Such artists love not the mighty arches of gothic architecture, in whose

vast curves and dim recesses lurks the mystic idea of the infinite; they

take no interest in the ascetic faces which the old masters loved to

picture, worn into deep furrows of care by penitence and holy sorrow,

though lighted with the triple ray of Faith, Hope, and Love. They have

no sympathies with the saints and heroes who have been great through

self-abnegation, for such lives are a constant reproach to their own

sybaritical tendencies. Constantly mistaking the effervescence of

passion for the fire of genius; viewing the sublime realities of

religion only as fantastic dreams; seeing nothing but the gloom of the

grave beyond the fleeting shadows of the present life; granting reality

to nothing but that which is essentially variable, phenomenal, and

contingent; forever revelling in the luxuriousness of mere

sensation--they understand only that which can be seen and handled. But

the devotion to the True in art is a disinterested worship--a worship

requiring the most heroic self--abnegation; for the love of fame, of

self, of pleasure, will so bewilder and confuse the artist, that he will

never be able to sound the depths of any art. And now, can we wonder if

pure and earnest men utterly refuse to acknowledge the dignity and worth

of art, when manifested to them through the works of fantastically

sensuous, or voluptuously sensual artists? This misconception of the

true aim of art, of the meaning of the Beautiful--with its natural

consequence, merely sensuous manifestations of Beauty through the medium

of different arts--has been one of the causes of the violent and

inveterate prejudices which have arisen against art itself in the minds

of many good men; and, were this view of beauty and art the true one, we

could not deny that such prejudices or opinions would be but too well

founded. To combat such debasing and false views of the aims of art,

will be the chief object of the present volume. If art were to be

degraded into the servant and minister of the senses, we would be among

the first to condemn it. But all Beauty proceeds from the All Fair, who

hath pronounced all 'good,' and 'loveth all that He hath made.'

Leaving the 'men of the senses' in their Circean sleep, we proceed to

question the 'men of the schools' with regard to their conception of

art, their definition of the Beautiful. Erudite as they may be, their

response to our question is scarcely more satisfactory. The Beautiful,

in their estimation, is but the realization of _known rules_, fixed and

sanctioned by long usage. Such men are the connoisseurs in art, the

students of manuals, who are familiar with all the acknowledged _chefs

d'oeuvre_, and all the possible resources of art; they have traced for

genius itself the path in which it must walk, and will accept none as

true artists who wander from it. They are not ashamed to take a poet

such as Shakespeare, to compare his wonderful creations with the rules

they have acquired with so much labor, and, seeking in his living dramas

only the application of the principles with which _they_ are familiar,

scruple not to condemn the immortal works of the greatest of all

uninspired writers. Madame de Staël truly says: 'Those who believe

themselves qualified to pronounce sentence upon the Beautiful, have more

vanity than those who believe they possess genius.' Taste in the fine

arts, like fashion in society, is indeed considered as a proof of

_haut-ton_, a claim to fashionable and personal distinction.

Should a man of the most cultivated mind and soul, venture to pronounce a

judgment upon the character of some great architectural work,

without being versed in the terms and technics of scientific

architecture--remark with what profound contempt his opinion on its

effect will be received by the pompous men of the schools! Or, let him

venture to take pleasure in a musical composition not approved by the

musical savants, in which they have detected various crimes against the

laws of harmony, the fixed rules of counter point--and behold the men of

the schools, how they will shrug their classic shoulders in contempt at

his name and besotted ignorance! Or, should he venture to delight in the

original and naive lyrics of some untaught bard of nature, without being

able to justify his admiration by learned citations from Virgil and

Horace, to say nothing of the categories of Aristotle--he is considered

as an ignoramus, who might possibly impose upon those ignorant as

himself, but who should at least have the modesty to yield up at once

his opinion to the conclusive decisions of the great literary pundits!

In vain may he assert that such and such a passage is touching and

noble; in vain, may he say it has appealed to his inmost soul, and

awakened deep and holy emotions, that it has made him a better man;--the

same wise shrug of contempt greets him; he is told 'such effects are

impossible, for the work in question offends a fixed rule!'

Yet what great diversity of opinion obtains among the very band of

self-constituted elect! How few possess the requisite mastery of the

rules, and what an immense number of the human race would thus be

excluded from the elevating sources of enjoyment to be found in poetry

and the fine arts! Such scholastic critics confound two things to be

distinguished in every work in all branches of art; viz., the _pure

idea_, and the _material form_ through which it is manifested. It is

indeed necessary that the artist should make severe studies, and

thoroughly master the technics of his chosen art, whatever it may be;

for, as means to facilitate the clearest manifestation of his

conceptions, such formulæ are of immense importance;--but an erudite

acquaintance with the technics of art is not necessary for the

comprehension of the _idea_, manifested; for the _idea_ itself is ever

within the range of the human intellect, and the soul may always

consider the thought of the soul, when appropriately manifested, _face

to face_. 'Imbibe not your opinions from professional artists,' says

Diderot; 'they always prefer the difficult to the beautiful!'

Artistic judgment is, indeed, too apt to be satisfied with correct

drawing and harmony of colors; harmony and keeping of plastic forms;

harmony of tones; harmony of thoughts in relation to one another;

without considering that to these necessary harmonies two more,

primarily essential, must be added: harmony of thought with the eternal,

with the divine attributes of truth, infinity, unity, and love; and

harmony of expression with what ought to be--which is indeed to assert

that true Beauty is neither sensuous nor scholastic, but vitally and

essentially moral. True Beauty lingers not in the soft halls of the

Circean senses; it wanders not in the trim paths, beaten walks, or dusty

highways of the schools, though the artist must indeed be familiar with

all the intricacies of their windings, that he may there master the laws

and proportions of the form through which he is to manifest the supernal

essence through our senses to our souls; it dwells above, too high to be

degraded by our low sensualism, too ethereal to lose its sweet freedom

in the logically woven links of our scholastic trammels. 'Ye shall know

the _truth_, and it shall make you free,' is a proposition not only of

moral, but of universal artistic application.

Disgusted by the idle pretensions and stilted pedantry of the men of the

schools, can we wonder if good and earnest men still refuse to

acknowledge the high worth and dignity of art, which, in accordance with

such definitions, would be nothing but a manifestation and studied

application of the rules and laws of the limited and pedantic human

understanding? To prove art essentially _moral_, in exact correspondence

with the triune being of man addressing itself _through_ his senses, in

accordance with the requisitions of his understanding, _to_ his

soul--and that it is only delightful to the soul created for the

enjoyment of God, in so far as it is successful in manifesting or

suggesting some portion of the Divine attributes--are the chief objects

of the book here offered to the reader. If art were indeed to be

degraded into nothing higher than the exponent or incarnation of the

logical data and rigid formulæ of the limited understanding of man, the

writer would be frozen to death in the attempt to plant its chilling

banner. She too would regard it but as a solemn trifling with time and

the fearful responsibilities of eternity.

Having failed to obtain any elevated or satisfactory definition of Art

and Beauty from the men of the senses, or the men of the schools; as the

supporters of a government founded upon a belief in the virtues of the

people, we turn to them in our despair to ask for deeper insight into

these important subjects. Alas! they are as yet too busy and too

ignorant to formulate for us a definite reply! But from them must come

the sibylline response, for the true artist has no home upon earth save

the heart of humanity! The kingdom of the Beautiful belongs not

exclusively to the luxurious, nor to any aristocracy of the refined and

cultivated, but, like the blue depths of God's heaven arch, spans the

world, everywhere visible, and everywhere beneficent!

As they may not formulate for us a definite reply, let us place our ears

close to the throbbing heart of the masses, that we may hear what effect

the Beautiful, as manifested in art, has upon the electric pulses. And

now our despair passes forever, for men made in the image of God, when

not degraded by a corrupting materialism, nor lost in the bewildering

mazes of a luxurious sensualism, nor puffed up with the vain conceit of

the limited understanding, and thus holding themselves above all the

high enthusiasm and holy mysteries of art, always seem able to recognize

that which awakens in them noble thoughts or tender feelings; so that

when a poet sings to them of heroism, of liberty, of fraternity, of

justice, of love, of home, of God, if he can succeed in causing their

hearts to throb with generous emotions, they stop not to consult the

critics, they listen only to the voice of their own naive souls, and at

once and with one accord enthusiastically cry: 'Beautiful! beautiful!

how beautiful!' La Bruyère himself says: 'When a poem elevates your

mind, when it inspires you with noble and heroic feeling, it is

altogether useless to seek other rules by which to judge it; it is--it

must be good, and the work of a true artist.' Such is really the

criterion consulted by the people, and on this broad and just base rests

the general correctness of their judgments.

Uncultured as they may be, is it not, indeed, among the people that we

see the most vivid sympathies with the really great artists, the true

poets? It is among them we most frequently find that glowing enthusiasm

which excites and transports them until they lose all selfish thoughts;

contrasting strongly with the measured calm, the still and prudent

reserve of the elite, the connoisseurs, which an impassioned artist

(Liszt) truly says 'is like the glacés on their own tables.' Let the

artist but strike some of the simple but sublime chords which, the

Creator has tuned to the same harmony in human bosoms, and they will

respond from the heart of the people in an instantaneous thrill of noble

instincts and generous emotions. It is ever with the people that the

artist meets with that profound and _loving_ admiration which so greatly

increases his own powers, and which always leads them to noble acts of

devotion for those who have succeeded in touching the harmonizing chords

vibrating through the mighty bosom of humanity made in the image of God!

If we would learn something of the effect of art on the soul, and

understand the secrets of its power, we should go to a representation of

one of Shakspeare's tragedies, and mark the attentive crowd silently

contemplating the high scenes which the poet unrolls before them.

Immersed in poverty and suffering as they may themselves be, we will see

that at the words 'glory, honor, liberty, patriotism, love'; at the

sight of the courageous struggle of the just against the unjust; at the

fall of the wicked, the triumph of the innocent,--the furrowed and

rugged faces glow with sympathy, all hearts proclaim the loveliness of

virtue, or are unanimous in the condemnation of vice. Full of just

indignation against the aggressor, of generous sympathy with the

oppressed, shall the palpitating throng stay the quick throbbing of

their hearts to inquire of the men of the senses if they may _admire_,

or of the critics and schoolmen if they may _approve_? Their intuitions

have already decided the question for them. Why do the masses always

accord in their estimation of the just and unjust? why do they always

agree about glory and shame, vice and virtue, courage and cowardice? why

do they always find Beauty in the success of suffering virtue, the

triumph of oppressed innocence, the rescue of the wronged and helpless?

The answer throws its light over the whole world of art: Because God's

justice, even when it condemns themselves, is one of the Divine

attributes for whose enjoyment they were created; because it stands

pledged that whatever may be the disorder visible upon earth, it will

rule in awful majesty over the final ordering of all things. The soul,

urged on by an unconscious yet imperative thirst for the Absolute,

having in vain tried to find its realization in a world furrowed by

vanities and scared by vices, takes its flight to the clime of the

ideal, to find there the growth of eternal realities. The poet builds

ideal worlds in which he strives to find the absolute, adorning them

with all the beauties for which the human heart pines: heroism,

patriotism, devotion, love, take form and find appropriate expression;

for all is wisdom, power, liberty, and harmony in the artistic realms.

Art is a celestial vision which God sends to his exiled children, to

give them news of the invisible world for which they were created, to

soothe their sorrows, to turn their thoughts and affections to their

true centre. Art is the transient realization, the momentary possession

of the desires of the soul!

There is then a Beauty inaccessible to the senses, above the narrow

limit of technical laws, which a simple and uncorrupted people

intuitively feel and love, for which the masses reserve their most

profound admiration, and which it is unquestionably the province of the

true artist to manifest through whatever medium he may have chosen as

his specific branch of art. The delight felt in the Beautiful arises

from the fact that it manifests or suggests, in a greater or less

degree, some portion of the Divine attributes for whose enjoyment we

were created. Is it not then time that the good and earnest men of our

own broad land should cease to ignore, if not to persecute, art; should

indeed reverently pause to inquire into the resources and capabilities

of the mighty symbolism used and wielded by the fine arts?

