainty that there is to be no cessation

to the grand achievements of our arms short of the completest success,

all conspire to assure us that the dreadful _disorder_ hitherto

consuming our national vitals is to pass finally away in the convulsive

_disease_ of its last throes, so distressing to us all. It being thus

certain that this consecrated crime is to be dismantled, dishonored, and

abandoned forever, the question is forced upon us: 'What is to be done

with the negroes?' Some four millions of human beings, doomed to

remorseless servitude, denied the static force of social law, forbidden

by positive law the rights of education, through which alone are

attained the culture and refinement of real manhood--these are the

'freedmen' just emerging from the most insignificant nonage to the

sublime personality of citizenship in a Government of the people. Such

being practically their attitude, what are the real demands and needs in

the case?

Reputed statesmen, journalists, public speakers, and politicians are all

ready enough to determine the matter. 'Let them alone,' say they. 'They

are needed where they are; and the respective wants of capital and labor

will regulate the intercourse between these simple and uncultured

people and the powerful and shrewd men who henceforth are to buy their

service.' Such, in our humble opinion, is not the wisdom of sound,

healthy statesmanship. Let us see.

We cannot get a complete handling of this matter without first

determining the purpose and character of government as a principle; and

we cannot determine this without a clear understanding of the laws of

the human mind in its historic evolution. We must understand, then, that

government is legitimately only an institution in the service of

universal man. It is subjective, ministerial, instrumental always ways;

_aiming only at the interests of the governed_; else it contains an

element hostile to the Divine order that peacefully directs all

movement, and must therefore be disturbed with a commotion that will

either restore or destroy it.

We may not hereupon assume that government must necessarily assume only

one form; for, being thus subservient to human use, to manly culture, to

complete social state, it must infallibly assume forms precisely

proportioned to the human conditions to which applied; hence, we must

understand the laws of the human mind, which display its _varied_

conditions in the course of its evolution from infancy to manhood,

before we can have a clear, scientific conception of the principles,

operations, and organic forms of human government. Let us, then, inquire

briefly as to these laws.

Hereupon we find the mental conditions of the Grand Man--the human race

at large--precisely analogous to those of the small man--the individual

person. And by exhibiting the mental conditions with principles of

government properly related, which rule in one sphere, we infallibly

present the corresponding conditions and forms in the other sphere.

The human mind, then, is a three-fold form, each fold having its own

distinct character, in consequence of which it is broadly and very

definitely individualized. Childhood, youthhood, and manhood, constitute

this triple form. The slightest consideration will readily confirm one

as to the propriety of this analysis; for, one cannot fail to see that

the distinct characteristics of each are broad and marked, and therefore

necessarily discriminate to any completeness of thought upon this

subject. Childhood is a form of total inexperience and unlimited

dependence. Youthhood is a form of growth from the helplessness of the

child to the strength and completeness of the man; involving the trials

of experimental endeavor, attended with the numerous buffs and rebuffs

so surely the witness of vital efforts toward fulness. Manhood is the

form of fulness, completeness, maturity. It is the form of luscious

juices ultimated in the perfectly rounded and glowing fruitage; juices

that pressed the tender bud into the thousand charms of floral beauty,

and thence moulded and urged the growing form to its crowning

excellence.

Childhood, therefore, is a form in which activities are commanded from

without; as the parent commands the child, knowing that the child's best

interests--the ultimate realization of true, manly freedom--are only to

be realized through such arbitrary tutelage. Youthhood is a form of

rational freedom, wherein the subject's moral freedom is stimulated

under various forms of appeal in behalf of right doing. Here the careful

parent keeps the reins firmly in hand, but still slackens them to allow

the plunging steed to determine his own career; overjoyed if he choose

rightly and make his course with vigor and safety; sad and anxious if

forced to draw rein and urge anew the proper direction. It is evident

that the subject's activities here are partly self-determined or free,

and partly coerced or outwardly imposed.

Manhood is a form that repudiates all methods of external appliances,

scales the bounds of parental dictation, and finds only life's fulness

in a freedom all aglow with the soul's adoration. It knows no law but

that of attraction; feels no impulse but that of love. Its activities

are perfectly free or spontaneous. The human mind thus falling under

this triple order of development, inevitably projects governmental forms

strictly proportioned or related thereto. And this is true regarding any

of its organized forms, from the individual to the human race at large:

hence the infantile condition of a people or a nation demands a

perfectly absolute, arbitrary, or commanding form of government; while

the youthful condition demands a mixed form; wherein the ruled are

partly free or self-determined, and partly subject or directed by the

reigning authority; and the manly condition demands a system of pure

self-government, wherein the law is written on the heart.

It must be borne in mind that government is solely instrumental or

ministerial to human use; being designed to mould and fashion unfolding

human powers to higher and still higher social conditions, tending all

to that perfect ultimate wherein life and law are both spontaneous and

exactly balanced, and nothing detrimental to the dearest interests of

manhood can by possibility exist.

