PART I.

THE IDEAL.

Stars are around thy head--under thy feet surges the sea--a rainbow

forever floats upon the waves before thee--painting the mists, or

melting them into light--whatsoever thou lookest upon is thine--the

shores, the cities, the men belong to thee--the heavens are thine--it

seems as if nothing ever equalled thy glory!

* * * * *

To alien ears thou chantest airs of inconceivable rapture--thou weavest

hearts into one with a single touch of thy fairy fingers, and with a

breath again dividest them--thou forcest tears--thou driest them with a

smile--alas! the next moment thou frightenest the wan smile from the

quivering lip for a time--too often, forever!

Tell me, what dost thou thyself feel? Of what dost thou think? What dost

thou create?

The living stream of Beauty flows on through thee, but thou thyself art

not Beauty!

Woe to thee! woe! the child crying on the lap of its nurse, the field

flower unconscious of its gift of perfume, have more merit before the

eyes of the Lord than thou!

* * * * *

What has been thy origin, thou empty shadow, bearing witness to the

Light, yet knowing not the Light, which thou seest not, and wilt not

see!

In anger, or in mockery, wert thou made? Who was thy creator? Who gave

thee thy short and mobile life, and taught thee such seductive magic,

that thou seemst to glitter for a moment like an angel before thou

sinkest into clay, to creep like a worm, and be stifled in thine own

corruption?

Thy beginning is one with that of the woman.

* * * * *

Yet, alas! thou sufferest, although thy agony brings nought to the

birth, and avails thee nothing.

The groans of the lowest beggar are counted in heaven, compensated amid

the music of angels' harps--but thy sighs, thy despair, fall into the

bottomless abyss, and Satan gathers them together, and joyfully adds

them to the pile of his own lies and delusions--and the Lord will deny

and disown them, as they have denied and disowned the Lord!

* * * * *

But not for this do I pity thee, spirit of Poetry, mother of Beauty and

Freedom! No. I mourn for the unhappy souls who are forced to remember or

divine thee upon chaotic worlds destined to destruction--alas! thou

ruinest only those who consecrate themselves to thee, who become the

living voices of thy fame!

And yet, blessed is it when thou takest up thine abode in a man, as God

dwelt in the world, unseen, unknown, yet everywhere great and mighty,

the Lord, before whom all creatures bow and say: 'He is here!'

Such a man will bear thee like a star upon his radiant brow; he will

never turn from thee even for the duration of a little word; he will

love men, and, like a man, walk with his brethren.

And he who guards thee not, who is willing to betray thee, to devote

thee to the idle pleasure of men--from him thou turnest sadly away,

scattering in pity a few fading flowers upon his head; he plays with the

dying bloom, and weaves his death-wreath all the days of his short life.

Thy beginning is one with that of the woman!

* * * * *

'De toutes les bouffonneries la plus serieuse est le

mariage.'--_Figaro._

Of all jests the most serious is marriage.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. Peace be to men of good will!

Blessed is he among the created who has still a heart; he may yet be

saved!

Good and true wife, reveal thyself to him; and a child be born to their

house!

He flies onward.

CHORUS OF EVIL SPIRITS. Rise! rise, spectres and phantoms! Hover near

him! Head them and lead them on, thou, the yesterday-buried idol, the

shadow of the dead love of the Poet! Bathe thyself anew in the vapors of

the ideal realm; wreathe thy mouldering brow with the fair buds of

spring; and float on before him, thou, once the beloved of the Poet!

Rise, Glory, rise! Old eagle, well stuffed and preserved in hell,

descend from thy crumbling perch, unfold thy gigantic wings whitened in

the rays of the sun, and wave them above the head, until they dazzle the

eyes of the Poet!

Come forth from our vaults, thou rotting masterpiece from the pencil of

Beelzebub, thou glowing picture of an earthly Eden, which has dizzied

the brain of so many philosophers! Get the old rents in thy canvas

reglued; the holes and cracks refilled with varnish; wrap thyself in

the magic webs of hazy clouds and glittering mists; fly to the Poet, and

unroll thyself ever before him!

And thou, Nature! surround him with mountains, cliffs, and seas; lull

him with golden dawns and crimson eves; inweave him in thy magic circle

of azure days and starry nights; O mother Nature--closely embrace the

Poet!

* * * * *

A village. A church. The Guardian Angel is seen floating and

swaying to and fro upon it.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. If thou keepest the Holy Vow, thou wilt be my brother

forever before the face of our Heavenly Father! Vanishes.

The interior of the church. Wax lights blaze upon the altar--many

witnesses are standing round it. A Priest is reading the marriage

service.

THE PRIEST. Remember, you have sworn to be true and faithful until

death!

The Bride and Groom rise--he presses the hand of the Bride, and

conducts her to one of the relatives. All depart except the Groom;

he remains alone in the church.

BRIDEGROOM. I have descended to an earthly betrothal, I have found her

of whom my spirit dreamed.

Curses be upon my head if I ever cease to love her!

* * * * *

A saloon filled with people. Music, dancing, lights, flowers; the

Bride dances--after a few rounds she remains standing--meets the

Groom, draws apart from the crowd, and leans her head upon his

breast.

BRIDEGROOM. How beautiful thou art, my love, in thy exhaustion, with

flowers and pearls falling in soft confusion through the masses of thy

wavy hair, glowing with the rapid motion of the dance, and blushing with

maiden shame!

Oh, forever and ever thou shalt be my living Poem!

BRIDE. I will be to thee a true wife, as my mother taught me, as my own

heart teaches me. But there are so many men here--there is so much

noise--and it is so hot--

BRIDEGROOM. Go and join once more the dance. I will stand here, and

watch thee as thou floatest on, as I have often gazed in dreams upon the

circling angels.

BRIDE. I will go, since it is thy wish--but I am very weary.

BRIDEGROOM. I pray thee, love, go.

Music and dancing.

* * * * *

Midnight. The Evil Spirit appears, flying about in the form of a

maiden.

EVIL SPIRIT. It is not long since at this same hour I coursed the

earth--the spirits of the lower world now drive me on; they force me to

assume a holy part.

He flies over a garden.

Ye perfumed flowers! tear yourselves from your green stems, and fly into

my hair!

He flies over a graveyard.

Living bloom and fresh charms of buried maidens, lost here, and floating

vainly about above forgotten graves--fly into, and paint my swarthy

cheeks with roseate hues of youth and love!

Under this white stone a fair-haired girl moulders and festers into

wormy rottenness; shadows of her lustrous curls, come--twine round my

burning brow!

Under this fallen cross, two soft eyes of heavenly blue are dying in

their sunken sockets--to me! to me! the pure and lambent flame which

once lightened and glimmered through them!

Behind those iron bars which guard that vault of kings, a hundred

torches burn to light corruption--a princess was buried there to-day: ye

white and lustrous robes of costly satin, come! fluttering like snowy,

downy doves leave to the worms, undraped, the youthful form--fly through

the trellised grating--and softly fall around my scathed and fleshless

limbs!

And now, on! on! on!

* * * * *

A sleeping apartment. A night lamp stands upon a table, and shines

upon the face of the husband sleeping beside his wife.

THE MAN (_still sleeping_). Ha! whence comest thou? I have neither heard

nor seen thee for months--for years.

As water softly flows, so flow thy feet, two white waves!

A holy calm is on thy brow--all that I have ever dreamed--have ever

loved--unite in thee!

Awaking suddenly.

Where am I?... Ha! I am sleeping by my wife--yes, that _is_ my wife--

Gazing long upon her.

Ah! I once thought thou wert my early Dream--but thou art it not;--after

years of time, it has returned to me--and is not thee, Mary, nor like

thee!

Thou art mild, pure, good--but she....

My God! what do I see? Am I really awake?

THE MAIDEN. Thou hast deserted and betrayed me! Vanishes.

THE MAN. Cursed be the hour in which I married a wife, in which I

deserted the Love of my youth, the thought of my thought, the soul of my

soul....

WIFE (_awaking_). What is it, Henry? Does the day already break? Is the

carriage at the door? We have so much to attend to to-day.

THE MAN. No: it is only midnight. Go to sleep--sleep soundly!

WIFE. Have you been taken suddenly ill, my dear? Shall I rise and get

anything for you?

THE MAN. Sleep, sleep, I pray.

WIFE. My dearest, tell me what is the matter with you! Your voice

trembles, your cheeks burn with fever.

THE MAN (_jumping out of bed_). I only want fresh air--for God's sake,

stay here; do not follow me! Once more I beg you will not rise!

He leaves hurriedly the chamber.

* * * * *

The Man is seen standing in a garden lighted by the moon. A gothic

church is in the distance.

THE MAN. Since the bells rang in my marriage morn, I have dozed away

life like a lump of clay, vegetating like a peasant, sleeping like a

German boor. The whole world around me seems asleep in my own image.

What a monotonous existence! I have visited relations, gone to shops,

seen physicians, and when a child was born to me, I went for a nurse.

It strikes two upon the tower clock.

Return to me! return, O my old and misty realm, so safely sheltered in

the world of thought! Ye shadowy yet lovely forms, once wont to throng

around me through the lonely midnight hours, hear my adjuration, and

return! return!

He wrings his hands.