THE VALUE OF THE UNION.

I.

We are engaged in a life-and-death struggle for our national

existence--for the preservation of the Union, for these are synonymous.

To succeed, we need an animating spirit that shall carry us through all

obstacles; that shall smile at repeated defeat; that shall ever buoy us

up with strong hope and confidence in the ultimate success of our

efforts. Such a spirit cannot flow from a simple love of opposition,

excited by the wicked bravado of our opponents; nor from a desire to

prove ourselves the stronger: neither can it flow from the mere wish to

destroy slavery. None of these motives singly, nor all of them combined,

are sufficient to sustain us in this hour of trial, or to carry us clear

through to the desired goal. The only motive which can do this, and

which, in the heart of every loyal man, should be of such large

proportions as immensely to dwarf all lower ones, is one that can flow

only from a clear comprehension of the value of the Union, coupled with

a conviction, arising out of this intelligent valuation, that the Union,

being what it is--containing within itself untold, and yet undeveloped

blessings to ourselves and to the human race at large--is nothing less

than a most precious gift of God; given into our charge, to be ours as

long as we deserve its enjoyment by our individual and national

adherence to truth and right; a conviction also, that our Union, from

the very marked Providential circumstances attending its establishment,

is in no small sense a divine work; and hence, that we may rest in the

sure hope that God will not permit His own work to be destroyed, except

by our refusing to coöperate with Him in its preservation.

All our blessings, natural and spiritual, are enjoyed by us only in the

degree of our free and voluntary coöperation with the intentions of the

Divine Giver. No good thing is forced upon us, and nothing that we ought

to have is withheld if we put forth the power granted us to obtain it.

The atmosphere surrounds us, but the lungs must open and expand to

receive it. The food is before us, but the mouth must open, and the

hands convey it thither, or it is of no service. Light flows from the

sun, but the eye must open to enjoy it. And so with the blessings which

we enjoy in the Union; we must use our active powers to profit by them;

and at this crisis we must not only act to enjoy them, but must strain

every nerve to preserve them. The nation is now on its trial, to be

tested, as to whether it adequately values the divine gift of the Union.

If it does thus value it, it will use diligently and carefully all the

abundant resources which lie around it and within it, like an

atmosphere--wealth, population, energy, intelligence, mechanical

ingenuity, scientific skill, and all the needed _materièl_ of warfare.

It is rich in all this, far more so than the South. All this, Providence

lays at the feet of the nation. It can do no more. The nation, as one

man, must now do _its_ part, or continue to do as it has done; it must

coöperate, must put forth a determined _will_--a will tenfold more

resolute, more fixed and immovable to preserve the Union, than is that

of its enemies to destroy it. This will cannot exist without a clear,

intellectual appreciation of the worth of the Union; of its value as an

agent, which, if rightly employed, will continue to develop increasing

power to humanize and Christianize men, and to elevate, to broaden, and

intensify human life and happiness more than any form of political

institution that the world has ever witnessed.

Full of this conviction, we shall then, individually and collectively,

be resolved that this noble continent, stretching three thousand miles

from ocean to ocean, and opened like a new world to man, just at an

epoch when religious and political liberty, starting into life in

Europe, might be transplanted into this virgin soil, where thus far they

have developed into this fair republic--we shall then be resolved that

this broad, rich territory shall be forever devoted

To man's development--not to his

debasement.

To liberty and free order--not despotism

and forced order.

To an ever-advancing civilization--not

to a retrograding barbarism.

To popular self-government--not to

the rule of a slave-holding oligarchy.

To religion, education, and morality--not

to irreligion, ignorance, and

licentiousness.

To educated and dignified labor--not

to brutalized labor under the lash.

To individual independence and

equal rights--not to individual

subjugation to caste.

To peace--and not to border wars between

conflicting States.

To unity, harmony, and national

strength--not to disunity, civil discord,

and subjection to foreign

powers.

All these blessings on the one hand are guaranteed in the Union, and

only there--all their opposite horrors are involved as inevitably and

certainly in the Southern lunacy, resting on slavery and secession as

its corner stones! Madness most unparalleled!

We will look now at a singular and beautiful fact--for fact it is,

account for it as we may. It is this: The course of civilization upon

this globe has apparently followed the course of the sun. Sunlight and

warmth travel from east to west. The moral and intellectual illumination

of the nations has travelled the same route. From central or farther

Asia, it goes to Assyria, and successively to Egypt, to Greece--thence

to Italy and Rome--then to western Europe, England, France, Spain. From

thence it leaps the Atlantic. The Bible, church, and school house, with

the Pilgrims and other colonies, scatter the primeval darkness and

savagism from the Atlantic coast. Still 'westward the march of empire

takes its way' to the Alleghanies, to the Mississippi; thence, by

another leap, across two thousand miles of continent, where it sparkles

with a golden lustre on the queenly California, enthroned upon the

far-off Pacific shore (yet by the miraculous telegraph within whispering

distance). There the newest and highest civilization comes face to face

with the oldest on the earth--hoary with ages; greets it in China across

the wide Pacific, and the circle of the globe is joined.

Now the civilization inaugurated upon our continent, in these United

States, may be said to be, indeed is, the result of all that have

preceded it. It combines somewhat of the elements of all the

civilizations that have been strung along the earth's eastern

semi-circumference, besides others, peculiar to itself. And why should

it not be considered as the bud and opening flower growing out of the

summit of all the past, and for which the long ages have made toilsome

preparation. Long time does it take for stem and leaves to unfold, but

in the end comes the flower, and then the fruit. But here, in this bud

of splendid promise, the American Union, lurks the foul worm of slavery,

threatening to blast the fondest hopes of mankind by destroying this

glorious augury of a mature civilization, where man shall develop into

the full earthly stature of a being created in the divine image. Shall

it be? Not if the North is faithful to God, to mankind, and to itself.

Let us take courage. The westward-travelling sunbeams have ever to

oppose the western darkness, but they conquer always. So American

civilization, also, has its darkness and barbaric elements to battle

with, but they too, God willing, shall vanish before it.

Why have we been forced into this desperate, unexpected conflict? One

reason may possibly be, that by it, we may be aroused to a living sense

of the great value of our inheritance, the Union, when threatened with

its loss. 'Blessings brighten as they take their flight.' Benefit's

daily enjoyed, with hardly a care or effort on our part, are not prized

as they should be. When, however, we are threatened with their loss, we

awaken from indifference. A new sense of their value springs up, and a

severe contest for their preservation stamps their true worth indelibly

on the heart. Threaten to cut off the air a man breathes, the food and

drink that sustains him, and you rouse all his energies into new life;

and he now prizes these common but unthought-of blessings as he never

did before. And so it will be one effect of this contest, to arouse us

as a nation to see clearly our vantage ground in the world's progress,

and to stir us up as individuals, to lead higher and truer lives, each

for his own and for his country's sake. And when this Southern insane

wickedness is quelled, and the great American nation can rest and

breathe freely once more, it will then calmly ponder the past, and

survey the future. In the degree of its religion and virtue, and next of

its intelligence and energy, it will, in the course of time, clearly

perceive and wisely inaugurate a new social and industrial life, which

will be as far in advance of the present system of free labor as the

latter is itself in advance of slavery. What that is, cannot here be

stated. It will, however, be but the inevitable result of agencies and

influences now at work, and only interrupted and endangered by this

pro-slavery rebellion.

With these remarks, we enter upon our topic: 'Why is the Union

priceless?'

* * * * *

There are two reasons, among others, why it is so, upon which we shall

dwell at some length.

The first is involved in the great fact that such is man's nature as

bestowed by the Creator, that only in the society of his fellows can

that nature be developed into all its grandeur, and thus bestow and

receive the utmost amount of happiness. The old adage, 'the more, the

merrier,' might be truly amplified in many ways. When numbers are

engaged in common pursuits, common interests, common views, common

joys--each one zealous, earnest, life-giving and life-receiving--the

happiness of the whole flows in upon each, and multiplies it a

thousandfold.

Now if we look at history, keeping in mind the fact that the sole end of

the Creator is the happiness of his creatures, and that this happiness

is multiplied in proportion to the number of those who can be brought

into accord and concert of action (and action, too, as diversified as

possible)--looking at history, we say, under the light of this fact, it

would seem as if Providence, in the course of human events, was in the

continual effort, so to speak, to bring mankind into ever closer, more

harmonious, and more multiplied and diverse relations; ever striving to

mass the human race more and more into larger and larger communities;

the different portions of which should still retain all the freedom they

were prepared for, or needed to enjoy, while at the same time, they were

in close but free membership with the common body and its central head.

We say that this seems to be the aim of Providence; while on the other

hand, there is just as evidently to be seen the working of an opposing

force, viz., human selfishness, human ignorance, individual ambition,

ever seeking its own at the expense of others. A selfish, energetic,

and ignorant spirit of individualism (as distinguished from an

enlightened, large-minded, _social_ individualism, which only becomes

more marked and healthily developed by wide social intercourse), has in

all ages tended to split up society into smaller parts, animated by

mutual rivalry, jealousy, and hostility. When these antagonisms have

been carried to a certain length the evil cures itself, by the rise of a

despotism, which, as the instrument in the hands of Providence, brings

all these clashing communities under a strong government, that binds

them over, as it were, to keep the peace. By this, leisure and

opportunity are given for the cultivation of the arts, the sciences, and

industries, which tend to humanize men, and lessen the restless war

spirit.

Thus the massing of many petty and warring tribes of barbarians into one

large nation, and under a strong despotic monarchy, without which they

could neither have been brought together nor kept together, is so much

gained for human progress.

After this has continued for a time, when certain changes, certain

ameliorations have been effected in the intellectual, social, and moral

character of the nation, from the cultivation of the arts of peace, it

is then allowed to be broken up, as the period may have arrived for the

infusion of new elements and agencies of social progress which shall

place men upon a higher plane of national existence. It falls to pieces

through its own corruption and degeneracy, or by the invasion of

stronger neighbors. It is swallowed up by the destroying force, and its

people, its institutions, its ideas, its arts and sciences, its customs,

laws, modes of life, or whatever else it may have elaborated, become

mingled with those of surrounding nations, and a new political and

social structure, formed out of the old and the new elements recombined

anew and useless matter eliminated--stands forth in history; a structure

tending still more than previous conditions to raise men in the scale of

civilization--to bring them into closer relations--to enlarge and

multiply their ideas--to quicken their moral and social impulses--to rub

off the harsh angles of a selfish, narrow-minded individualism, and, in

a word, to advance them yet more toward that degree of virtue and

intelligence which is absolutely indispensable to the union of large

masses of men into a nation, whose political system shall at once unite

the utmost freedom for each individual with the most perfect general

order also.

For the establishment of such a government we think the world has been

carried through a long educational process; for in such a government,

men will find the greatest earthly happiness, and also the greatest

facilities and inducements to live in such a way as shall secure the

happiness that lies beyond. And we think that the course of events in

history will show that such a method as that described has been pursued

by Providence, gathering men from the isolation and warfare of petty and

independent tribes, into large despotisms, where the lower, rude, and

selfish passions of wild men being held in restraint, some opportunity

is given for peaceful pursuits and the development of a higher range of

mental qualities--breaking these despotisms up again at certain periods,

and massing their constituent elements into larger or differently

constituted governments, with new agencies of progress added, according

as human mental conditions and needs required.

That those great ancient monarchies, as the Assyrian, Persian, etc., had

this effect, cannot well be doubted. But in the rise and fall of the

great Roman empire, this appears very plainly. How many nations and

small communities--far and near--isolated, independent, and more or less

engaged in wars among themselves or in the constant apprehension of

it--how many, we say, of such communities were gathered under the broad

wings of the Roman eagle! From Spain and England on the west, to the

borders of India on the east--from the Baltic on the north, to the

deserts of Africa on the south--all were brought under the Roman sway;

were brought under a common tranquillity (such as it was), under a

common government, common laws, a common civilization more or less. All

these countries were raised from a lower to a higher condition by their

subjection to Roman domination. How far superior in England was the

Roman civilization, its laws, manners, institutions, to the rude

Anglican and Saxon life!