Government, then, of whatever kind, must always be administered with

strict regard for the interests of the governed; and it is the endeavor

to subvert and overcome this legitimate principle of government, through

the mistaken selfishness of ruling powers, which attempt to administer

in behalf of their own lusts and in violation of universal ends, which

has kept and is keeping up now the convulsions that shake and try civil

institutions to their utmost.

The theory or declaratory form of our Government stands out, boldly and

distinctly, as that of the highest order. In theory it is the form

proportionate to full manhood; planting and fostering institutions

tending to promote the free play of all that is great and glorious in

human character. It does not thus far practically realize its theory,

because, without regard to this incongruous system of inhumanity, which,

by its very nature, can find no harmony nor peace in connection, nations

themselves wear the human form, and must, therefore, realize the various

states of infancy, youthfulness, and manhood--of germ, growth, and

fruitage. This is true of whatever national form. Nationalities founded

upon the principles of absolutism, embody and express the same laws and

conditions. Their principle of supreme external authority is first a

condition of germination, then of growth or labored effort toward

maturity, and lastly of fruitage, in which the whole form is matured in

perfectly organic completeness, manifesting despotism in government, in

orderly or scientific proportions.

Our nation, then, has not realized its highest conditions, because it is

as yet only germinal, or the national child-man; or, at best, is but the

vigorous blade, or national youth-man; while the corn, fully ripe in the

ear--the national man-man--is reserved unto the glory of the approaching

future, whose rays already dawn upon us and illustrate the clouds, that

have hitherto hung over us and darkened our way, with the power and

great glory of the coming of the Son of Man.

Let us now try to draw nearer to the mark at which we principally aimed

in projecting this article. We said that the 'let-them-alone' system,

concerning the nation's 'freedmen,' is not the system of sound

statesmanship. Why not? Because they are a people in a state of

infantile weakness and inexperience; whom, from the irrepressible laws

and conditions of the human mind, we _must_ govern and control, either

wisely and beneficently or otherwise. To unloose the chains that have

bound them, and set them adrift to contend and compete under our

methods of individualism or isolated interests, is to doom them to

conditions hardly to be preferred to those from which they are about to

escape. This is certainly true with respect to a large majority. Witness

the state of our weakest white laborers, particularly in all our large

cities, and some few years back. See them by thousands and tens of

thousands imploring for employment, and only too happy if they may find

it at the most repulsive and unwholesome labor, sufficient to stay their

famished frames and adjourn for a time the pangs of hunger and frosts.

Driven in despairing hordes to beggary, prostitution, and crimes of

every kind, how fearfully threatening are the neglected duties and

obligations that confront us in their behalf! What, then, shall we say

to those who propose to swell the frightful tide by turning loose

millions more, weaker and more incompetent, it may be, besides being

subject to the evils of the reigning prejudices against color? No, no;

it must not be done. The Government must become the visible providence

of these weak children. It must organize and direct their efforts and

interests. It must, at least, organize them into industrial legions, and

carefully direct all their educational interests. This work, too, must

assume paternal form. Government is rightfully the foster parent of all

its tender, weak, or by any means incompetent children; and unless it

acknowledge and fulfil its functions as such, it is not Divinely

administered, and stands accountable before Supreme Wisdom for all

remissness. To meet all the demands, an especial commission must be

established, and organized with a completeness that will meet all the

educational and industrial needs of these dependent children. This

commission must have a wise head and _tender heart_. It must be fully

alive to the great issues involved, and must be healthy and vigorous in

its extremities, where will come the immediate points of contact with,

the great power it is to operate--the organized freedmen. The expense of

this commission must not be a tax upon the Government, nor must

Government derive any profit therefrom. Such an organized directory,

with extremities all complete, may be amply paid from the freedmen's

labors; at the same time, those labors being doubly remunerative to

themselves, in consequence of the wise adjustment of the organized

machinery of such a commission. For the weak and uneducated to be in

complete subjection to the stronger and more cultivated is in strict

accordance with the divinest order; only this relation must be that of

dependence and providence, without a taint of selfishness. It must be

humanitary or beneficent in its aims, and not inhuman and malevolent, as

is always the case when the weak are subjected to distinguish,

aggrandize, and enrich those who subject them. That the freedmen may be

organized and directed upon such humane and economical principles and

according to the strictest method and order--an order amounting to

definite science--will be practically demonstrated when the Government,

in the full consciousness of its mission, calls to its aid competent men

for this commission, and moves vigorously in the work. The principles of

government which we have briefly suggested as the basis of movement in

this matter, based upon the laws and consequently applying to the needs

of the human mind, enable us infallibly to estimate the whole relations

of Government and people. Our Government being in its theory the highest

form--the form proportioned to manhood, or the human mind so matured as

to have the intelligence to perceive and the virtue to execute the

right--proceeds, of course, upon the declaration that 'all _men are

created_ free and equal;' but in the only practical sense of free or

self-government, which, in its very nature, can only rest upon the

virtue and intelligence of its subjects, men cannot be regarded as

'created' until they are made whole or complete in the crowning

intelligence and virtue of the loftiest human attributes. But as

government, of whatever kind, follows the laws of the human mind, is

first a germ, then a growth, and then a fruitage--shoot, blade, and

ear--our Government can only realize this greatness and perfection

(unlimited intelligence and virtue) in its matured or organic state;

when the declared principles of its form shall have become livingly

combined or organized in institutions of unlimited excellence and

power--institutions that will perpetually embody and express the exalted

human force that inspired them. That our Government has thus far failed

to exhibit such completeness, only argues that it has heretofore been in

a formative condition--a condition of laborious trial, tuition, and

growth, fitting it to realize ultimately its fullness, wherein it will

stand related to previous conditions as the grand, symmetric beauty of

the ear of grain stands related to its various formative states.