O my God! hast Thou in very truth sanctified the ties which link two

bodies into one?

Hast Thou surely said that nothing should avail to break them, even when

the two souls repel each other; when to advance at all, they must move

on upon opposing pathways, while the two chained bodies stiffen into

frozen corpses?

And now that thou art again near me, my all, oh, take me with thee! If

thou art but a dream, the creation of an o'erwrought brain, let me too

be but a dream, a cloud, a mist, that I may be one with thee!

THE MAIDEN. 'Remember, you have sworn to be true until death.'

Wilt thou follow me, if I fly near to lead thee on?

THE MAN. Stay, and melt not like a dream away! If thou art beautiful

above all other beauty; a thought above all other thoughts--why tarriest

thou no longer than a wish a fading vision?

The window of the house standing in the garden is opened.

A FEMALE VOICE. The chill of the night air will fall upon your breast,

my dear. Come back, Henry; it is fearful to be here alone in this vast

dark room.

THE MAN. Yes; in an instant.

The fair spirit has vanished, but she promised to return for me--and

then farewell house and garden! and farewell wife! created for the house

and garden, but not for me!

FEMALE VOICE. For God's sake, come in! It grows so chill toward morning.

THE MAN. But my child--O God!

He leaves the garden.

* * * * *

A large saloon. Two candles stand upon an open piano. A cradle is

near it, in which lies a sleeping child. The Man reclines upon a

sofa, covering his face with his hands. The Wife is seated at the

piano.

WIFE. I have been to see Father Benjamin; he promised to be here day

after to-morrow.

THE MAN. Thank you.

WIFE. I have also sent to the confectioner and ordered cakes and ices,

for I suppose you have invited many guests to the baptism of our infant.

He is to furnish us with some of those chocolate confections, with the

name of our son, George Stanislaus, upon them.

THE MAN. Thank you.

WIFE. God be thanked that the ceremony is so soon to be completed, and

that our little George will be made an entire Christian; for although he

has been already baptized with water, it always seems to me as if he

were wanting something.

She goes to the cradle.

Sleep, darling, sleep! Art thou dreaming, that thou thus tossest about

thy white arms, and sufferest no covering to remain around thee? So

now--that will keep thee warm--lie so! How very restless my baby is

to-day! What can be the matter with him? My darling! my beautiful!

sleep! sleep!

THE MAN (_aside_). How hot and sultry it grows! A storm is rising; will

not the lightning flash from heaven, and strike me to the heart!

WIFE. Neither yesterday, nor to-day, nor for the last week--O God! it is

now almost a whole month since you have, of your own accord, addressed a

single word to me--and every one says I am growing so pale and thin!

THE MAN (_aside_). The hour is here--nothing can delay it longer.

(To his wife.)

Indeed, on the contrary, I think you are looking remarkably well.

WIFE. Alas! it is a matter of perfect indifference to you; you never

even see me! When I come near you, Henry, you turn your head away; and

if I sit down beside you, you cover your face with your hands.

I went to confession yesterday, and carefully thought overall my faults

and follies--but I could not remember in what way I had so grievously

offended you.

THE MAN. You have not offended me.

WIFE. O God! My God!

THE MAN. I feel it is my duty to love you.

WIFE. You kill me with the words _my duty_! Rather say at once, _I do

not love you_--then I would at least know all--the worst!

She runs to the cradle, and holds up the child.

Forsake him not--your son! Let all your anger fall on me alone--love my

child! my child! Henry!

She kneels before him with the infant in her arms.

THE MAN (_raising her gently from the ground_). Think not of what I have

said. Gloomy moments sometimes come upon me, confusion--faintness--

WIFE. But one word more, I implore! one promise, Henry! that you will

never cease to love him!

THE MAN. Neither him, nor you--both shall be dear to me--believe me,

Mary!

He kisses her brow, she embraces him. At that moment a loud clap of

thunder is heard, followed by strains of music--the chords grow

ever wilder and more wild.

WIFE. Hark! What is that?

She presses the child closely to her bosom. The music ceases.

THE MAIDEN (_entering_). O my beloved, I bring thee joy and peace: come,

follow me! Throw off the earthly fetters which enchain, thee, O my love,

and follow me! I have sought thee from a new world of endless bliss, in

which night never comes--ah! I am only thine!

WIFE. Save me, holy Mother of God!

This ghost is ghastly pale--its eyes are dying out--its voice is hollow

as the rolling of the death-hearse with the corpse!

THE MAN. Thy white brow glitters; thy fair head is wreathed with

flowers, O beloved!

WIFE. A white shroud hangs in tatters from the shoulders to the feet!

THE MAN. Around and from thee rays the light of heaven! but once to hear

thy voice--then die!

THE MAIDEN. She who restrains and impedes thee is but an illusion; her

life a passing breath; her love a dying leaf, to fall with thousands of

its fellows at the first chill breath, lost and withered--but I will

endure forever!

WIFE. Henry--Henry! hide me! Oh do not leave me! the air is filled with

sulphur, heavy with the breath of the grave!

THE MAN. Envy not, nor slander, O woman of dust and clay! Behold the

Ideal in which God created you--His first thought of what you were meant

to be. But following the counsel of the serpent, you became what you now

are!

WIFE. I will never leave you!

THE MAN. Beloved, I forsake my house, my all, and follow thee!

WIFE. Henry! Henry! Henry!

She falls to the floor in a fainting fit, with the child in her

arms; loud and repeated claps of thunder are again heard.

* * * * *

The baptism. Guests. Father Benjamin. The Godfather and Godmother.

The nurse with the child in her arms; the Wife seated upon the

sofa. Retainers and servants in the background.

FIRST GUEST. I wonder where the count is hiding.

SECOND GUEST. Perhaps he has been accidentally detained, or he may be

writing verses.

FIRST GUEST. How pale and tired the countess looks, and as yet she has

spoken to no one.

THIRD GUEST. This christening reminds me of a ball which I once

attended; the host had just lost his whole estate at cards, and was a

complete bankrupt, while he continued to receive his many guests with

the courtesy of despair.

FOURTH GUEST. I left my lovely princess, and came here, because I

thought to play my part at a gay breakfast; but I am disappointed, for

it seems to me that I am, as the Scripture hath it, in the midst of

'wailing and gnashing of teeth.'

FATHER BENJAMIN. George Stanislaus, wilt thou receive holy unction?

GODFATHER AND GODMOTHER. I receive it.

A GUEST. Look! look! the countess rises from the sofa, and comes slowly

forward as if in a dream!

ANOTHER GUEST. How she reels and totters--poor thing! She is advancing

to the infant--how deadly pale she grows!

THIRD GUEST. Shall I offer her my arm? She looks as if about to faint--

FATHER BENJAMIN. George Stanislaus! wilt thou renounce the devil and all

his works?

GODFATHER AND GODMOTHER. I renounce them.

A GUEST. Hush! the countess--look!

WIFE (_laying her hand softly on the head of the infant_). Where is thy

father, tell me, George?

FATHER BENJAMIN. I beg that the ceremony may not be interrupted.

WIFE. Bless thee, George! I bless thee, my son! Become a poet, that thy

father may love thee, and never desert thee, George!

GODMOTHER. I conjure you, my dear Mary!

WIFE. Become a poet! that thus thou mayst serve thy father, mayst please

him, and then he will forgive thy mother, and return--

FATHER BENJAMIN. For the love of God, countess!

WIFE. I curse thee, George, if thou becomest not a poet!

She falls to the ground in a fainting fit--the servants bear her

out.

GUESTS (_whispering among themselves_). All this is very extraordinary.

What can have happened here? We had better leave the house immediately.

Meanwhile the solemn ceremony is completed--the crying infant is

again placed in his cradle.

GODFATHER (_standing by the cradle_). George Stanislaus! you have just

been made a Christian, and entered into the pale of human society; in

after years you will also be a citizen, and, through the grace of God

and the wise training of your parents, you may become a great statesman:

remember that you must love your native land; that it is noble and

beautiful to die for your country!

Exit all.

* * * * *

A beautiful landscape, diversified with hills and forests; a

mountain in the distance.

THE MAN. That for which I have so long striven, for which I have so

ardently prayed, is at last almost within my grasp!

The world of men lies far below me; the human pismires there may throng

their ant-hills, and struggle on for crumbs and flies--may burst with

rage if they fail to find them, or die with despair if they should lose

them. I have left all to....

VOICE OF THE MAIDEN. Here--this way--through--

She glides rapidly on.

* * * * *

Hills and mountains overhanging the sea. Clouds, mist, wind, storm.

THE MAN. Where is she gone? The morning breeze dies suddenly away, the

thick mists gather, and the sky grows dark.

There! I have gained at last the very top of this steep peak;--heavens,

what a frightful abyss yawns before me! How moaningly the wind howls up

this rocky pass!

VOICE OF THE MAIDEN (_from a distance_). Come! to me! to me! beloved!

THE MAN. Where art thou? thy voice is almost lost in the distance. How

can I follow thee through this abyss?

A VOICE (_in his ear_). Where are thy wings?

THE MAN. Evil spirit, why dost thou mock and torture me? I scorn thee!

ANOTHER VOICE. What! a great, immortal soul, which in a single moment

should be able to traverse the boundless space of heaven, to faint and

perish at a cliff on the side of a hill! Stout heart! sublime soul,

shuddering, and imploring thy feet to go no farther! poor things!