Rome thus established a grand humanizing unity over all these different

regions, which otherwise had remained divided, hostile, or isolated from

each other.

In the next place, through the instrumentality of this Roman unity,

Christianity was established with comparative ease over the greater part

of the then known world. This would perhaps have been very difficult if

not impossible had these regions been occupied by a multitude of

independent, and most likely, warring sovereignties.

Christianity thus widely planted, and firmly rooted upon this Roman

civilization and by means of it, and this civilization, now perfected as

far as it was capable of being, or standing in the way of further human

progress, the empire fell to pieces, to make room for a new order of

things, in which Christianity, the remains of Roman civilization, and

the peculiar features of northern barbarian life, were the ingredients.

These elements, after numberless combinations, dissolutions, and

reconstructions, have resulted in the civilization of modern Europe. The

progress toward this civilization has everywhere exhibited a constant

tendency to larger and larger national unities--parts coalescing into

wholes, and these into yet larger units. Witness the reduction of the

number of German principalities, from one hundred or more to forty in

the present day--the movement now on foot in Germany for a federal union

among these forty--also the new Italian nationality. These we mention

but incidentally, not intending here to trace the steps of this advance.

This progress toward unity has also been accompanied with a constant

though slow advance in the principles of religious and political

freedom.

But now, out of this European civilization, the result itself of the

breaking up of the Roman semi-pagan, semi-Christian empire, and the

multiplied interminglings, changes, and reconstructions of the

Roman, the ecclesiastical, and northern barbarian elements--out

of this European civilization, with its movements toward large

nationalities--its progress toward religious and political freedom, and

toward the acknowledgment and recognition of human rights; the

substitution of constitutional monarchies for absolute, and the creation

of representative bodies from the people as part of the government--out

of all this, there springs as the fruit of all the long turmoil, the

wars, the blood and treasure, the groans and tears, the martyrdoms of

countless human lives, that during these long ages have, apparently in

vain, been offered up in the cause of liberty, of order, of national

peace, unity and freedom, of the right of man to the full and legitimate

use of all his God-given faculties--there springs, we say, as the fruit,

the result of all this suffering, our glorious American republic! our

sacred--yes, our sacred Union! The fairest home that man has ever raised

for man! To lay violent hands on which, should be deemed the blackest,

most unpardonable sacrilege. It is the actualization of a dazzling

vision, that may have often glowed in the imagination of many a patriot

and statesman of olden times--which he may have vainly struggled to

realize in his own age and nation, and died at last, heart-broken, amid

the carnage of civil strife.

Our republic, we repeat, is the fruit of European struggles. If Europe

had not passed through what she has, the United States would never have

arisen. The principles of religious and political liberty sprang to

birth in Europe, but there they have been of tardy growth, because

surrounded and opposed by habits and institutions of early ages. They

needed transplantation to a new and unoccupied soil, where they could

enjoy the free air and sunshine, and not be overshadowed by anything

else.

Here then we have our American civilization, formed out of what was good

in European, combined with much else that has had its origin upon our

own shores--the result of free principles allowed _almost_ unobstructed

play.

Let us survey the many elements of unity which we possess.

First in large measure, a common origin, viz., from England--that

country of Europe farthest advanced of any other in religion, in

politics, in freedom, and in science and industry.

Next, a common birth, as it were, in the form of numerous colonies, from

the mother country; planted almost simultaneously, it may be said;

possessed of common charters, which differed but slightly--containing

systems of colonial administration, full of the spirit of popular rights

and representation.

Next, a common language, a common literature, a common religion, and

common interests, that should bind us together against all foes.

Lastly, a common territory, washed by the two remote oceans--a

territory, in the present advanced state of science and of improved

modes of travel and of communication, without any material dividing

lines or barriers; but having, on the contrary, an immense river in the

centre, stretching its arms a thousand miles on either side, as if on

purpose to keep the vast region forever one and united.

Never was the birth of a nation so full of promise--so full of all the

elements of a prosperous growth. If any one event can be said to be,

more than another, under the divine guidance, then, all the

circumstances attending the colonization of these shores and the

formation of this Union, have been most minutely and marvellously

providential. 'Here at last,' we may conceive some superior being to

exclaim, who from his higher sphere has watched with deep sympathy the

weary earth-journey of the human race, 'here at last, after these long

ages of discipline and suffering, has a long desired goal been reached.

Here a portion of the human family, having attained to such a degree of

virtue and intelligence, combined with skill in political arrangements,

and a commensurate knowledge of art, and science, and industrial

pursuits--may be intrusted with liberty proportioned to their moral and

intellectual advancement. Here they shall begin to live unitedly, more

and more in accordance with the divine intentions than man has ever yet

done. Millions on millions shall here be banded together into one vast,

free, yet orderly community, where each individual shall enjoy all the

liberty to which he is entitled by his moral character, and possess all

possible facilities for the full and healthy development of his entire

nature. Here, under the combined influence of true religion,

intelligence, and freedom--and these must go hand in hand--the millions

composing this great nation must become ever more and more united,

prosperous, and happy.

* * * * *

This then, is the first reason why the Union is priceless--because in

this Union, Providence appears to have reached an end, a goal, to which

it has long been in the effort to conduct the human race, viz., the

bringing a larger and more rapidly increasing population into a more

free, united, and happy life, one more in accordance with human wants,

and with the measureless divine benevolence, than has ever yet been

brought about in the annals of mankind.

* * * * *

We proceed now to consider the second reason why the Union is priceless.

This reason lies in the _method_ of the organization of this Government.

What is this plan or method?

We reply that the immense value of the Union rests also upon the

incontrovertible fact (perhaps not widely suspected, but evident enough

when looked for) that the system of government of these United States,

the mode in which the smaller and larger communities are combined into

the great whole, together with the working of all in concert, _comes the

nearest of any other political structure to the Creator's method of

combining parts into wholes throughout the universe_.

Wherever we behold a specimen of the divine creative skill, whether in

the mineral, vegetable, animal, or human kingdoms; whether it be a

crystal, a tree, a bird, or beast, a man, or a solar system, in all

these we observe one universal method of grouping, common to all

conditions. This method is that of grouping parts around centres, and

several of such groups around larger centres, upward and onward

indefinitely; while in living beings, according to their complexity,

each individual part, and each individual group of parts with its

centre, _is left free to move within its own sphere, yet at the same

time is harmonized with the movements of its neighbors through the

medium of the common centre_.

Every such work of the Creator is an _E pluribus unum_, a one out of

many--a unit composed of many diversified parts, exhibiting a marvellous

unity, with an equally wonderful variety. Look at yonder tree, examine

its parts, leaves, twigs, branches, trunk, all endowed with a common

life. Yet each little individual leaf lives and moves freely upon its

centre or twig, which is a common centre for many leaves. Many little

twigs in their turn, each free to move by itself within a certain limit,

are ranged along their common centre, a branch. Many branches cluster

around a large one, and all the largest branches in their turn cluster

around the common trunk, or great centre supporting the whole fabric.

Each leaf and twig and branch contributes its share to the life of the

whole tree, and is in turn supported by the general life and circulating

sap.

All this is repeated with far greater fulness and complexity in the

living animal, or in the human body. How numerous are the parts

composing a single organ! How many organs go to one system, how many

systems, bony, muscular, fibrous, circulatory, nervous, combine to make

up the entire body! Then again, all the members of the body move,

_within a certain limit_, in perfect independence of all the rest. The

finger can move without the hand, the hand can move without the arm, the

forearm without the upper arm, the entire arm without any other limb;

and yet all the parts of one limb, and all the limbs together, are

harmonized in action by the central brain.

So also in the solar system. The moons move around the planets; the

planets around the sun; our group of suns around their magnetic axis,

the milky way; yet each of these heavenly bodies rolls freely in its own

orbit. In all these instances we have the great problem solved, of

reconciling liberty with order, liberty of the individual parts with

perfect order in the whole.

As far then as human governments imitate this divine method of

organization seen in created objects, so far do they solve this problem

in the sphere of political arrangements, making due allowance of course

for the disturbing influence acting in man's own mental constitution, by

reason of his fall from the innocence and holiness in which he was

created. It is just because this divine and universal method has been

unconsciously followed by the good and wise and immortal framers of the

national Constitution, and also because the morality and intelligence of

the people were adapted to this wise political structure, that the

American nation has prospered as it has, and become the envy of the

world.

Is it asked in what consists this resemblance? We reply that it is in

the grouping of

Individuals into townships;

Of the townships into counties;

Of the counties into States;

Of the States into the national Union, with a central government.

The township acts in township affairs through its officers, who

collectively compose its centre, and harmonize the actions of all the

individuals of the township in all matters which concern that individual

township. Through their officers, the people of the township act freely

together within the lawful sphere of the township. The common wants of

the township are attended to by the people through their officers, who

compose the centre around which all township action revolves.

A number of townships, having common wants, are erected into a county.

The county officers and county court form the harmonizing centre of this

larger organization.

A number of counties, having common wants, are erected into a State,

with a State government. This is the harmonizing centre, concentrating

the efforts of as many counties, townships, and individuals as may be

requisite to accomplish an object in any portion of the State, or in the

whole of it. At ten days' notice by its Governor, Pennsylvania sent near

one hundred thousand men into the field. Without political organization

this could never have been effected. What a power is here exhibited, and

yet all emanating directly from the people, without coercion of any

kind, beyond respect for their own-made laws! The spectacle is truly

grand.

Finally, the States altogether have common wants, which only a central,

national government can supply. (Oh the deep wickedness or trebly

intensified insanity of secession! Language fails to express the utter

madness of the rebel leaders: the recklessness of a suicide is nothing

in comparison; for here are eight millions of men intent upon their own

destruction; fighting the North like fiends, because it would rescue

them from themselves, and save both North and South from a common abyss

of ruin!) The national government alone is strong at home and respected

abroad. It alone can concentrate the energies and resources of

thirty-four States, and of thirty-one millions of people, into any one

or many modes of activity which the nation may judge best for its own

interest. It is thus resistless. No single foreign power in the world

nor any probable or possible alliance of foreign powers could hope to

effect anything, with an army of three or four millions of soldiers that

the entire republic could raise and keep in the field. Thus in union is

our strength at home, for it gives the whole power and resources of the

nation to works of common utility and necessity. Such are the

maintenance of the army and navy, the building and support of forts,

lighthouses, and customhouses, collection of the revenue, the keeping

rivers and harbors navigable, the establishment of a general post

office, and its countless ramifying branches, constructing immense

public works, like the Pacific railroad, providing for extensive coast

surveys, and the like. Then in a different department, harmonizing the

action of States by national laws, by the Supreme Court, and by the

national courts in each State, dispensing an even justice throughout the

entire Union, by deciding appeals from State and county courts. Each

State enjoys the benefits of these national functions, with the least

possible cost to itself; and were there no national government, each

State would have to provide itself with all these things, or what

proportion of them it required, at a very heavy outlay of its own more

limited resources, and would be obliged to double, perhaps quadruple its

taxes. Each State requires the means of its own defence; and as they

would all be independent sovereignties, each would be compelled, like

the European nations, to keep its own standing army, and watch its

neighbors closely, and be ready to bristle up on the least sign of

aggression on their part. The soldiers of each standing army would be,

as in Europe, so much power withdrawn from productive industry, kept in

idleness, and supported by those who were left free to labor. Each State

requires a postal system; those on the seaboard require tariffs, a navy,

etc., and in the absence of a national government we can hardly form an

idea of the endless disputes that would ensue from these and a thousand

other sources. For this reason the old federation of the States was an

experience of inexpressible value. It settled forever, in the minds of

all communities who are governed by cool common sense and not mad

passion, the utter impracticability (for efficient coöperation, and

peaceful union) of a mere league or confederacy among sovereign and

independent States. While the seven years' war of independence lasted,

it managed to hold the States together; but when peace was restored the

evils of the league were so glaring, and the dangers in the future so

imminent, that the good sense of the people saved the young nation in

time, by sheltering it under that broad, strong roof, the present

national Constitution. Thus the individual States legislate and act for

themselves in all that concerns themselves alone. But in that which

concerns themselves in connection and in common with other States, and

where, if each State were absolutely independent, such State action

would come into conflict with the wants or rights of other States, and

also be a great cost to the single State--all such common and general

matters are accomplished with uniformity and harmony by all the States

collectively through the general or central government.

