CHAPTER XXI.

Returning from the South a few weeks after the events narrated in the

previous chapter, Frank and I were met at Goldsboro by Preston and

Selma, when the latter accompanied us to the North, and once more

resumed her place in David's family.

On the first of February following, Frank, then not quite twenty-one,

was admitted a partner in the house of Russell, Rollins, & Co., and, in

the succeeding summer, was sent to Europe on business of the firm.

Shortly after his return, in the following spring, he came on from

Boston with a proposal from Cragin that I should embark with them and

young Preston in an extensive speculation. Deeming any business in which

Cragin was willing to engage worthy of careful consideration, I listened

to Frank's exposition of the plan of operations. He had originated the

project, and in it he displayed the comprehensive business mind and rare

blending of caution and boldness which characterized his father. As the

result of this transaction had an important influence on the future of

some of the actors in my story, I will detail its programme.

It was during the Crimean war. The Russian ports were closed, and Great

Britain and the Continent of Europe were dependent entirely on the

Southern States for their supply of resinous articles. The rivers at the

South were low, and it was not supposed they would rise sufficiently to

float produce to market before the occurrence of the spring freshets, in

the following April or May. Only forty thousand barrels of common rosin

were held in Wilmington--the largest naval-store port in the world; and

it was estimated that not more than two hundred thousand were on hand in

the other ports of Savannah, Ga., Georgetown, S. C., Newbern and

Washington, N. C., and in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. Very

little was for sale in London, Liverpool, or Glasgow, the largest

foreign markets for the article; and Frank thought that a hundred and

fifty thousand barrels could be purchased. That quantity, taken at once

out of market, would probably so much enhance the value of the article,

that the operation would realize a large profit before the new crop came

forward. The purchases were to be made simultaneously in the various

markets, and about two hundred thousand dollars were required to carry

through the transaction. One hundred thousand of this was to be

furnished in equal proportions by the parties interested; the other

hundred thousand would be realized by Joseph Preston's negotiating 'long

exchange' on Russell, Rollins & Co.

I declined to embark in the speculation, but the others carried it out

as laid down in the programme; the only deviation being that, at Frank's

suggestion, Mr. Robert Preston was apprised of the intended movement,

and allowed to purchase, on his own account, as much produce as could be

secured in Newbern. He bought about seven thousand barrels, paid for

them by drawing at ninety days on Russell, Rollins, & Co., and held them

for sale at Newbern, agreeing to satisfy his drafts with the proceeds.

These drafts amounted to a trifle over eighty-two hundred dollars.

About a month after this transaction was entered into, our firm received

the following letter from Preston:

'GENTLEMEN: An unfortunate difference with my son prevents my

longer using him as my indorser. I have not, as yet, been able to

secure another; and, our banks requiring two home names on time

drafts, I have to beg you to honor a small bill at one day's sight.

I have drawn for one thousand dollars. Please honor.'

To this I at once replied:

'DEAR SIR: We have advice of your draft for one thousand dollars.

To protect your credit, we shall pay it; but we beg you will draw

no more, till you forward bills of lading.

'You are now overdrawn some five thousand dollars, which, by the

maturing of your drafts, has become a _cash_ advance. The death of

our senior, Mr. Randall, and the consequent withdrawal of his

capital, has left us with an extended business and limited means.

Money, also, is very tight, and we therefore earnestly beg you to

put us in funds at the earliest possible moment.'

No reply was received to this letter; but, about ten days after its

transmission, Preston himself walked into my private office. His clothes

were travel stained, and he appeared haggard and careworn. I had never

seen him look so miserably.

He met me cordially, and soon referred to the state of his affairs. His

wife, the winter before, had agreed to reside permanently at Newbern,

and content herself with an allowance of three thousand dollars

annually; but at the close of the year he found that she had contracted

debts to the extent of several thousand more. He was pressed for these

debts; his interest was in arrears, and he could raise no money for lack

of another indorser. Ruin stared him in the face, unless I again put my

shoulder to the wheel, and pried him out of the mire. The turpentine

business was not paying as well as formerly, but the new plantation was

encumbered with only the original mortgage--less than six thousand

dollars--and was then worth, owing to an advance in the value of land,

fully twenty thousand. He would secure me by a mortgage on that

property, but I _must_ allow the present indebtedness to stand, and let

him increase it four or five thousand dollars. That amount would

extricate him from present difficulties; and, to avoid future

embarrassments, he would take measures for a legal separation from his

wife.

I heard him through, and then said:

'I cannot help you, my friend. I am very sorry; but my own affairs are

in a most critical state. I owe over a hundred thousand dollars,

maturing within twenty days, and my present available resources are not

more than fifty thousand. I have three hundred thousand worth of produce

on hand, but the market is so depressed that I cannot realize a dollar

upon it. The banks have shut down, and money is two per cent. a month in

the street. What you owe us would aid me wonderfully; but I can rub

through without it. That much I can bear, but not a dollar more.'

He walked the room for a time, and was silent; then, turning to me, he

said--each separate word seeming a groan:

'I have cursed every one I ever loved, and now I am bringing

trouble--perhaps disaster--upon _you_, the only real friend I have

left.'

