In the drawing-room of an elegant mansion in a fashionable quarter of
the city of New York, toward the close of April, a social party were
assembled, distributed mostly in small conversational groups. The head
of the establishment, a pompous, well-to-do merchant, stout, short, and
baldheaded, and evidently well satisfied with himself and his position
in society, was vehemently expressing his opinions upon the affairs of
the nation to an attentive audience of two or three elderly business
men, with a ponderous earnestness that proved him, in his own
estimation, as much _au fait_ in political affairs as in the routine of
his counting-room. An individual of middle age, a man of the world,
apparently, who was seated at a side-table, carelessly glancing over a
book of engravings, was the only one who occasionally exasperated the
pompous gentleman with contradictions or ill-timed interruptions.
"The government must be sustained," said the stout gentleman, "and we,
the merchants of the North, will do it. It is money, sir, money," he
continued, unconsciously rattling the coin in his breeches pocket, "that
settles every question at the present day, and our money will bring
these beggarly rebels to their senses. They can't do without us, sir.
They would be ruined in six months, if shut out from commercial
intercourse with the North."
"How long before you would be ruined by the operations of the same
cause?" inquired the individual at the side-table.
"Sir, we of the North hold the wealth of the country in our pockets.
They can't fight against our money--they can't do it, sir."
"Your ancestors fought against money, and fought passably well."
"Yes, sir, for the great principles of human liberty."
"Which these rebels believe they are fighting for. You have need of all
your money to keep a respectable army in the field. These Southerners
may have to fight in rags, as insurgents generally do: witness the
struggle of your Revolution; but until you lay waste their corn-fields
and drive off their cattle, they will have full stomachs, and that,
after all, is the first consideration."
"You are an alien, sir, a foreigner; you know nothing of our great
institutions; you know nothing of the wealth of the North, and the
spirit of the people."
"I see a great deal of bunting in the streets, and hear any quantity of
declamation at your popular gatherings. But as I journeyed northward
from New Orleans, I saw the same in the South--perhaps more of it."
"And could not distinguish between the frenzy of treason and the
enthusiasm of patriotism?"
"Not at all; except that treason seemed more earnest and unanimous."
"You have seen with the eyes of an Englishman--of one hostile to our
institutions."
"Oh, no; as a man of the world, a traveller, without prejudice or
passion, receiving impressions and noting them. I like your country; I
like your people. I have observed foibles in the North and in the South,
but there is an under-current of strong feeling and good sense which I
have noted and admired. I think your quarrel is one of foibles--one
conceived in the spirit of petulance, and about to be prosecuted in the
spirit of exaltation. I believe the professed mutual hatred of the
sections to be superficial, and that it could be cancelled. It is
fostered by the bitterness of fanatics, assisted by a very natural
disinclination on the part of the masses to yield a disputed point. If
hostilities should cease to-morrow, you would be better friends than
ever."
"But the principle, sir! The right of the thing, and the wrong of the
thing! Can we parley with traitors? Can we negotiate with armed
rebellion? Is it not our paramount duty to set at rest forever the
doctrine of secession?"
"As a matter of policy, perhaps. But as a right, I doubt it. Your
government I look upon as a mere agency appointed by contracting parties
to transact certain affairs for their convenience. Should one or more of
those contracting parties, sovereignties in themselves, hold it to their
interest to transact their business without the assistance of an agent,
I cannot perceive that the right can be denied by any provision of the
contract. In your case, the employers have dismissed their agent, who
seeks to reinstate the office by force of arms. As justly might my
lawyer, when I no longer need his services, attempt to coerce me into a
continuance of business relations, by invading my residence with a
loaded pistol. The States, without extinguishing their sovereignty,
created the Federal Government; it is the child of State legislation,
and now the child seeks to chastise and control the parent. The General
Government can possess no inherent or self-created function; its power,
its very existence, were granted for certain uses. As regards your
State's connection with that Government, no other State has the right to
interfere; but as for another State's connection with it, the power that
made it can unmake."
"So you would have the government quietly acquiesce in the robbery of
public property, the occupation of Federal strongholds and the seizure
of ships and revenues in which they have but a share?"
"If, by the necessity of the case, the seceded States hold in their
possession more than their share of public property, a division should
be made by arbitration, as in other cases where a distribution of common
property is required. It may have been a wrong and an insult to bombard
Fort Sumter and haul down the Federal flag, but that does not establish
a right on the part of the Federal Government to coerce the wrong-doing
States into a union with the others. And that, I take it, is the avowed
purpose of your administration."
"Yes, and that purpose will be fulfilled. We have the money to do it,
and we will do it, sir."
A tall, thin gentleman, with a white cravat and a bilious complexion,
approached the party from a different part of the room.
"It can't be done with money, Mr. Pursely," said the new comer, "Unless
the great, the divine principle of universal human liberty is invoked.
An offended but merciful Providence has given the people this chance for
redemption, in the opportunity to strike the shackle from the slave. I
hold the war a blessing to the nation and to humanity, in that it will
cleanse the land from its curse of slavery. It is an invitation from God
to wipe away the record of our past tardiness and tolerance, by striking
at the great sin with fire and sword. The blood of millions is
nothing--the woe, the lamentation, the ruin of the land is nothing--the
overthrow of the Union itself is nothing, if we can but win God's smile
by setting a brand in the hand of the bondman to scourge his master. But
assuredly unless we arouse the slave to seize the torch and the dagger,
and avenge the wrongs of his race, Providence will frown upon our
efforts, and our arms will not prevail."