But further.--This central government itself, like the nation which it

serves, is a compound body; a unit composed of parts, each of which in

its own sphere is independent, yet beyond that sphere is limited by the

functions of the other parts. This government is a _triple_ compound,

and consists of the legislative, the judicial, and the executive

departments.

The legislative, or Congress, declares the will of the nation.

The judicial or judging department decides and declares the proper ways

and means, the how, the when, the persons and conditions, according to

which this national will is to be carried out, and--the executive

department is the arm and hand that does the carrying out; that performs

by its proclamations and by its civil and military agents, what the

Congress and judicial departments have willed and constitutionally

decided shall be done.

Thus is perceived a beautiful analogy between these three departments

acting separately and yet in concert--and the will, the intellect, and

the bodily powers of the individual man. A man's will is very different

and distinct from his intellect or reasoning faculty; and both will and

intellect are widely distinct from the bodily powers. Not only are these

three distinct and totally different elements in man's nature, but only

in the degree that they remain distinct, and that they are duly balanced

against each other, and that they all act in concert--only in this

degree is the life of the individual self-poised, harmonious, and free.

And precisely the same is true of these three functions of government.

It is essential to a free republican state that these functions should

remain distinct, and administered by different bodies. When they are all

merged into each other, and rested in a single individual or a single

body of individuals, the government is then a despotism. The very

essence of what we understand by despotism, is this massing, this fusing

together of elements that can properly and justly live and act _only_

when each is at liberty, in freedom to be itself, in order that it may

perform its own, its peculiar and appropriate function, in harmonious

connection with others performing theirs. Despotism is the binding,

compressing, suffocating of individual life; first of the three

functions of government, which should always be kept separate, and next,

as a natural and inevitable consequence, of those who come under that

solidified administration. The nation governed by a despotism must be

moulded after the same pattern; it must necessarily have the variety and

freedom of its many constituent parts destroyed, and be massed and

melted together into a homogeneous and indiscriminate whole; only

permeated in all directions by the channels conveying the will of the

despotic head.

Thus the province of free government is not to be conceived of as that

of restraining, repressing, punishing. This is only its negative

function. Its positive office is the very opposite, and is truly a most

exalted one. And this is, to remove every barrier to the freest outflow

of human energies. It is to give an open field and the widest scope for

the play of every human faculty consistent with right. Government does

this, by establishing order among multitudes teeming with life and

activity--each seeking, in his own way, the broadest vent for his

God-given energies. These human energies are given to men for the very

purpose that they may flow forth in a thousand modes of activity and

industry, and that, thus, men may mutually impart an exalted happiness

upon each other. These energies are to be repressed only when they are

wrong, when they take a wrong direction, when they conflict with the

welfare of the community. When these energies, these human impulses to

act, are right, when they aim at useful results, then they must have

every facility, every possible channel opened to their outflow. And the

very first and most essential condition of this free outflow of life

among multitudes is, that there be order among them--that there be some

system, some methodical arrangement whereby concert and unity of action

may be effected among this diversified life. Without this order

--without systems or common methods of action in the thousand affairs

which concern every community, it is evident that there must be

_dis_order, confusion, and clashing. The activity of each individual,

and of each class of individuals, will come into collision, and be

repressed by the like activity of others. It is utterly impossible, in a

community where there is no order, no mutually understood arrangement of

relations, duties, and pursuits; in other words, where there is no

government; it is impossible, under such conditions, for individuals, if

even of the best intentions, to live and do as they wish. For many wills

must come into conflict, unless they can be harmonized, unless they have

a mutual understanding and consent among each other that there shall be

common and well-defined methods of procedure, under the countless

circumstances in which men _must_ act together, or not act at all.

Now, it is the true function of government to establish, these common or

general modes of procedure, termed laws, among masses, and to punish

departures from them. Government is thus the great social harmonizer of

these otherwise necessarily conflicting and mutually interfering human

energies.

Government coördinates, harmonizes, concentrates the efforts of

multitudes. It does this by establishing and maintaining _order_, an

orderly arrangement of human activities--arrangements, methods of

procedure, which are adapted to the wants of the community, and _into_

which men's activities flow freely and spontaneously, and without

compulsion (except in the case of violators of law), because of their

adaptation to the public wants.

But now, what constitutes order? What is its essential nature?

The answer is, that order is the harmonious relation of parts in a

whole; and parts can have no orderly, that is, symmetrical and

harmonious, relation to each other, except through their relation to a

common centre.

Order is the _sub_ordination of things, of things lower to something

that is higher; and _sub_ordination is the ordination or ordering of

parts _under_ something that is above--something to which the rest must

_con_form, that is, must form themselves or be formed _with_ it, in

harmony with it, if order is to result.

This something is thus, of course, that which is central--the chief

element in the group; that which is the most prominent feature, and

which gives character to all subordinate parts.

It is thus clearly evident that the very essence of government, of

order, of harmony, of subordination, is the grouping of individual parts

around centres; of these compound units as larger individuals, around

some higher centre again, and so on, until a limit is prescribed by the

very nature of the thing thus organized into an ascending series of

compounds.

This method of grouping and organizing parts into wholes, is, as we have

already seen, the divine method; and, of course, being such, as has also

been said, it is seen in every created object--in minerals, plants,

animals, and in the systems of suns and planets.

It is the method of man's bodily organization, and much more, if

possible, is it the method of his mental organization. Man's mind

consists of powers of affection and thought. His affections, loves,

desires, or whatever they may be termed, all group themselves around

some leading motive, some ruling passion, which is central for a part or

the whole of a lifetime. All minor motives and ends of action are

subordinate, and only subservient as a means to satisfy the central,

dominant passion. They revolve around it, like satellites around their

primary, or like planets around their sun.

His thoughts, likewise--the method of his intellectual operations, obey

the same law. In every subject which he investigates, he marshals a

multitude of facts around central principles or conclusions. He shuts

them up under a general, chief, leading fact or law. A number of

conclusions, again, are marshalled around one still more general and

comprehensive, and thus he mounts up into the highest and most universal

principles. All the knowledge stored away in his mind is thus organized,

almost without his consciousness, into groups of lower and higher facts

and details, ranged under or around their central principles.

The closer and more symmetrical is this grouping of particulars and

generals in the intellect, or, rather, the greater the power thus to

arrange them, the more logical and compactly reasoning is that mind. The

looser and less connected is this grouping, the less logical is the

mind; and when the proper connection fails to be made between

particulars and generals, between facts and their principles, or between

parts and their centre, then the mind is in an idiotic or insane

condition.

Now, man's mental movements, being thus themselves obedient to this

great order-evolving method, then, of course, when he applies his

faculties to investigate the objects and phenomena of the outer world,

he classifies, arranges, and disposes them strictly after the same

method, because he cannot help doing so. The naturalist studies

minerals, plants, animals--and each kingdom, at his bidding, marshals

itself into order before him. Each resolves its otherwise confused

hosts into groups and series of groups, each with its own centre and

leading type. The animal kingdom has its sub-kingdoms, classes, orders,

families, and species. Botanists speak of divisions, classes, orders,

genera, and species, &c., species being the first assemblage of

individuals.

It is, therefore, seen that, by the very necessity of the case, when men

themselves are to be massed into communities and nations, they come

inevitably under the same universal method of organization. Whether the

government be free, or whether it be despotic, it must, in either case,

be organized, and organized according to this universal method. It must

consist of parts with their centres, compounded into wholes, and of

these compound units formed into still larger ones; until the entire

nation, as a grand whole, revolves upon a central pivot, or national

government.

But here there presents itself a vast distinction between despotic and

free governments--a distinction which arises out of the different

relations sustained, in these respective modes of administration,

between the government and the people--between the centre and the

subordinate parts. What is this difference?

If we look around through nature, we shall find that all organized

beings, that is, beings composed of different parts or organs, all

aiding, in their several ways, to the performance of a common function,

or a number of harmonized functions--in such an organized structure,

whether it be a plant, an animal, the human body, or even the globe

itself, we shall find two reciprocal movements--one from the centre,

outward, and another from without, inward, or toward the centre; and

further, that the integrity of the life of the individual depends upon

the harmonious relation or balance between these two opposite movements.

The individual man, for instance, is a centre of active energies that

are ever radiating from himself toward men and things around him; and he

receives from them, in return, countless impressions and various

materials for supporting his own life. What is thus true of the man

himself, is also true of the organs and systems of organs of which his

body is composed. The nervous system exhibits nerves with double

strands; one set (the motor fibres) conveying nervous force from the

centre as motor power to the limbs; the other, conveying sensations _to_

the centre, from without.

The heart, again, the centre of the circulating system, sends forth its

crimson tide to the farthest circumference, and receives it back as

venous blood--to send it forth afresh when purified in the lungs.

The plant has its ascending and descending sap; it drinks in the air and

sunshine, and gives these forth again in fragrance and fruit. The very

globe receives its life from the sun--and radiates back, forces into

space.

Human governments--human political and social organizations, are no

exceptions to this general law. Every government, even the most

despotic, while it rules a nation with a rod of iron, depends for its

life upon the people whom it oppresses. While the central head radiates

its despotic will through its pliant subordinates, down through all

ranks and classes of the community, it receives from them the means of

its own preservation.

A free government likewise radiates authority from the central head, and

also depends for its life on the people whom it governs. What is the

point of difference between them?

It is simply this:

There are two elements of power in a nation.

One is _moral_, viz., the free-will and consent of the people.

The other is _physical_, viz., military service, and revenue from

taxation.

The free consent of the people is the _soul_ of the national strength.

The treasure and the armies which they furnish, constitute the _body_.

For the highest efficiency, soul and body must act as one, whether in

the individual or in the collective man. They must not be separated.

Hence the perfect right of men who would be free to refuse to be taxed

by government without being represented--without having a voice in its

management. The _material_ support must not be given without the

_moral_--that is one form of slavery.

But of these two elements of national strength, a despotism, a

government of force, possesses and commands only the physical or

material, viz., military service and revenue. It controls only the

_body_ of the national powers. Not resting upon the broad basis of the

free choice and consent of the people, it is like a master who can force

the body of another to do his bidding, while the spirit is in concealed

rebellion. Such a government, in proportion as it severs this national

soul from the body, is weak through constant liability to overthrow,

from any chance failure of its material props.

A free government, on the other hand, possesses both the elements of

strength. It rests upon the free will and affection of the people, as

well as upon the abundant material support which they must ever yield to

a government of their own creation, and which exists solely for their

own use and benefit. Such a government is capable and strong in exact

proportion to the virtue and intelligence of the masses from whom it

emanates.

Thus it is seen that a despotism differs from a free government as to

the reciprocal action that takes place between the people and the

government. In a despotism, all authority flows only in one direction,

viz., from the central head down to the different ranks of subordinate

officers, and through these numerous channels it reaches all classes of

the people. But there is no returning stream of authority from the

people to the government, from the parts to the centre. The only return

flow is that of military service and revenue.

