CHAPTER V.--ORDER, SYMMETRY, AND PROPORTION.

No numbers can be conceived of but as a collection of unities; in adding

unity, many, to itself, we only form a unity of a higher rank: it is in

taking unities successively from these numbers that we return to the

first unity. Thus variety or plurality, which at first seemed

destructive of unity, actually rests upon it, admitting it as an

elementary constituent of its very being. The _collective_ idea of the

world, _infinite variety, collection of individualities_, could not

exist in us without the idea of _unity_; and closely associated with the

conception of unity, is the idea of Absolute Order.

Whatever may be the disturbances which we witness either in physical or

moral nature, we always believe that Order will succeed the momentary

interruption of law. Even when we see earth a prey to the most dreadful

catastrophes, we always regard such a state of things as a _passing_

crisis, destined to return to the law of order. Surrounded as it is from

the cradle to the grave by an infinite variety of phenomena, the human

mind for their investigation devotes itself to the search of a small

number of laws, which will link them all, persuaded there is no

phenomenon or being so rebellious to a correct classification, that its

proper place or role cannot be assigned it in the great system of

Eternal Order. Even the savage believes in the periodic return, in the

constant and regular recurrence of natural phenomena: such convictions

must be based upon an instinctive belief in an Absolute and Universal

Order.

If we turn our gaze upon the Author of all things at the time of the

creation, we will perceive that He must have conceived the grand plan of

the universe as a single or united thought; that He has distributed

being to all that is in different degrees; that He has subjected them

all to the immutable laws of His wisdom; and that the laws under which

they are ranged to receive the Divine action are, in fact, the necessary

conditions of their existence. The more distant the link in the chain of

being is from God, the more are the laws multiplied, divided, ramified,

so as to weave in their vast net that infinite variety which extends to

the utmost limits of creation; but as we approach Him in thought, these

innumerable laws form themselves into groups, these groups are again

resolved into more general laws, until at last we arrive at _one_ which

embraces all the others, to which they are all attached as to a common

centre, and from which they obtain force and direction.

Order is then the entire range of laws which presided at the creation,

and which, linking variety to unity, change to immutability, cause the

circulation of movement, of life, through all the pores of being. Thus

nature and humanity are endowed with an expansive force almost without

limits, and Absolute Order is developing in accordance with regular

progression, in the bosom of which all partial imperfections vanish, and

death itself becomes but a momentary phase of transformation, a mystic

laboratory from which Life flows in a thousand new forms.

The True, the Beautiful, the Good, are only different faces of that

Universal Order which is their common life. Everything in creation is

gifted with its own degree of life, and yet depends upon that Universal

Life; is in some way attached to it, presenting a diminished image of

the Universal Order.

Malebranche asks: 'Why do men love beauty? because it is a visible

representation of Order.' Order is at the same time an object of

science, of art, and of popular faith. It is intuitively recognized, and

although the people may not be able to syllable its abstract formula,

yet as soon as they perceive the sensible sign of it, harmony, they at

once pronounce beautiful the object which embodies it. In a last

analysis it might be asserted that the True, the Beautiful, and the

Good, considered with regard to their realization in this world, are but

the representation of the pure Idea of Absolute Order. It must preside

over the creation of every great work of art, whether measuring the

columns and spanning the arches of architecture; modeling the forms of

Apollos; picturing the graces of virgins and cherubs; charging the air

with the electric and sublime grandeur of symphonies and requiems; or

creating Juliets, Imogens, Ophelias, and Desdemonas. Absolute Order may

be considered as the manifestation of the Divine wisdom--it must be

typified and symbolized in art.

Need we apologize for presenting to the reader, in consequence of its

relation with the subject under consideration, the following beautiful

extract from the pages of Holy Writ?

'For in Wisdom is the spirit of understanding; holy, one, manifold,

subtle, eloquent, active, undefiled, sure, sweet, loving that which

is good, quick, which nothing hindereth, beneficent.

'Gentle, kind, steadfast, assured, secure, having all power,

overseeing all things and containing all Spirits, intelligible,

pure, subtle:

'For Wisdom is more active than all active things, and reacheth

everywhere by reason of her _purity_.

'For she is the breath of the power of God, a pure influence

flowing from the glory of the Almighty, therefore no defiled thing

cometh into her.

'For she is the brightness of the Eternal Light, the unspotted

mirror of God's majesty.

'And being but _One_, she can do all things; and remaining in

herself, she maketh all things new; and in all ages entering into

holy souls, she maketh them friends of God and prophets.

'For God loveth none but him who dwelleth with Wisdom.

'For she is more beautiful than the sun, and above all the order of

the stars; being compared with the light, she is found before it.

'For after this cometh the night,--but no evil can overcome

Wisdom.'

Again:

'The Lord possessed me in the beginning of His ways, before He made

anything from the beginning.

'I was set up from Eternity, and of old before the earth was made.

'The depths were not as yet, and I was already conceived; neither

had the fountains of the waters as yet sprung out:

'The mountains with their huge bulk had not yet been established;

before the hills I was brought forth:

'He had not yet made the earth, nor the rivers, nor the poles of

the world.

'When He prepared the heavens I was present; when with a certain

law and compass He enclosed the depths:

'When He established the sky above, and poised the fountains of

waters:

'When He compassed the sea with its bounds, and set a law to the

waters that they should not pass their limits: when he weighed the

foundations of the earth.

'I was with Him forming all things: and was delighted every day,

playing before Him at all times;

'Playing in the world: _and my delights were to be with the

children of men_.'--PROVERBS.

As Order has been considered the symbol of Divine Wisdom, Symmetry has

been regarded as the type of Divine Justice. In all beautiful things

there is found the opposition of one part to another, while a reciprocal

balance must be obtained or suggested. In animals the balance is

generally between opposite sides; in the vegetable world it is less

distinct, as in the boughs on the opposite sides of trees; it often

amounts only to a certain tendency toward a balance, as in the opposite

sides of valleys and the alternate windings of streams. In things in

which perfect symmetry is, from their nature, impossible or improper, a

balance must be in some measure expressed before they can be

contemplated with pleasure. _Absolute equality_ is not required, still

less _absolute similarity_.

Symmetry must not be confounded with Proportion. Symmetry is the

opposition of _equal_ quantities; proportion is the due connection of

_unequal_ quantities with each other. A tree, in sending out equal

boughs on opposite sides, is symmetrical; in sending out smaller boughs

toward the top, proportional. In the human face its balance of opposite

sides is _symmetry_; its division upward, _proportion_.

Symmetry is necessary to the _dignity_ of every form. Orderly balance

and arrangement are highly essential to the more perfect operation of

the earnest and solemn qualities of the beautiful, being heavenly in

their nature, and contrary to the violence and disorganization of sin.

Minds which have been subjected to high moral influence generally

delight in symmetry: witness the harmonious lines of Milton, and the

works of the great religious painters. Where there is no symmetry, the

effects of violence and passion are increased. Many works derive power

from the want of it, but lose in proportion in the divine quality of

beauty.

Want of moderation, extravagance, bombastic straining for effect, are

destructive of beauty, whether in color, form, motion, language, or

thought;--in color, they would be called glaring; in form, inelegant; in

motion, ungraceful; in language, coarse; in thought, undisciplined; in

all, unchastened: these qualities are always painful, because the signs

of disobedient and irregular operation. In color, for example, it is not

red, but rose color, which is the most beautiful; neither is it the

brightest green, but such gray green as we see in the distant sky, in

the clefts of the glacier, in the chrysophrase and sea foam; not but

that the expression of feeling should be deep and full, but that to

arrive at that _passion of the soul_ excited by the beautiful, there

should be a solemn moderation in such fulness, a reference to the high

harmonies by which humanity is governed, and an obedience to which is

its glory. The following short quotations serve to illustrate this

point:

'And now and then an ample tear trilled down

Her delicate cheek; it seemed she was a queen

Over her passion, which, most rebel-like,

Sought to be king o'er her.'

'I found her on the floor

In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful;

Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate,

That were the world on fire, they might have drowned

The wrath of heaven, and quenched the mighty ruin.'

Common writers are apt to forget that exaggerated expressions chill our

sympathies; that passion becomes ignoble when entertained for ignoble

objects; that when violent and unnatural, it is destructive of dignity.

In the exaggeration of its outward signs, Passion is not exalted, but

its reality is evaporized.

'The fire which mounts the liquor till it runs o'er,

In _seeming_ to augment it, _wastes_ it.'

The use and value of passion is not as a subject of contemplation in

itself, but as it breaks up the fountains of the great deep of the

heart, or displays its might and ribbed majesty, as the stability of

mountains is best seen with the restless mist quivering about them, and

the changeful clouds floating above them.

We have thus naturally arrived at the fact that Truth, another of the

Divine Attributes, must make part of all art that would interest

humanity; that the soul rejects violence, or the falsehood of

exaggerated description.

'Sanctify your soul like a temple,' says Madame De Staël, 'and the angel

of noble thoughts will not disdain to occupy it.' If the rays of

'Wisdom' were reflected through the rainbow of artistic beauty by the

devout artist, he would again be, as of old, the Prophet; and the arts

would find, in typification of the Divine Attributes, ceaseless

variety, marvellous unity. Then might he stand before his Maker as the

anointed high priest of nature, winning entrance into her mysteries and

holy symbols, using his glorious gifts to lead his brethren back to God;

and the artistic human word might become, in its appropriate sphere, the

humble and devout interpreter of the Word Eternal!

REMEMBRANCE.

Last night, emerging from the glaring gaslight into the starlight

beautiful and dim, there came, borne to me by the night wind, a gay

young voice, blithely carolling the sweet strains of a well-remembered

song, familiar to me long years ago in another and distant clime. It was

a simple ballad, one heard most frequently in my youth, old when I was

young; it was like a voice from the dead--a thought from the shrouded

past appealing to my soul. There was something so solemn and strange, so

mystically spiritual in the fact that a stranger in a strange land

should possess the power to conjure up for me a world of saddest

memories, that I half fancied at first (pardon an old man's dreaming)

that one who had lived long ago, and died before her prime, seeing now

as those see where the mists of pride and passion are dispelled forever

by the light of unshadowed truth, conscious now of the deep and lasting

wrong she had done herself and me, that _she it was who was now singing

to me through the lips of the lad_, striving to cheer the loneliness she

had caused, and comfort my desolate heart by telling me she was near me;

and, obedient to the impulse given me by the wild fancy, I raised my

tremulous voice, broken long ago, and quavered an accompaniment, and I

and the unknown singer sang the last remaining stanza together.