If now our Government is, as we fondly hope, approaching its third

degree, its matured condition, with a race of dependent children

emerging from the lowest condition, that of chattel slavery, it is plain

enough what the relation of these people and the Government should be.

They are simply minors, subjects of the Government, but not a part of

the Government. The right of suffrage is not to be extended to them,

because, from the nature and spirit of the Government, they are

necessarily excluded from the _highest_ prerogatives of citizenship.

Their education and whole training are to proceed with a view to their

becoming ultimately a function in the government.

If the principles thus stated amount to a _science_ of government--and

we unhesitatingly aver that they do--then it is clear enough that

self-government--the highest form--does by no means necessitate, under

all conditions, _universal_ suffrage. In truth, its orderly development

strictly forbids it. A government, founded and only healthily operated

on virtue and intelligence, must apply itself studiously to develop

these conditions in its subjects; thus, and only thus, may these

subjects become a part of the governmental power in its full, harmonious

development. Self-government must recognize the principle of universal

suffrage, because it proceeds upon, and, in its ripest form, must come

to that; but, as it is an operation or analytic before it is an ordered

form or synthetic in its character, it will, while forming or growing,

both restrict the rights of suffrage, and permit its subjects to a part

in government when they are not fully qualified therefor. Our freedmen,

then, are neither to be subjected contrary to the demands of their own

highest good, nor are they to become an element in government in

detriment to the public good. Hence they must not be controlled in _any

form_ of servitude to interested and selfish superiors, nor must they,

by partaking of the elective franchise, become, at present, active

participants in the government.

Our current national history must be regarded as singularly marked by

beneficent Providential design. At the same time that a people hitherto

despised and oppressed are emancipated from a dreadful thraldom, the

conditions attending such emancipation are forcing upon the nation a

system of industrial organization which we trust will not only prove

effective in all that pertains to their future welfare, but will, at the

same time, become the example of an organization that shall emancipate

and enthrone labor everywhere and in all conditions. Seeing thus the

light of day streaming in with unmarred radiance, dispelling every trace

of darkness and gloom, we cannot but thank God for His wise

dispensations, and with renewed hope and energy press onward toward the

glowing east to greet the rising sun.

OUT OF PRISON.

From crowds that scorn the mounting wings,

The happy heights of souls serene,

I wander where the blackbird sings,

And over bubbling, shadowy springs,

The beech-leaves cluster, young and green.

I know the forest's changeful tongue

That talketh all the day with me:

I trill in every bobolink's song,

And every brooklet bears along

My greeting to the chainless sea!

The loud wind laughs, the low wind broods;

There is no sorrow in the strain!

Of all the voices of the woods,

That haunt these houseless solitudes,

Not one has any tone of pain.

In merry round my days run free,

With slender thought for worldly things:

A little toil sufficeth me;

I live the life of bird and bee,

Nor fret for what the morrow brings.

Nor care, nor age, nor grief have I,

Only a measureless content!

So time may creep, or time may fly;

_I_ reck not how the years go by,

With Nature's youth forever blent.

They beckon me by day, by night,

The bodiless elves that round me play!

I soar and sail from height to height;

No mortal, but a thing of light

As free from earthly clog as they.

But when my feet, unwilling, tread

The crowded walks of busy men,

Their walls that close above my head

Beat down my buoyant wings outspread,

And I am but a man again.

My pulses spurn the narrow bound!

The cold, hard glances give me pain!

I long for wild, unmeasured ground,

Free winds that wake the leaves to sound,

Low rustles of the summer rain!

My senses loathe their living death--

The coffined garb the city wears!

I draw through sighs my heavy breath,

And pine till lengths of wood and heath

Blow over me their endless airs!

LIES, AND HOW TO KILL THEM.

'I said, in my haste, all men are liars.'--KING DAVID.

'Ye said it in your _haste_, did ye, David? Hech, mon, were ye

leevin now, ye might say it at your _leisure_.'--DOMINIE

McPHAIL.

The Dominie was right. It's a lying world. It does not improve with age

either. The habit has become chronic, and the worst of all is, that the

world has told some lies so often, that it actually now believes them

itself. The wretched family propagates, too, at a terrible rate. Lies

breed, like other vermin, rapidly, and they are not at all modest about

intruding in any company.