But a free government returns to the people all that it receives from

them. From the masses there converges, through a thousand channels, to

the central government, both the elements of national strength, viz.,

authority to act, and the means of carrying out this authority, that is,

money and military service--the body, of which the popular will and

authority is the soul. The people declare their will that such and such

individuals shall be clothed with, and represent their united power, and

act for them in this representative capacity. The persons thus chosen,

and who constitute the government or central head, with its subordinate

agencies, declare from this central position of authority with which

they have been invested by the people, that such and such things are

necessary for the welfare and orderly activity of the people, and in the

name, and with the coöperation of the people, they _will_ to carry these

measures out.

Thus life, energy, power, from the people, flow from all points to the

government, to the centre; and from the government it flows back again

to the people as _order_, as the force that arranges, methodizes,

harmonizes, and regulates the outflow of the popular energies in all the

departments of human activity. It clears the channels of national

industry of all obstacles. By its legislative, judicial, and executive

functions, it establishes, on the one hand, common methods of action

among multitudes having common interests and aims, and thus obviates

clashing and confusion; and, on the other, it punishes those who would

interfere with and obstruct or destroy this order.

The government is the concentrated will and intelligence of the people,

directed to the wise guidance of the national life--directed to the

harmonizing of the diversified activity and industry of the nation, to

the opening of all possible channels for that activity, and to the

removal of everything that would obstruct and counteract the nation's

utmost development and progress.

In this way, a free government exhibits, as far as human imperfection

admits, the union of the two great principles, _liberty_ and _order_.

The people are free to think, talk, write, and act as they see fit; but

since there can be no liberty, but only license, or lawlessness, without

order--without beneficent methods, symmetrical forms and arrangements,

_in which_ that liberty can be enjoyed by individuals and communities,

without conflicting with other individuals and communities, parts of the

same free whole--therefore government is created by the people to

prescribe and maintain this order, essential to this common liberty; an

order which is the _form_, or _forms_, under which both individuals and

communities shall act, singly or in concert, in the countless relations

in which the members of the same community or nation come into contact

with each other.

Now, in the United States, the chart of this orderly and symmetrical

network of political arrangements for the free movement among each other

of the individuals in the township, of the townships in the county, of

the counties in the State, and of the States in the Union--and within

the protecting lines of which political arrangements, the people are

enabled to pursue their industrial avocations without mutual

interference and collision, and to attend in peace and security to all

the employments that tend to elevate, refine, and freely develop the

individual man (for government is only and solely a _means_ to this

great end)--the chart, we say, of all these orderly arrangements, is our

immortal national Constitution, together with the State constitutions

that cluster around it, as their centre, axis, and support.

Through each State constitution, the national and central one sends down

an iron arm, clasping them all by a firm bond to itself and to each

other. And in each, the grasp of this arm is riveted and double riveted,

above and below, by these two comprehensive, unmistakable articles,

without which the others had else been valueless; and for which the

framers of this great instrument are entitled to our lasting gratitude

and admiration.

The articles are these, viz.: Art. 6th, sec. 2d: 'This Constitution, and

the laws of the United States which shall be made in pursuance thereof

... _shall be the supreme law of the land_ ... anything in the

constitution or laws of any State to the contrary notwithstanding.'

And art. 4th, sec. 4th: 'The United States shall _guarantee_ to every

State in the Union a _republican_ form of government, and shall protect

each of them against invasion....'

The first of these admits of no separation or secession. The second

preserves everywhere that form of government under which alone the

fullest political freedom can be enjoyed. In fighting, then, for the

Constitution, we fight for an undivided Union on the one hand, and, on

the other, for a Union that guarantees to each member of it that form of

government which secures the greatest liberty to those who live under

it. May we not, we say again, rest in an all but certain hope that the

Divine Being will see fit to preserve His own work? For such, though

accomplished through human agency, we feel constrained to believe, have

been this Union and its remarkable constitution.

We have regarded the Union as the culmination of a long series of

endeavors, so to call them, on the part of Providence, to bring men from

a social condition characterized by the multiplicity, diversity,

separation, antagonism, and hostility of independent, warring, petty

states, into that larger, higher form of political and social life, that

shall combine in itself the three conditions of unity--variety in unity,

and of the utmost liberty with order--as the soul and life of the

political body. And that it has also been the aim of Providence, in the

formation of this Union, to accomplish the above object on as large a

scale as possible, in the present moral and intellectual condition of

the race.

Can we be far wrong in such a view? Think of our republic embracing in

its wide extent, one, two, three, or more hundred millions of human

beings, all in political union, enjoying the largest liberty possible in

the present life, as well as the ever-increasing influence and light of

religion, science, and education, giving augmented power to preserve and

rightly use that liberty. Extent of territory in the present age, is no

bar to the union of very distant regions. When the telegraph, that

modern miracle, brings the shores of the Pacific within three hours'

time of the Atlantic seaboard--when railroads contract States into

counties, and counties into the dimensions of an average farm, as to the

time taken to traverse them--when _spaces_ are thus brought into the

closest union, it is but the counterpart and prophecy of the close moral

and industrial union of the people who inhabit the spaces. When slavery,

that relic of barbarism, that demon of darkness and discord, is

destroyed, we can conceive of nothing that shall possess like power to

sunder one section of the Union from another--of nothing that shall not

be within the power of the people to settle by rational discussion or

amicable arbitration. No! Slavery once destroyed, an unimagined Future

dawns upon the republic. The Southern rebellion, and the _utterly

unavoidable_ civil war thence arising--as these are the two

instrumentalities by which slavery will be cut clean away from the

vitals of the nation, and the Union left untrammelled, to follow its

great destiny--these twin events, we say, will, in after ages, be looked

back upon as blessings in disguise--as the knife of the surgeon, that

gives the patient a new lease of a long, prosperous, and happy life.

* * * * *

We have contemplated the Union, and seen something of its matchless

symmetry, beauty, and indefinite capabilities, ever unfolding, to

promote human welfare, through its unity with variety, its liberty with

order, its freedom of action of each part in its own sphere, coëxisting

with the harmonious working of all together as one grand whole--all of

which arises, as was said, from the unconscious modelling (on the part

of its authors) of our political structure upon the Divine and universal

plan of organization in mineral, in plant, in animal, in the planetary

systems, and, above all, in man himself, body and mind.

We saw that the method of this organization was the grouping of

individual parts into wholes around a centre; of many such compound

units around a yet higher centre, and so on, indefinitely, onward and

upward. That by such an organization, individual freedom was secured to

each part, within a certain limit, wide enough for all its wants, and

yet perfectly subordinated to the freedom and order of all the parts

collectively, revolving or acting freely around the common centre and

head. We saw that in the Divine creations--in all the objects of the

three kingdoms of nature, the two great principles of liberty and order

were thus perfectly reconciled and harmonized (true _order_ being only

the _form_ under which true _liberty_ appears, or can appear); and,

further, that in proportion as human affairs and institutions obey the

same law, or, rather, in proportion as men individually and collectively

advance in virtue and intelligence, do they unconsciously, and more or

less spontaneously, come into this Divine order, both in the regulation

of personal motive and conduct, and in outward political and social

matters.

Hence, as has already been stated, the near approach to this method in

the political organization of the United States was the result of an

amount of moral and intellectual culture, first in the colonies, and

afterward in the contrivers and adopters of our political framework,

without which it could never have been formed; and in the degree that

this mental condition is maintained and advanced yet more and more, will

the citizens of the Union apply the same method of organization to the

less general affairs of industrial and social life. Now, all this is not

fancy; human progress in the direction indicated, can be scientifically

demonstrated.

WAR SONG:--EARTH'S LAST BATTLE.

Dedicated To

THE SOLDIERS OF THE UNION.

Up with the Flag of Hope!

Let the winds waft her

On through the depths of space

Faster and faster!

Up, brave and sturdy men!

Down with the craven!

He who but falters now,

Fling to the raven!

CHORUS: On while the blood is hot--on to the battle!

Flash blade and trumpet sound! let the shot rattle!

Come from your homes of love

Wilder and faster!

Hail balls and sabres flash!

Wrong shall not master!

Strike to the throbbing heart

Brother or stranger!

Traitors would murder hope!

Freedom's in danger!

CHORUS: On for the rights of man--just is the battle!

Flesh deep the naked blade! let the shot rattle!

Men of the rugged North,

Dastards they deem you!

Wash out the lie in blood,

As it beseems you!

Glare in the Southern eye

Freedom, defiance!

Traitors with death and hell

Seal their alliance!

CHORUS: On--shed your heart's best blood! glorious the battle!

Freedom is born while death peals his shrill rattle!

Down with, the rattlesnake!

Armed heel upon it!

Rive the palmetto tree--

Cursed fruit grows on it!

Up with the Flag of Light!

Let the old glory

Flash down the newer stars

Rising in story!

CHORUS: On--manhood's hot blood burns! God calls to battle!

Flash, blades, o'er crimson pools! let the shot rattle!

Death shadows happy homes;

Faster and faster

Woe, sorrow, anguish throng;

Blood dyes disaster!

Men doubt their fellow men:

Hate and distraction

Curse many a council hall;

Traitors lead faction!

CHORUS: Cease this infernal strife! rush into battle!

Blast not all human hope with your cursed prattle!

God! the poor slave yet cowers!

Call off the bloodhounds!

Men, can ye rest in peace

While the cursed lash sounds?

Woman's shrill shrieks and wails

Quick conquest urges;

Bleeding and scourged and wronged,

Wild her heart surges!

CHORUS: Wives, mothers, maidens call! God forces battle!

Stay the oppressor's hand though the shot rattle!

Hark! it is Mercy calls!

Will ye surrender

Freedom's last hope on earth?

No,--rather tender

Heart's blood and life's life

'Neath our Flag's glory:

Scattered its heaven stars,

Dark human story!

CHORUS: Strike, for the blow is love! Despots force battle!

'Good will to men,' our cry, wings the shot's rattle!

Up from the cotton fields,

Swamps and plantations,

Drinking new life from you,

Swarms the dusk nation.

Send them not back to pain!

Strike and release them!

Hate not, but succor men;

Sorrow would cease then!

CHORUS: On--let God's people go! Mercy is battle!

Freedom is love and peace,--let the shot rattle!

Oh, that ye knew your might,

Knew your high station!

God has appointed you

Guardian of nations!

Teach tyrants o'er the world,

Bondage is over;

Bid them lay down the lash,

Welcome their brothers!

CHORUS: Pour oil in every wound, when done the battle!

Man now must stand redeemed though the shot rattle!

On--till our clustering stars

No slave float over,

Man joins in harmony,

Helper and lover!

Ransom the chained and pained,

Nations and stations!

On--till our Flag of Love

Floats o'er creation!

CHORUS: Strike, till mankind is free, mute the chains rattle!

Fight till love conquers strife--Freedom's last battle!

Yes, we shall stand again

Brother with brother,

Strong to quell wrong and crime,

All the world over!

Heart pressed to heart once more,

Nought could resist us,

Earth cease to writhe in pain,

Millions assist us!

CHORUS: On till the world is free through the shot's rattle!

When love shall conquer hate, fought earth's last battle!

MIRIAM'S TESTIMONY.

I do not know why it was that I studied the characters of Miriam and

Annie so closely at Madame Orleans' school, for I had known them both

from early childhood; we were of the same age, and had lived in the same

village, and attended the same schools. I suppose it was partly owing to

the fact of my having arrived at a more thoughtful age, or it may be

that their peculiarities of disposition exhibited themselves more

strongly among strangers. They were neither of them surface characters.

Miriam was too reserved, and Annie too artful to be easily understood.

But no one who had once known Miriam could, ever forget her. Her parents

called her 'a peculiar child;' among her friends the old people called

her 'queer,' and the young ones 'cracked,' She was not pretty, but

everybody pronounced her a fine-looking girl. Her eyes were the only

peculiarity in her face. They were of a rich, dark-gray color, small,

and deeply set; but at times--her 'inspired times,' as Annie called

them--they would dilate and expand, until they became large and

luminous. At such times she would relate with distinctness, and often

with minuteness, events which were transpiring in another house, and

sometimes in another part of the world.

It was seldom that we had an opportunity of testing the truth of these

'visions,' but when we did we found them exact in every particular.