'Pshaw! my good fellow, don't talk in that way. What you owe us is only

a drop in the bucket. We have made twice that amount out of you; so give

yourself no uneasiness, if you _never_ pay it.'

'But I must pay it--I _shall_ pay it;' and, continuing to pace the room

silently for a few moments, he added, giving me his hand: 'Good-by; I'm

going back to-night.'

'Back to-night!--without seeing Selly, or my wife? You are mad!'

'I _must_ go.'

'You must _not_ go. You are letting affairs trouble you too much. Come,

go home with me, and see Kate. A few words from her will make a new man

of you.'

'No, no; I must go back at once. I must raise this money somehow.'

'Send money to the dogs! Come with me, and have a good night's rest.

You'll think better of this in the morning. And now it occurs to me that

Kate has about seven thousand belonging to Frank. He means to settle it

on Selly when they are married, and she might as well have it first as

last. Perhaps you can get it now.'

'But I might be robbing my own child.'

'You can give the farm as security; it's worth twice the amount.'

'Well, I'll stay. Let us see your wife at once.'

While we were seated in the parlor, after supper, I broached the subject

of Preston's wants to Kate. She heard me through attentively, and then

quietly said:

'Frank is of age--he can do as he pleases; but _I_ would not advise him

to make the loan. I once heard my father scout at the idea of taking

security on property a thousand miles away. I would not wound Mr.

Preston's feelings, but--his wife's extravagance has led him into this

difficulty, and her property should extricate him from it. Her town

house, horses, and carriages should be sold. She ought to be made to

feel some of the mortification she has brought upon him.'

Preston's face brightened; a new idea seemed to strike him. 'You are

right. I will sell everything.' His face clouded again, as he continued:

'But I cannot realize soon enough. Your husband needs money at once.'

'Never mind me; I can take care of myself. But what is this trouble with

Joe? Tell me, I will arrange it. Everything can go on smoothly again.'

'It cannot be arranged. There can be no reconciliation between us.'

'What prevents? Who is at fault--you, or he?'

'I am. He will never forgive me!'

'Forgive you! I can't imagine what you have done, that admits of no

forgiveness.'

He rose, and walked the room for a while in gloomy silence, then said:

'I will tell you. It is right you should know. You _both_ should know

the sort of man you have esteemed and befriended for so many years;'

and, resuming his seat, he related the following occurrences:

'Everything went on as usual at the plantation, till some months after

Rosey's marriage to Ally. Then a child was born to them. It was white.

Rosey refused to reveal its father, but it was evidently not her

husband. Ally, being a proud, high-spirited fellow, took the thing

terribly to heart. He refused to live with his wife, or even to see her.

I tried to reconcile them, but without success. Old Dinah, who had

previously doted on Rosey, turned about, and began to beat and abuse her

cruelly. To keep the child out of the old woman's way, I took her into

the house, and she remained there till about two months ago. Then, one

day, Larkin, the trader, of whom you bought Phylly and the children,

came to me, wanting a woman house-servant. I was pressed for money, and

I offered him--a thing I never did before--two or three of my family

slaves. They did not suit, but he said Rosey would, and proposed to buy

her and the child. I refused. He offered me fifteen hundred dollars for

them, but I still refused. Then he told me that he had spoken to the

girl, and she wished him to buy her. I doubted it, and said so; but he

called Rosey to us, and she confirmed it, and, in an excited way, told

me she would run away, or drown herself, if I did not sell her. She said

she could live no longer on the same plantation with Ally. I told her I

would send Ally away; but she replied: 'No; I am tired of this place. I

have suffered so much here, I want to get away. I _shall_ go; whether

alive or dead, is for _you_ to say.' I saw she was in earnest; I was

hard pressed for money; Larkin promised to get her a kind master, and--I

sold her.'

'Sold her! My God! Preston, she was your own child!'

'I know it,' he replied, burying his face in his hands. 'The curse of

GOD was on it; it has been on me for years.' After a few moments, he

added: 'But hear the rest, and _you_ will curse me, too.'

Overcome with emotion, he groaned audibly. I said nothing, and a pause

of some minutes ensued. Then, in a choked, broken voice, he continued:

'The rosin transaction had been gone into. I had used up what blank

indorsements I had. Needing more, and wanting to consult with Joe about

selling the rosin, I went to Mobile. It was five weeks ago. I arrived

there about dark, and put up at the Battle House. Joe had boarded there.

I was told he had left, and gone to housekeeping. A negro conducted me

to a small house in the outskirts of the town. He said Joe lived there.

Wishing to surprise him, I went in without knocking. The house had two

parlors, separated by folding doors. In the back one a young woman was

clearing away the tea things; in the front one, Joe was seated by the

fire, with a young child on his knee. I put my hand on his shoulder, and

said: 'Joe, whose child have you here?' He looked up, and laughingly

said: 'Why, father, you ought to know; you've seen it before!' I looked

closely at it--it was Rosey's! I said so. 'Yes, father,' he replied;

'and there's Rosey herself. Larkin promised she should have a kind

master, and--he kept his word.' The truth flashed upon me--the child was

his! My only son had seduced his _own sister_! I staggered back in

horror. I told him who Rosey was, and then'--no words can express the

intense agony depicted on his face as he said this--'then he cursed me!