I meet them in the gossiping circle, and I meet them in the courts of

justice. I find lies in politics and lies in religion, lies in the

pulpit, 'nail't wi' Scripture,' lies in the counting room railed with

false entries, religious lies, told by Deacon Longface, for the

advancement of what the Deacon calls 'the gospel,' and irreligious lies

told by Bill Snooks, and clenched with an oath, lies in good books, and

lies in bad ones, lies written, and printed in the newspapers, and lies

whispered in the ear, and any number of lies sent by telegraph! And

then, there's the walking lies, going about on two legs, saying what

they do not believe, professing what they do not feel, the most

scandalous sort of lies extant.

I meet them often, too, in 'the best society.' They are very impudent,

you know. I suppose they force their presence on people. At all events,

I know I find them in respectable company, and they seem quite at home

there.

My friend Jones has just built what the newspapers call 'an elegant

mansion.' I was invited to the house-warming. Mrs. Jones's set is very

exclusive, and I was greatly complimented, of course. I went. Jones has

taste. I noticed the plaster walls. Jones had them colored to marble.

The wainscoting of the library was pine, but the pine lied itself into a

passable walnut. The folding doors of the parlor were pine, too, when I

came near. They pretended to be solid oak while I stood at the other end

of the room. Jones had succumbed to the demands of his time, and had

made his dwelling among lies. His 'elegant mansion' was a big, staring

lie from top to bottom. From the plated door-knob to the grained railing

round the garret stairs, he had 'made lies his refuge.' I was bewildered

that evening. It was impossible to say what was real. Miss Seraphina

Jones had a lovely color. Was it _done_ like the folding doors? Mrs.

Smythe had the whitest of teeth when she smiled. Were they only a

pretence at teeth? Mrs. Robinson had beautiful masses of that chestnut

hair around her handsome neck. The bewildering 'mansion' of my friend

made me half doubt even that splendid hair. Tom Harris's magnificent

whiskers, I _knew_, were not colored by fancy to that depth of darkness.

At last I actually began to doubt the sincerity of everybody present.

Their warm expressions of delight with Jones's new house, their pleasure

in each other's society, their earnest inquiries after each other's

welfare, all began to affect me with a sense of unreality, owing to that

masquerading 'mansion.' I began to think, in such a house, there might

be more shams than the marbled plaster or the grained pine.

Jones's church is not better. I occupied a seat in his 'eligible pew'

last Sunday. The lath and plaster walls pretended to be Caen stone. The

cheap deal was all 'make-believe' oak. The brick pillars were 'blocked

off,' and unblushingly claimed to be granite. As I entered, I observed

that the pulpit stood under the arch of a recess, roofed with carved

stone, with clustered columns rising on the sides and spreading into

graceful arches overhead. As I walked up the broad aisle, the recess

shifted strangely, and the clustered columns of 'carven stone' ran in

and out, at hide and seek. At last the truth flashed on me. The chancel

was only painted on the flat rear wall of the building! I don't know

what the sermon was about. It doesn't matter. How _could_ a man preach

truth, framed in such a staring lie? I have no doubt he tried to, for, I

believe, he is an excellent man; but what a place to put him, Sunday

after Sunday, with that painted cheat behind him, mocking all he says!

But lies are venerable as well as respectable. There are old, gray lies

that men half worship. The more toothless and drivelling, often the more

venerable. They have imposed their solemn emptiness on men for

generations. They have awed the souls of the fathers. They make the

children tremble. Men chant their praises, call them great names, and

tell each other the old scarecrows are better than any truths--they are

so ancient, so venerable, you see; and all the old women, male and

female, believe them.

Then, there are powerful lies. Think on the wars men have fought for

lies, on the millions of followers lies have had--how from their lofty

seats they govern empires, convulse continents, and drive patient

nations mad. Think on the money they have made, the mouths they have

filled, the backs they have warmed, the houses they have built, the

reputations they have created, the systems they have propped, the books

they have sent out, the presses they have kept busy. Think of the

Donation of Constantine, the Forged Decretals, the South Sea Scheme, the

Mississippi Bubble, of Wild Cat Banks, and Joyce Heth! He is certainly a

bold man who will rashly measure his strength with this mighty family.

As the world goes, the Father of Lies crowns himself and claims the

sovereignty. 'All these things will I give thee'--riches, honor, power.

It is the old Temptation of the Desert forever repeated. He lies when he

makes the offer. They were never his to give. But it's a lying world.

There are millions of us cheated. They take the old scoundrel at his

word.

You and I, reader, do not, let us hope. We agree in believing that,

under any circumstances, lies are not good; that, at all times, they are

unsafe, unwholesome, and in every way bad, very bad; that, on the whole,

it is not safe to trust them, or go with them. That is a good creed. It

appears to me the only creed, on this subject, that will stand.

For this is, after all, a very solemn sort of life. It has a very

serious ending. A great universe whirls away with its ebon-faced

mysteries piled from central caves to highest heavens--a universe, with

all its mysteries, of hardest reality and baldest truth. A man, looking

up to the cold, clear, unswerving stars, out yonder in the wintry night,

or down at the grave that lies, somewhere, for the digging across his

path, must feel that a lie for him, knowing his place, knowing himself,

that a lie for him is accursed.