I can never hear that song without tears. I never hear it, even though

its half-forgotten strains, dreamily warbled, are oddly mingled with a

widely different tune, in a bootless effort at remembrance; but my

youth, with its golden promise, which maturer manhood but meagrely

fulfilled, turns with the shadowed years veiling its brightness, and

looks sorrowfully upon my old age in its solitude and desolation; but my

life, with its wasted energies and flagging purpose, rises up before me,

darkly and reproachfully reminding me of what I might have done, have

been! O Heaven! what bitter years of suffering and crushing

disappointment, years on which the tracks of time have left their blight

and mildew, have passed since first I listened to the bird-like warbling

of its simple strains. Then was the blissful May-time of my existence,

when I was governed by youth's generous impulses, led captive by its

sweet delusions, when I fondly dreamed that my life was destined to

become a victory and a triumph, not the failure it has proved to be! I

heard it first when the love that has lived unchanged through the

mournful wastes of nearly half a century, was in the gray dawn of its

immortal being. _She_ sang it to me _then_, sweet Jennie Grey, whom I

wooed, but never won. Memory, faithful treasurer, points back with

mystic finger, and looking through the long vista of intervening years,

standing now almost where time shall merge into eternity, that vision

illuminating like a star the surrounding gloom, I can see the very

night--I can see _now_ as clearly as _then_--the round full moon

lighting the dark waters with a long line of silvery brightness,

crowning the tiny ripples with light as they broke upon the shore, and

flooding the well-remembered room with its mellow radiance--see her, in

her fresh young beauty, seated at the old instrument, the moonlight

falling on her bright hair; the sweet eyes averted from my too admiring

gaze, veiled beneath the drooping lashes, cast down with a coy pretence

of studying the half-forgotten tune.

I can see myself, handsome, ardent YOUNG (so widely different NOW, I can

speak of my former self without vanity), seated near, with all the love

that filled my soul for her looking from my eyes.

The bright remembrance of this is shining 'through the mists of years,'

glowing and life-like as life's joyous spring time. I can see it all

now, clearly, as if it were but yesterday. Oh, radiant picture of youth

and beauty! Oh, life! life! If it be a truth, and I believe it to be

such, that in all the vast and mighty universe there is but one nature

perfectly and completely assimilated unto our own; one heart in which

every pulse of feeling throbbing within our being, shall find a quick

responsive echo; a second self, the same in thought, emotion, character,

or with such slight shades of difference as shall make the blending more

harmonious; one, and only one, to whom God has indissolubly joined us by

the omnipotent law of a pure, immutable attraction--if this be an

essential fact, then, as I sat drinking in the harmony of the song that

night, this sublime truth in all its purity was revealed to me; and with

the revelation came a purifying and exalting power, purifying my love

from passion and every base and earthly alloy. For me, for a brief

instant, the veil had parted that divides the earthly from the

spiritual, and I had caught a dim, shadowy glimpse of how it would be

with us, my idol and myself, in the great and mystic future that lay

stretching far away before us; and through all my enraptured soul,

filling it with sweetest melody, a voice was murmuring: 'She is thine,

through all the countless years of thy immortality, lift up thine eyes

and look upon thine own.' Then, with a deep reverence I had never felt

for her before, with all my pure and passionate love, I raised the small

hand, on which the moonlight fell white and cold, murmuring the while in

solemn triumph: 'What God has joined together, let not man put asunder.'

I had received the soul's highest and clearest intuition as a direct

revelation from the Divine, and I relied upon it as such implicitly,

undoubtingly. Oh, with what earnest faith, for a brief and fleeting

season, I believed that the seal of the Omnipotent had been set upon our

union, earthly as well as spiritual, and that no power on earth or in

hell could prevail against its consummation! How I revelled in this

sweet belief; how this blest and silent consciousness wrapped my soul in

light, and hovered ever around me like a wordless blessing! This faith

was the inspiration of my toil, the prompter to good deeds, the angel

messenger which enabled me to overcome the evil of my wayward nature.

How the sweet thought of it grew and grew until it pervaded my entire

being, making my whole life harmonious and beautiful as the song she

sang to me--a sublime and glorious dream! I did not check this pure and

fervid flow of happiness with doubts and fears. I did not rouse myself

to inquire whether this great truth concerning us might not, owing to

some peculiarity of my organization, be clearly and perfectly revealed

to _me_, and me _alone_; so that the truth being but dimly and vaguely

foreshadowed to her mind, the effect could not be as permanent and

living as in mine. I did not ruffle my soul's serenity with dark

forebodings and bootless queries.

Such revelations are certainly, in consequence of their greater

spirituality, more frequently made to women than to men, and I rested

upon this, not thinking the reverse might be the case in the present

instance; and through the long days of that golden summer I dreamed on

and on. The powerful attraction, whose nature was so plainly revealed to

me that night, and faintly shadowed forth to her, now drew us together

more and more, and for a time our companionship was almost constant. We

read, we walked, we talked together; we wandered through summer groves

in the twilight, or, seated on the mossy root of some old tree, watched

the light dying in the west, and the stars come out one by one; or

viewed the sun slowly and majestically disappearing beneath the horizon,

gorgeous with clouds of purple and of gold; or marked the varied changes

of the sky on the calm expanse of summer water, stretching far away

before us. And when the light had disappeared, leaving but a dull leaden

surface, we closed our eyes and listened to the wild, mysterious murmur

of the waters as they touched the sounding shore. Oh, brief and fleeting

dream of earthly joy! Oh, light, warmth, and sunshine! Happiness too

spiritual; companionship too blest for earth! Mortal type of the

immortal bliss that awaits me, which is drawing nearer to me day by day!

I never shall believe that she did not love me _then_, unconsciously as

it must have been, for it was not in a nature like hers to prove

recreant to a holy impulse. Yes, I know she then loved me! It was this

belief alone which upheld me in the chill night darkness that fell upon

my soul after shutting out the warmth and light. I'm sure she loved me

_then_. I could note the silent working of the _great law_ that was

unconsciously impressing her slowly, drawing her nearer to me day by

day; mark the electric thrill which made the slender fingers tremulous

when my hand lay near her own, an expressive and eloquent gesture, as

if, all unconsciously, her hand was stretching forth in the sweet

endeavor to clasp mine. The averted eyes, the beautiful color that

flushed her cheeks, and, best and dearest sight of all, the perplexed,

mystified, dimly conscious expression in the far-off distant gaze, as if

the soul was vainly struggling to grasp and clearly comprehend a great

truth but vaguely felt. I could see all this as I sat by her side,

permitting the love I had not words to speak to betray me in every look,

tone, and gesture. But even while I watched her thus, serenely awaiting

the time when a full consciousness should pervade her spirit as it was

pervading mine--now when the sun of my happiness was slowly approaching

its zenith, there appeared above the horizon the little cloud doomed to

overspread and darken the calm heaven of my joy. We were no longer

entirely alone: a third person was added to the sweet enchanted number

that first walked the groves of Eden, and the complete spirituality of

our communion was gone! Other eyes gazed on what we gazed; other eyes

looked into the blue depths of hers, and sought with mine their smiling

approval, and the brightest charm of our intercourse had departed

forever. The last time in which it still remained unbroken--the last

sweet time that I could call her wholly mine, was on a placid autumn

evening. We had strolled farther than usual, tempted by the tranquil

beauty around us, and during that walk I had been strangely, wonderfully

happy. Many times, as we walked silently side by side, a strong, an

almost irresistible impulse seemed to force me to utter those three

passionate words that have caused a flutter in the heart-beat of so many

thousands since the world began; and as many times the reverence I felt

for her, and the diffidence arising from it, held me back, and the words

remained unspoken. Yet this contest of feeling had led me to venture

more upon outward expression: I had held her hand in mine, and twice or

thrice had pressed it mutely and reverently to my lips; and she, seeing

nothing of the ardor of a lover in this (the very excess of my emotion

had made me outwardly calm), had allowed me to retain it, bestowed upon

me her sunniest smile, calling me the while friend and brother. It was

not the terms my heart most earnestly longed for; but I looked forward

with a lover's eye, and was content. And thus we wandered slowly back

again--back to meet one who possessed the power to change the aspect of

both our lives; the power to darken mine on earth--and who was he? A

mere boy--a lover of Jennie's, who impatiently awaited our return that

very night. They had been playmates in childhood, but had not met since

then.

Had I been less certain that her love would be mine in the future, I

should have trembled when I looked upon this man; for he possessed those

gifts in their richness and fulness that most easily win a woman's love.

Then, too, he was her mother's guest--with Jennie, morning, noon, and

night--invariably our companion in our frequent walks--always by her

side, and with a mingling of tenderness and reverence proffering that

devoted and delicate homage which most readily finds its way to the

affections of an artless maiden.

I was too unused to the world _then_ to know it; but have deeply

realized since how irresistibly she must have charmed one so accustomed

to the heartless coquetry of fashionable flirts, by the timid,

wondering, child-like simplicity with which she received all this

homage.

I should have known how this would end; but my faith had made me blind.

Indeed, I was even then conscious how infinitely he was my superior in

all that pertained to outward things: he was rich, I poor; he possessed

the varied information of the travelled man, the ease and grace of one

familiar with the world, and I had all the awkwardness and abstracted

reserve of an absorbed student. I was deeply, painfully conscious of

this. Yet, while I felt she did not return his ardent, ever-increasing

love, perhaps did not even comprehend it; while the spirituality of our

communion still in some degree remained unbroken, I was content.