At other times her mind took a wider range, and she would see into the

future. When we were children, I remember the awe with which we used to

listen to 'Miriam the prophetess,' as we called her, and the wonder with

which we remarked that her prophecies invariably were fulfilled. But, as

I grew older, my awe and wonder diminished in proportion, and, being of

a very practical turn of mind myself, and very skeptical of spiritual

agencies, mesmerism, and clairvoyance, and indeed of anything out of the

ordinary course of events, I put no faith whatever in any of Miriam's

visions and prophecies; especially as I noticed they only occurred when

she was sick, or suffering under depression of spirits. Annie either did

believe, or professed to believe, every word she said. As Miriam grew

into womanhood it was only to Annie and me that she confided her strange

visions, although she well knew I did not believe in their reality. We

were the only ones who never laughed at her, and she was very sensitive

on the subject.

Annie was so beautiful that it was a delight to look at her lovely face,

listen to her musical voice, and watch her graceful motions. She fully

appreciated her own charms, and had a way of making others appreciate

them also. She had many more friends than Miriam, for who could resist

the charm of her face and manner?

She had become quite accomplished, for she possessed a good deal of

talent, but was worldly minded, vain, and selfish. It may be matter of

surprise that such a girl should have been my intimate friend, and still

stranger that she should have been the friend of Miriam; but she was

lively and agreeable, and when we were children together we did not care

to analyze her character, and when we knew her thoroughly we still loved

her--from habit, I suppose. At all events, whatever were the sympathies

which bound us together, we continued firm friends until we were

eighteen, when we left Madame Orleans' school, where we had resided for

four years.

At that time Annie returned to our native village, while Miriam and I

went to a Southern city, intending to spend the winter with her uncle's

family; but we liked our new home so much that we prolonged our visit

two years. After we had been there a few months, by some chance, which I

have now forgotten, Henry Ackermann came to the city where we resided.

He was a few years older than we, but had been one of our playmates in

childhood. His parents had removed from our native village, and gone to

California some years before, when the gold fever was at its height,

since which time we had heard little about them, and Henry had nearly

faded out of our recollections, until now he suddenly appeared, destined

to be the controlling fate in the life of one of us, for Miriam and he

soon grew to love one another; though what affinity there was between

their natures I never could imagine. But he told me that he loved her,

and she told me that she was very happy, and I was bound to believe them

both, and thought that on the whole they would be a better-matched

couple than most of those I saw about me.

It is needless to say much of their courtship. Their engagement was not

made public, therefore it was not necessary to make a parade of their

affection before indifferent acquaintance, Miriam's love, like that of

all proud, reserved natures, was intense. Ackermann's attentions to her

were graceful and delicate, and he ever manifested toward her in his

whole manner that silent devotion, unobtrusive and indescribable, which

is so gratifying to woman. It was evident that he understood her

thoroughly: whether he appreciated her as thoroughly was another matter,

about which I had my doubts.

It was true that strange rumors had floated from California to our

distant little city in regard to Ackermann. Evil rumors they were--they

could scarcely be called rumors--nobody repeated them, nobody believed

them--and yet they were whispered into the ear so stealthily that it

seemed as if they were breathed by the very air which surrounded

Ackermann. I paid no heed to them. Miriam heard them, did not care for

them--why should I?

Months passed away--happily to the lovers--pleasantly to me.

Circumstances then compelled Ackermann to return to our village, while

Miriam felt it to be her duty to remain where she was; but she expected

to follow him in a few months at latest. He carried with him a letter of

introduction to Annie, in which Miriam told her of her engagement to the

bearer, and requested Annie to be his friend for her sake. This was soon

answered by a characteristic letter from Annie congratulating Miriam on

her choice, pronouncing Ackermann the most delightful of men, etc.

During the winter which followed, Miriam seemed quietly happy and always

pleasant and cheerful. Henry's letters were frequent, and so were

Annie's. I did not see the former, but they appeared to afford a great

deal of satisfaction to Miriam. Annie's letters were as lively and merry

as herself, and contained frequent hints that the devoted attentions of

a certain Mr. Etheridge--a wealthy, middle-aged suitor--were not

entirely disagreeable to her; that she thought she should like right

well to be mistress of his fine mansion; with much more nonsense of the

same kind.

I should have mentioned that Miriam had never told her lover of the

peculiar gifts of prophecy and second sight which she had, or fancied

that she had. She was too happy at the time he was with her to be

visited by her 'visions.' I thought they had ceased altogether, and I

think Miriam believed they had, and was happy to be done with them

forever.

I was quite surprised then to see her walk into my room one day in a

hurried manner, with a face ghastly pale, and eyes unusually distended,

and gazing at me with a wild, fixed stare. She trembled exceedingly,

and tried to speak, but the words refused to come at her bidding. I was

much alarmed, and, remembering there was a glass of wine in the closet,

I brought it to her, but she motioned it away. I opened the window, and

the rush of cold air revived her. She sat down by it, and after a little

time, she said:

'Hester, do you remember the little sitting room of Annie's, at the foot

of the back stairs, with windows opening into the garden?'

'Yes, I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask?'

'She has had it newly furnished, and very elegantly.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I was there this afternoon; spent some time in it.'

'You! in Annie's room!'

_I_ was there, in Annie's room--that is, the only part of me that is

worth anything; my body remained here, in my own room, I suppose.'

I saw at once that the old spell was on her again, and, as I made it a

point to fall in with her humor on such occasions, I said:

'Well, what did you see there?'

'I saw an open piano, and books and music scattered around. There were a

great many flowers in the room. A bright fire was in the grate, and

Pompey--the house dog--was stretched on a rug before it. A large

easy-chair, covered with blue damask, stood near the fireplace. Henry

Ackermann was seated in it. Annie was kneeling before him. He talked to

her while he stroked her hair. I heard every word that he said.'

Here she paused. I was getting quite excited with her narrative, but I

spoke as calmly as I could:

'You have only fancied these things, Miriam. You are ill.'

'The _material_ part of my nature may be ill. I do not know. But the

_immaterial_ is sound and healthy. It sometimes leaves its grosser

companion, and makes discoveries for itself. This is not the first time

it has happened, as you well know. I have been particular in my

description, in order that I might convince you that I have actually

been there. You know that the description I have given is entirely

different from the appearance of Annie's room in former times. I have

never heard that she had newly furnished it. Write to her, and ask her

to describe her room to you, and you will find that I have seen all that

I have told you.'

Finding her so calm, and so willing to reason on what she had seen, I

ventured to ask:

'And what did Ackermann say to her?'

'Only a very little thing,' said she, with bitter emphasis. 'That he

loved her--and admired me; she stirred the depths of his heart--I

excited his intellect; she was his darling--I, his sphinx.'

'Are you sure it is not all a dream?'

'I have not closed my eyes to-day.'

I did not know what to say to her. I still thought what she had related

was but a delusion, but to her it was a reality, and I knew her outward

calmness was but the expression of intense excitement of mind. Thinking

I might divert her mind, I read to her a letter I had received but a few

minutes before. It was from my sister, who had just returned from

Europe, with her husband and children; and had taken a house in our

native village. She wished me to come to her at once. At any other time

Miriam would have manifested the greatest interest in this

communication. It had been a source of regret to her that I was

separated from this sister, who was the only near relative I had. Now

she sat, perfectly unmoved, gazing out into the sunshine as if it

bewildered her. I did not know whether she had heard a word I said. I

laid down the letter, and took up a book, glancing at her occasionally.

I continued reading for about two hours, while she sat there as if

turned to stone. Then she turned to me and said:

'Hester, would you not like to see your sister very much?'

'Very much.'

'Then let us return home at once.'

'I am very willing.'

'Mr. Sydenham leaves here to-morrow night for New York. Let us go with

him.'

I hesitated. It seemed such a hasty departure from the friends who had

been so kind to us, but a glance at the pale, eager face of Miriam

decided me. I consented.

The nest day brought a letter from Ackermann. Miriam showed it to me. It

was the only letter of his I was ever permitted to read. It was a good

letter--very lover-like, but earnest and manly. It seemed to me the

truth of the writer was palpable in every line.

'Of course this has removed all your doubts,' I said, as I returned the

letter to Miriam.

'It has not shaken my faith in the evidence of the finest of my senses,'

was her only reply.

Since we had left our pretty little village, a railroad track had been

laid through, it. The depot was near Annie's house. As we had apprised

no one of our arrival, we found ourselves alone on the platform when we

stepped out of the cars.

'Let us call and see Annie,' said Miriam.

'Before you visit your father and mother?' said I, surprised.

'This is the hour Ackermann usually visits her.'

'I will go with you.'

It was but a few minutes' walk. We felt perfectly at home there. We

opened the front door, and walked in without ceremony. No one was in the

front rooms. We passed quickly through them into the little room at the

foot of the back stairs. I noticed the furniture as soon as I entered.

It was new, and was arranged pretty much as Miriam had described it.

Ackermann and Annie stood by the window looking into the garden. I am

not sure, but I think he was holding her hand. They turned as we

entered, and, for a few minutes, were speechless with amazement. Annie

was the first to recover herself.

'What a delightful surprise!' she exclaimed, running toward us; but she

stopped before she was half across the room. Something in Miriam's

manner arrested her. Ackermann's perceptions were quicker. He saw at one

glance that Miriam knew all, and, though very much agitated, he stood,

looking defiantly at her. She took no notice of Annie, but said to

Ackermann:

'I trusted you. You have deceived me. I believed in your love so fully

that I would have been yours faithfully until death. You lightly threw

mine away. I thought your words of love so sacred that I kept them hid

in my heart from the sight of the most faithful friends. You have made

mine the subjects of jest. But I do not come here to reproach you.

Henceforth you are nothing to me. I came to demand my ring.'

'I have no ring of yours,' said he, with calm decision. 'This ring that

I wear you put upon my finger, and told me not to part with it under

_any_ circumstances. You charged me to wear it until death. It is mine.

I will not part with it, even to you.'

Miriam looked at him incredulously for a moment. Her fortitude began to

give way.

'I do not know,' she said slowly, 'why you wish to keep that ring. You

can never look at it without thinking of me, and of the words of love I

have spoken to you. It is hateful to me to think that you have anything

to remind you of the past. For this reason I want the ring. I will not

wear it. I will not keep it. I will destroy it utterly. But by the

memory of my past trust, I beseech you to give me that ring.'

A sneer curled the lip of Ackermann.

'I will not give it to you!' he said, decidedly.

Miriam did not look at him now, but at the ring. It glowed on his hand

like a flame; for it was set with a cluster of diamonds.

'It will ruin you,' she said, raising her eyes slowly, and fixing them

on his face. 'It will be your curse.'

She turned and left the room. Ackermann looked displeased, and annoyed.

Annie was pale and frightened. I did not know whether to follow Miriam,

or remain to hear Annie's explanations. I finally decided to do neither,

and, walking out of the open window into the garden, I took another

route to my sister's.

They say that no nature is thoroughly evil, that every man has some

redeeming qualities. This is probably true, and I suppose Ackermann had

his virtues, but I was never able to discover any. The only sides of his

character presented to my observation were evil, and wholly evil. He

loved Annie, it is true, but it was an unnatural, selfish, exacting

love. Such a love is a curse to any woman, and it was doubly so to

Annie, who loved him too entirely to see any faults in him, and was too

weak minded to resist his merciless exactions. So thoroughly selfish was

he that, notwithstanding his love for Annie, he would have married

Miriam if she had not so peremptorily broken the engagement. Miriam was

very wealthy, while Annie was comparatively poor. Ackermann himself was

worth nothing. Why he persisted in keeping the ring I never knew, unless

it was that Miriam's proud contempt and indifference roused his

malignant temper to oppose her in the only way which lay in his power.

He possessed the art of making himself agreeable, and had a very fair

seeming, so that when his engagement to Annie was made public, she was

warmly congratulated. His former engagement to Miriam was unknown, even

to her own parents.