A tall man in military undress replied with considerable emphasis:
"Then your black-coated gentry must fight their own battle. The people
will not arm if abolition is to be the watchword. I for one will not
strike a blow if it be not understood that the institutions of the South
shall be respected."
"The government must be sustained, that is the point," cried Mr.
Pursely. "It matters little what becomes of the negro, but the
government must be sustained. Otherwise, what security will there be
for property, and what will become of trade?"
"Who thinks of trade or property at such a crisis?" interrupted an
enthusiast, in figured trowsers and a gay cravat. "Our beloved Union
must and shall be preserved. The fabric that our fathers reared for us
must not be allowed to crumble. We will prop it with our mangled
bodies," and he brushed a speck of dust from the fine broadcloth of his
sleeve.
"The insult to our flag must be wiped out," said the military gentleman.
"The honor of the glorious stripes and stars must be vindicated to the
world."
"Let us chastise these boasting Southrons," said another, "and prove our
supremacy in arms, and I shall be satisfied."
"But above all," insisted a third, "we must check the sneers and
exultation of European powers, and show them that we have not forgotten
the art of war since the days of 1776 and 1812."
"I should like to know what you are going to fight about," said the
Englishman, quietly; "for there appears to be much diversity of
opinion. However, if you are determined to cut each others' throats,
perhaps one pretext is as good as another, and a dozen better than only
one."
In the quiet recess of a window, shadowed by the crimson curtains, sat a
fair young girl, and a man, young and handsome, but upon whose
countenance the traces of dissipation and of passion were deeply marked.
Miranda Ayleff was a Virginian, the cousin and quondam playmate of
Oriana Weems, like her an orphan, and a ward of Beverly. Her companion
was Philip Searle. She had known him in Richmond, and had become much
attached to him, but his habits and character were such, that her
friends, and Beverly chiefly, had earnestly discouraged their intimacy.
Philip left for the North, and Miranda, who at the date of our story was
the guest of Mrs. Pursely, her relative, met him in New York, after a
separation of two years. Philip, who, in spite of his evil ways, was
singularly handsome and agreeable in manners, found little difficulty in
fanning the old flame, and, upon the plea of old acquaintance, became a
frequent visitor upon Miranda at Mr. Pursely's mansion, where we now
find them, earnestly conversing, but in low tones, in the little
solitude of the great bay window.
"You reproach me with vices which your unkindness has helped to stain me
with. Driven from your presence, whom alone I cared to live for, what
marvel if I sought oblivion in the wine-cup and the dice-box? Give me
one chance, Miranda, to redeem myself. Let me call you wife, and you
will become my guardian angel, and save me from myself."
"You know that I love you, Philip," she replied, "and willingly would I
share your destiny, hoping to win you from evil. Go with me to Richmond.
We will speak with Beverly, who is kind and truly loves me. We will
convince him of your good purposes, and will win his consent to our
union."
"No, Miranda; Beverly and your friends in Richmond will never believe me
worthy of you. Besides, it would be dangerous for me to visit Richmond.
I have identified myself with the Northern cause, and although, for your
sake, I might refrain from bearing arms against Virginia, yet I have
little sympathy with any there, where I have been branded as a drunkard
and a gambler."
"Yet, Philip, is it not the land of your birth--the home of your
boyhood?"
"The land of my shame and humiliation. No Miranda, I will not return to
Virginia. And if you love me, you will not return. What are these
senseless quarrels to us? We can be happy in each other's love, and
forget that madmen are at war around us. Why will you not trust me,
Miranda--why do you thus withhold from me my only hope of redemption
from the terrible vice that is killing me? I put my destiny, my very
life in your keeping, and you hesitate to accept the trust that alone
can save me. Oh, Miranda! you do not love me."
"Philip, I cannot renounce my friends, my dear country, the home of my
childhood."
"Then look you what will be my fate: I will join the armies of the
North, and fling away my life in battle against my native soil. Ruin and
death cannot come too soon when you forsake me."
Miranda remained silent, but, through the gloom of the recess, he could
see the glistening of a tear upon her cheek.
The hall-bell rang, and the servant brought in a card for Miss Ayleff.
Following it, Arthur Wayne was ushered into the room.
She rose to receive him, somewhat surprised at a visit from a stranger.
"I have brought these letters for you from my good friend Beverly
Weems," said Arthur. "At his request, I have ventured to call in person,
most happy, if you will forgive the presumption, in the opportunity."
She gave her hand, and welcomed him gracefully and warmly, and, having
introduced Mr. Searle, excused herself while she glanced at the contents
of Beverly's letter. While thus employed, Arthur marked her changing
color; and then, lifting his eyes lest his scrutiny might be rude,
observed Philip's dark eye fixed upon her with a suspicious and
searching expression. Then Philip looked up, and their glances met--the
calm blue eye and the flashing black--but for an instant, but long
enough to confirm the instinctive feeling that there was no sympathy
between their hearts.
A half-hour's general conversation ensued, but Philip appeared restless
and uneasy, and rose to take his leave. She followed him to the parlor
door.
"Come to me to-morrow," she said, as she gave her hand, "and we will
talk again."
A smile of triumph rested upon his pale lips for a second; but he
pressed her hand, and, murmuring an affectionate farewell, withdrew.
Arthur remained a few moments, but observing that Miranda was pensive
and absent, he bade her good evening, accepting her urgent invitation to
call at an early period.