I could calmly watch his ever-varying moods from gay to grave, from

grave to sad, striving by each in turn with finished art to touch the

heart he felt he had not won--smiling securely, I would sometimes murmur

in my happiness the while: 'Passion born of earth, not the true love

that discerneth its own, impels thee. Thy soul's betrothed is perchance

of another country; turn to seek thy own; Jennie is _mine_, not

_thine_!' No need to tell how, at first all unconsciously to herself, he

gained the priceless treasure of her love. No need to tell how he won

her heart from mine. The memory of all this is very painful even

now--enough, that after long and skilful trial he succeeded. The arrow

at last struck its mark, and my boding heart then whispered how this

would end. I saw the pitying tenderness of her artless nature, shining

in her soft and dreamy eye, suffusing every speaking feature, making the

sweet face still more lovely, until presently compassion grew into

something yet more tender. Then her eyes would brighten at his coming, a

deep crimson color her cheeks, a sweet and timid consciousness betray

itself in every look and movement; and then, oh, anguish of spirit! _I

felt her soul gradually withdrawing itself from mine_, and my heart torn

from the loving one on which it rested. Then followed days and nights of

extreme mental anguish, a time of suffering that I cannot dwell upon

even now without a shudder, when I lost faith in God and man, and cursed

the day when I beheld the light; when amid blackness, darkness, and

tempest, my storm-tossed soul cried in vain for light, vainly seeking

for peace amid its wrecks and desolations. A fiery furnace, through

which I passed that I might come out purified.

They were to be married very soon. She told me this as we sat together

one evening in the brief wintry twilight. The first wild transports of a

newly found bliss had subsided into a calmer feeling of happiness in her

heart, as with me had passed the first 'bitter bitterness' of a

life-long grief, and I was enabled to receive her confidence with a show

of brotherly regard.

Christmas was the time set for the ceremony, and the first fall of snow

was even now lying on the ground.

She did not impart this information with the coy and hesitating timidity

usual to her; but thoughtfully, as she sat gazing out on the dull leaden

sky, watching the snowflakes falling through the dreary air. There

followed then a long, long pause, in which I had time to recover from

the effect her words had produced, and to frame and stammer forth such

congratulations as seemed required by the occasion. These she did not

answer, or even seem to comprehend, but roused from her revery by the

sound of my voice, she crossed the room and seated herself beside me,

and took my hand within her own.

'Brother,' she murmured, in a dreamy, half-abstracted manner, 'there has

been something solemn and strange in our intercourse, a mysterious

something, which my mind has vainly striven to grasp and comprehend. I

had thought the secret rested with you, and _through you_ would be

revealed to _me_; but the time for such revelation is passed; God has

willed it otherwise. Brother,' her voice sank to a solemn cadence; I

hear the low tones _now_, as I heard them _then:_ 'I am the better and

purer for your affection; you have led me, by what process I know not,

from the sensuous and the earthly, to the spiritual and the holy, and

there is no epithet applied to mortals, reverently endearing enough to

be coupled with your name. I would that my words were as eloquent as my

feelings, that you might know what immeasurable gratitude I vainly

strive to compress in the brief words: I thank you.'

She wept, and I laid my hand on the bowed head in mute and speechless

blessing.

'O Father!' I cried, in my voiceless anguish, 'Omnipotent and good! is

there nothing that can open her eyes even now, and give me the being

thine own holy laws have made my own?' No! no! The wild hope that

prompted the useless prayer died within my heart as I breathed it.

Jealous of the brief interest that could draw his betrothed's attention

from himself but for a moment, _he_, the boy lover, now entered, and

there were no longer gentle looks nor solemn words. He loved her best in

her moods of artless gayety, and she hurriedly brushed her tears away,

and hastened to be merry. Brief as had been the glimpse she had given me

of her inner nature, the knowledge proved my comforter in this my time

of trial, and I thanked God for it humbly and gratefully.

I then had really led her from the earthly to the spiritual and holy.

Her heart had unawares entertained an angel visitant; mine had

unconsciously performed an angel's ministry; I, next to God and his

messengers, had power to satisfy the deepest wants of her nature. Oh,

solitary drop of consolation! The love cherished by her, and her heart's

mistaken choice, was only of this _earth_; there was no element of

spirituality to render it _immortal_. It was doomed to die with the

passion that gave it birth, and from the grave there should be no

resurrection.

Blessed be God forever!... Lo! The rustic church is trimmed with

evergreen, and lighted for the marriage service. Curious lookers on are

there; and with that perverse desire to test the might of their

endurance, common with those who suffer, I too, am there, though I know

that her image, as she stands at the altar, where I shall see her for

the last time, through the days and nights of anguish sure to follow

_this_, will be ever present with me! Yet, with my face half hidden by

the evergreens, I stand and wait her coming. They enter, bride and

bridegroom; she leaning trustfully upon his arm. O Jennie! _my_ Jennie;

thou who shouldst have been my bride! Great waves of tearless anguish

rolled over my soul at the sight! Jennie, the priest who ministers at

the altar before which thou standest, is idly repeating words whose holy

meaning he does not comprehend: is _separating_, not _uniting_ those

whom God has joined together. O Jennie! companion of my spirit! is there

no far-off, distant echo awakened in thy soul by the bitter waves of

anguish surging over mine? Not now, in this thine hour of earthly love

and triumph; not now. Even in spirit, 'lover and friend,' hast thou been

put far from me. The low, measured tones of the minister fall on my ear;

and I count the brief moments that give her to the keeping of another

for all her _mortal_ life, as the watcher counts the last moments of the

dying and the loved. They kneel in prayer before the mockery of those

last words is spoken, and I kneel too, crying to the Almighty: 'Wrest

even now my treasure from him, or still the anguished throbbings of my

heart forever! Let me die!' O Thou tempted in all points even as we, yet

without sin, it was meet in this my hour of extremest suffering, that

Thou shouldst send the promised comforter, not to bestow the earthly

good I prayed for, but to raise me above earth and all of earthly good.

Opening my inner vision to behold, far as the eye of the finite may

behold, what is comprehended in the omniscient glance of the

Infinite--removing the clouds brooding so darkly over my spirit, and

filling it with holy joy, by imparting radiant glimpses of the soul's

calmer and higher life in the land beyond--'the life that rights the

wrongs, and reveals the mysteries of this,'--the words that were once my

hope and the inspiration of my toil, came now, when that hope was dead,

to soothe and comfort me--the spirit of prophecy, that cheered my spirit

with the hopeful promise of good in the time to come, and stirring my

soul to its depths, sounding through it like a song of solemn triumph.

What though thou beholdest her the bride of another, her own heart

blinded so that she cannot see aright! She is _thine_ through all the

countless years of thy immortality! His but for a brief and fleeting

season! He holds his treasure in a trembling, uncertain grasp. Change

may separate her heart from his; death may wrest it from him; the grave

cover her form forever from his sight; but neither Time, nor Change, nor

Death--nothing in the present world, or in that which is to come, shall

be able to separate _thee_ from the soul _that was formed for thine_!

She is his by man's frail and perishing enactments; thine by the great

law of attraction, by the immutable decrees of God. Seeing now, with the

eye of the spirit, the frail uncertain nature of the happiness which he

fondly dreamed was founded on a rock, sorrow and envy left me, and I

could pity him as one deluded; and with a strange triumphant feeling, I

pressed forward and imprinted the first kiss on the pure brow of my

heart's chosen as the bride of another. Was she dimly, vaguely conscious

for a moment of the nature of the attraction that bound our souls

together, as she clung tearfully to _me_ for an instant, murmuring a

loving farewell? It has given me comfort through all the long years that

have passed since then, to think so. She leaned from the carriage, her

sweet eyes meeting mine in a sad adieu. I looked my last then on the

face of the _mortal_ Jennie. But in a land of perpetual summer, lighted

by the smile of God, robed in garments of everlasting light, faithful

and true, there awaits me _Jennie the immortal!_ She knows it all now.

Those bright seraphic eyes lighted with heaven-born love, have turned

from celestial light to mark my gloomy wanderings. When she died, there

was added to the band of ministering spirits the one whose silent

influence was most powerful for good, most potent to aid me in

overcoming evil. I have been better and purer since then. She possesses

some mystic power to make me _feel_ her presence, and to draw me toward

her.

Slowly, very slowly, the feeling of solitude and isolation departed from

me, and I am not lonely now; bright unseen visitants soothe my solitude;

their noiseless steps break not its solemn stillness; soft hands clasp

mine; where'er I move, the spirit of loving companionship is with me.

Ah! to the eyes and ears of the aged, whose material perceptions are

closing forever on the sights and sounds of earth, there come, borne

across the dark-waved river on whose brink they stand, sounds from the

other side; and ever and anon the mist that broods there lifts and parts

itself, revealing radiant but imperfect glimpses of the promised land

beyond.

Ere long the shadow will pass from these dimmed eyes forever, and I

shall look on what she looks in heaven.

I have lived the allotted time of man's probation. The days of the years

of my pilgrimage are drawing to a close. It cannot be _long now_! A few

months, it may be years, of patient endurance--

And then--Then!

THE GREAT RIOT.

On Monday, the 13th day of July, 1863, the national conscription was

proceeding in two districts of New York city. By Monday night the

buildings and the blocks in which the provost marshals had their

respective offices had been burned to the ground by a furious rabble,

whose onset the police had in vain attempted to stay, and the great

metropolis of North America was at the mercy of a raging mob, which

roamed through the streets, robbing, beating, burning, murdering where

they would.

By Tuesday the police had thoroughly organized, and the trial of

strength between mob-law and authority began. Night closed over a still

unconquered, defiant, law-contemning insurrection.

On Wednesday the public conveyances of the city were stopped, the places

of business mostly closed, while the rioters alternated between hanging

negroes, burning their houses, and plundering generally, on the one

hand, and fighting the military on the other. Thursday the final

struggle ensued, and when Friday dawned, though not until then, was the

city fairly delivered from the hands of the insurgents, and restored to

its wonted order. Now all is tranquil, and save the occasional ruins,

the groans of the wounded in the hospitals, the agony of those who have

lost friends or homes in the struggle, and the diminished number of the

blacks, little remains to attest the scenes of terror through which New

York has passed.