THE MAN. Appear! Take forms with which I may contend, which may be

overthrown! If I start or quail before you, may _she_ never again be

mine!

THE MAIDEN (_from the other side of the abyss_). Seize my hand, and

swing thyself over to me!

THE MAN. What strange change is coming over thee!...

The flowers start from thy temples, tear themselves loose from thy hair,

and when thou touchest them, they crawl like lizards, and writhe and

hiss like adders!

THE MAIDEN. My beloved!

THE MAN. Merciful God! the wind has twisted and torn off thy floating

drapery; it hangs in squalid rags about thee!

THE MAIDEN. Why dost thou linger?

THE MAN. The rain drops from thy heart, and freezes as it

falls;--skeleton bones look forth from thy bosom!

THE MAIDEN. Thou hast promised, hast sworn!

THE MAN. The lightning has burned out the apples of thine eyes!

CHORUS OF EVIL SPIRITS. Old Satan, welcome back to hell! Thou hast

seduced and ruined a mighty spirit, admired by men, a marvel to itself.

Sublime soul, haughty heart--follow thy beloved!

THE MAN. Wilt thou then damn me, O my God! because I have believed that

Thy Beauty far surpassed the loveliness of earth; because I have left

all to follow it; and have suffered for it until I have grown the very

jest of devils?

EVIL SPIRIT. Hear, brothers, hear!

THE MAN. The last hour strikes! the storm whirls in black and

ever-widening circles--the sea is breaking and dashing higher and higher

against the rocks, and as it mounts them, draws me on--an invisible

power urges me forward--nearer--ever nearer--bands of men advance from

behind upon me--mount my neck--and plunge me into the abyss!

EVIL SPIRIT. Rejoice, brothers, rejoice! He comes!

THE MAN. It is vain to struggle; useless to combat! the giddy bliss of

the abyss draws me on--my head is dizzy--the plunge is inevitable--my

brain whirls!--O God!--Thy fiend has conquered!

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL (_floating over the sea_). Peace, ye waves! Be still!

At this very moment of time the holy water of baptism is poured

upon the head of the infant, George Stanislaus.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. Return to thy house: and sin no more!

Return to thy house: and love thy child!

* * * * *

The saloon with the piano. The Man enters, and a servant follows

with a light.

THE MAN. Where is the countess?

SERVANT. My lady is ill.

THE MAN. She is not in her chamber; I have been there, and found it

empty.

SERVANT. The countess is not here, my lord.

THE MAN. Has she left the castle? Where is she to be found?

SERVANT. They came for my lady yesterday, and carried her away.

THE MAN. Answer at once, and tell me where they have taken the countess!

SERVANT. To the madhouse!

He rushes out.

THE MAN. Hear me, answer me, Mary!

Ah, I know you are only hiding for a moment to punish me for my

desertion; but I suffer, Mary!

Mary, my own Mary, in pity speak!

No--it is not so. She is not here, or she would answer to my cries.

John! Caroline! nurse!

The whole house seems deaf and dumb!

But what he has just told me, is not, cannot be true; it would be too

horrible!

Ah! I have never wished to wrong any human being; I would have made the

whole world happy; yet I have plunged the woman who trusted herself to

me, the innocent creature whom I swore to love and guard, into the hell

of those already damned on earth!

I blast all upon whom I breathe; and am doomed to destroy myself also!

Hell has only released me for a few hours, that I might present to men

its living image upon earth!

Upon what a pillow of horror will she lay to-night her helpless head!

with what harmonies have I surrounded her in the darkness?--the wild

shrieks and howls of madmen in their cells!

I see her there! that brow so calm, so innocent, upon which no harsh

thought ever rests, is sunk and buried in her little hands. Her pure

thoughts wander idly now through space; they rove in search of the

husband who deserted her--and the unfortunate weeps--and is mad! mad!

A VOICE. Poet! thou chant'st a Drama!

THE MAN. Ha! the voice of my evil spirit!

He hurries to the door of the saloon and tears it open.

Haste! saddle my Arabian, and bring me my cloak and pistols!

* * * * *

A hilly country. An asylum for the insane, surrounded by a garden.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. (_She is seen opening a barred door, and

wears a great bunch of keys at her girdle._) Are you a relation of the

countess?

THE MAN. I am a friend of the count's; he sent me here.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. We have indeed but little hope of her

recovery. I am sorry my husband is not at home; he could have explained

the whole case to you. She was brought here in convulsions

yesterday--how very hot it is to-day!

Wiping the perspiration from her face.

We have a great many patients here, but none so ill as the countess.

Only think of it--this asylum costs us two hundred thousand--but you are

growing impatient--tell me, is it true that the Jacobins seized her

husband at midnight, and thus drove her mad?

I beg you....

* * * * *

A room with a grated window. A bed, a chair. The Wife is lying upon

a sofa, supported by pillows.

THE MAN (entering). I wish to be left alone with the countess.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN (_without_). My husband will be very angry

if....

THE MAN (_closing the door_). Leave us in peace!

Approaches his wife.

VOICE (_from the ceiling_). You have chained and fettered God himself!

You have already put one God to death on the cross; I am the second, and

you have given me into the hands of the headsman.

VOICE (_under the floor_). Kneel down before the King, your Lord!

VOICE (_from the wall on the left_). The comet tracks its way in fire

across the sky; the day of wrath already breaks--the trump of Judgment

sounds!

THE MAN. Mary--do you know me?

WIFE. I have sworn to be true to you until death.

THE MAN. Give me your hand, Mary. Let us quit this dreadful place!

WIFE. Yes, but I cannot stand up--my soul has left my body, and is all

burning, blazing, in my brain.

THE MAN. I can carry you in my arms to the carriage, which is waiting

for you at the door; I want to take you home, Mary!

WIFE. Yes, we will go home. But you must wait for me; leave me for a

little while, and I will become worthy of you, Henry!

THE MAN. I do not understand you, Mary.

WIFE. Ah! I have prayed through weary days and endless nights; at last

God heard me, and smiled upon me!

THE MAN. I know not what you mean, Mary!

WIFE. Listen, Henry! After you left me, a great change came upon my

spirit, and I felt what was wanting to make you love me. I cried to God

unceasingly; I struck my breast; I placed a blessed candle on my bosom;

I did penance; I said: 'Lord God be merciful unto me! Oh send down upon

me the spirit of Poetry, that I may be loved!'

And on the third day I was a Poet!

THE MAN. Mary!

WIFE. You will no more despise me; no longer leave me to my lonely

evenings; for I am full of inspiration, a Poet, Henry!

THE MAN. Never! never!

WIFE. Look upon me! have I not grown like yourself? I understand

everything now; I can explain and describe all that is: I chant the sea,

the stars, the clouds, battles--yes, stars--seas--storms--but battles?

No, I have never seen a battle. You must take me to see a battle, Henry.

I must watch men die! I must see and describe a corpse--a shroud--the

night dew--the moon--a cradle--a coffin:

Endless space will spread around me,

I will seek the farthest star,

Cleaving swift the air around me,

Searching beauty near and far.

Like an eagle onward cleaving,

All the Past behind me leaving,

Chaos dark around me lying,

Through its dimness lightly flying,

Through its infinite abysses,

On through darker worlds than this is,

Farther--farther--ringing--ringing--

Sounds the curse my soul is singing....

THE MAN. Horrible! horrible!

WIFE (_throwing her arms round him, and resting her head on his bosom_).

My Henry! my Henry! I am so, so happy!

VOICE (_from below_). I have murdered three kings with my own hand; ten

are still left for the block: a hundred priests still sing mass--

VOICE (_from the left_). The sun has lost the half of its glory; its

light is dying; the stars have lost their way, and hurtle each other

from their paths--woe! woe!

THE MAN. The Day of Judgment has already come upon me!

WIFE. Do not look so sad, Henry. Cheer up, you make me again unhappy!

What is the matter? I can tell you something will make you so glad.

THE MAN. Tell me what it is. I will do everything you wish me to do,

WIFE. Listen! _Your son will be a Poet!_

THE MAN. What are you saying, Mary?

WIFE. The priest, when he baptized him, gave him _first_ the name: Poet;

and then: George Stanislaus.

It is I who have done this; first I blessed him--then I affixed a curse

to the blessing: I know he will be a Poet!

VOICE (_from above_). Father, forgive them; they know not what they do!

WIFE. There is some one above us, suffering from strange and incurable

madness; is it not so?

THE MAN. Very strange.

WIFE. He does not know what he is saying; but I can tell you how it

would all be if God should go mad.

She seizes him by the hand.

All the worlds would go flying about, up and down, and crash against one

another: every worm would cry out: 'I am God!' and then some of them

would die every moment; they would all perish one after the other!

All the comets and suns would go out in the sky! Christ would redeem us

no longer; He would tear His bleeding hands away from the nails, and

pitch the cross into the bottomless abyss. It falls!

Listen! how this cross, the hope of millions, goes crashing and hurtling

against the stars! Hark! it breaks! it flies asunder! the sky grows dark

with the ruined fragments--they fall like hail, deeper, deeper--a wild

storm surges from them--dreadful!