I saw but little of Ackermann and Annie, and never met them but in

public. His wickedness and her weakness made them both contemptible in

my eyes. And my mind was occupied in other matters. Miriam resolved to

make the tour of Europe, and I was to accompany her--for she would take

no denial. For many weeks we were busied in preparations for our

departure; Miriam had settled all her affairs satisfactorily, and we

were thinking of making the last farewells, when she was taken ill. The

doctors said it was an organic disease of the heart. This was an

hereditary disease in the family, but Miriam up to the time of her

acquaintance with Ackermann had been entirely free from any symptom of

it, or of any particular disease whatever. Whether this sudden

exhibition of it was the effect of natural causes, or was produced by

mortified love and pride, I leave the reader to conclude.

I was her constant attendant during her sickness. She could scarcely

bear me out of her sight. She had never spoken to me of Ackermann since

the interview in Annie's room. Now she seemed to take delight in talking

about him, and I was amazed at the intense hatred with which she

regarded him. She was gentle and patient under her sufferings, and

tender and loving at all times, except when speaking of him. Then all

the bad passions of her nature were aroused. It was in vain that I

represented to her that at such a time she should endeavor to be at

peace with all the world, and forgive as she hoped to be forgiven.

'If I have sinned against my God, as Henry Ackermann has sinned against

me, I neither expect or wish to be forgiven,'--was the only reply she

would make to such arguments. She had not the slightest feeling of ill

will against Annie; she spoke of her as a misguided, loving girl; but

often repeated the assertion that Ackermann and Annie would never be

married.

The physicians were inclined to think that Miriam would recover from

this attack, but she knew, she said, that she must die, and she exacted

a promise from me that I would watch over her body until it was

consigned to the grave, imploring me not to let indifferent people be

with her after death. I readily gave the promise, little knowing what a

fearful obligation I was taking upon myself.

One morning I left Miriam's bedside, and walked through the village in

order to get some exercise, and breathe the fresh air. I remember the

day well. It was in the latter part of May--a warm, sweet, sunny day,

with enough of chilliness in the air to give a zest to walking. I was

surprised at the ripeness and luxuriance of the foliage, so early for a

New England spring; but I was still more surprised at the aspect of our

usually silent village. The streets were full of men hurrying to and

fro, and groups of men, and women, too, stood at some of the corners. To

my utter amazement I learned that Annie had disappeared mysteriously the

night before. She had left home alone early in the evening, saying she

was going to the river, and had not returned. Search was made for her

during the night in all the houses of the village; that morning the

river had been dragged; but not the slightest trace of Annie was

anywhere to be found. Of course everybody was in a state of intense

excitement. Ackermann was represented to me as almost distracted with

grief, but he had been active in conducting the search for her.

I thought it best to tell this to Miriam as soon as I returned. It

produced a strange effect upon her. It gave her a most intense desire

for life.

'I do not desire life for myself,' said she to me, the next day, 'nor

for any happiness it could confer upon me, for it has no gift that I

value; but I wish to live that I may show Ackermann to the world, as he

is, false, and cruel, and revengeful. I feel that I would have the power

to do it, had I but health and strength; but what can a dead body do?

Can the soul return to it again? Where does the soul go?'

I made no reply to this. I had gone over this ground very often with

Miriam. It was not strange that one who had had such remarkable mental

experiences should be a believer in spiritual agencies. She was also a

firm believer in all the doctrines of the Bible, but she always

maintained that this sacred book nowhere taught that the soul, on its

release from the body, went directly to heaven. She argued that it was

_impossible_ for it to go there immediately. Then where did it go? These

ideas disposed her to a mystical kind of reading, with which I did not

sympathize, and in which I never indulged.

I stood at the window some time, looking out, but seeing nothing, for I

was thinking how strange it was that two girls so entirely opposite as

Miriam and Annie should love the same man, and he so different from

both. I was aroused by Miriam's voice hurriedly calling me. I hastened

to her side. Never shall I forget her eyes as she fixed them upon me.

The pupils were dilated, and intensely black, while they shone so

brilliantly that it seemed as if a fire were burning within them. She

spoke eagerly:

'Promise me once more, Hester, that you will not leave my body, after

the soul has left it, until it is laid in the grave, and that you will

not let idle curiosity come and gaze at it.'

I readily gave her this promise, thinking it was very little to do for a

dying friend. The unnatural expression faded from her eyes. She seemed

entirely satisfied.

It was late in the afternoon that I was aroused from a sound sleep by

the intelligence that Miriam was dead. She died while asleep, without a

struggle, or a groan. I called in Mrs. Grove, the housekeeper, who had

been devotedly attached to Miriam, and we dressed her in a white robe,

and scattered fragrant flowers around her, to take away, if possible,

the horror and ghastliness of death. She did not look at all like the

Miriam I had known and loved. Her features were sharp and pinched, and

her face looked careworn, and _anxious_--if anything so lifeless can be

said to have expression.

No one came into the room that evening but the family, and they retired

early, and left me alone with the dead. Mrs. Grove sat up all night in

the dining room, which was separated from Miriam's room by a narrow

entry. She would have remained with me, but I saw that she was very

nervous and timid, and insisted that she should leave me. I could not

understand her feeling. I felt not the slightest fear of the inanimate

body before me, or of the disembodied spirit. She had been my friend

during her whole life--why should she harm me now?

I put out the light, and seated myself by the open window at the foot of

the bed. The round, full moon, in a cloudless sky, made every object in

the room and out of it as distinct as in the day. I looked at the

fountain, which spun its threads of light under the window; and at the

little flowers just peeping above the ground; and at the foliage, with

its many-shaded green; and occasionally I looked at the body stretched

upon the bed. And each time that I looked it seemed to me that it gently

stirred. This did not startle me at all, for I was accustomed to the

appearance of death. Who that has lost a friend does not find it

impossible to realize that the form is utterly without life? And who has

ever gazed long at a corpse without fancying that it moved? So again and

again I looked at Miriam, and again and again I fancied there was a

slight motion, scarcely perceptible. At last the constant repetition of

this feeling made me uneasy, and to quiet my mind, and satisfy myself

that it was only _seeming_, I went to the bed and bent over Miriam.

My blood ran cold in my veins, as I encountered the eyes of Miriam,

open, dilated, and black, fixed upon mine! There was a strange light in

them. It scarcely looked like life, and yet it surely could not be

death. It seemed more like a light shining far down some black and deep

sepulchre. Half frenzied with terror, and scarcely knowing what I did, I

forced down the eyelids and shut out that hateful light; but the instant

I removed my fingers the eyes opened upon me again. This time it seemed

the expression was more life-like--there was _eagerness_ in it. Again I

pressed down the eyelids, but now there was resistance to my touch. I

could feel it. The hands, which had lain quiet on her breast, were

convulsively raised. I stepped back from the bed, and Miriam sat

upright! Incredible as it may appear, the frenzy of my terror was gone.

Miriam looked like herself. The ghastly pallor of death, the sunken

cheek, the pinched features were all there; but there was something in

the face which made me think of the Miriam of olden days--the Miriam I

had known before this last terrible sickness came upon her. I was not

entirely free from fear, but it was a charmed fear. I never thought of

calling any one. I could do nothing but watch Miriam.

After a few convulsive efforts she got off the bed, and stood erect for

a moment. I remember thinking that all this was very strange, and

wondering what she would do next. She moved slowly to the door. I

followed her with my eyes. At the door she turned, and looked at me. And

then there rushed upon my mind the whole weight and responsibility of

the promise I had made her, that I would never leave her body until it

was consigned to the tomb! I comprehended that I must follow her, and

mechanically I obeyed the impulse. She took her way through the dining

room. Mrs. Grove was sitting in an easy-chair, fast asleep. I wondered

how she could sleep with this awful presence in the room. Miriam did not

glance at her, but passed out of the front door, into the street. My

mind was in a constant state of activity. My will was under the guidance

of Miriam. I had no control over it. My thoughts were my own, and

wandered from object to object. As we were passing down the steps I

thought how beautifully the river would look in the moonlight; but

Miriam turned in an opposite direction from the river, and I was

disappointed. How fearfully quiet was everything! I would have given

worlds, had I possessed them, if I could have seen a familiar face. I

even had a half-formed thought to scream loudly for help, but I could

not do it. My will was utterly powerless. We approached the house where

Ackermann resided, and I was seized with horror, thinking it possible

that she might murder him while I witnessed the bloody deed, powerless

to prevent it. But she never once looked at the house while passing it.

This phantom--whatever it might be--seemed to be entirely free from

human feelings. I do not think this idea tended to reassure me, and when

we left the closely built street, and merged into the open country,

where the fields stretched away on every side of us, with no life in

them, and where loneliness and desolation reigned supreme, I felt a new

terror, and longed to turn, and flee back to human life. But no! I must

follow my conductress wherever she chose to lead me!

Miriam walked slowly at first, but had increased her speed as she

proceeded, and now she was walking so swiftly that I could scarcely keep

pace with her. I saw white marbles gleaming among the trees at the top

of a hill, and knew that we were approaching the graveyard. It was a

dreary-looking place--a disgrace to the village. The stone wall was in a

dilapidated condition, and in some places there were gaps in it. The

graves were overgrown with rank weeds, and many old gray tombstones lay

on the ground. The gate was swinging loosely on its hinges, and we

passed swiftly through it. And now, thought I, the mystery is solved.

Miriam is going to bury herself, and has brought me to fill the grave,

so that no one may see her body but me, I can never, never do it, if she

fixes those terrible eyes upon me! An open grave lay in our pathway. The

red clay soil, which was heaped around it, was moist. I felt my feet

sink in it as we passed over it--for around the grave we went on our

swift, unerring course--although I knew the grave had been that day dug

for Miriam! Did she know this? If so, she gave no sign of that

knowledge, and I breathed more freely when we were fairly out of the

graveyard. On the other side of it was a thick wood, into which I had

never penetrated. Indeed the thorny thickets, and low, poisonous bushes

made it impenetrable to any one, and yet it was into this wood that

Miriam led the way. How we pushed through it I do not know. My clothes

were nearly torn into rags, and so were Miriam's. My flesh was torn also

in several places. I had no means of knowing whether hers was torn also.

At last she stopped before a mass of--but my heart grows sick and my

brain dizzy when I think of that--I cannot describe it, but I knew by

unmistakable evidences that the lost Annie was found!

I looked at Miriam, but she did not return my glance. I could not see

her face. She stopped only a moment, and continued her walk. And now I

followed fearlessly. As soon as I discovered that the phantom had a

_human_ purpose, my terror abated. I was now in a state of feverish

excitement, wondering what other discoveries would be made. Our way lay

along the bank of a little brook. The space was more open. The weeds and

bushes had evidently been trampled down, and broken away. Miriam walked

more slowly, and looked upon the ground. At last she again paused, and

pointed with a rigid, bony finger to a little alder twig, which was

trembling in the breeze. I could see nothing there but a dewdrop

sparkling in the moonlight; but, obeying the impulse of my will, which

was in obedience to Miriam, I stooped to touch the dewdrop, and instead,

I took off the twig--a ring! It was the diamond ring, which Miriam had

given to Ackermann. I clutched it in my hand, and turned to Miriam, but

she was retracing her steps.