O my God! HE CURSED ME!'

I pitied him, I could but pity him; and I said:

'Do not be so cast down, my friend. I once heard you say: 'The Lord is

good. His mercy is everlasting!''

'But he cannot have mercy on some!' he cried. '_My_ sins have been too

great; they cannot be blotted out. I embittered the life of my wife; I

have driven my daughter from her home; sold my own child; made my

generous, noble-hearted boy do a horrible crime--a crime that will

haunt him forever. Oh! the curse of God is on me. My misery is greater

than I can bear.'

'No, my friend; God curses none of his creatures. You have reaped what

you have sown, that is all; but you have suffered enough. Better things,

believe me, are in store for you.'

'No, no; everything is gone--wife, children, all! I am alone--the past,

nothing but remorse; the future, ruin and dishonor!'

'But Selly is left you. _She_ will always love you.'

'No, no! Even Selly would curse me, if she knew _all_!'

No one spoke for a full half hour, and he continued pacing up and down

the room. When, at last, he seated himself, more composed, I asked:

'What became of Rosey and the child?'

'I do not know. I was shut in my room for several days. When I got out,

I was told Joe had freed her, and she had disappeared, no one knew

whither. I tried every means to trace her, but could not. At the end of

a week, I went home, what you see me--a broken-hearted man.'

The next morning, despite our urgent entreaties, he returned to the

South.

* * * * *

The twenty days were expiring. By hard struggling I had met my

liabilities, but the last day--the crisis--was approaching. Thirty

thousand dollars of our acceptances had accumulated together, and were

maturing on that day. When I went home, on the preceding night, we had

only nineteen thousand in bank. I had exhausted all our receivables.

Where the eleven thousand was to come from, I did not know. Only one

resource seemed left me--the hypothecation of produce; and a resort to

that, at that time, before warehouse receipts became legitimate

securities, would be ruinous to our credit. My position was a terrible

one. No one not a merchant can appreciate or realize it. With thousands

upon thousands of assets, the accumulations of years, my standing among

merchants, and, what I valued more than all, my untarnished credit, were

in jeopardy for the want of a paltry sum.

I went home that night with a heavy heart; but Kate's hopeful words

encouraged me. With her and the children left to me, I need not care for

the rest; all might go, and I could commence again at the bottom of the

hill. The next morning I walked down town with a firm spirit, ready to

meet disaster like a man. The letters by the early mail were on my desk.

I opened them one after another, hurriedly, eagerly. There were no

remittances! I had expected at least five thousand dollars. For a moment

my courage failed me. I rose, and paced the room, and thoughts like

these passed through my mind: 'The last alternative has come. Pride must

give way to duty. I must hypothecate produce, and protect my

correspondents. I must sacrifice myself to save my friends!

'But here are two letters I have thrown aside. They are addressed to me

personally. Mere letters of friendship! What is friendship, at a time

like this?--friendship without money! Pshaw! I wouldn't give a fig for

all the friends in the world!'

Mechanically I opened one of them. An enclosure dropped to the floor.

Without pausing to pick it up, I read:

'DEAR FATHER: Mother writes me you are hard pressed. Sell my U. S.

stock--it will realize over seven thousand. It is yours. Enclosed

is Cragin's certified check for ten thousand. If you need more,

draw on _him_, at sight, for any amount. He says he will stand by

you to the death.

'Love to mother.

FRANK.'

'P. S.--Fire away, old fellow! Hallet is ugly, but I'll go my pile

on you, spite of the devil.

CRAGIN.'

'SAVED! saved by my wife and child!' I leaned my head on my desk. When I

rose, there were tears upon it.

It wanted some minutes of ten, but I was nervously impatient to blot out

those terrible acceptances. I should then be safe; I should then breathe

freely. As I passed out of my private office, I opened the other letter.

It was from Preston. Pausing a moment, I read it:

'MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I enclose you sight check of Branch Bank of

Cape Fear on Bank of Republic, for $10,820. Apply what is needed to

pay my account; the rest hold subject to my drafts.

'I have sold my town house, furniture, horses, etc., and the

proceeds will pay my home debts. I shall therefore not need to draw

the balance for, say, sixty days. God bless you!'

'Well, the age of miracles is _not_ passed! How _did_ he raise the

money?'

Stepping back into the private office, I called my partner:

'Draw checks for all the acceptances due to-day; get them certified, and

take up the bills at once. Don't let the grass grow under your feet. I

shall be away the rest of the day, and I want to see them before I go.

Here is a draft from Preston; it will make our account good.'

He looked at it, and, laughing, said:

'Yes, and leave about fifty dollars in bank.'

'Well, never mind; we are out of the woods.'

When he had gone, I sat down, and wrote the following letter:

'MY DEAR FRANK: I return Cragin's check, with many thanks. I have

not sold your stock. My legitimate resources have carried me

through.

'I need not say, my boy, that I feel what you would have done for

me. Words are not needed between _us_.

'Tell Cragin that I consider him a trump--the very ace of hearts.

'Your mother and I will see you in a few days.'