Whence came this riot? From what causes did it spring? Was it, indeed, a

part of the great Southern rebellion, instigated by the emissaries of

Jefferson Davis? Was it instigated by the Catholic Church as a part of

their scheme for the reconstruction of the Church in America, and for

obtaining the overthrow of republican institutions as a preliminary

means to this end? Was it the work of unprincipled politicians, who wish

to put a stop to the war, in order to carry out their ambitious plans by

the aid of their Southern allies, and who thought that by stopping the

draft they could stop the war? Was it the work of plunderers and thieves

who inflamed the passions of the people, and incited them to deeds of

violence, that they might rob in security? Did it spring from the honest

indignation of the poorer classes, who deemed they were wronged by the

$300 exemption clause? Or, finally, was it a reaction against supposed

injustice on the part of men who believed that the forcing of

individuals to fight against their will was contrary to the very genius

of our institutions and our government, which recognizes the right of

each person, according to his understanding, to the pursuit of happiness

absolutely in his own way? Each one of these has been loudly urged as

the undoubted cause of the difficulty. Let us probe the matter with

care, and ascertain the source of the disturbance.

It is one of the vices of our political system, not yet remedied, that

it holds out great inducements to unscrupulous and ambitious men to

deceive the ignorant and credulous masses, in order to obtain their good

will and their votes. This deception has necessarily to be practised,

moreover, concerning the individuals and the things in regard to which

the highest interests of the people demand they should not be deceived.

For the wicked and designing politician knows that good men, who really

have the interest of the people at heart, will not elect him to office.

On the contrary, they will expose his true character and unmask his

deception to the poor dupes whom he is cajoling and deluding. Hence the

necessity, on the part of such men, of putting a complete barrier

between the really good portion of the community and the ignorant and

weak, who most need their assistance. The politician of this stamp

resorts, therefore, to every means in his power to destroy the

confidence of the lower classes in the higher. He succeeds in convincing

the thoughtless portion of the masses that the respectable and

comfortable citizen is his enemy and cares not for his condition, while

he himself is the poor man's friend, watchful over his interests, and

carefully guarding him from the designs of his foe. Thus the isolation

of the ignorant, the wretched, and the depraved, from the benevolent,

the sympathetic, and the wise is completed, and the wily politician has

his victim and voter secure within his grasp.

In no way is the coöperation of the simple-minded and ignorant man more

easily secured and his faith more firmly riveted than, by flattering his

vanity and treating him as the peer of others infinitely his superiors.

The fundamental principle of our political fabric, the _political_

equality of all men, has afforded ample opportunity for designing

persons to mislead the uninformed among the mass, and to make them

believe that _political_ equality means social, intellectual, and moral

equality, that all are in fact equal in all respects in society, and

that their rights are infringed by their exclusion from such

recognition.

But while plying the people with the most levelling dogmas of equality,

it is the equality of the white race only that has been affirmed by the

crafty demagogue. The efforts for the enfranchisement of the negro have

been eagerly seized upon to widen still further the breach between the

intelligent and the ignorant. The thoughtless among the masses have been

persistently taught that the emancipation of the negro would result in

his coming North, that this would bring him in as a competitor in the

struggle for life, already so arduous and harassing, and that,

consequently, the emancipation of the black was a direct blow at the

interests of the poor white laboring man. When the present national

conflict began, and the politicians of the cunning, unscrupulous school

thought they saw it to be their interest to gain favor with the South,

they opposed the war, and sought to league the populace on their side by

raising the cry that the contest was for emancipation, not for saving

the Union. And now, when all other efforts to end the struggle in favor

of the South are unavailing, they have fastened on the prevention of the

draft as the 'last ditch' in which to make a final stand and risk a last

battle.

They have summoned all their forces to the field in this contest. They

urge the poor man to resist the conscription, because it infringes the

equality of the citizen and makes an invidious distinction between the

rich and the poor. They teach him that he is being forced from fireside

and friends, while others no better than himself are left at home; that

his family are left destitute by his absence, while others remain to

protect and support their dependants; that he is forced to do this in a

war which has for its principal object the liberation of a people whom

he believes he has every cause to hate, and who will become, on their

liberation, his rivals in the race where suffering and perhaps

starvation await the loser. Is it any wonder that they broke the wheel,

scattered the names, and burnt the enrolling offices--that they

plundered and murdered the negroes?

The New York riot had its active origin, nucleus, and strength in a

feeling of bitter injustice, entertained by ignorant, simple-minded,

crude men, the lowest class of our population, who had been deliberately

deceived in relation to facts, by unscrupulous politicians, for

ambitious purposes. They had been inflamed with wrath by supposed wrong;

their worst passions were aroused, they had lost their self-control, and

became reckless. It matters little whether the actual hostilities began

by a spontaneous outburst of anger, when the passions had simmered a

long time; or whether the emissaries of the politicians actually incited

to the specific act at a preconcerted period. The responsibility of the

latter is noways diminished if no such intervention occurred; the

essential nature of the outbreak is the same if it did. Had there not

been this deep-seated feeling of wrong on the part of a portion of the

people, the instigations of the emissaries would have met no response.

The sinew of the insurrection was this honest resentment of fancied

injury.

Everything goes to prove that, in the outset, so far as the _original

active rioters_ were concerned, the draft was the immediate cause of the

disturbance. They first burnt one provost marshal's office, and then

proceeded a mile or more to burn another. Then they burnt the colored

asylum. This was the first day's work mainly. There is no adequate

explanation of the hatred exhibited to the negro throughout this riot,

other than the supposition that the mob, or rather that portion of it

who were abusing the blacks, believed that they were being forced from

their homes in the service of a war, the object and purpose of which was

the liberation of the negroes, and that, therefore, in a certain sense,

the colored people were the cause of their being drafted. The peculiar

feature of this mob, as contrasted with ordinary ones, was this

bitterness against the negro.

On the succeeding days, however, the elements of the mob changed. The

same nucleus remained, but other constituents were added to it. Thieves

and plunderers joined it, for the sole purpose doubtless of robbing in

safety; probably the first peacebreakers themselves, not ordinarily

pilferers, carried off the articles of value, which were scattered among

the ruins their rage had created. Scheming politicians fanned the flame

which their teachings had already lit; the journals which are almost

undisguisedly in favor of a dishonorable peace, and of a return of the

Southern States with slavery untouched, skilfully incited, while seeming

to discourage, the now rum-maddened and blood-drunken fiends; the idle,

the vicious, the curious joined the throng, and the motives of the mob

became as varied and diverse as its elements. Some hoped to stop the

draft and remain unmolested at home. Others hoped to stop the draft, in

order to stop the war, and enable them to say to the South, We have

prevented your subjugation: give us our political reward. Some hoped to

overthrow all law and order, that they might revel in the wealth they

could then sequester. The great mass probably neither knew nor cared to

what end they tended--their worst passions were aroused and controlled

them; they luxuriated in violence and bloodshed, and their brutal

instincts were satisfied.

That the riot had any significant religious characteristics is not

probable. Catholics were in it and of it, and so were Protestants. The

mob was composed principally of those who scout all pretence of religion

of any kind, and who are as little influenced by the priest as the

negligent Protestant is by the preacher. Had it been otherwise, the

priest who endeavored to get the body of Colonel O'Brien would have

easily prevailed; for no church-going Catholics would refuse, in their

wildest frenzy, the request of a priest for the possession of a dying

man. That there are honest bigots in the Catholic Church who believe

that within her pale only is safety for the human race, who believe,

furthermore, that republican institutions are incompatible with her full

supremacy, and rejoice, therefore, with holy zeal, at anything which

seems to indicate their instability, is doubtless true. Some such

individuals may have been among the rioters, urging them on in their

frenzied work. But the manly, sincere, and indignant castigation given

by the Catholic priesthood to the wretched miscreants on the Sunday

following the disturbances, precludes any possibility of suspicion that

the Church was either aware of the intended uprising, or that it

approved the purposes or actions of the mob.

In deciding, then, as to the real character and purpose of the rioters,

two distinct classes of persons must be taken into account: those

actively engaged in insurgent proceedings, and those who, not appearing

on the scene of action, incited and sustained the former in their

demonstrations.

That the motives and purposes of the one class were different from those

of the other, has been already indicated. The main object of the parties

in the background, who had constantly been fomenting discord, was

undoubtedly to aid the cause of the Southern rebellion, with whom they

sympathize, not perhaps because they care for the South, but because

they think their own interests demand its coöperation. The chief design

of the first peacebreakers was to stop the draft, that they might not be

forced away from home to fight, against their wishes. That they knew the

real designs of their instigators, or that they had any prompters to the

specific acts which inaugurated the riot, is not probable; that, after

the commencement of the sedition, they were joined by such, and urged to

further violence, cannot be doubted.

The insurrection had not, therefore, in its largest proportions, one

single distinctive purpose, and was not the work of one set of men. It

was a rising against the draft, but not wholly so. It was a blow in aid

of the South, though not this only. It was a thieves' tumult, but that

was not all. It was all of these, with some other ingredients,

previously mentioned, the whole clustering and crystallizing around a

nucleus of crude, ignorant, hard-working, passionate, rough, turbulent

men, deceived by the adroit misrepresentations of interested persons,

until, driven to madness by a sense of supposed injustice, they believed

themselves justified in securing redress by the only means they knew.

Shall we stop here in our analysis of the nature and constituents of the

New York mob? Have we yet discovered the fundamental causes which

produced the riot, so that we shall be able to prevent such recurrences

in the future? Or have we in reality only penetrated the crust of the

question, and ascertained the immediate and superficial causes, not the

radical and basic ones? The latter is the case. We have thus far seen

the apparent and proximate causes merely--which brought to the surface,

at the present time, a riotous disposition, always existent in the

community, a volcano slumbering and smouldering, ever ready to burst

forth and deluge society with its withering and destroying lava,

whenever the flame is fitly fanned. Until we know the source of this

riotous tendency in a portion of our population, the deeper cause of

this recent outbreak, as of all our outbreaks, we are yet ignorant of

the true sources of the frightful disturbance which our social order has

sustained, in any such sense as makes a knowledge of causes practically

available for remedy and cure.