The holy Mother of God alone continues to pray, and the faithful stars,

her servants, which have not yet deserted her:--but she too will plunge

where all created things are storming down, for God is mad--and Christ

has thrown away His Cross!

THE MAN. Mary, will you not come home with me to see our child?

WIFE. I have given wings to our son, and dipped him under the waves of

the sea, that he might take into his soul all that is beautiful,

sublime, and terrible. He will return to you a poet, and you will

rejoice in him.

Ah me! ah me!

THE MAN. Do you suffer, Mary?

WIFE. Some one has hung up a lamp in my brain--and the light sways and

flickers--I cannot bear it!

THE MAN. My beloved Mary, be calm and tranquil, as you were wont to be!

WIFE. Poets never live long.

She faints.

THE MAN. Help! Save her! Help!

Several women rush in.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. Pills--powders--no. She can swallow nothing

solid; a fluid potion is the best.

Margaret, run for the apothecary!

Speaking to the Count.

This is all your fault, and my husband will be very angry.

WIFE. Henry, my Henry, farewell!

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. You are then the count!

THE MAN. Mary! Mary!

Takes her in his arms.

WIFE. I am well--happy! I die near thee!

Her head sinks upon his breast.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. Her face grows crimson--the blood is rushing

to her brain.

THE MAN. Her pure heart breaks--nor love nor wrong can ever reach her

more! O Mary! Mary!

The Physician enters and approaches the sofa.

PHYSICIAN. It is all over now: she is dead!

SOUND REFLECTIONS.

A TORCHER.

What of the common lot of woman in the state hymeneal? Echo: High

menial!

BRIDAL.

What does the world consider a proper tie? Echo: Property!

THE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT.

On Wednesday, the fifteenth day of June, in the year of our Lord one

thousand eight hundred and sixty-four, the following resolution, which

had already passed the Senate, was put upon its final passage in the

House of Representatives as a joint resolution of Congress, to be

proposed to the people of the United States for an amendment to the

Constitution:

'SECTION 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a

punishment for crime, whereof the party shall have been duly

convicted, shall exist in the United States, or any place subject

to their jurisdiction.

'SECTION 2. Congress shall have power to enforce this article by

appropriate legislation.'

The resolution was rejected for failure of the two-thirds vote required

by the Constitution on a question of amendment; the vote standing, yeas

ninety-four, nays sixty-five. Which vote has definitely determined two

things: first, that the party which calls itself Democratic is afraid to

trust this question to the people, and so belies its honored name; and

secondly, that there is a political element in our country whose

attachment to the slaveholding interest survives the attachment of the

slaveholding interest to the Union. Is this the best evidence of

patriotism?

Three years ago this summer of 1864, even after the treason of Southern

leaders had precipitated the flagrant Southern rebellion, ay, and even

after treason had dared the loyal army of the nation and flaunted its

defiant banner on the field of battle, the sentiment of a forbearing

people declared that no interference with the local establishments of

the treason-infected South would be permitted. So faithful were we to

the compromises of our fathers; so loth to believe in the wicked purpose

that had moved the rebellion. Three years of desperate resistance to the

nation's authority, three years of war, with its lessons of bitterness,

and grief, and death, and agony worse than death, have convinced us that

no further compromise is possible. Men told us so before, but we were

too devoted to the Union to believe in a treason that would not stop

short of the nation's complete dishonor. God be thanked that we know the

issue at last! Our conviction has gradually, but how immovably,

established itself! And now the sentiment of the people, no longer

forbearing, but not less just, and based upon the same unalterable

devotion to the Union, withdraws the pledges of the past and dictates an

amendment to the Constitution that shall leave no possibility of

slaveholding treason hereafter. That sentiment has found expression in

two mass conventions, representing the undoubted overwhelming majority

of the people, and it remains now to show the justice of it. It is

accordingly the purpose of this paper to discuss the nature of the

proposed amendment, and to state some controlling reasons in favor of

it.

The question, plainly stated, is: Ought the Constitution to be amended

so as to abolish slavery throughout the United States? Or, in other

words, Ought liberty to become part of the supreme law of the land?

Ought the idea of the nation to be now, at last, incorporated into the

law of the nation, and so made a fixed fact of the nation's history?

It should seem that the mere statement of the question suggests the

basis and positive force of the affirmative of it. For it reminds us at

once of the mighty revolution that has agitated and aroused it. The

progress of a century has been crowded into less than a decade of years.

The statesmanship of 1850 (profound and patriotic, as alas! it is to be

feared, too much of what we call statesmanship to-day is not) has been

outgrown. Let us not be startled by the statement. The highest art of

politics is to recognize existing facts. No thinking person will deny

that the policies of the past are powerless to-day. We cannot, if we

would, unmake the history of the last ten years. _Tempora mutantur, et

mutamur in illis_. Or, as a distinguished and eloquent son of Tennessee

lately paraphrased this old maxim: 'The world moves, and takes us along

with it, whether we will or not.'

Our discussion naturally divides itself into two branches: first, as to

the right, or constitutional power, to adopt the proposed amendment; and

secondly, as to the expediency and necessity of it.

I. THE RIGHT, UNDER THE CONSTITUTION, TO ADOPT THE PROPOSED AMENDMENT.

No characteristic of the American people is more marked than their

regard for law; and in nothing is that characteristic more striking than

in their respect for the Constitution, the supreme law of the land.

Whatever seems to come in conflict with that supreme law must encounter

an irresistible odium. And herein appears the splendid fruit of the

teachings of our great legists and statesmen, enforced, as they are, by

the hereditary traditions of our Anglo-Saxon birthright. It is,

moreover, a standing proof that democracy is not necessarily radical and

destructive; and so furnishes us with a complete answer to the

assumptions of English Tories, as in Alison's 'History of Europe,' that

democracy is but the organized exponent of the self-willed passions of

the multitude. What thing, indeed, is more wonderful than the tenacity

with which conscientious men still cling to the doctrine (that had once

some reason for it) of constitutional guaranties in behalf of

slavery--an institution that has inspired the most monstrous treason of

all history! What people but the American would still be hesitating,

after the solemn experience of these three years, to strike down every

possible support to slavery!

Surely the lesson of the French Revolution, in its trumpet-toned warning

to the nations against a destructive radicalism, has not been lost upon

us. How ought we to adore the Providence, guided by whose inspiration

(as with becoming reverence we may believe) Washington and his

supporters directed our infant republic in the track of English

conservatism, fearful of the vagaries of the Red Republicanism of

France! This prudent policy justifies itself more and more in our

experience; and to-day the great heart of the people beats in unison

with those Providential leadings. Therefore it is that the question, in

reference to any measure, Is it constitutional? far from exciting

ridicule, as sometimes with superficial thinkers it has done, is to be

recognized as proof of our magnificent control over the wayward factions

of the hour, and of our abiding trust in the hardly less than inspired

wisdom of our fathers, to which we thus make our ultimate appeal. For

the Constitution is the organic law of the nation, and stands for the

firm foundation of our national life. The indissoluble bond of the

Union, it is itself the palladium of our liberties. It is, in fine, the

grandest chart of liberty and law, of justice and political order, which

the world ever saw. The man who dares knowingly violate its provisions

merits the punishment that followed the sacrilegious touch of David's

servant to the ark of the covenant--instant death. In the midst of a

fierce conflict with traitors who set at nought its binding force, let

us beware lest in our zeal to punish them we be not guilty of an equal

crime!

We yield, then, to no one in our devotion to the Constitution. We will

not allow that any one goes before us in reverence for it. But we are of

those who think that the time has come, in the providence of God, for

an amendment to its provisions.

Indeed, the Constitution derives not the least portion of its claim upon

our tender regard from the fact that it recognizes the eternal law of

progress; and, while establishing a government whose stability should be

as enduring as the principles upon which it is based, does not assume to

declare that it has exhausted the possibilities of the future. Guarding

against any and every impulse of popular passion, it nevertheless leaves

scope for the necessary changes of time and circumstance, which may make

the politic statesmanship of one period the exploded fallacy of the

next. For of the science of politics it may be said, as in the glowing

eulogy of Macaulay upon the philosophy of Bacon: 'It is a philosophy

which never rests, which has never attained its end, which is never

perfect. Its law is progress. A point which yesterday was invisible is

its goal to-day, and will be its starting-post to-morrow.' Political

science, indeed, is only another one of those 'illustrations of

universal progress,' which the genius of Herbert Spenser has made

familiar to our literature. And therefore it is that we cannot too much

admire the sagacity of the patriots who framed our Constitution. It was

a sagacity drawing its inspiration from all history, which taught, and

teaches, that if progress is attempted to be checked, it will find vent

in volcanic revolution. Reformation is the watchword of history: anarchy

and destruction the fate of those nations which heed it not.

Thus it was that the principle of amendment found its way into the

Constitution of the United States--a principle so just that by it we are

enabled in these bitter days to faithfully withstand the usurpation that

seeks to justify itself by appealing to the right of revolution. For in

the principle of amendment (as has heretofore been stated in this

magazine) the right of revolution was at the same time recognized and

exalted; and by it a means of war was made a means of peace, and so

revolution was sought to be forestalled. Nothing but despotism itself

would have disregarded this humane provision of the Constitution, and

sought a remedy for alleged grievances that is only justified by

despotism.