In half an hour, with the two letters in my pocket, I was on my way

home. Handing them to Kate, I took her in my arms; and, as I brushed the

still bright, golden hair from her broad forehead, I felt I was the

richest man living.

* * * * *

Within the same week I went to Boston. I arrived just after dark; and

then occurred the events narrated in the first chapter.

WAR.

[J. G. PERCIVAL.]

For war is now upon their shores,

And we must meet the foe,

Must go where battle's thunder roars,

And brave men slumber low;

Go, where the sleep of death comes on

The proudest hearts, who dare

To grasp the wreath by valor won,

And glory's banquet share.

A CHAPTER ON WONDERS.

'Obstupui! steteruntque comae, et vox faucibus haesit.'

There is a certain portion of mankind ever on the alert to see or hear

some wonderful thing; whose minds are attuned to a marvellous key, and

vibrate with extreme sensitiveness to the slightest touch; whose vital

fluid is the air of romance, and whose algebraic symbol is a mark of

exclamation! This sentiment, existing in some persons to a greater

degree than in others, is often fostered by education and association,

so as to become the all-engrossing passion. Children, of course, begin

to wonder as soon as their eyes are opened upon the strange scenes of

their future operations. The first thing usually done to develop their

dawning intellect, is to display before them such objects as are best

calculated to arrest their attention, and keep them in a continual state

of excitement. This course is succeeded by a supply of all sorts of

_toys_, to gratify the passion of novelty. These are followed by

wonderful stories, and books of every variety of absurd

impossibilities;--which system of development is, it would seem,

entirely based upon the presumption, that the faculty of admiration must

be expanded, in order that the young idea may best learn how to _shoot_.

It is therefore quite natural, that--the predisposition granted--a

faculty of the mind so auspiciously nurtured under the influence of

exaggeration should mature in a corresponding degree.

Thus we have in our midst a class, into whose mental economy the faculty

of _wonder_ is so thoroughly infused, that it has inoculated the entire

system, and forms an inherent, inexplicable, and almost elementary part

of it. These persons sail about in their pleasure yachts, on roving

expeditions, under a pretended '_right of search_,' armed to the teeth,

and boarding all sorts of crafts to obtain plunder for their favorite

gratification. They are most uneasy and uncomfortable companions, having

no ear for commonplace subjects of conversation, and no eye for ordinary

objects of sight.

When such persons approach each other, they are mutually attracted, like

two bodies charged with different kinds of electricity--an interchange

of commodities takes place, repulsion follows, and thus reenforced, they

separate to diffuse the supply of wonders collected.

By this centripetal and centrifugal process, the social atmosphere is

subjected to a continual state of agitation. _Language_ is altogether

too tame to give full effect to their meaning, and all the varieties of

_dumb show_, of _gesticulation_, _shrugs_, and wise shakes of the head,

are called into requisition, to effectually and unmistakably express

their ideas. The usages of good society are regarded by them as a great

restraint upon their besetting propensity to expatiate in phrases of

grandiloquence, and to magnify objects of trivial importance. They are

always sure to initiate topics which will afford scope for admiration;

they delight to enlarge upon the unprecedented growth of cities,

villages, and towns; upon the comparative prices of 'corner lots' at

different periods; and to calculate how rich they _might_ have been, had

they only known as much _then_ as _now_.

They experience a gratification when a rich man dies, that the wonder

will now be solved as to the amount of his property; and when a man

fails in business, that it is _now_ made clear--what has so long

perplexed them--'_how he managed to live so extravagantly_!' See them

at an agricultural fair, and they will be found examining the 'mammoth

squashes' and various products of prodigious growth--or they will

install themselves as self-appointed exhibiter of the 'Fat Baby,' to

inform the incredulous how much it weighs! See them at a conflagration,

and they wonder what was the _cause_ of the fire, and _how far_ it will

extend?

They long to travel, that they may visit 'mammoth caves' and 'Giant's

Causeways.' We talk of the 'Seven Wonders of the World,' while to them

there is a successive series for every day in the year--putting to the

blush our meagre stock of monstrosities--making 'Ossa like a wart.'

Nothing gratifies them more than the issuing from the press of an

anonymous work, that they may exert their ingenuity in endeavoring to

discover the author; and, when called on for information on the subject,

prove conclusively to every one but themselves, that they know nothing

whatever about the matter.

The ocean is to them only wonderful as the abode of 'Leviathans,' and

'Sea Serpents,' 'Krakens,' and 'Mermaids'--abounding in 'Maeelstroms' and

_sunken_ islands, and traversed by 'Phantom Ships' and 'Flying Dutchmen'

in perpetual search for some 'lost Atlantis;'--all well-attested

incredibilities, certified to by the 'affidavits of respectable

eye-witnesses,' and, we might add, by 'intelligent contrabands,'--and

all in strict conformity with the convenient aphorism '_Credo quia

impossibile est_.' They are ever ready to bestow their amazement upon a

fresh miracle as soon as the present has had its day--like the man who,

being landed at some distance by the explosion of a juggler's

pyrotechnics, rubbed his eyes open, and exclaimed, '_I wonder what the

fellow will do next!_'

If a steamboat explodes her boiler, or the walls of a factory fall,

burying hundreds in the ruins, their hearts--rendered callous by the

constant stream of cold air pouring in through their _ever-open

mouths_--are not shocked at the calamity, but they wonder if it was

_insured_!