Whether the preceding analysis of the mob be a true one or not,

therefore; whether it were a part of the great Southern rebellion,

brought about by rebel agents from abroad or living in our midst; or an

outbreak of indignation against a law supposed to be unjust; or a riot

of thieves, whose main purpose was plunder; or a politicians' bubble

merely;--whether it were any or all of these, or something different

from these or more than these; in any of these cases, we are yet at the

threshold of our inquiry concerning it. We must go back over some ground

which we have cursorily traversed, and look closer at the elements of

society, to find a fitting solution to the spirit and conduct of the

mob. Men are not given to acts of atrocious brutality, to frightful

rage, or to wanton rapine, without the existence of some cause for their

proceedings. However depraved a few individuals may be, the love of

doing outrageous things for the mere sake of doing them is not natural

to the human race. If there had not existed some deep feeling of

supposed injustice on the part of the masses engaged in the sedition,

coupled with the habitual misery of their lives, the wild frenzy of July

would have been impossible. If the multitude had been rightly informed

and judiciously cared for, neither the politicians nor the rebel

emissaries could have stirred them to insurrection, nor thieves have

gained their assistance and support.

The cause of the turbulent spirit exhibited in a large class of our

population is, principally, the sense of pecuniary insecurity in which

they live; the fear lest by an overabundance in the supply of labor, or

by the disability of the laborer, they should be unable to get the means

of living for themselves and their families. The writer of this article

was impelled, by the duties of his profession, to spend his entire time,

save the hours of sleep, during the days of the riot and the two weeks

subsequent, among the active insurgents, in the neighborhood of the

conflicts, and in other situations, which gave him peculiar advantages

for knowing the nature of the mob and the causes of its actions. The

prevailing complaint among the first active insurgents, and their

sympathizers among the poor, was that they were about to be forced away

from home to fight for the freedom of the blacks, who when free would

become their competitors for the little they now earn. In listening to

the knots gathered at the corners, to the conversation among the

inhabitants of the most violently riotous districts, the words which

fell oftenest upon the ear were those of bitter, burning, blasting

denunciation against the apathy of the rich, who, while enjoying the

comforts of a competency, are forgetful of the continuous, persistent,

hopeless, never-to-be-relieved, and crushing poverty of the poor, with

its inevitable accompaniments. The writer does not hesitate to affirm,

that but for this sense of the insecurity of their means of living, and

the mistaken notions which had been instilled into them in regard to the

negroes and the object of this war, as increasing still further this

insecurity--a deception to which their ignorance, the necessary result

of their present pecuniary conditions, even were there no other causes

for it, renders them at all times liable--they could not have been

incited to the recent sedition.

It is not easy for men who do not feel the daily and hourly pressure of

poverty, to comprehend the constant solicitude which weighs upon the

indigent. It is still less easy for them to understand the intensely

practical point of view from which the poor must regard every question

submitted to them, and the equally practical and speedy solution which

they must find to problems of social interest presented for their

consideration. The citizen who is comfortably situated in relation to

money matters, can afford to look at the result which any social,

economical, or mechanical change will introduce in his affairs with

reference to a period of time more or less extended into the future. The

man who has no capital, who literally earns his _daily_ bread, and whose

ability to gain a livelihood for himself and his family depends upon his

constant, unintermitted labor, is in no condition to look at any aspect

of any question but in the one, vital, all-important view of his

personal necessities. Anything which stops his work, for a week even, is

destructive to him, no matter how beneficial its after results may

promise to be. The binding force of dire necessity coerces him into this

position; and even were he intelligent enough to see that all progress,

no matter how destructive to particular departments of industry at

first, eventually benefits _all_ classes and _all_ individuals, he

cannot afford to consider the question from this stand-point, if it

affects his immediate occupation. The benefits of progress must be of

secondary importance to an individual, when the present issue which the

case presents to him is starvation or work. If the proposed improvement

is liable to throw him out of employment for even a brief period, he

must look upon it as a hostile invader and resist its introduction. It

is this insecurity of social condition, therefore, which has always

arrayed a portion of the masses against the introduction of new

inventions, improvements in machinery, and labor-saving appliances of

all descriptions, and which has caused the riots and violent

demonstrations which, at times, have accompanied the first use of new

mechanical contrivances. One of the _first_ results of the introduction

of labor-saving machinery is to throw a large number of people

temporarily out of employment. This is forcibly felt by the ignorant

masses. They are not educated enough to see that this first result is

more than counterbalanced by subsequent benefits;--indeed, it is still a

debated question with many people of ordinary intelligence whether, on

account of the large number of people primarily deprived of occupation,

labor-saving machinery be a benefit to society;--and if they were so

educated, their immediate necessities cannot be satisfied with this

solution. The same is true in regard to the abolition of slavery. One of

the first fruits of this measure will be, as they believe, to cause a

large number of negroes to emigrate North. This is the practical point

of the question which the poor and ignorant see. The results of this

immigration have been magnified to them; a statement of the

counteracting tendencies has been withheld by those interested in

fomenting discord, or if not withheld, they do not see these as

operating immediately on their condition, and hence regard them as

practically not existing.

It is, therefore, the wretched material condition of the poorer masses

and the ignorance, stupidity, brutality, and degradation accompanying

these, together with the apathy of the rich and intelligent classes to

their situation, which are the latent causes of our social broils, the

recent riot included. In speaking of the pecuniary conditions and the

sufferings of the lowest masses, let it be understood that no reference

is intended to the present economical relations of labor and price, as

compared with those of other times. I refer to the _status_ of the

poorest classes in society; to the miserable method of their lives,

always wretched, ever burdensome, with but one source of temporary

relief within their means, the grogshop, which deepens their misery; to

their hopeless degradation and perpetual ignorance, under present social

arrangements, whether labor be a little higher for a time or not. On the

other hand, in referring to the apathy of the rich and intelligent

classes, I do not charge them with a want of large benevolence on the

ordinary charitable plane, but to something far different, as will

appear in the sequel.

It is time, then, that the intelligent and opulent classes began to

reflect upon the nature of the community in which they live, and upon

the conditions of their neighbors; not, as heretofore, in a casual way,

and without any intention of thoroughly considering the question, or

doing anything to remedy radically the defects which they may discover,

but in the spirit of desire and determination to relieve the masses

permanently of burdens which press heavily upon them, to rescue them

from the persistent deception of the intriguing demagogues whose snares

are winding closer and closer around them, and to unite in bonds of

respect and mutual assistance the physical substratum of society with

the moral, intellectual, and substantial. The scenes of the New York

riot are a solemn warning that the time has come when society must begin

in earnest the work of lifting the masses out of their degradation,

their squalor, their ignorance, and their poverty, or the lowest

classes, driven to desperation, will make the attempt, at least, to drag

society down to their level. The doctrine of equality has been pushed to

its utmost in the hands of political cajolers, until the practical logic

of the crude multitude, spurred to its intellectual conclusions by

physical necessity, asks, What sort of equality is that which keeps the

largest portion of the people in want, while the smaller rolls in

plenty? So long as the estrangement of the lower classes from their

natural directors and advisers continues, so long will these dangerous

distortions of truth be powerful weapons in the hands of unfeeling men,

whose interests and purposes are subserved by deception. And this

estrangement will never cease until the intelligence and wealth of the

community withdraw the allegiance of the masses from tricksters and

schemers, and transfer it to themselves by the inauguration of such

methods of social amelioration as shall convince the multitude of the

falsity of the demagogue's teaching, and satisfy them of the fact that

the higher classes have really their welfare at heart, and are anxious

for their comfort and happiness. When this is done, the ignorant

population will no longer be leagued on the side of falsehood, no longer

stand the steady opponents of that progress which is so beneficial to

themselves. The argument of practical help will have convinced them who

their true friends are, and neither the rebel emissary, the dishonest

politician, nor the thief will be able to stir them to insurrection, nor

control them to the opposition of salutary and judicious laws.

The kind of relationship which must exist between the rich and

benevolent classes and the ignorant poor, must be a closer one in the

future than has ever been in the past, and of a different character. In

earlier times the isolation and separation which are common between the

various orders of society in America, were unknown. There are many

countries in which the powerful and opulent feel an obligation resting

upon them to be the guardians and social providence of the weak and the

humble. Hence the two classes are united to each other by ties of

respect and order on the part of the indigent, and of care and

protection on the part of the wealthy. The sense of pecuniary insecurity

is there little felt, and the ignorant poor are not left to the

machinations of any trickster whose interest it may be to deceive them.

It is for this reason that even in societies where the oppression of the

poor and weak is, in other ways, infinitely greater than in this

country, riots and seditions are difficult to create. It is because of

the social providence which, theoretically, and, in an appreciable

degree, practically, the Southern master extends over his slaves, that

it is so difficult to arouse them to insurrection. True, in the case of

the slave and the landed peasant, the security from physical want is

purchased by the sacrifice of other and higher advantages, but to a

large proportion of the ignorant and the weak the means of life are more

important than any other blessings.

In accordance with the spirit of our institutions, we enter as equals

into the competitive struggle of life, where all cannot be gainers, and

where it is inevitable that the strong and the intelligent should

succeed, while the feeble and the ignorant must fail. But as both

classes have been admitted freely into the race, there is no feeling on

the part of the winners of duty or obligation toward the losers. If one

chooses to be charitable, he may; if not, society has no claim upon him,

no right to _expect_ that he will make the care of others a part of his

duty or his business. Thus the community is arrayed in two great

classes: the intelligent, the strong in mind, and those of larger

capacities, who, as a class, are rich, on the one side; and the

ignorant, the weak-minded, the crude, who, as a body, are poor, on the

other. A great gulf separates these two classes, who have nothing in

common, and society rests on a social basis composed of forlorn,

dissatisfied, ignorant people, developing day by day still more the

accompaniments of ignorance and poverty--brutality, viciousness,

drunkenness, and ferocity. This separation has too long continued, has

too long left the country a prey to political demagogues, who have

plunged it into repeated turmoils, and finally into civil war, by being

able to operate upon the fears and feelings of the ignorant, deprived of

all natural and proper guidance. It is a question, not only of duty, but

of safety, for the rich and intelligent, whether they will suffer the

lower orders to remain in their wretchedness and sullen dissatisfaction,

sinking daily into still deeper degradation, and engendering still more

bitter hatred; or whether they will accept their proper position as the

organized guides and permanent social providence of the weak, and

faithfully perform its functions.