We want the truth always--clear-eyed, sharp-cut, marble-faced truth. We

want to know the facts and realities of our position, just as they are.

The mariner sails away into the lonely sea. The mystery of the

unfathomed deep sways miles down beneath his passing keel. The mystery

of the overarching heavens swims far above with mazy constellation and

revolving sphere. Between the mystery of the sky and the mystery of the

sea he steers right on, in calm and tempest confident, in night and

noonday secure. For he there, on the trackless wastes that girdle in the

great wide world, alone with the silence of Nature and God, _knows_ the

facts of his position, the realities of his place. The charts lie spread

before him. Island, continent, lone sea-rock, hidden shoal, they are all

mapped to his eye. The faithful needle points due north. The true sun

rises where he always has. The faithful, changeless stars look down at

midnight. The truth saves him, rocked in the arms of the wild sea. The

reality holds him secure. Ask him, looking out, in the night watch, over

the black sea and up to the inky deeps, and down to the dim-lighted

compass before him, ask him his opinion of _a lie_! What his honest

notion may be about a false light on yonder headland, a false latitude

on his chart for this island or that shoal, a mistaken measurement of

depth across this bay or through yonder straits! Ask him the nature and

effects of _a lie_ in the chart he sails by!

And we are all sailors. We want true charts. The false chart is our

ruin. The false beacon on the headland is kindled by the fiends. It

leads to death--a wreck-strewn sea, dashing white up the black cliffs,

and bubbling cries, rising above the tempest's roar and the surges'

boom, as, one by one, the swimmers sink to darkness through the foam!

Nay, for us, sailors over life's seas, sailors into eternity's dimness,

the lie wears its Father's likeness. And the liar, the man who makes a

lie, or helps a lie to success, a lie of word or deed, a lying boast

merely, or a bad, vile, lying system, is my enemy, your enemy,

humanity's enemy. He has deserted God's army, has denied his human

brotherhood so far, has gone over, soul and body, to Satan. He is God's

enemy and man's thenceforward.

That, I say, is, I trust, our creed about lies and liars too. We know

where the lie comes from. We know whither it tends. We have made up our

minds that it, and all its belonging, were best swept clean away and

pitched into the Big Fire. Blessed be the man, we say, who successfully

kills lies! He is a man to be honored and loved, no matter how rough he

is in the process. It is never very smooth business. It is not a thing

that can be well done in gloves. Let us not quarrel with how the

champion does it. The main end is to get the lies well choked somehow.

But the one great difficulty in the way of such a man is, that so many

people believe in lies. My eager young friend, Philalethes, supposes

that, if he can only expose this falsehood, show up this sham, or sound

the emptiness of this piece of cant or pretence, he will do the state

some service, that men will thank him and call him benefactor. He does

the work, and lo! to his amazement, many excellent men count him their

deadly enemy.

These good souls see what he sees, that lies, and shams, and cheats in

business, in science, in politics, in religion, in social life, are

often very successful and very powerful, and they come to _their_

conclusion, which is not his by a great deal. He thinks the lie ought to

be hated, with a hatred the more intense because of its success. They

conclude that lies, in this world at least, are necessary. They have

seen, with their own eyes, how powerful, venerable, or respectable lies

are, and they act on their knowledge. They take the lie into sleeping

partnership--Quirk and _Co_.

There are men who do not believe plain truth can walk alone in this

world. She needs a pair of lies for crutches! Men will actually write

and print lies for the truth's sake. Men have piously written down and

copyrighted lies (I have their books on my shelves) for the sake of

religion! They have so little faith in God, they think they must wheedle

Satan over on His side, or the truth and the right will fail. It is very

easy to believe in God for the other world, but very hard to believe in

Him for this. He will be omnipotent lord and master there, but here,

now, in this bewildering world, in this confused and wretched time,

where wrong seems so prosperous and lies so strong, is He omnipotent

here? Hereaway, is not the Devil mightier? Can we get along without a

little of his help?

Now lies can never end till this ends. While men think them necessary to

truth, in business, in politics, in social order, even in religion, they

will stand. People must be got to see that they are evil, that under no

circumstances can they be anything else, that there can be no alliance

between truth and falsehood, that the false thing must, in the end, be

the corrupting thing, Satanic and vile utterly. They must know that,

just so far as anything is incorporate with a lie, so far is it foul to

the nostrils of all angels, and ought to be to the nostrils of all men.

Weave a lie into your social polity. It may prosper for a while, but

soon or late your social polity runs mad. Take a lie into your business,

as sleeping partner, try to live and prosper in that connection, and,

some time, you and your business will go to the dogs together. Adopt a

lie in your religion, make up your mind, piously as you think, to

believe what you do not believe and cannot believe, attempt to sanctify

falsehood and lie yourself into a faith, and your sham creed and your

lying religion will do you no good in this world or in the other.