The increase of population in this country affords a most prolific and

inexhaustible fund for statistical astonishment, as an interlude to the

entertainment, while something more appalling is being prepared.

The portentous omens so often relied on by the credulous believers in

signs, have so frequently proved 'dead failures,' that one would suppose

these votaries would at length become disheartened. But this seems not

to be the case--like a quack doctor when his patient dies, their

audacity is equal to any emergency, and, with the elasticity of india

rubber, they come out of a 'tight squeeze' with undiminished rotundity.

With _stupid_ amazement, hair all erect, and ears likewise, they pass

through life as through a museum, ready to exclaim with Dominie Sampson

at all _they_ cannot understand, 'Pro--di--gi--ous!'

It matters little, perhaps, in what form this principle is exhibited,

while it exists and flourishes in undiminished exuberance. Thus says

Glendower:

'At my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets; and, at my birth,

The frame and huge foundation of the earth

Shak'd like a coward.

_Hotspur._ Why so it would have done

At the same season, if your mother's cat had

But kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born.'

Glendower naturally enough flouts this rather impertinent comment, and

'repeats the story of his birth' with still greater improvements, till

Hotspur gives him a piece of advice which will do for his whole race of

the present day, viz., 'tell the truth, and shame the devil.'

The English people of this generation are rather more phlegmatic than

their explosive neighbors across the channel, and neither the injustice

of black slavery abroad, nor the starvation of _white_ slaves at home,

can shake them from their lop-sided neutrality, _so long as money goes

into their pocket_. The excitable French, on the contrary, require an

occasional _coup d'etat_ to arouse their conjectures as to the next

imperial experiment in the art of international diplomacy.

The press of the day teems with all sorts of provisions to satisfy the

cravings of a depraved imagination, and even the most sedate of our

daily papers are not above employing 'double-leaded Sensations,' and

'display Heads' as a part of their ordinary stock in trade; while from

the hebdomadals, 'Thrilling Tales,' 'Awful Disclosures,' and 'Startling

Discoveries,' succeed each other with truly fearful rapidity. Thus he

who wastes the midnight kerosene, and spoils his weary eyes in poring

over the pages of trashy productions, so well designed to murder sleep,

may truly say with Macbeth, 'I have supp'd full with horrors.'

It is certainly remarkable (as an indication of the pleasure the

multitude take in voluntarily perplexing themselves), how eagerly they

enter into all sorts of contrivances which conduce to bewilderment and

doubt. In 'Hampton Court' there is a famous enclosure called the

'_Maze_,' so arranged with hedged alleys as to form a perfect labyrinth.

To this place throngs of persons are constantly repairing, to enjoy the

luxury of losing themselves, and of seeing others in the same

predicament.

Some persons become so impatient of the constant demand upon their

admiration, that they resist whatever seems to lead in that direction.

Washington Irving said he 'never liked to walk with his host over the

latter's ground'--a feeling which many will at once acknowledge having

experienced. A celebrated English traveller was so annoyed by the urgent

invitations of the Philadelphians to visit the Fairmount Water Works,

that he resolved _not_ to visit them, so that he might have the

characteristic satisfaction of recording the ill-natured fact.

'Swift mentions a gentleman who made it a rule in reading, to skip over

all sentences where he spied a note of admiration at the end.'

The instances here quoted are, to be sure, carrying out the '_Nil

admirari_' principle rather to extremes, and are not recommended for

general observance. The most remarkable and prominent wonders in the

natural world seldom meet the expectation of the beholder, because he

looks to experience a new sensation, and is disappointed; and so with

works of art, as St. Peter's at Rome--

----'its grandeur overwhelms thee not,

And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind,

Expanded by the genius of the spot,

Has grown colossal.'

_Wonder_ is defined as 'the effect of novelty upon ignorance.' Most

objects which excite wonder are magnified by the distance or the point

of view, and their proportions diminish and shrink as we approach them.

It is a saying as old as Horace, 'ignotum pro magnifico est': we cease

to wonder at what we understand. Seneca says that those whose habits are

temperate are satisfied with fountain water, which is cold enough for

them; while those who have lived high and luxuriously, require the use

of _ice_. Thus a well-disciplined mind adjusts itself to whatever events

may occur, and not being likely to lose its equanimity upon ordinary

occasions, is equally well prepared for more serious results.

'Let us never wonder,' again saith Seneca, 'at anything we are born to;

for no man has reason to complain where we are all in the same

condition.' But notwithstanding all the precepts of philosophers, the

advice of all men of sense, and the best examples for our guides, we go

on, with eyes dilated and minds wide open, to see, hear, and receive

impressions through distorted mediums, leading to wrong conclusions and

endless mistakes.

'Wonders will never cease!' Of course they will not, so long as there

are so many persons engaged in providing the aliment for their

sustenance; so long as the demand exceeds the supply; so long as mankind

are more disposed to listen to exaggeration rather than to simple

truths, and so long as they shall tolerate the race of _wonder-mongers_,

giving them 'aid and comfort,' regardless of their being enemies of our

peace, and the pests of our social community.