In pressing upon the higher classes the obligation which they owe to the

lower orders of society, and in urging them to assume the guardianship

of the latter, the writer is not referring to vague and diffuse measures

of ordinary philanthropy, but to definite and practical ones, of vast

importance to the welfare of the wealthiest as well as to that of the

poorest member of society. The individuals who have been most actively

engaged in the stirring scenes of commercial life, are little aware, for

the most part, of the rapid advances made in social science during the

last twenty years, and especially within the last ten of these.

Extensive as the new principles evolved in the department of mechanical

discovery, during this period, have been, those in that of commercial

and social activity have fully equalled them. The true method of

organizing the workshop, the farm, and the manufactory, the right

adjustment of capital and labor so as to secure larger advantages than

heretofore to both capitalist and laborer, the just adaptation of supply

and demand in community, the mutually beneficial coöperation of employer

and employé, these and other questions of deep significance to the whole

community have reached a theoretical, and, to a limited extent, a

practical solution, which the students of social science patiently wait

to communicate to the active workers in commercial or industrial

affairs. For the want of this knowledge, now ready at their call, the

capitalists and the employers are suffering, no less than the laborers

and the employed. There is not a single department of human labor in

which principles are not now known to the industrial scientist, which

would enhance many fold the value of the means employed in such

business, to the equal advantage of the owner of the capital and his

assistants. The merchants, the bankers, the manufacturers, and the

master mechanics are making a wasteful and inferior use of their

material, while at the same time they are inadvertently keeping the

lower classes in poverty by the want of a knowledge of these modern

discoveries. It is from this lack of information only that the poor of

New York, who to-day are steeped in their filth, their squalor, and

their penury, are not each and all of them enjoying the comforts of a

moderate competence and a decent home, the securing of which for them

would have, at the same time, enhanced the wealth of the employers. The

way to gain the allegiance, devotion, and fidelity of the poorer orders,

is easy and simple. The problem of the harmonization of the interests of

classes in community with mutual benefit to all, is scientifically

solved. It only remains for the intelligent and benevolent to give due

attention to the teachings of science in order to secure the most

beneficial results.

Already these modern industrial principles are being adopted in some

considerable degree into active practice by eminent citizens. In New

York city the methods of recent discoveries are being introduced into

large manufactories with the most satisfactory and beneficial results to

all concerned. But these attempts, as yet, have been undertaken without

any thorough examination of the whole scope of principles relating to

the operations in hand, and hence without the largest achievable

results. These will come when the intelligent and moneyed classes awake

to the importance of the subject; to the understanding that the

knowledge of methods for securing immense social improvements is in

existence; and to a determination to possess that knowledge and to apply

it to its legitimate ends--the organization of a social providence for

the ignorant and weak, and the binding of all classes of society into

relations of mutual sympathy and assistance.

All this, however, looks to a period of time, more or less, though it is

to be hoped not far, distant. In the meantime, while society remains

with its present constitution, riots are liable, and a practical

question still remains, of the method which should be pursued in dealing

with them. There is a time for all things, said a man of reputed wisdom.

And the time for considering the sufferings of a people or for being in

anywise tender hearted, is not when a madman or a cohort of madmen are

howling about your houses or your city, with knives and torches, blood

in their eyes, fiery rum in their veins, demoniac rage in their hearts,

and the instincts of hell in their natures. A mob has no mind, only

passions. It were as idle to attempt to make it listen to reason, as to

argue with a lunatic in the height of his frenzy. A mob is not only a

creature of passions, but of the worst passions. Every man has in him

more or less of the demoniac element, which, commonly, he is constrained

by the requirements of the society in which he lives to keep within

decent limits. A mob can never have an existence until the parties which

compose its nucleus, at least, have toppled from their customary

self-control, and passion has assumed the guidance. Then the devil, long

restrained and compressed, takes a holiday. As a high-mettled steed,

after being kept a long time within the narrow limits of his stable, and

being obliged to conduct himself in a staid manner, on being released,

runs, whisks his tail, kicks up his heels, lays back his ears, opens his

mouth, and rushes with mock vicious-looking eyes at whomsoever he meets,

and all this from mere wantonness, to enjoy his freedom; so the devil in

the man, not perchance the theological one, but still the devil no less

actually, as seen every day in the activity of the baser passions, on

being released, by the abdication of reason and the substitution of

feeling, begins to exercise his ingenuity in the play of his faculties,

compensating himself for his long confinement. From hour to hour, and

from day to day, this devil gets fuller possession of the individual,

who becomes more and more an unreasoning creature, until a blind,

furious, brutal, bloodthirsty demon is all that remains of what might

have once been merely a not well balanced human being.

It is notorious that a mob will commit atrocities which a single

individual could scarcely be tempted to perpetrate. The reason is

partially evident from the statement just made. A more philosophical

explanation may be given. It is a law of social intercourse that there

is always among companies of individuals a more or less effective

contagion of whatever sentiment is most powerful among them. Still

further, this contagion or magnetic battery of sympathy, while pervading

the whole assembly, likewise increases the individual potency of the

sentiment in the mind of each person. It is for this reason, that an

orator thrills more deeply each hearer in a vast sympathetic assembly,

than he would the same individual in a less crowded company; that music

is more inspiring in a great crowd of people than elsewhere, etc. In an

assemblage where the finer sentiments are predominant, this contagion is

of the finer sort, and serves to elevate the whole company: in a

gathering where the lower passions preponderate, the contagion is of the

debasing kind, and serves to excite still further the worst elements of

brutality, and to sink the individuals which compose the company still

lower in the scale of humanity. To the educators of the young and to the

governors of the people, this law is of immense importance.

A mob is, therefore, not only under the influence of its worst passions,

but every hour of its existence these are growing more potent, in the

mob as an entity, and in the persons which compose it. The only true

mercy which can be shown to such an assembly, aside from any question of

the safety of community, is to suppress it; to suppress it at once; and

to use every means necessary to that end. Relentless rigor is the only

measure adequate to the occasion. It is the weakness of civilization

that it hesitates to be cruelly kind. The mistake of the military

authorities in regard to the New York riot, was lenity. The prompt and

vigorous bombardment, in the beginning of the rising, of a block of the

houses in which the rioters were safely ensconced, while covertly firing

on the soldiers and policemen, would have done more to quell the mob

than all subsequent proceedings, and would have saved life in the end.

It would have forced the inhabitants of these houses who, as things were

conducted, could safely give all possible aid to the insurgents, to

compel these to lay down their arms, in order to insure the safety of

the sympathizers. Had the first, and the second, and the third house

from which the assassins were permitted to fire been battered to the

ground with cannon shot, the last two days of fighting would have been

unnecessary. The police cowed the mob wherever they met them, because

they showed no quarter. They hit hard and they hit often. They felt that

the way to knock the riot in the head, was to knock the rioters in the

head. And they did it, as Inspector Carpenter says, 'beautifully.' New

York feels as proud of these Metropolitan policemen as he does; and that

is saying a great deal.

We discover, then, by this brief analysis of the great riot, that social

outbreaks of this kind have their _immediate_ and _tangible_ causes,

which are superficial in their character, and vary with the occasion;

that these causes depend for their disturbing power upon others which

are more _fundamental_, and which inhere in the nature of our present

social relations; that so long as the wealthy and intelligent classes

shall decline the permanent guardianship and organized care of the poor

and ignorant masses, the liability to such recurrences will remain; that

when they break forth, the safety of community and mercy to the rioters

alike demand that the mob be scattered on the instant by an iron and

relentless hand; and, finally, that the only method by which society

will be permanently and effectually freed from a liability to the

terrors of mob-rule, is the reorganization of its economical

arrangements in such a manner that the miseries of poverty and ignorance

shall be forever removed from the community, and a social providence be

firmly established which shall secure physical comfort and kindly

sympathy to all classes of citizens.

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

A PRE-RAPHAELITE PICTURE FROM NATURE.

It was left long ago,

And the rank weeds grow

Where the lily once bent her head;

Thick and tall they grow,

And some lying low,

Beaten down by a human tread.

And the laughing sun,

When the day's nearly done,

Looks in on the cheerless floor;

And falleth the rain

Through the broken pane--

Shrill whistles the wind at the door.

And the thistles stand

At the gate where no hand

Ever lifts the latch, now nailed fast:

One gate low doth lie

Which the passer by

Treads o'er as he hurries past.

On the fence close by

Where the sunbeams lie

Doth the kingly Nightshade blow;

But the Asters tall

That grew by the wall

Have vanished long ago.

Not now, as of old,

Blooms the gay Marigold,

Looking in at the kitchen door;

And the Cypress red

Is long since dead,

And the Monkhood blossoms no more.

But the Hopvine still

By the window sill

Is as full as in days of yore;

And the Currants grow

As thickly now

And as ripe as e'er before.

But the hearth is bare--

Not a log blazes there

To light up the empty room:

Not a soft shadow falls

On the whitewashed walls:

All is silent--all wrapt in gloom!

Not a chair on the floor,

Not a rug at the door,

Where the cat once lay in the sun;

And no grandame sits

At the door and knits,

Telling tales of days bygone!

All is silent now,

And the long weeds bow

Their heads in the wind and rain;--

But the dwellers of yore

Will ne'er enter the door

Of that dreary old House again!

E. W. C.

SPRING MOUNTAIN.

'Race Miller, indeed! why don't you say Jim Burt at once? I think I'd

better go live in Rocky Hollow, and weave baskets for a living; hadn't

I?'

'Well, Dimpey, the race is not _always_ to the swift, you know; so you'd

better look out in time;' and Polly Jane took up her pan of peas, and

went laughing into the kitchen. I suppose she thought she had said

something smart, as our name is _Swift_; and perhaps she had; but it

made me as mad as hops, I won't deny it, though I _am_ a minister's

niece! So I pulled my sunbonnet over my face, and went to weeding the

flowerbeds, to get cool. It was going on to noon, and the sun was baking

hot, but I didn't mind that; I could _not_ shell peas in the same pan

with Polly Jane while I felt so provoked.

I _do_ think that Race Miller is one of the homeliest young men I ever

set my eyes on: if I say so _now_, you may be sure it's true. His skin

is almost as dark as an Indian's, and his hair curls up as tight as

wool--you couldn't straighten it if you brushed his head off. Then his

eyes are blue and twinkly, and he has a short nose, and a great, broad

mouth, that, whenever he laughs, opens wide enough to swallow you; to be

sure, it is filled with nice, white teeth, and has a good-natured

expression; but his teeth are so strong they look as if they could bite

through a tenpenny nail; and when he answers out in Bible class, and

comes to the long words, such as 'righteousness' and 'Jerusalem,' it

really seems as if they were something good to eat, he crunches them so

with those great teeth of his!