What, then, is the principle of amendment in our Constitution, and what

are its provisions? They are found in the fifth article, and read thus:

'_The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it

necessary, shall propose amendments to this Constitution_, or, on the

application of the legislatures of two thirds of the several States,

shall call a convention for proposing amendments, which, in either case,

_shall be valid to all intents and purposes, as part of this

Constitution, when ratified by the legislatures of three fourths of the

several States_, or by conventions in three fourths thereof, as the one

or the other mode of ratification may be proposed by the Congress;

provided, ... that no State, without its consent, shall be deprived of

its equal suffrage in the Senate.'

Can anything be clearer? And yet how men have contrived to mystify the

whole question by vague declamation about the rights of States! As if

those rights of States that were meant to be protected, were not

carefully guarded by the article itself, and especially by the proviso

'that no State, without its consent, shall be deprived of its equal

suffrage in the Senate'! As if, too, the rights of the States were

everything, the rights of the Nation nothing! It might well be asked,

moreover (as, indeed, a discriminating writer in _The Evening Post_ has

lately asked), whether the _people_ of the States have no rights that

are to be considered in this discussion; whether there are not certain

reserved rights of the people that have been violated by many

States--rights reserved in the very constitutions of those States, as

well as in the Constitution of the United States? But let it be noted,

as above intimated, that this fifth article is duly careful to guard the

rights of States. Three fourths of the States must concur in the

amendment; and in no event may a State be unwillingly deprived of its

equal suffrage in the Senate, which is the distinguishing mark of the

independent equality of all the States in the Union. On the other hand,

the rights of the States being thus protected in a manner and degree

which we must suppose to have been satisfactory to the men who framed

and the States which ratified the Constitution, the article then

proceeds to care for the rights of the Nation, by declaring that the

amendment duly ratified by three fourths of the States 'shall be valid,

as part of the Constitution:' thus binding all the States, the three

fourths which have ratified it, and the one fourth which may not have

ratified it. We have here a key to the motives of the Southern

rebellion. The leaders of Southern politics knew well that an amendment

like the one now proposed must one day come, and that whenever it should

come, article fifth left them no pretext for resistance. So they

precipitated their revolution, and have only hastened that inevitable

day.

But it is objected that the right to amend the Constitution does not

give us the right to enlarge its powers. Why not? And if not, to what

things does the right of amendment extend? Such an interpretation makes

article fifth an absurdity. This objection springs from the same

mischievous doctrine of State sovereignty, which has so outraged the

patriotic common sense of the people by the denial of our right to

'coerce' a State, and tends to the same result--nullification and

secession. It is good logic for a confederation, but bad logic for a

nation, to say that the articles of its organic law may not be changed

by the will of the people. And let us not neglect to observe in the

provisions of article fifth the strong incidental proof that the

Constitution of the United States was meant to be the basis of a

_nation_, and not the compact of a _confederation_. For how may this

article be reconciled with the theory of a compact? _Three fourths_ of

the States may concur in adopting an amendment that shall be valid as

part of the Constitution, which declares itself to be the supreme law of

the land, over _all_ the States.

This incidental point serves fitly to introduce the second branch of our

discussion, namely:

II. THE EXPEDIENCY AND NECESSITY OF THE PROPOSED AMENDMENT.

For slavery, or, in other words (lest we seem to offend some), a

rebellion in the interests and for the avowed establishment of slavery,

has struck _at the life of the nation_; and in self-defence the nation

must strike down slavery. If our Government is only the compact of a

confederation, then not only is there no need, but we have not the right

to adopt the proposed amendment. For by it an institution fostered by

the legislation of some of the States would be overthrown, in defiance

of that legislation. But the right, or constitutional power, of itself

implies the necessity to adopt the amendment whenever the occasion for

it may arise. The right is made part of the Constitution: the necessity,

or expediency, must be determined by circumstances outside of the

Constitution. We contend that circumstances at present point to the

complete extinguishment of slavery as the political necessity of the

period. The time for timid counsels is past. The day of tenderness for

Southern prejudices is gone by.

Coming, then, directly to the root of the matter, we lay down this first

proposition:

1. The proposed amendment finds its justification and highest warrant,

as a measure of political reform, in the _fact of the Southern

Confederacy_. This fact, pure and simple, is the controlling and

abundant necessity for it. We need not take the ground that slavery is

the cause of the rebellion: though to the philosophical inquirer it

certainly seems difficult to reach any other conclusion. We Americans

are so much under the influence of partisan prejudices, so surrounded

with the complications of present and past political issues, that for us

a dispassionate study of this point is almost, or quite, impossible. But

the investigations of impartial and unprejudiced foreigners seem

remarkably to concur in designating slavery as the moving cause of the

war. We may cite, for example, the recent profound review of the slave

power by Professor Cairnes. And surely no person who pauses to reflect

upon the inherent nature of the slave system as a labor basis of

society, will venture to deny that such a principle is at war with the

elemental principles of our Government. No person will deny that slavery

depreciates the dignity of labor, which is the pride and boast of our

institutions. Nor does it need any but the logic of common sense to

point out the incongruity of a free government resting, even partially,

upon a basis of slave labor.

But all this may be waived. We may discard all these considerations.

Perhaps it is wise to discard them. Let us forget our differences of

political opinion in the past, and seek for points of agreement in the

present. Taking this position, we cannot ignore the fact of the Southern

Confederacy, and that the avowed basis of it is slavery. It is a

stubborn fact confronting us at the outset of our inquiry, and, like

Banquo's ghost, 'will not down.' Proclaiming boldly that free labor is a

mistake, and unblushingly affirming as a doctrine of social and

political economy that 'capital must own labor,' the Southern

Confederacy challenges the Christian civilization of the age, and

declares its right to exist as an independent nation of slaveholders.

How may we explain so monstrous a pretence? There is but one explanation

that is adequate. It may be stated in a single word, _ambition_. The

lesson of our experience is that this malignant system of slavery, the

chattel slavery of the South, is too great a temptation to the ambition

of men. Let us not disregard it. Political ambition stands always ready

to strike hands with the devil, and the devil is always near the

conscience of ambitious men. We have no recourse but to remove the

temptation. The death-knell of Carthage is well appropriated: _Servitudo

est delenda_. So long as a vestige of the slavery establishment remains,

the temptation remains--a deadly risk to our Government. The peril of it

is too great. And this furnishes a complete answer to the superficial

objection that there is no need of the amendment because slavery is dead

already; for ambition may revive it, and what ambition _may_ do it

_will_ do. In other words, and to sum up the argument on this point:

Whatever may have been our individual opinions and beliefs before the

rebellion (variant enough at all times), the attempted establishment of

a confederacy avowedly based on slavery, proves beyond possibility of

cavil that chattel slavery, to which we have been lenient without limit,

is a temptation too great for the peace of the nation, and therefore the

highest interests of the nation require its removal.

2. The simple fact of the Southern Confederacy is also the basis of our

second proposition. For it reveals clearly the necessity of the proposed

amendment as a thing essential to be added to the organic law, in order

to carry out the purpose of it. That purpose is thus expressed in the

preamble to the Constitution: 'We, the people of the United States, _in

order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, insure domestic

tranquillity, provide for the common defence, promote the general

welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our

posterity_, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United

States of America.' Every one of the objects therein specified is, in

the baleful light of the rebellion, a plea for the amendment.

We are aware that this preamble has heretofore served as a basis for the

stanchest conservatism, and wisely so. We are of those who have always

contended that the 'blessings of liberty' are best secured by whatever

tends most to strengthen the Union--the asylum and hope of liberty,

without which liberty, disorganized and unprotected, were a vain show.

We are of that opinion still, and therefore support the amendment,

because we are for strengthening the Union and making it 'more perfect.'

We have not changed: circumstances have changed. What was formerly

conservatism is now radicalism, and radicalism is now the true

conservatism. For the period is one of transition, a crisis period, when

these two forces, to be of use, must be interfused, and thus become a

combined power of reform.

So long as the cotton and slaveholding interest could be held in check

and kept measurably subordinate to the supremacy of the Constitution,

there was hope that eventually the steadily-increasing forces of free

labor would overpower the gradually-decreasing forces of slave labor. It

was believed that by the silent action of natural laws freedom would, in

the long run, assert itself superior, and the ideal of our Government,

universal freedom, would thus at last become a reality and fact. Such,

we have been taught to believe, was the doctrine of the statesmanship of

1850. Such was the underlying argument of Webster's great 7th of March

speech--the enduring monument of his unselfish patriotism, seeking only

the good of his whole country. Such was his meaning when he declared

that the condition of the territories was fixed by an 'irrepealable

law,' needing no irritating legislation to assure their freedom.