Because a lie is a respectable lie, believed and patronized by

respectable people, shall you respect it? Because some venerable sham

has imposed its emptiness on a score of generations, shall we go on

reverencing it, and pass the scarecrow and its trumpery trappings on for

the reverence of our children? Shall we, for any cause, that is, turn

liars ourselves, and use the tongues God gave us to speak honest truth

and simple meaning with, to deceive, in small matter or great, one human

brother of ours, and make him think Satan's black lie as good as the

Lord's white truth?

It may be strong preaching, but how can one help it? Never yet did a

true-hearted, clear-headed reformer set to work to clear away some old

cankering sore of falsehood from a people's life that he did not meet

with opposition. And never yet did that opposition come from those who

loved the lie for the lie's sake or the bad for the bad's sake. It came

from those who love Truth, but who could not trust her, who loved Good,

but had no faith in its success, who wanted to see the right side

triumph, but had no confidence in the right--who really believed, that

is to say, that Satan was almighty and the Lord's cause could not

prosper, in this world at least, without his help! The opposition came

from those who would deal gently with respectable lies, not because they

are lies, but because they are respectable; who trembled before powerful

lies, not because they were lies, but because they were powerful; who,

seeing shams and cheats so prosperous, so venerable, so strong, got the

notion into their poor cowardly hearts that they are strongest, and

wanted the reformer to come humbly, cap in hand, and ask them to let a

little truth live, a little modest, humble, unaggressive truth--it will

be very orderly, very quiet, very deferential, if they, the powerful,

the venerable, the respectable lies will let it stay here, in some

corner, out of charity!

These are the men who, in all ages, have built barriers against heaven,

the cowards, the faithless, the unbelieving. They dare not trust truth

because it is truth, and good because it is good, leaving consequences

with Him whose special business it is to take care of consequences. No,

it is not love for the lie, but want of faith in the truth, that blocks

the chariot wheels of the golden year.

For men do not love the lie after all. There's comfort in that. They do

not like being cheated. They never get quite used to it, as, they say,

eels do to skinning. They sometimes turn on the man, or the system, that

tries it on them, in a very terrible and savage manner, with fury as of

a mad lion, and take swift, fearful vengeance. The big, dumb heart of

humanity, in the long, run, can be trusted. It is often imposed upon,

its blind trust shamefully abused. Scoundrels exist and prosper on its

patience and credulity. But only for a time. There is a reckoning for

all such deceptions, if need be, in blood and fire. The dull heart

throbs, the dull eyes open, the great brain stirs in its sleep, and

humanity, true to its origin, rises to crush the lie with its million

arms of power. And earth-born Briareus, when his thousand hands turn to

right his wrongs, is not delicate in their handling. The echoes of a

French Revolution will ring for some generations yet.

The man who turns to combat error needs the assurance of the true

instincts of his race, for he enters on a task that must seem hopeless

often.

'Truth crushed to earth will rise again;'

so Mr. Bryant tells him, and he is much obliged to Mr. Bryant. But will

not error do just the same? He killed a lie yesterday, and buried it

decently. He finds it alive again and prosperous to-day. Cut a man's

head off, and he dies. There's no help for it, unless he is a St. Denis,

and then he can only take a walk with his head in his hand. But, if he

is not a St. Denis, he dies. That is the law. Cut the head off a lie, it

does not die at all. It rather seems to enjoy the operation. You will

meet it, like fifty St. Denises, on every morning walk, during your

lifetime. They have a marvellous vitality. I meet lies every day that,

to my certain knowledge, were put to death a hundred years ago, by

master hands at the business, too. They ought, in decency at least, to

look like pale ghosts 'revisiting the glimpses of the moon,' but they

don't. They are smug, comfortable, and somewhat portly, as from good,

solid living.

Now this is discouraging somewhat. But there is no good in shutting

one's eyes to the fact. That is what I am going against. It is best to

know that lies die hard. They will bear at least as many killings as a

cat, and that's _nine_. Still, much depends upon the manner of the

operation. How is it best performed? Knowledge is needed in all

pursuits. There is a science undoubtedly in killing lies. If you wish to

go into the business, and I trust most honest men do, you need to study

it somewhat. Otherwise you will waste much effort, and get few results.

It is not easy to kill one wolf with a stick, but, call science to your

aid, and an ounce of strychnine, well administered, will do the business

for a pack. Instead of going into a rough-and-tumble fight with some

coarse, rude, vile lie, and mauling it to death by sheer force of

muscle, it is better to use science and put it to death neatly, cleanly,

and delicately, with unsoiled hands. Let us see if we can find the

science of killing lies.

'The greater the lie the greater the truth.' Take that with you. A lie

must, somewhere, have a truth to prop it. In the heart of every big

successful lie you will find some reality. Of course you cannot build a

house on _nothing_. A pyramid cannot be constructed in the air. Now a

lie is _nothing_, the very definition of nothing. It is what _is not_.