THE RETURN.

July,--what is the news they tell?

A battle won: our eyes are dim,

And sad forbodings press the heart

Anxious, awaiting news from him.

Hour drags on hour: fond heart, be still,

Shall evil tidings break the spell?

A word at last!--they found him dead;

He fought in the advance, and fell.

Oh aloes of affliction poured

Into the wine cup of the soul!

Oh bitterness of anguish stored

To fill our grief beyond control!

At last he comes, awaited long,

Not to home welcomes warm and loud,

Not to the voice of mirth and song,

Pale featured, cold, beneath a shroud.

Oh from the morrow of our lives

A glowing hope has stolen away,

A something from the sun has fled,

That dims the glory of the day.

More earnestly we look beyond

The present life to that to be;

Another influence draws the soul

To long for that futurity.

Pardon if anguished souls refrain

Too little, grieving for the lost,

From thinking dearly bought the gain

Of victory at such fearful cost.

Teach us as dearest gain to prize

The glory crown he early won;

Forever shall his requiem rise:

Rest thee in peace, thy duty done.

THE UNION.

VI.

VIRGINIA AND PENNSYLVANIA COMPARED.

Virginia was a considerable colony, when Pennsylvania was occupied only

by Indian tribes. In 1790, Virginia was first in rank of all the States,

her number of inhabitants being 748,308. (Census Rep., 120,121.)

Pennsylvania then ranked the second, numbering 434,373 persons. (Ib.) In

1860 the population of Virginia was 1,596,318, ranking the fifth;

Pennsylvania still remaining the second, and numbering 2,905,115. (Ib.)

In 1790 the population of Virginia exceeded that of Pennsylvania

313,925; in 1860 the excess in favor of Pennsylvania was 1,308,797. The

ratio of increase of population of Virginia from 1790 to 1860 was 113.32

per cent., and of Pennsylvania in the same period, 569.03. At the same

relative ratio of increase for the next seventy years, Virginia would

contain a population of 3,405,265 in 1930; and Pennsylvania 19,443,934,

exceeding that of England. Such has been and would continue to be the

effect of slavery in retarding the progress of Virginia, and such the

influence of freedom in the rapid advance of Pennsylvania. Indeed, with

the maintenance and perpetuity of the Union in all its integrity, the

destiny of Pennsylvania will surpass the most sanguine expectations.

The population of Virginia per square mile in 1790 was 12.19, and in

1860, 26.02; whilst that of Pennsylvania in 1790 was 9.44, and in 1860,

63.18. (Ib.) The absolute increase of the population of Virginia per

square mile, from 1790 to 1860, was 13.83, and from 1850 to 1860, 2.85;

whilst that of Pennsylvania from 1790 to 1860, was 53.74, and from 1850

to 1860, 12.93. (Ib.)

AREA.--The area of Virginia is 61,352 square miles, and of Pennsylvania,

46,000, the difference being 15,352 square miles, which is greater, by

758 square miles, than the aggregate area of Massachusetts, Connecticut,

and Delaware, containing in 1860 a population of 1,803,429. (Ib.)

Retaining their respective ratios of increase per square mile from 1790

to 1860, and reversing their areas, that of Virginia in 1860 would have

been 1,196,920, and of Pennsylvania 3,876,119. Reversing the numbers of

each State in 1790, the ratio of increase in each remaining the same,

the population of Pennsylvania in 1860 would have been 5,408,424, and

that of Virginia, 926,603. Reversing both the areas and numbers in 1790,

and the population of Pennsylvania would have exceeded that of Virginia

in 1860 more than six millions.

SHORE LINE.--By the Tables of the Coast Survey, the shore line of

Virginia is 1,571 miles, and of Pennsylvania only 60 miles. This vastly

superior coast line of Virginia, with better, deeper, more capacious,

and much more numerous harbors, unobstructed by ice, and with easy

access for so many hundred miles by navigable bays and tide-water rivers

leading so far into the interior, give to Virginia great advantages over

Pennsylvania in commerce and every branch of industry. Indeed, in this

respect, Virginia stands unrivalled in the Union. The hydraulic power of

Virginia greatly exceeds that of Pennsylvania.

MINES.--Pennsylvania excels every other State in mineral wealth, but

Virginia comes next.

SOIL.--In natural fertility of soil, the two States are about equal;

but the seasons in Virginia are more favorable, both for crops and

stock, than in Pennsylvania. Virginia has all the agricultural products

of Pennsylvania, with cotton in addition. The area, however, of Virginia

(39,265,280 acres) being greater by 9,825,280 acres than that of

Pennsylvania (29,440,000 acres), gives to Virginia vast advantages.

In her greater area, her far superior coast line, harbors, rivers, and

hydraulic power, her longer and better seasons for crops and stock, and

greater variety of products, Virginia has vast natural advantages, and

with nearly double the population of Pennsylvania in 1790. And yet,

where has slavery placed Virginia? Pennsylvania exceeds her now in

numbers 1,308,797, and increased in population, from 1790 to 1860, in a

ratio more than five to one. Such is the terrible contrast between free

and slave institutions!