You'll wonder how he came to have such a ridiculous name as _Race_. His

mother named him Horace, after somebody in a book, but as none of her

connection owned the name, nor anybody else in this part of the country,

it didn't come natural to call him by it, so they shortened it down to

Race, to make it handy. I suppose _I_ oughtn't to say much about names,

however, for _Dimpey_ don't amount to much; but that isn't _my_ fault; I

was christened with a right pretty name--Phebe Ann! but Cousin Phebe

lived with us when I was little, and it made a sort o' confusion to have

two of us, and my cheeks were so full of dimples that Calanthy--she's

the oldest of us children, and has kept house ever since mother

died--well, she called me Dimpey, and the rest took it up, and so I

suppose I shall be Dimpey Swift to the end of the chapter--that is, not

Dimpey _Swift_ exactly; but I forgot, I was telling about Race Miller.

I was so vexed with Polly Jane for even hinting that he was a match for

_me_, that I jerked out the weeds with all my might, and I do believe

our Persian pink border never was so clean before or since; when I came

in, there wasn't a weed left in it, big or little!

Now the fact was, I couldn't help knowing I was _tolerable_ good-looking

by the way the boys manoeuvred 'round to walk home from singing school

with me, and by their staring at me in meeting when they ought to have

been looking at the minister. I used to try and keep my eyes fast on my

hymn book, but it seemed as if I could see right through the lids; and I

knew well enough that when Ned Hassel bent down his head and pretended

to be picking out his notes in 'Sacred Psalmody,' he was peeping at _me_

all the time. I suppose I was a little spoiled by having so many beaux,

for Calanthy was a regular old maid: you mustn't ever mention it, but

she'd been disappointed once, and wouldn't keep company with anyone

after that; and Polly Jane had only one sweetheart, and I didn't think

much of him, though he _was_ the schoolmaster, and knew more than all of

us put together. He was kind-a slow in his speech, and a good deal bald;

his hair never came in right well after he had the typhus fever; but

John Morgan was a real good fellow for all that, and I was a little fool

not to know it.

Well, I stooped over the flower beds till I was tired and 'most melted,

and I was just thinking of giving up, when Calanthy called to me from

the kitchen door, 'Don't stay out in the sun any longer, Dimpey; you'll

have time to cool before dinner, for father hasn't come in yet.'

Calanthy always petted me considerable, for I was only a year old when

mother was taken away, and Calanthy had to bring me up, and teach me

everything about the house.

So I went through the garden out into the orchard, and sat down under

the big Baldwin apple tree, to rest; it was a nice, shady spot, and

there came up a breeze off the river t'other side the meadow, where

father and the boys were mowing. The air smelt as sweet as could be of

the new hay, and I took off my bonnet and sat down on the grass, and

leaned my head against the tree; the bees were humming in the clover,

and the sound made me sleepy, and I believe I must have dozed while I

was sitting there. I don't know how it was, but all at once I saw a

picture in my mind: I couldn't get rid of it, try my best. It happened

long ago, when I was a little bit of a thing, but it all came back to me

under that apple tree. It was when our old mare Peggy took fright at a

tin peddler's wagon just as she was crossing the bridge at the foot of

Smith's hill; what ailed the creature I can't tell, for she's as steady

as clockwork generally. Dear me! I've ridden her ever since I was _so_

high! But perhaps it was the sun shining on one of the tins hanging

outside the wagon, that reflected into her eyes and scared her out of

her wits; at any rate, she gave a sudden spring, and pitched father

right over her head; then she ran home as fast as she could go, and

jumped over the fence into the dooryard. Calanthy wasn't well, and when

she saw old Peggy come tearing along the road without father, she

fainted away, and Polly Jane caught her as she was falling, and helped

her on the bed in the spare room. I was sitting on a little chair in the

hall, stringing beads; I thought Calanthy was dead, and commenced

screaming like a catbird; and poor Polly Jane was almost distracted, and

didn't know which way to turn. Race Miller was a boy about fourteen at

that time, and as strong as a lion; he happened to be driving down the

hill just as the accident happened, and he and the peddler lifted father

into his wagon, and Race brought him home and then drove off for the

doctor as quick as he could; he had two miles to go, but he did it in no

time, and had the doctor there just as Calanthy fairly came to and was

able to walk about.

Well, father wasn't hurt as bad as we thought--only stunned by the fall;

he had a bad bruise on his cheek, though, and Dr. Basset said he must

keep still on the bed all day, and have his face bathed with laudanum

and vinegar. They were all so busy that no one thought about _me_, till

Race came out of father's room and found me sitting on the low chair,

rocking my doll in my arms, and crying as if my heart would break; I had

felt so lonesome and miserable that I was holding the doll for company;

and when Race saw me he said, 'Why, what's the matter with little

Dimpey?' 'Is father dead?' said I; 'can't I go and see him?' Then Race

told me father was better, and that I must not cry, and this made me cry

more; so he took me up in his arms, doll and all--I well remember how

strong his arms felt--and sat down in the big rocking chair in the

parlor; and when the house was quiet, and Calanthy came to look for me,

there she found us, I with my arms round Race's neck, and the dolly

hugged up tight, and all three of us fast asleep!

But this was long ago, and I was a woman now, and a good deal sought

after, as I said before, and some of my beaux were well off and good

looking; and, if the truth must be spoken, Race had not paid me much

attention lately, and did not seem to think as much of me as Ned Hassel

did, and the other young men of our place. To be sure he worked very

hard, for his father was sick a good while and died in debt, and their

farm was mortgaged to 'Squire Stevens; and as Race was the only child,

everything came upon _him_, and he was in the field early and late,

trying to pay off the mortgage, and keep the old homestead for his

mother. He _was_ a good son--that everybody said; but he didn't visit

'round as much as some.

I sat so long under the apple tree thinking of all this, that I got

quite cool and comfortable, and when Polly Jane called me in to dinner I

felt good-natured again.

While we were eating dinner, brother Joe said, 'Dimpey, as soon as we

get through haying the boys are going to have a drive to Spring

Mountain, and take the girls up, for a picnic. Ned Hassel started it; I

guess he wants to show off his sorrel horses; but that near horse of his

is as skittish a creetur as ever I see--I wouldn't ride after it, if I

was you.' 'No, no,' said father; 'Dimpey isn't going to have her neck

broken by _them_ beasts; Ned always drives 2.40, as he calls it, and

he'll be sure to race with the other teams if they give him a chance.'

Now, if there is anything I _do_ like, it is riding behind fast horses!

Father and Joe drive so slow I'd almost as soon walk, but whenever Biel

and I went off by ourselves we made the dust fly a little; it didn't

hurt our horses a bit, for they were in good pasture all summer, and got

as fat as pigs. I thought in a minute how much I'd like to go with Ned;

but I knew Polly Jane was watching me, go I said, sort o' careless like,

'I guess Ned could keep his horses from running if he wanted to; but he

hasn't asked me to ride yet; it will be time enough to say no when he

does.' Biel looked up and gave me a wink, and Calanthy said, 'You must

let me know a day or two before you are ready, Joe, so that I can get

some nice things made for you; our biscuits weren't quite light last

picnic, and I felt really ashamed of 'em.'

Calanthy is so _thoughtful_--I wish I was more like her.

After dinner was cleared away, I concluded I'd walk down to Preston--we

live about a mile out of the village--and get a new ribbon for my round

hat. I'm so glad the old pokey bonnets are gone but o' fashion--the

round ones are much more becoming to young people. I thought perhaps I

would meet some of the girls at the store, and hear more about the

picnic--and my hat was getting shabby for want of new strings, whether

or no. Just by the hay scales I met Jim Burt, the lame basketmaker,

shuffling along as usual with his baskets slung on his back. Poor Jim

was real simple, and couldn't do anything but weave baskets; he and his

mother lived alone in Rocky Hollow, away t'other side of Preston; they

were as poor as poverty, but Mrs. Burt managed to scramble along

somehow, and keep a home for herself and Jim; he hadn't wit enough to

take care of himself, but was very fond of his mother, and would do as

she told him.

I said good day to Jim, and was passing on, for I felt in a hurry to get

to the store, when he called after me, 'I say, Miss Dimpey! don't your

folks want any baskets? Mother's deown sick, and can't drink milk, and I

want to get her some tea, and I hain't got a cent o' money; she paid

eout the last for sugar abeout a week ago.' Poor Jim always speaks as if

his nose had been pinched together when he was a baby, and had never

come apart since; but when I turned around he looked so sorrowful, my

heart ached for him.

'What ails your mother, Jim?' said I.

'She's got some kind o' fever, and her head aches awful; she wants to

drink all the time, but she won't eat nothin'. I fried a slice of pork

real good for her, but she didn't eat a mite!'

'Well, Jim,' said I, 'go up to our house, and tell Miss Calanthy about

your mother, and I guess she'll buy a basket; we want a new

clothes-basket, come to think.'

I walked on, but somehow I did not feel so much like buying ribbons as

before I met Jim. I couldn't help thinking of poor Mrs. Burt, without

any comforts for sickness, and no one to take care of her but this

half-witted son; however, I comforted myself by supposing the neighbors

would not let her suffer, and that Calanthy would likely give Jim

something good to take to her.

When I got to the store, who should be there but Abby Matilda Stevens

and Rhody Mills! Abby is generally thought _a beauty_, because she has

great black eyes that are always so bright and shiny I wonder the hens

don't try and peck at them; then she is tall and slim waisted, and her

hair is as black as a coal, and longer than common; but I never liked

such dreadful _sparkly_ eyes, do you? I think the kind that have a sort

o' hazy look come into them--like the pond when a little summer cloud

passes over the sun--are a great deal handsomer. However, I never dared

to say so, for fear people might think I was jealous of Abby Matilda.

Rhody Mills is a very good-natured girl, and always ready for a frolic,

and the moment she saw me she said, 'Here comes Dimpey Swift now;'--they

had been talking about me, I guess;--'oh, Dimpey, are you going to the

picnic on Spring Mountain?'