So, of course, no pure and simple lie exists. It always builds itself on

some truth. It always roots itself into some fact. And there is the

secret of its vitality. You batter the lie with your logic, but the

blows rebound from the iron truth beneath. You assail it with the

flashing darts of your rhetoric, the points fly harmless from the marble

reality below. There is truth there somewhere. That is why your rhetoric

and your logic fail. That, too, is why one so often sees that most

bewildering and despairing sight, men clinging to a lie, honoring it,

trusting it, defending it, in all sincerity, against all assailants. It

is not the lie they defend, but the truth in the lie. What a relief it

was when I first made that discovery! I was ready to think meanly of my

kind, to distrust humanity's instincts for truth. The lookout was on

despair. But, when I understood the nature of the lie, I learned to

think better of my brethren, I learned to have more hope in their Maker.

No, there is no building on nothing. Every lie has a substratum of

truth. In fact, look closer, and is not a lie only a distorted truth?--a

truth torn from its connections, its features twisted out of all

symmetry, its outlines battered out of all shape?

A man tells a true story to-day, in the hearing of one who has this

distorting power, an essentially untrue soul. He hears the same story

to-morrow, the very same, but so deformed, so mangled, so patched, that

it is, now, every inch a lie--the truth gone crazy. That is, a truth

half told is a lie, a truth added to is a lie, a truth distorted is a

lie, a truth with its due proportions changed is a lie. And a lie may

always be defined as a lame, deformed, or crazy truth.

And it is the truth in the lie that gives it its power, that makes

honest men so often accept, love, and help it. Their conscious design is

to work for the truth's sake. It is the truth in the lie that makes so

many logic shafts, so many rhetoric arrows glance off, as from the hide

of a rhinoceros.

And the bigger the lie the bigger also the truth. That is another bit of

science. If Mrs. Tattle tells Mrs. Tittle a lie about Mrs. Jenkins, she

knows very well Mrs. Tittle will not believe her unless her lie has some

spice of fact to go on, unless it has _vraisemblance_, truth-likeness,

an appearance of foundation at least. Mean little lies, like those she

sets going, do not need much salt of truth to keep them from spoiling;

still they require their due modicum, and they usually have it. As for

instance, she says, with a long face, to Mrs. Tittle: 'Mrs. Jenkins, the

widow Jenkins, you know, it's _awful_. She went over to Pinkins's last

evening; I saw her go, and I do believe she stayed till twelve, and Mrs.

Pinkins is away, you know. Isn't it terrible?' and she raises her eyes

in pious horror at the depravity of the world, and of handsome young

widows in particular. That is the _lie_. Now here is the _truth_. Mrs.

Jenkins _did_ go across the way to Pinkins's, because one of his little

ones was suddenly taken with some baby ailment, and the poor fellow, in

his wife's absence, was scared out of his few wits in consequence. He

sent for the kind-hearted widow, and begged her help for Johnny. She

came, nursed the young scamp like a mother, and returned at nine, with

her conscience glowing under the performance of a kindly and neighborly

act.

Now, without this much of truth, the amiable Mrs. Tattle would never

have manufactured this particular lie. All liars understand the

principle. They scarcely ever, until they become blind and stupid liars,

invent a falsehood out of mere fancy. They pay tribute to humanity's

instinct for truth so far as to tell as much of it as possible without

ceasing to lie. They get in as great an amount of truth as convenient,

to save their lie from swift, sure death.

But a rousing big lie!--not one of these small neighborhood affairs,

that buzz about like wasps in every community--but a grand and

magnificent lie, imposed on a nation, imposed maybe on half a world,

must have a corresponding truth to make it prosper. It takes less salt

to cure the small pig, more to cure the large hog. So, the greater the

weight of dead lie, the greater the amount required of preserving truth.

Mohammed imposed a lie on half a continent. That lie has lived and, in

some sort, prospered to this day. All sorts of babblement have been

written and spoken about that wonderful fact. The truth is, Mohammed's

great lie was founded on, and propagated with, an equally great truth, a

truth amply sufficient to carry it. In the midst of abominable idolatry,

of stupid polytheism, Mohammed proclaimed: 'There is no God but God!'

His wild and foolish fictions were based on that grand, unalterable

truth. That truth is big enough to bear up more lies than even he

ventured to cover it with. The human heart leaped up to grasp the great

fact that props the Universe--'GOD IS!'--and, in its love for that,

accepted also the falsehoods woven into its proclamation.

In all the universe the evil roots itself into the good. Evil never has

an independent life. Like an idol, 'it is nothing in the world.' An evil

nature is a good nature, only turned from its aim. Death exists only

because there is life. Disease feeds on rosy health. Devils are, by

nature, angels. The foulest fiend is only the loftiest seraph spoiled.

The evil is always a parasite. All things were made 'very good.' An evil

thing is only one of those good things corrupted. The lie, therefore,

grows out of the truth. The clearest heaven's truth, half told,

distorted, patched upon, is the vilest lie thenceforth.

Now, when one wants to kill lies successfully, he must remember all

this. He may turn, as many have done, to the work of proving

Mohammedanism a cheat. He sees it is. He wants to get others to see it.