Contrary to the hopes of our fathers, the slave system had prospered and

grown strong--chiefly because of the impetus given to it by the growth

of cotton, as was clearly shown by Webster in the speech just noted. We

suppose no candid reader of our history will deny this point. But the

system had no vital force within itself, and could not withstand those

laws of nature and free emigration to which we have adverted. It sought

protective legislation, and got it. Still, it was hampered by

limitations, notwithstanding it had present control of the cotton

growth. So the question of the slave trade was mooted. Thus it came to

pass that within half a century after it had expired by limitation of

the Constitution, that monstrous anomaly of the Christian era was sought

to be revived. And so corrupt had public sentiment become that the slave

trader captain of the yacht Wanderer could not be convicted by a jury of

his countrymen of violating the ordinance of the nation against this

traffic.[8] Will any one dare affirm that the tone of public feeling in

the South on this subject was not higher and purer in the time of

Jefferson than in the time of Buchanan? To what a depth of moral

degradation the nation might have sunk under the thus retrogressive

influences of ungodly Mammon, setting God and Christianity at total

defiance, may not easily be conjectured. But that law of action and

reaction which balances the powers of nature with such equal justice,

holds good also in the world of mind; and in the providence of God the

time of reaction came at last, and the temper of the nation reverted to

its pristine purity. That time came when defiant Mammon waxed so bold as

to threaten the nation's life. Under the protective statutes of

Congress, jealously watching over the local institutions of States,

slavery had grown to be a dominating power in the country; and, bound

by legislation and compromise, and the strict letter of the

Constitution, the people could only protest, and bide the inevitable

issue of such arrogant domination.

Now no longer is slavery dominant. Its own hand has struck down the

protecting shield of a quasi-constitutional guaranty, and all men feel

that its condemnation is just. Now there is 'none so poor to do it

reverence.' Why is this? It is the uniform course and consequence of

sin. 'Because sentence against an evil work is not executed speedily,

therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil.'

But God has spoken at last in a voice that we must heed. It is the voice

of war, a voice of woe; the voice of civil war, the chief of woes.

Slavery is now at our mercy. And mercy to it is to be measured by our

humanity to man and our fear of God. 'The word is nigh thee, even in thy

own mouth.' _Servitudo delenda est: deleta est_. Slavery is to be

destroyed: it is already destroyed. Shall we permit it a chance to be

revived? The way is opened to us, as it was not to our fathers, to

remove the curse from our borders. We shall be false to every

inspiration of patriotism if we now fail to remove it. The time has come

to complete the unity of the Constitution, and make the ideal purpose of

it, as stated in the preamble, a living fact. Shall we let the

opportunity slip? Now, at last, we may ordain a Constitution by which 'a

more perfect Union' shall 'secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves

and our posterity.'

3. A third reason for the proposed amendment, not less cogent though

more familiar to our political discussions than the two already named,

is found in article fourth, section second, of the Constitution:

'Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all the privileges and

immunities of citizens of the several States.' Everybody knows that this

section of the Constitution has been heretofore practically a dead

letter, albeit as fully a part of the supreme law as that other

provision in the same section for the rendition of 'persons held to

service.' So everybody knows equally well the reason of it. It was a

concession to the fierce passions of slaveholding politics. From the

very nature of the case there could not be the same toleration of speech

and press in a Slave State which the men from a Slave State enjoyed in a

Free State. It was incendiary. So for half a century there has been this

virtual nullification of one of the justest compromises of the

Constitution; and citizens of the United States have, within the limits

of the United States, been tarred and feathered, and burnt, and hung,

and subjected to indignities without number and without name. Nobody

will probably be willing to say that such a state of things is worthy to

be continued. The hope of peaceable relief has for long restrained the

hands of a people educated to an abhorrence of war. We have submitted to

a despotism less tolerant than the autocracy of Russia, or the

absolutism of France--hoping, vainly hoping, for some change; willing to

forego all things rather than dissever the Union, which we have held,

and hold, to be foremost, because bearing the promise of all other

political blessings; pardoning much to a legacy left the South for which

it was not primarily responsible, and ready to second the humane care of

a feeble race, and clinging to the hope of that better time to which all

the signs pointed, when, by force of freedom, there could be no more

slavery. The time has come, though sooner and under other circumstances

(alas! far other circumstances) than we expected. We need now no longer

give guaranties to the slaveholding interest. Taking advantage of such

as it had, it has not hesitated to attack its sole benefactor, and now

all our obligations are at an end. The Congress of the nation may and

will take care that, secession being stifled, there shall not

henceforth be a nullification of the least provision of the organic law,

out of mistaken tenderness for the interest of any section. We have at

last learned a nobler virtue than forbearance, and henceforth either the

Constitution, in all its parts, is to be supreme, or else the nation

must die. One or other of these things must result. Let him who can

hesitate between them write himself down a traitor; for he is one. No

patriot can hesitate. No lover of his country can falter in a time like

this. And if three years of war have not taught a man that this is the

alternative, that man does not deserve a country.

4. But there is a more emphatic expression of our fundamental law than

any yet cited; which, if left to its proper working, as now it may be,

strikes at the root of slavery. It is the fourth section of the fourth

article of the Constitution. 'The United States shall guarantee to every

State in this Union a republican form of government.'

The essence of republicanism is freedom. A republic that, like Sparta,

permits the enslavement of any portion of its people, is surely not

predicated upon the true idea of a republic; and it is worth while to

consider that the ancient republics found their bane in slavery, and

that the aristocratic republics of modern times, like Venice, have

perished. Only those republics survive to-day which, like San Marino,

have free institutions. A republic is a country where the whole people

is the public, and the state the affair of the whole people. It is a

_public affair_ (as its name imports), a thing of the public; and this

is not true of any other than a democracy. For the essential idea of

such a government is expressed in the maxim: 'the greatest good to the

greatest number;' and in that other maxim which is part of our

Declaration of Independence, that 'government derives its just powers

from the consent of the governed.' It needs no argument to show that

these maxims are violated in a country where any portion of the people

are deprived of their highest good--liberty. For what is the object of

government? To protect men from oppression. And our republican doctrine

is that this is best accomplished in a form of government which gives to

the voice of all men the controlling power. 'The voice of the people is

the voice of God,' because humanity is of God. The doctrine is that the

state is made for the individual, not the individual for the state; just

as our Saviour declared that 'the Sabbath was made for man, not man for

the Sabbath.' These things being so (and it is not pretended that they

are novel, for they are very trite), does it not immediately appear how

essentially opposed is slavery to the idea of a republic? Therefore when

the Constitution guarantees to every State a republican form of

government, it guarantees to all the people of every State a voice in

its control. And whatever State disfranchises any portion of its people

violates this provision of the Constitution.

To the objection that, at the time of adopting the Constitution, all the

States were Slave States, with a single exception, and therefore within

the meaning of that instrument slavery and a republican form of

government are not incongruous, there are two answers. First, it is

matter of history that the framers of the Constitution acted throughout

with reference to the eventual abolition of slavery; as has been already

adverted to in this paper. Therefore such States as have retained their

slave establishments have done so in violation of the spirit of this

provision of the Constitution; while such States as have since been

admitted into the Union with slave establishments have been admitted by

compromises, equally in violation of that provision, but acquiesced in

by the whole country, as the slave establishments of the original

States had been, and therefore equally binding on our good faith. We are

now no longer bound by any compromises. We have kept our plighted faith

strictly and fairly, though the Slave States have not. Our duty now is

to reconstruct, if we can, the fabric of the Union. If, in doing this,

we abolish slavery entirely, which makes impossible the full realization

of this guaranteeing clause, the guaranty will spring into new life and

become a power in the law of the land. Secondly, what is meant by a

republican form of government within the meaning of the Constitution

must be determined by reference to the Declaration of Independence,

which is the basis of our Government, and declares the principles of it.

That Declaration was promulgated as embodying the doctrines of a new

age--an age in which the rights of man should at last be maintained as

against the rights of royalty and privilege. It is, therefore, the

soundest rule of interpretation to refer the ambiguities of the organic

law to the declaration that preceded and introduced it and made it

possible. And so interpreting, will any one say that slavery is

compatible with the principles of the Declaration of Independence?

In support, moreover, of the view here taken, may be cited the opinion

of many of our statesmen, as expressed on the question of admitting new

States into the Union: as, for instance, when Missouri applied for

admission with a slave constitution. Nor is it competent to offset this

with the opinion of such statesmen as have advocated the doctrine of the

Virginia Resolutions of State sovereignty; for they notoriously

disregarded the paramount supremacy of the Constitution. The

conscientious doubt of others as to making the exclusion of slavery a

condition precedent to admission into the Union, proves not the

incorrectness of this position, but strengthens it, by showing that only

a controlling love of the Union caused the doubt, which originated in a

policy that would not even seem to do injustice to any State.

But whatever may be true as to the opinions of the fathers and early

statesmen of the republic; whatever may be true as to the precise

meaning of the term 'republican form of government' in the Constitution;

surely, in the light of our rebellion, there cannot longer be a doubt as

to the inherent antagonism of slavery to the principles of republican

government. The Southern Confederacy sprang into existence as an

oligarchy of slaveholders, willing (if need be) to live under a military

despotism (as is the fact to-day, and will be hereafter if the world

should witness the dire misfortune of its success), rather than submit

to the searching scrutiny of republican ideas, with freedom of speech

and press and person. And so it is that we recur to the simple fact of

the Southern Confederacy for the vindication of the proposed amendment

in all its bearings, finding in that fact the full warrant and

justification of it.