I remember nothing of the return home. I saw nothing, felt nothing. I

seemed to be sailing through the air, so exhilarated was I. I can

compare my state to nothing but that of a person who has been taking

ether. I took but little notice of Miriam, until we entered the village,

when I observed that she walked more slowly. After a time it seemed to

be an effort to her to walk at all, until finally she tottered, and fell

close by her own door. I stood an instant, and looked at her. She lay on

the step, a stiff and rigid corpse. Her eyes were open, but they were

fixed in the glassy stare of death! I ran into the house. Mrs. Grove was

in the dining room, sleeping heavily. I was about to awaken her, when I

remembered that I would have to account for the strange fact of the body

lying at the front door. How could I tell Mrs. Grove, who had showed

herself to be a weak and nervous woman, the wonderful story of our night

walk? Would she be able to help me if she knew it? I thought of calling

upon Miriam's father, but that seemed horrible. These thoughts rushed

through my mind with the rapidity of lightning, and I ran out of the

door again, not knowing what to do. A man was standing on the step: I

suppose he happened to be passing, and stopped in amazement at the

sight; but I did not pause to look at him, or ask him any questions. I

had no time to give him explanations, for I saw the gray dawn was

breaking in the eastern sky, and feared that soon other persons might

come along the street. I gave him a confused and hurried account of how

we had thought Miriam dead, and how she had walked that far, and fallen;

and I begged him to help me carry her in the house. He consented, and

then I remembered that there was a side door, which was near Miriam's

room, and if we carried the body through that we should avoid waking

Mrs. Grove. I passed silently through the dining room, and, having

unbolted the door, I returned, and lifted the body of my poor friend in

my arms, while the stranger raised her head. And thus we carried her in

the house, and laid her on the bed. I smoothed her dishevelled hair, and

arranged her torn dress, forgetting that any one else was in the room,

until I was startled by a groan. And then for the first time I looked at

the stranger. It was Ackermann!

My fingers involuntarily closed tighter around the ring, which, all this

time, I had kept shut up in my hand. Not for the world would I have had

him to see it then. I was more afraid of him than I had been of Miriam

during all our journey. She might be called an Avenging Angel. He was a

destroying Fiend.

He trembled violently. He laid his hand heavily upon my arm. It was as

cold as ice, and made a chilly horror creep over me.

'Tell me, Hester,' he said, in a hoarse voice, 'what is the meaning of

this? You and Miriam have been farther than the front door, or your

clothes would not be in this cut and ragged condition. Why do you look

at me so strangely--so horribly? Speak to me! Speak!'

I longed to show him the ring, and confront him then with his horrid

crimes, but he looked so fiercely I dared not. It is well that I did

not. I know not what might have been the result. Justice might have been

cheated of her proper prey, and I not have been here to write this tale.

I made my escape from the room, and left him with his dead victim.

I have a confused recollection of being surrounded with pale and eager

faces, and of telling them my wonderful story, and showing them the

ring. And then I remember nothing more for many hours, for I fell into a

heavy sleep.

That night, so full of horrors, did not turn my hair white, or make me

ill, or cause me to lose my reason. I was subject to a nervous

irritability for some time afterward, but that passed away, and the only

feeling I have left to remind me of that terrible night is my aversion

to sit up with a dead body. I have never done it since.

The route that Miriam and I had followed was carefully traced. Our

tracks were not discernible until the graveyard was nearly reached.

There they found the print of our shoes in the wet gravel; and in the

loose soil around the newly dug grave. On Annie was found a note from

Ackermann appointing a meeting with her on that evening when she had so

mysteriously disappeared.

Ackermann was arrested and brought to trial. When he learned the nature

of the evidence against him it seemed to fill him with a superstitious

horror, which drew from him a full confession of his guilt, although, at

first, he protested his innocence. He gave in his confession, and met

his ignominious death with the same bold front and reckless daring he

had manifested during all his life.

It only remains to tell how Ackermann was led to murder a woman he

loved--for he certainly loved Annie. It seems that Annie, in her light,

trifling way, had seriously wounded him by flirting with one of her

former suitors. He remonstrated, but his evident distress only urged the

giddy girl to further trials of her power. And she had an object in

arousing his jealousy, for she too was jealous of Miriam's ring. He

persisted in wearing it, notwithstanding her entreaties, and she feared

some lingering affection for the giver gave rise to the reluctance to

part with the gift. On the night of the murder, high words had passed

between them in regard to it. In the heat of the discussion, Annie had

managed dexterously to slip the ring off his finger. He struggled to

regain it. She threw it away. The quarrel now grew more violent, until

at last, in his rage, and as unconscious of what he was doing as an

intoxicated man, he struck the fatal blow, and Annie fell dead at his

feet. In the midst of his horror and remorse--for even he was filled

with horror at such a deed--he thought of himself, and provided for his

safety by hiding the body among the thorny and poisonous bushes, knowing

it would be more unlikely to be found there than if he threw it into the

river, or dug a grave for it. Creeping carefully in and out among the

thick, thorny bushes, so as to disarrange them as little as possible, he

first deposited his dead burden, and then returned to the place of the

last fatal struggle, that he might look for the lost ring.

The moon had risen, and he could see every object with great

distinctness. He looked carefully along the ground, pushing aside the

weeds, and removing every stone under which it might have rolled. After

a few minutes' search he became conscious that some one else was looking

for the ring! He was angry with himself for entertaining such a

delusion; but still, in spite of his efforts to get rid of it, the

feeling continued. He had a dim and vague idea that something impalpable

was near him, now by his side, now before him, _never behind him_,

looking as eagerly and as anxiously as himself for the lost diamonds. He

inwardly cursed his own cowardice, for he thought this apparition was

born from his guilty conscience, and he determined to pay no heed to it.

At last he approached a cluster of alder bushes, which he now remembered

to have been the place where Annie threw away the ring. He was about to

commence a search among these, when suddenly Miriam stood between him

and the bushes. He saw her distinctly for a moment, and then she

vanished from his gaze. He pursued her in the direction she had taken,

but no trace of her could he find. Then, recollecting how very ill she

was, he became convinced that he had become subject to an optical

illusion. But he had now become fearful and nervous, and dared not

return to the spot to renew the search. And thus it was that the ring

was left upon the twig of alder to bear witness against him.

NAPOLEON'S TOMB.

_Written by_ HON. ROBERT J. WALKER (_then a student_) _in 1821,

on hearing of the death of Napoleon_.

See where amid the Ocean's surging tide

A little island lifts its desert side,

Where storms on storms in ceaseless torrents pour,

And howling billows lash its rocky shore--

There lies Napoleon in his island tomb:

Nations combined to antedate his doom.

Mars nursed the infant in a thundercloud,

France gave him empire, Britain wrought his shroud.

Danger and glory claimed him as their own,

And Fortune marked him as her favorite son;

Science seemed dozing in eternal sleep,

And superstition brooded o'er the deep;

Black was the midnight of the human soul,

Such Gothic darkness shrouds the icy pole:

Napoleon bade his conquering legions pour

The blaze of battle on from shore to shore:

Though blood and havoc marked the victor's way,

Blest Science shed her genial ray.

Betrayed, not conquered, round the hero's sleep

The Arts shall mourn, and Genius vigil keep.

THE DESTINY OF THE AFRICAN RACE IN THE UNITED STATES.

Many persons may be disposed to receive with a large share of scepticism

the affirmation that there is an aspect of the 'negro question,' which

has not, within the last thirty years of ceaseless agitation, undergone

a thorough discussion. Yet such an assertion would be perfectly true.

There is one side of that question, at which, during all the fierce

excitements of the time, we have scarcely looked; and which many, even

those who have taken an active and leading part in the controversy, have

not carefully studied.

The morality of our system of slavery has been fully and thoroughly

discussed, and may be considered as finally and forever settled, in the

judgment of all right-minded and impartial men throughout Christendom.

It may henceforth be taken as the _consensus omnium gentium_, that men

and women, with their children and their children's children forever,

cannot rightfully be made, by human laws, chattels personal and articles

of merchandise.

The economy of slavery has been discussed. Its relations to wealth, to

industry, to commerce, manufactures, and the arts, as well as to

education, public intelligence, and public morals, are so well

understood, that it is not probable that the efforts even of Jefferson

Davis, or the whole 'Southern confederacy,' with the aid of such

transatlantic allies as the London _Times_, will be able, in respect to

such matters as these, to change or even to unsettle the judgment of

mankind.

But there is another class of questions on which the public mind is as

unthoughtful and unenlightened, as in respect to these it is thoughtful

and intelligent. We have pretty well considered what consequences may be

expected from the continuance of slavery; but we have neglected to

inquire, on the supposition of the emancipation of the negro, what will

be his condition, what his future, and what his influence on our

national destiny. Upon such questions as these, we have, during the

controversy, dogmatized much, and thought little. They have called forth

many outbursts of passion, but very little calm, thoughtful discussion.

There is no lack of earnest and confident opinions in the public mind in

relation to this class of questions. It is in respect to this very side

of the negro question, that prejudices the most intense and inveterate

are widely prevalent; prejudices, too, which have exerted the most

decisive influence on the controversy, through every stage of its

progress. The masses of the American people believe in those principles

of political equality upon which all our constitutions are founded. They

not only believe in them, but they cherish and love them. They perceive,

too, by a kind of instinct, what many a would-be philosopher has failed

to see, that the application and carrying out of those principles

necessarily involve the fusion of the entire mass to which they are

applied, into one homogeneous whole; that we cannot have a government

founded on political equality, consistently with our having an inferior

and proscribed class of citizens; a class from whose daughters our sons

may not take their wives, and to whose sons we are not willing, either

in this or in any future generation, to give our daughters in marriage.

Political equality implies that the son of any parents may be raised to

the highest offices in the government, and wear the most brilliant

honors which a free people can confer. And the masses of the people

instinctively see, or rather feel, that it is impossible to admit to

such equality a class to whom we deny, and always intend to deny all

equality in the social state; and with whom we are shocked at the very

thought of ever uniting our race and our blood.

I am not now saying where the moral right of this matter lies; or

whether, in this inveterate hostility to a social equality with the

negro, the masses of the people are right or wrong. I am only affirming,

what certainly cannot be successfully denied, that while they retain and

cherish it, they will never be willing to apply to him this doctrine of

political equality. They will always resist it, as carrying with it, by

inevitable consequence, that social equality to which they are

determined never to submit. If the doctrine of political equality, so

fundamental, to our system of government, is ever to be extended so as

to embrace the colored man, it can only be done by overcoming and

utterly obliterating this social aversion.

If it were proved to be ever so desirable to effect such a change in the

tastes and prejudices of the American people, history does not lend any

countenance to the belief that it is possible. Wherever one people has

conquered another, the conquerors and their descendants have always

asserted for themselves a political superiority for ages; and that

political superiority has extended itself into all the relations of

social life. This has taken place with such uniformity, as to impress

upon the mind the belief that it occurs in obedience to some great law

of human nature, which may be expected to baffle all attempts at

resistance in the future, as it has done in the past. The testimony of

history is, that equality can be the law of national life only when the

nation was originally formed from equal elements. But two peoples never

met on the same soil, and under the same government, under conditions so

widely unequal as the European and the African populations of this

country. The Europeans are, to a great extent, the descendants of the

most enlightened men of the world, heirs by birth to the highest

civilization of the nineteenth century. The Africans, on the contrary,

are the known descendants of parents who were taken by force from their

own country, and brought hither as merchandise, sold as chattels and

beasts of burden to the highest bidder; and have even now no

civilization except what they have acquired in this condition of abject

slavery; separated, too, from the dominant class, not only by this

stigma of slavery, but by complexion and features so marked and

peculiar, that a small taint of the blood of the servile class can be

detected with unerring certainty. If history decides anything, it is

that a system of political equality cannot be formed out of such

elements. The experience of the world is against it.

This deeply seated aversion to the recognition of the equality of the

white man and the black man is a potent force, which has been

incessantly active in all our history, and furnishes the only

satisfactory explanation of the fact that slavery did not perish, at

least from all the Northern slave-holding States, long ago. There is,

especially in the Border Slave States, a large non-slave-holding class,

who know that the existence of slavery is utterly prejudicial to their

interests and destructive of their prosperity as free laborers. They are

so keenly sensible of this, that they regard with almost equal hatred

the system of slavery, the negro, and the slave owner. But one

consideration, which is never absent from their minds, always prevails,

even over their regard for their own interests, and receives their

steady and invariable coöperation with the slave owner in perpetuating

the enslavement of the colored man. That consideration is the dread of

negro equality. If, say they, the colored man becomes a freeman, then

why not entitled to all the privileges and franchises which other

freemen enjoy? And if admitted to political, then surely to social

equality also.