PROGRESS OF WEALTH.--By Census Tables (1860) 33 and 36, it appears

(omitting commerce) that the products of industry, as given, viz., of

agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries, were that year in

Pennsylvania, of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in

Virginia, $120,000,000 or $75 per capita. This shows a total value of

product in Pennsylvania much more than three times that of Virginia,

and, per capita, nearly two to one. That is, the average value of the

product of the labor of each person in Pennsylvania, is nearly double

that of each person, including slaves, in Virginia. Thus is proved the

vast superiority of free over slave labor, and the immense national loss

occasioned by the substitution of the latter for the former.

As to the rate of increase; the value of the products of Virginia in

1850 was $84,480,428 (Table 9), and in Pennsylvania, $229,567,131,

showing an increase in Virginia, from 1850 to 1860, of $35,519,572,

being 41 per cent.; and in Pennsylvania, $169,032,869, being 50 per

cent.; exhibiting a difference of 9 per cent. in favor of Pennsylvania.

By the Census Table of 1860, No. 35, p. 195, the true value then of the

real and personal property was, in Pennsylvania, $1,416,501,818, and of

Virginia, $793,249,681. Now, we have seen, the value of the products in

Pennsylvania in 1860 was $398,600,000, and in Virginia, $120,000,000.

Thus, as a question of the annual yield of capital, that of Pennsylvania

was 28.13 per cent., and of Virginia, 15.13 per cent. By Census Table

35, the total value of the real and personal property of Pennsylvania

was $722,486,120 in 1850, and $1,416,501,818 in 1860, showing an

increase, in that decade, of $694,015,698, being 96.05 per cent.; and in

Virginia, $430,701,082 in 1850, and $793,249,681 in 1860, showing an

increase of $362,548,599, or 84.17 per cent.

By Table 36, p. 196, Census of 1860, the _cash_ value of the farms of

Virginia was $371,092,211, being $11.91 per acre; and of Pennsylvania,

$662,050,707, being $38.91 per acre. Now, by this table, the number of

acres embraced in these farms of Pennsylvania was 17,012,153 acres, and

in Virginia, 31,014,950; the difference of value per acre being $27, or

largely more than three to one in favor of Pennsylvania, Now, if we

multiply the farm lands of Virginia by the Pennsylvania value per acre,

it would make the total value of the farm lands of Virginia

$1,204,791,804; and the _additional_ value, caused by emancipation,

$835,699,593, which is more, by $688,440,093, than the value of all the

slaves of Virginia. But the whole area of Virginia is 39,265,280 acres,

deducting from which the farm lands, there remain unoccupied 8,250,330

acres. Now, if (as would be in the absence of slavery,) the population

per square mile of Virginia equalled that of Pennsylvania, three fifths

of these lands would have been occupied as farms, viz., 4,950,198,

which, at the Pennsylvania value per acre, would have been worth

$188,207,524. Deduct from this their present average value of $2 per

acre, $9,800,396, and the remainder, $178,407,128, is the sum by which

the unoccupied lands of Virginia, converted into farms, would have been

increased in value by emancipation. Add this to the enhanced value of

their present farms, and the result is $1,014,106,721 as the gain, on

this basis, of Virginia in the value of her lands, by emancipation. To

these we should add the increased value of town and city lots and

improvements, and of personal property, and, with emancipation, Virginia

would now have an augmented wealth of at least one billion and a half of

dollars.

The earnings of commerce are not given in the Census Tables, which would

vastly increase the difference in the value of their annual products in

favor of Pennsylvania as compared with Virginia. These earnings include

all not embraced under the heads of agriculture, manufactures, the

mines, and fisheries. Let us examine some of these statistics.

RAILROADS.--The number of miles of railroads in operation in

Pennsylvania in 1860, including city roads, was 2,690.49 miles, costing

$147,283,410; and in Virginia, 1,771 miles, costing $64,958,807. (Census

Table of 1860, No. 38, pp. 230, 232.) The annual value of the freight

carried on these roads is estimated at $200,000,000 more in Pennsylvania

than in Virginia, and the passenger account would still more increase

the disparity.

CANALS.--The number of miles of canals in Pennsylvania in 1860 was

1,259, and their cost, $42,015,000. In Virginia the number of miles was

178, and the cost, $7,817,000. (Census Table 39, p. 238.) The estimated

value of the freight on the Pennsylvania canals is ten times that of the

freight on the Virginia canals.

TONNAGE.--The tonnage of vessels built in Pennsylvania in 1860 was

21,615 tons, and in Virginia, 4,372. (Census, p. 107.)

BANKS.--The number of banks in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 90; capital,

$25,565,582; loans, $50,327,127; specie, $8,378,474; circulation,

13,132,892; deposits, $26,167,143:--and in Virginia the number was 65;

capital, $16,005,156; loans, $24,975,792; specie, $2,943,652;

circulation, $9,812,197; deposits, $7,729,652. (Census Table 35, p.

193.)