5. There is still another reason for the proposed amendment, that may be

urged with great force, on the ground of expediency; namely, that it

would settle the whole question of reconstruction in a manner and with

an effect that could not be gainsaid. For, once incorporated into the

fundamental law, there could not then arise questions touching the

validity of acts by which slaves are declared freemen. There would be

nothing left to hang a doubt upon. The Proclamation of Emancipation as a

war measure is undoubtedly a proper proceeding; but as a means of

effecting organic changes, and as possible to operate beyond the period

of actual war, it is open to many grave objections. Freedom being thus

made the law of the land, there would be no longer reason for

differences, as now there are wide differences among conscientious and

capable men, as to the proper mode of reinvesting the States usurped by

the rebellion with their rightful powers as kindred republics of the

nation. Constituent parts of a common and indivisible empire, those

powers cannot be destroyed by a usurping rebellion.

But, it is objected, the proposed amendment destroys certain of those

powers. Yes, it takes away all pretended right to hold slaves. For the

right of slavery is nowhere recognized in the Constitution. The fact of

slavery as part of the local establishments of some States could not be

ignored, although, as is well known, the word 'slave' was expressly

ruled out of the Constitution. Hence, the famous provisions for the

rendition of '_persons held to service_' (art. iv. sec. 2), and for the

apportionment of representatives and direct taxes, 'by adding to the

whole number of free persons ... _three fifths of all other persons_'

(art. i. sec. 2): which are the only recognition slavery finds in our

Constitution.

It is true, therefore, that slavery, never a right, but always a wrong,

under the Constitution, as under the law of nature and revelation, is

now to be no longer recognized even as a fact. To abolish it by this

amendment is to abolish it entirely throughout the Union, irrespective

of apparent State rights. The repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law remits

the question of restoring 'persons held to service' to the safeguards of

trial by jury, but has no further force. To supplement and complete the

work of reconstruction, we need to make impossible the pretence of a

power anywhere within the domain of the United States to hold a person

in bondage.

To the objection we have just noted, that certain State rights are thus

destroyed, there are two sufficient answers. First, in no State of the

Union, it is believed, does slavery exist by virtue of positive law. It

is the subject of legislation only as a recognized fact in society. It

exists in Virginia in violation of the Bill of Rights, which is part of

the organic law of that State, and, in its essential features, of every

slaveholding State. Therefore to abolish it is both to fulfil the duty

of the United States in guaranteeing to every State a republican form of

government, and to assert the only true doctrine of State rights,

namely, that the legislation of a State shall conform to the fundamental

law at once of the State itself and the nation. And thus the Bill of

Rights of a slaveholding State will be no longer a mockery, but a living

power. Secondly, the destruction of this pseudo right of a State to hold

slaves is no cause of complaint--even supposing it were a legitimate and

proper right.[9] For, the Constitution once adopted, the provision for

amendment, as part of it, has also been ratified and adopted; and

therefore, by a familiar principle of law, the exercise of that

provision may not afterward be questioned. It is not for the parties who

have once solemnly ratified an agreement to complain of the carrying

into effect of its terms. They must forever hold their peace.

Thus, by virtue of the proposed amendment, all the States of the Union

will become Free States, and there will be no longer the anomaly of a

free nation upholding slavery. It will then, moreover, have been settled

by the highest authority in the land, that a republican form of

government means, first of all, freedom; and so a free constitution will

be the unquestionable condition precedent of the admission of any State

into the Union. This doctrine will seem monstrous to the believer in

State sovereignty as paramount to the sovereignty of the nation: so it

will seem monstrous to the believer in secession and rebellion. But by

the lover of the Union (who alone is the true patriot in our country) it

will be accepted as a doctrine that adds another bond of unity to the

nation, and so tends to secure its perpetual strength.

In fine, the Constitution itself is all bristling with arguments for

this amendment. Besides the provisions already quoted, there is the

fifth article of the amendments, declaring that 'no person shall be

deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law,'

which has now a significance unknown before. Oh, how the rebellion has

interpreted for us and commented upon the provisions of the

Constitution! In the dread light of its unholy fires, we see, as never

before, how cursed and doubly accursed a thing is slavery--making men

forget all that is holiest and sacredest, quenching all their

inspirations of patriotism, and leading them to sell body and soul for

mad ambition. How true, alas! is the poet's word: 'How like a mounting

devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition!'

We _must_, therefore, put an end to slavery. In its whole essence and

substance, it militates against the perpetuity of our national Union. To

think of preserving both it and the Union is to shut our eyes wilfully

to the facts of the last half century, and the culminating condemnation

of slavery in the rebellion. A Southern journal (_The Nashville Times_)

has lately said, with great truth and force: 'Slavery can no more

violate the law of its existence and become loyal and law-abiding than a

stagnant pool can freshen and grow sweet in its own corruption.' Discard

all other considerations; say, if we please, that slavery has nothing to

do with the origin of the war; yet we must recognize the fact of a

confederacy avowedly basing itself on the system of slavery, and which

is in the interest of slaveholders, and is fostered by the minions of

despotism all over the world. Then, if we can, let us come to any other

conclusion than the one suggested in the proposed amendment.

This confederacy in the interest of slaveholders threatens the life of

the nation. There is a limit to the powers of the Constitution, and we

may not pass beyond it. But shall we deny that there is a higher law

back of the Constitution, back of all constitutions--namely, that

'safety of the people,' which is 'the supreme law'? If we say that there

is no such thing as moral government in the world; that a beneficent God

does not sit in the heavens, holding all nations as in the hollow of His

hand; yet we cannot deny this law of self-preservation. This law, this

higher law of human society, the law political, in the very nature of

things, demands the amendment.

Above all, let us not ignore the lessons of the war. The million graves

of the heroes fallen in defence of our liberties and laws, are so many

million wounds in the bleeding body of the nation, whose poor, dumb

mouths, if they had voice, would cry out to Heaven against the system

which has moved this foul treason against those liberties and laws. Let

us, then, in the white heat of this terrible crisis, adopt the

amendment, and stamp on the forefront of the nation, as its motto, for

all time, those magnificent words of Webster: 'Liberty _and_ Union, now

and forever, one and inseparable!' For let us be well assured that the

Southern Confederacy cannot triumph. In the darkest and most mournful

period of the despotism of the first Napoleon, when all hearts were

failing, a minister of the Church of England spoke these words of the

military empire of France, and they may fitly be spoken of the military

empire of the South to-day:

'It has no foundation in the moral stability of justice. It is

irradiated by no beam from heaven; it is blessed by no prayer of man; it

is worshipped with no gratitude by the patriot heart. It may remain for

the time that is appointed it, but the awful hour is on the wing when

the universe will resound with its fall; and the same sun which now

measures out with reluctance the length of its impious reign, will one

day pour his undecaying beams amid its ruins, and bring forth from the

earth which it has overshadowed the promises of a greater spring.'[10]

FOOTNOTES:

[8] The writer saw the defiant little yacht lying snug at the Savannah

wharf, in October, 1859--after the trial.

[9] In the constitution of the _republic_ of Texas (1836), it is

declared (sec. 9 of General Provisions), 'All persons of color who were

slaves for life previous to their immigration to Texas, and who are now

held in bondage, _shall remain in the like state of servitude_.' But in

the constitution of the _State_ of Texas (1845) there is no such

declaration; and article i., the Bill of Rights, sec. 1, declares: 'All

power is inherent in the people.' The foregoing provision of the Texan

constitution of 1836, is believed to be the only actual establishment of

slavery in any Southern State, and even that has been abrogated, as is

seen, by the State constitution of 1845. (See Hurd's Law of Freedom and

Bondage, vol. ii.)

[10] Alison's History of Europe, vol. iii. p. 461.

AVERILL'S RAID.

Say, lads, have ye heard of bold Averill's raid?

How we scoured hill and valley, dared dungeon and blade!

How we made old Virginia's heart quake through and through,

Where our sharp, sworded lightning cut sudden her view!

Three cheers!

Red battle had trampled her plains into mire;

The homestead and harvest had vanished in fire;

But far where the walls of the Blue Ridge arose,

Were prize for our daring and grief for our foes.

Three cheers!

There was grain in the garners, fresh, plump to the sight;

And mill-wheels to grind it all dainty and white;

There were kine in the farmyards, and steeds in the stall,

All ready, when down our live torrent should fall.

Three cheers!

And in the quaint hamlets that nestled more far,

Were contrabands pining to know the north star;

And home guards so loath to leave home and its joys,

But who dreamed not they staid prize for Averill's boys.

Three cheers!

Oh, keen did we grind our good sabres, and scan

Our carbines and pistols, girths, spurs, to a man!

Then up and away did we dash with a shout,

With cannon and caisson, away in and out.

Three cheers!

Away in the forest and out on the plain;

The stormy night gathered, we never drew rein;

The raw morning cut us, but onward, right on,

Till again the chill landscape in twilight grew wan.

Three cheers!

Sleet stung us like arrows, winds rocked us like seas,

And close all around crashed the pinnacle-trees;

Red bolts flashed so near, the glare blinded our eyes,

But onward, still on, for in front shone the prize.

Three cheers!

We climbed the steep paths where the spectre-like fir

Moaned of death in the distance; we ceased not to spur!

Death! what that to us, with our duty before!

Then onward, still on our stern hoof-thunder bore.

Three cheers!

We dashed on the garners, their white turned to black;

We dashed on the mills, smoky veils lined our track;

We dashed on the hamlet, ha, ha! what a noise,

What a stir, as upon them rushed Averill's boys!