'Our boys were talking about it at noon,' said I; 'I suppose some of us

will go--Polly Jane or I; I don't much think Calanthy will.'

'I wish we could go on horseback,' said Rhody; 'that would be real fun;

but our Will says we must have a wagon to carry the baskets, so we had

better all drive.'

'Who are you going with, Dimpey?' said Abby Matilda.

I knew well enough _who_ would be likely to ask me, but as I had no

invitation yet, I answered, 'Oh, Joe or Biel, I suppose; father won't

trust me with anyone else!'

'Well, thank goodness, _I_ can ride with whoever I please,' said Abby;

'I should think you were old enough to take care of yourself, Dimpey, if

you're _ever_ going to be;' and Abby Matilda tossed her head, and rolled

up her shiny eyes in that hateful way she has.

'_I_ wouldn't ride with some of the boys if they were to ask me, said

Rhody; 'Will is a real good hand with horses, and he says that the

tricks some people play with their animals are enough to ruin the finest

horse ever was raised.'

'Who do you mean by _some_ people?' said Abby, and she looked right

scornful.

Rhody laughed: 'I didn't mention any names,' said she; 'but I know good

driving from harum-scarum, wherever I see it.'

'_I'm_ not afraid to ride behind any horses in _this_ part of the

country,' said Abby; 'and I think all cowards had better keep off Spring

Mountain!'

I felt my face turn red; but I wouldn't please the spiteful thing by

saying a word; so I bought my ribbon and started for home. I had to pass

Mrs. Miller's farm on my way, and as I came along by the stone fence, I

heard a great gee-hawing; they had just finished loading up the hay

cart, I suppose, for Hiram--the hired man--turned the oxen toward the

barn as I came up, and Race stood leaning his arms on the fence, and

looking up the road; it's likely he was tired and hot, for he seemed to

me uncommonly homely, and I was such a goose then, I thought _looks_ was

everything. He seemed to be thinking mighty hard of something, for he

didn't see me till I got close to him, and then he gave _such_ a start,

and his face grew redder than ever!

'Good day, Dimpey!' said he; 'how are all your folks?'

'Very well, thank you, Race.'

'Ain't you going to stop and see mother a minute?'

'I can't, to-day; I've got some sewing to do before dark.'

This was nothing but an excuse--I'll own it now; for I knew I could

easily trim my hat next day; but I was so afraid that Race might ask me

to go to the picnic with him, I felt in a hurry to get away; so I said

good-by pretty quick and went on before Race had time to say anything

more.

When I got home, the first thing I saw was a new clothes-basket standing

on the ironing table; and Calanthy called to me from the hall, 'Run up

stairs and take a rest, Dimpey, for I want you to go to the Hollow after

tea, and see Widow Burt. I guess she's very sick, from what Jim says;

and Polly Jane and you had better go and find out what help she needs.'

Now I had been thinking all the way from Preston, that Ned Hassel would

certainly call in the evening, to ask me to the picnic, before the other

boys got a chance. So I expect I answered a little cross, 'Dear me!

Calanthy! 'way down there to-night; won't to-morrow be time enough?'

'Why, yes, dear,' said Calanthy, 'if you are too tired; but I was afraid

the poor soul might be suffering, for Jim's nobody in sickness, you

know; and I don't like to have Polly Jane go alone. Besides, there's

such a big ironing to do to-morrow, I can't well spare you in the

morning.'

Calanthy spoke so kind, I felt ashamed of my bad temper; so I answered,

'Very well, Calanthy, I'll go to-night; I'm not much tired.'

After tea Polly Jane and I set out; we had a little basket with camphor

and mustard, and other useful things Calanthy had put up for Mrs. Burt:

it is a beautiful walk through the Hollow, and I should have liked it

very much if my head had not been so full of the picnic that I couldn't

think of anything else. We didn't go through the village, but turned off

the main road into a lane that cut off a part of the distance. I was a

little ahead of Polly Jane, for she _would_ carry the basket, and we had

just got into the lane when she said to me, 'Look back, Dimpey; here

comes one of your beaux!' I turned around, and saw Ned Hassel on one of

his fast horses. He pulled up at the corner and called out--his voice

was a little too _loud_ and confident like, I must confess--'Good

evening, Polly Jane; good evening, Dimpey; are you going to take a walk

in the woods, so near sundown?'

It provoked Polly, I suppose, to hear him speak so bold, for she

answered, very short, 'No, we're going on an errand.'

He didn't seem to notice, but looked at me, and said, 'I was just on my

way to your house, Dimpey, to ask your company to the picnic next week;

I suppose Joe told you about it? We're going to set out early, and have

a real good time; I mean to take my fast team and the light wagon, and

we can get up the mountain before the others have fairly started.'

Polly Jane spoke up again--she never could bear the Hassels, and always

said they were the greatest braggarts in our county: 'That would be

great fun, for you and Dimpey to get ahead of all the company! I thought

picnickers always kept together.'

Ned colored up and looked angry, but he only said, 'Will you engage to

ride with me, Dimpey?'

If Polly Jane had not been there, I should have told Ned to ask father

if I might go; but I couldn't bear to have her think I wanted Ned for a

beau; so I answered, 'I don't know yet whether I can go or not; I'll see

what our folks say.'

'Well, Dimpey, I'll come over to your house to-morrow night; I guess

you'll go; good evening,' and away he galloped.

'_Guess_ you'll go, indeed!' said Polly Jane, as soon as he was out of

hearing. 'I guess she won't go with _you_, Mr. Impudence! You're not

going to make a fool of our Dimpey, and break her neck besides, not if

her father knows it, _I_ can tell you.'

It isn't often that Polly Jane speaks out so spunky, but I expect she

was vexed because he didn't answer her; as for me, I could have cried to

think that things happened so, and I felt almost angry with poor Widow

Burt for being sick, and taking me away from home that evening. It was

awful wicked, but I was well punished for it afterward.

'It's _too_ bad in you to talk so, Polly,' said I, 'as if I was a child

six years old! I wonder _why_ it's impudent in Ned to ask me to ride

with him; you wouldn't say so if it was any one else; but you hate poor

Ned--you know you do,' and here I broke down and really cried; but they

were spiteful tears, after all.

'There, now, Dimpey,' said Polly Jane--she was over _her_ pet in a

minute--'don't feel bad; I didn't mean to be cross to Ned; but he has

such a bold way of talking, as if he thought nobody could refuse _him_,

that he always makes me angry, and I can't help it. But you _shall_ go

to the picnic, dear, whether he takes you or not; there will be plenty

glad to ask you; so kiss me, Dimpey, and I won't tease you again.'

I let her kiss me, and then walked on sullen enough till we came to Mrs.

Burt's. The house was a forlorn old place, with only one room and a

bedroom, and a garret next the roof, where Jim slept. The door of the

living room opened out into a shed, where Mrs. Burt did her work in

summer time. The trees grew close up to the shed, and the well was under

it; and as we came up, who should I see but Race Miller, drawing a

bucket of water to fill the teakettle, while Jim kindled a fire in the

stove. There _did_ seem to be no end of vexations that day, and I wished

myself a hundred miles off.

'Why, Polly Jane! is that you? I didn't think of seeing you down here

to-night--and Dimpey, too! We heard that Mrs. Burt was very sick, and

mother had tea early, and we came over to see how the poor soul was.'

'Is your mother in the bedroom?' said Polly.

'Yes; we've fixed Mrs. Burt up in the rocking chair, and mother is

making her bed. I want to get a cup of tea made for her as quick as I

can, for she has a good deal of fever, and is thirsty all the time.

Come, Jim! set on the kettle, and we'll have it boiling in no time.' And

Race stooped down and blew the fire with his mouth till it blazed up

nicely.

'I'll go help your mother, Race,' said Polly Jane. 'You sit down, and

rest, Dimpey; you've had walking enough to-day;' and she went into the

bedroom, and left me alone with Race. Jim didn't count for anybody.

Race stepped in the room, and brought out a chair; he put it just

outside the shed door, and said:

'Sit down there, Dimpey, that's a nice cool place.' I sat down, and he

took a seat in the doorway, close by me. 'Dimpey!' said he, 'if mother

hadn't wanted me, I meant to go up to your house to ask you if you'd

give me your company to the picnic on Spring Mountain. You know we talk

of having one next Wednesday, don't you?'

'_There!_' thought I; 'what am I to do now? I daren't say I'm engaged,

for fear father won't let me go with Ned Hassel; and besides, I didn't

promise Ned; so it would be telling a lie.' Then I thought how pleasant

it would be to ride with the fast horses, and--I may as well own it--to

pass Abby Matilda on the road, and let her see I could do as I pleased,

and that I wasn't a coward, I didn't speak for a minute, and then I

said:

'I believe I'm engaged already!'

The words seemed to come out before I knew it. Race didn't speak, and I

felt so guilty I never raised my eyes, but made believe I was sorting

some wild flowers I'd picked in the Hollow. Jim came out just then with

the teapot in his hand, and drawled out:

'That pesky kettle deont bile yet. 'Pears to me it's tarnal long abeout

it; it ollers acts contrairy when mother's in a hurry for her tea!'

I couldn't help laughing, and as I raised my head, I caught Race looking

at me as if he'd look me through and through. His eyes seemed twice as

big as common! He got up, however, without saying anything, and went to

making the tea, and at that minute Polly Jane came out of the bedroom,

and told us Mrs. Miller thought that Widow Burt ought to be watched, and

said she would stay all night if Polly would stay too. 'So,' said Polly,

'if Race will take you home, Dimpey, I'll watch with Mrs. Miller. Race

spoke up quick, and said, 'Certainly; he'd see me home,' and it was

growing so late I couldn't say anything against it. As soon as he found

he could do no more to help them--(he _is_ one of the handiest men about

the house I ever saw, I must say _that_)--Polly said we'd better go, for

Calanthy might feel uneasy. Before we started, she drew me to one side,

and whispered:

'Dimpey! I wish you'd tell John Morgan how sorry I am to break my

promise to walk with him to-night; but Mrs. Burt is very sick, and Mrs.

Miller couldn't get along without me.'