He brings his logic artillery and the rifle brigades of his flashing

rhetoric to the battle. But, let him not be surprised if his heavy shot

is powdered, and his Minié bullets glance harmless, as from a Monitor's

turret, for beneath lies the iron truth that 'God is God,' and that

saves the lie that 'Mohammed is His prophet.' He is not to rush, like a

madman, at the lie, and try to maul it to death by sheer force of arm

and hand. There is a hard truth beneath it, and he will only lame his

knuckles. Let him go at the thing scientifically. They say of slander,

which is one kind of lie, that, if left alone, it will sting itself to

death. It is so somewhat with all falsehood. One should pay less

attention to the lie and more to the truth. And the best way to destroy

the false is to teach simply the true, and leave the false no room to

stand on.

It is possible to destroy one lie by another. They are cannibals, and

eat each other. Voltaire tried to conquer the lie of a corrupt church by

establishing the greater lie of the denial of any church. That is a very

unfortunate process, and yet it is common enough. The best way is to set

out the truth, plain, and simple, and whole, and so kill lies in flocks.

Positive teaching will be found the most effective teaching. The man who

takes up the business of combating error, may originate quite as many

errors as he destroys. There are a hundred prominent examples. Negative

teaching is barren business at best. Better show what _is_ the truth

than worry oneself to show what is _not_ it.

For, as I have shown, all lies have some truth in them. That is why they

kick, and struggle, and die so hard. Now, take the truth, tear away the

lies patched about it, tell it all, and you have quenched that

particular lie that worried you, do you not see? and every lie that

roots itself in that given truth, or lives on its distortion. Declare

your one truth convincingly, clearly, warmly as if you loved it, and the

work is done. All that does not agree with that is, of course, false,

without further breath wasted.

I might spend one day in proving that two and three are not four,

another in proving that nine and six are not four, and so on _ad

infinitum_. How much more sensible to prove that two and two are four,

and so end the thing! How much simpler to show what is the truth than,

laboriously, to expose the claims of a thousand pretenders that are

_not_ it! Here are five hundred John Smiths. They each pretend to be

_our_ John, the man we know and esteem so highly. I could set to work

with infinite labor, and, by having commissions appointed all over the

world to take evidence, and by employing a hundred or so of my friends

the lawyers, I might, after a lifetime of investigation, prove the

negative, that four hundred and ninety-nine of them are not John. But

how much easier to walk out the real John at once, prove the positive,

and let the rest pack! By proving that one truth, you see, I kill four

hundred and ninety-nine lies--a good day's work that.

There is altogether too much of this negative style in all our defences

of truth, too much attempt to destroy what is wrong, and too little to

build what is right. And, after all, the business of the destructive,

though many times very necessary and very useful, is not the highest

style of work. You are never sure of your ground till, on the ruins of

the towers of injustice and wrong, you erect the fortresses of justice

and right.

The wise way is to let truth fight her own battles. She will render a

good account of all her foes. Our humble duty is to stand by her, merely

as seconds in the strife, to help her to her feet should she fall, to

burnish her armor if the rust come to dim its brightness or spoil the

keenness of her weapon's edge, knowing that she, as with the sword of

the cherubim, will scatter, at the last, the evil legions and their dark

array, as the whirlwind scatters the chaff.

I have written of a war that, as far as this world is concerned, is

endless. As long as the world exists lies will exist. Truths will always

be half told, half learned, half understood. The man who girds himself

to do battle with falsehood and wrong should understand that 'there is

no discharge in this war.' It will last his life out. He must accept the

inevitable condition of his place, and must be content to do his best,

hopefully and bravely, in this world-work, though he surely know that it

shall be said of him, as of those faithful ones who saw only in vision

the coming Christ: 'These all died in hope, not having obtained the

promise.' I have attempted here some hints for the truth-lover. I warn

him, on the start, that his work is endless, his discouragements many

and great. Often and often it will seem that the evil is omnipotent, the

false all-conquering. Again and again his heart must sink in half

despair before the world's triumphant wrongs, before its overwhelming

lies. In many a dark time the heavens will seem brass and the earth

iron, and the evil victorious over all. He must be prepared for this.

There is no good in cheating men with false hopes. In a world that

crowns its saviors with thorns, such things are, and it is just as well

to know it.

But there are encouragements too. The conviction is perennial among men,

that, on the whole, the false must go down. That is one strong

encouragement. This is another, that, after all, men are truth-lovers.

The true instincts of the race will give themselves voice some time, and

when they speak they shake the world. On the whole, they are for the

right thing and the true thing. All history, I believe, will bear them

that testimony.

But the great encouragement is, that the Lord is King, that a true God

owns creation, that He is on the side of truth, and armed against every

lie. I think, between ourselves, that is encouragement enough. The side

that Jehovah is on is a pretty strong side, no matter who is on the

other. In the long run it will be the safe side, and the successful

side.

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

_PART THE LAST._

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one _lives_

it!--to not many is it _known_; and seize it where you will, it is

interesting.'--GOETHE.

'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished

or intended.'--WEBSTER'S _Dictionary_.