Three cheers!

The contrabands came with wide grins and low bows,

And old ragged slouches swung wide from their brows;

But the home guards ran wildly--then blustered, when found

Not made food for powder, but Union-ward bound.

Three cheers!

The kine turned to broils at our camp fires--the steeds,

The true F. F. V.'s, fitted well to our needs;

They pranced and they neighed, as if proud of the joys

Of bearing, not home guards, but Averill's boys.

Three cheers!

We dashed on the rail-track, we ripped and we tore;

We dashed on the depots, made bold with their store;

Then away, swift away, for 'twas trifling with fire;

We were far in the foe's depths, and free to his ire.

Three cheers!

Fierce Ewell and Early and Stuart and Hill

Launched forth their fleet legions to capture and kill;

But we mocked all pursuit, and eluded each toil,

And drummed unopposed on their dear sacred soil.

Three cheers!

We swam icy torrents, climbed wild, icy roads

Where alone wolf and woodman held savage abodes;

We floundered down glary steeps, ravine, and wall,

Either side, where, one slip, and a plunge settled all:

Three cheers!

The dark, mighty woods heaved like billows, as o'er

Burst harsh jarring blasts, and like breakers their roar;

While clink of the hoof-iron and tinkle of blade

Made sprinkle like lute in love's soft serenade.

Three cheers!

Oh, footsore and weary our steeds at last grew!

Oh, hungry and dreary the long moments drew!

We froze to our saddles, spur hardly could ply:

What of that! we were lucky, and now could but die!

Three cheers!

But we wore through the moments, we rode though in pain;

Were sure to forget all when camp came again;--

So we rode and we rode, till, hurrah! on our sight

Burst our tents, as on midnight comes bursting the light!

Three cheers!

OBSERVATIONS OF THE SUN.

As much interest is manifested for increased knowledge of solar

characteristics, and as many astronomers and numerous amateurs are daily

engaged in their investigation, I have thought that the experience of

thousands of observations and the final advantages of a host of

experiments in combination of lenses and colored glasses, resulting

highly favorably to a further elucidation of solar characteristics,

would be interesting, especially to such as are engaged in that branch

of inquiry.

My experiments have resulted in two important discoveries. First, by a

new combination of lenses, I prevent heat from being communicated to the

colored glasses, which screen the eye from the blinding effects of solar

light, and thus avoid the not infrequent cracking of these glasses from

excess of heat, thereby endangering the sight--whereas, by my method,

the colored glasses remain as cool after an hour's observation as at the

commencement, and no strain or fatigue to the eye is experienced.

Secondly, the defining power of the telescope is greatly increased, so

that with a good three-and-a-quarter inch acromatic object-glass, with

fifty-four inches focal length (mine made by Buron, Paris), I have

obtained a clearer view of the physical features of the sun than any

described in astronomical works.

In a favorable state of the atmosphere, and when spots are found lying

more than halfway between the sun's centre and the margin, or better

still, if nearer the margin, when the spots lie more edgeways to the

eye, I can see distinctly the relative thickness of the photosphere and

the underlying dusky penumbra, which lie on contiguous planes of about

equal thickness, like the coatings of an onion. When these spots are

nearer the centre of the sun, we see more vertically into their depths,

by which I frequently observe a third or cloud stratum, underlying the

penumbra, and partially closing the opening, doubtless to screen the

underlying globe (which, by contrast with the photosphere, is intensely

black) from excessive light, or to render it more diffusive.[11] The

concentric faculae are then plainly visible, and do not appear to rise

above the surface of the photosphere (as generally described), but

rather as depressions in that luminous envelope, frequently breaking

entirely through to the penumbra; and when this last parts, forms what

are called 'spots.' The delusion in supposing the faculae to be elevated

ridges, appears to me to be owing to the occasional depth of the faculae

breaking down through the photosphere to the dusky penumbra, giving the

appearance of a shadow from an elevated ridge. What is still more

interesting, in a favorable state of the atmosphere, I can distinctly

see over the _whole_ surface of the sun, not occupied by large spots or

by faculae, a network of pores or minute spots in countless numbers, with

dividing lines or faculae-like depressions in the photosphere, separating

each little hole, varying in size, some sufficiently large to exhibit

irregularities of outline, doubtless frequently combining and forming

larger spots.[12] When there are no scintillations in the air, the rim

or margin of the sun appears to be a perfect circle, as defined, in

outline, as if carved. By interposing an adjusted circular card, to cut

off the direct rays of the sun, thus improvising an eclipse, not a stray

ray of light is seen to dart in any direction from the sun, except what

is reflected to the instrument, diffusively, from our atmosphere; thus

proving that the corona, the coruscations or flashes of light, seen

during a total or nearly total eclipse of the sun by the moon, are not

rays direct from the sun, but reflections from lunar snow-clad

mountains, into her highly attenuated atmosphere. Solar light, being

electric, is not developed as light until reaching the atmosphere of a

planet or satellite, or their more solid substance, which would explain

why solar light is not diffused through space, and thus account for

nocturnal darkness.

The combination of glasses which enabled me to inspect the above details

may be stated briefly thus: In the place of my astronomic eyepiece, I

use an elongator (obtainable of opticians) to increase the power. Into

this I place my terrestrial tube, retaining only the field glasses, and

using a microscopic eyepiece of seven eighths of an inch in diameter.

Over this I slide a tube containing my colored glasses, one dark blue

and two dark green, placed at the outer end of the sliding tube, one and

a half inches from the eyeglass. The colored glasses are three quarters

of an inch in diameter, and the aperture next the eye in diameter half

an inch. The power which I usually employ magnifies but one hundred and

fifty diameters; and I use the entire aperture of my object glass. This

combination of colored glasses gives a clear dead white to the sun, the

most desirable for distinct vision, as all shaded portions, such as

spots, however minute, and their underlying dusky penumbra, are thus

brought into strong contrasts.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Imagine an immense sphere enclosed within two contiguous and

equally thin envelopes, and yet sufficiently thick to show their edges

distinctly when broken; the outer, a photosphere, having an intensely

bright surface, and the inner, or penumbra, of a dull gray surface;

while the enclosed hollow space is all dark, with the exception of an

occasional fleecy cloud, floating within, and contiguous to the inner

envelope. Now remove a large irregular piece from the outer, and a

smaller piece from the inner envelope, and you have an exact idea of the

appearance of a spot; contrasting the comparative brilliancy of the

photosphere with the penumbra; their relative thickness; the intense

blackness within, and occasional cloud stratum floating beneath the

opening, as seen, under the most favorable circumstances, with a good

telescope.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] The Nasmyth willow-leaf appearance, I think, is either the result

of imperfect vision, defective instruments, or unfavorable state of the

air, distorting the unvarying result of my observations, as above

described, which have been a thousand times repeated in our clearer

atmosphere, both on the coast and interior mountain regions. My

observation of a general pore-like character, over the whole surface of

the photosphere of the sun, is, I think, corroborated by considering the

spots, as usually known and visible with ordinary instruments, as merely

greater pores of the same general character.

AN ARMY: ITS ORGANIZATION AND MOVEMENTS.

_FOURTH PAPER_.

In previous papers we have briefly related the history of the art of war

as now practised, stated the functions of the principal staff

departments, and mentioned some of the peculiar features of the

different arms of military service. It remains to describe the

operations of an army in its totality--to show the methods in which its

three principal classes of operations--marching, encamping, and

fighting--are performed.

The first necessity for rendering an army effective is evidently

military discipline, including drill, subordination, and observance of

the prescribed regulations. The first is too much considered as the

devotion of time and toil to the accomplishment of results based on mere

arbitrary rules. The contrary is the truth. Drilling in all its

forms--from the lowest to the highest--from the rules for the position

of the single soldier to the manoeuvres of a brigade--is only

instruction in those movements which long experience has proved to be

the easiest, quickest, and most available methods of enabling a soldier

to discharge his duties: it is not the compulsory observance of rules

unfounded on proper reasons, designed merely to give an appearance of

uniformity and regularity--merely to make a handsome show on parade.

Nothing so much wearies and discourages a new recruit as his drill; he

cannot at first understand it, and does not see the reason for it. He

exclaims:

'I'm sick of this marching,

Pipe-claying and starching.'

He thinks he can handle his musket with more convenience and rapidity if

he is permitted to carry it and load it as he chooses, instead of going

through the formula of motions prescribed in the manual. Perhaps as an

individual he might; but when he is only one in a large number, his

motions must be regulated, not only by his own convenience, but also by

that of his neighbors. Very likely, a person uneducated in the mysteries

of dancing would never adopt the polka or schottish step as an

expression of exuberance; but if he dances with a company, he must be

governed by the rules of the art, or he will be likely to tread on the

toes of his companions, and be the cause of casualties. Military drill

is constantly approaching greater simplicity, as experience shows that

various particulars may be dispensed with. Formerly, when soldiers were

kept up as part of the state pageants, they were subjected to numberless

petty tribulations of drill, which no longer exist. Pipe-clayed belts,

for example, have disappeared, except in the marine corps. Frederick the

Great was the first who introduced into drill ease and quickness of

execution, and since his day it has been greatly simplified and

improved.