EXPORTS AND IMPORTS, ETC.--Our exports abroad from Pennsylvania, for the

fiscal year ending 30th June, 1860, and foreign imports, were of the

value of $20,262,608. The clearances, same year, from Pennsylvania, and

entries were 336,848 tons. In Virginia the exports the same year, and

foreign imports were of the value of $7,184,273; clearances and entries,

178,143 tons, (Table 14, Register of U.S. Treasury.) Revenue from

customs, same year, in Pennsylvania, $2,552,924, and in Virginia,

$189,816; or more than twelve to one in favor of Pennsylvania. (Tables

U.S. Commissioner of Customs.) No returns are given for the coastwise

and internal trade of either State; but the railway and canal

transportation of both States shows a difference of ten to one in favor

of Pennsylvania. And yet, Virginia, as we have seen, had much greater

natural advantages than Pennsylvania for commerce, foreign and internal,

her shore line up to head of tide-water being 1,571 miles, and

Pennsylvania only 60 miles.

We have seen that, exclusive of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania

in 1860 were of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in

Virginia, $120,000,000, or $75 per capita. But, if we add the earnings

of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania must have exceeded those of

Virginia much more than four to one, and have reached, per capita,

nearly three to one. What but slavery could have produced such amazing

results? Indeed, when we see the same effects in _all_ the Free States

as compared with _all_ the Slave States, and in _any_ of the Slave

States, as compared with _any_ of the Free States, the uniformity of

results establishes the law beyond all controversy, that slavery

retards immensely the progress of wealth and population.

That the Tariff has produced none of these results, is shown by the fact

that the agriculture and commerce of Pennsylvania vastly exceed those of

Virginia, and yet these are the interests supposed to be most

injuriously affected by high tariffs. But there is still more conclusive

proof. The year 1824 was the commencement of the era of high tariffs,

and yet, from 1790 to 1820, as proved by the Census, the percentage of

increase of Pennsylvania over Virginia was greater than from 1820 to

1860. Thus, by Table 1 of the Census, p. 124, the increase of population

in Virginia was as follows:

From 1790 to 1800 17.63 per cent.

" 1800 " 1810 10.73 "

" 1810 " 1820 9.31 "

" 1820 " 1830 13.71 "

" 1830 " 1840 2.34 "

" 1840 " 1850 14.60 "

" 1850 " 1860 12.29 "

The increase of population in Pennsylvania was:

From 1790 to 1800 38.67 per cent.

" 1800 " 1810 34.49 "

" 1810 " 1820 29.55 "

" 1820 " 1830 28.47 "

" 1830 " 1840 27.87 "

" 1840 " 1850 34.09 "

" 1850 " 1860 25.71 "

In 1790 the population of Virginia was 748,318; in 1820, 1,065,129, and

in 1860, 1,596,318. In 1790 the population of Pennsylvania was 434,373;

in 1820, 1,348,233, and in 1860, 2,906,115. Thus, from 1790 to 1820,

before the inauguration of the protective policy, the relative increase

of the population of Pennsylvania, as compared with Virginia, was very

far greater than from 1820 to 1860. It is quite clear, then, that the

tariff had no influence in depressing the progress of Virginia as

compared with Pennsylvania.

Having shown how much the material progress of Virginia has been

retarded by slavery, let us now consider its effect upon her moral and

intellectual development.

NEWSPAPERS AND PERIODICALS.--The number of newspapers and periodicals in

Pennsylvania in 1860 was 367, of which 277 were political, 43 religious,

25 literary, 22 miscellaneous; and the total number of copies circulated

in 1860 was 116,094,480. (Census Tables, Nos. 15, 37.) The number in

Virginia was 139, of which 117 were political, 13 religious, 3 literary,

6 miscellaneous; and the number of copies circulated in 1860 was

26,772,568, being much less than one fourth that of Pennsylvania. The

number of copies of monthly periodicals circulated in Pennsylvania in

1860 was 464,684; and in Virginia, 43,900; or much more than ten to one

in favor of Pennsylvania.

As regards schools, colleges, academies, libraries, and churches, I must

take the Census of 1850, those tables for 1860 not being yet arranged or

printed. The number of public schools in Pennsylvania in 1850 was 9,061;

teachers, 10,024; pupils, 413,706; colleges, academies, &c., pupils,

26,142; attending school during the year, as returned by families,

504,610; native adults of the State who cannot read or write, 51,283;

public libraries, 393; volumes, 363,400; value of churches, $11,853,291;

percentage of native free, population (adults) who cannot read or write,

4.56. (Comp. Census of 1850.)

The number of public schools in Virginia in 1850 was 2,937; teachers,

3,005; pupils, 67,438; colleges, academies, &c., pupils, 10,326;

attending school, as returned by families, 109,775; native white adults

of the State who cannot read or write, 75,868; public libraries, 54;

volumes, 88,462; value of churches, $2,902,220; percentage of native

free adults of Virginia who cannot read or write, 19.90. (Comp. Census

of 1850.) Thus, the church and educational statistics of Pennsylvania,

and especially of free adults who cannot read or write, is as five to

one nearly in favor of Pennsylvania. When we recollect that nearly one

third of the population of Pennsylvania are of the great German race,

and speak the noble German language, to which they are greatly attached,

and hence the difficulty of introducing common _English_ public schools

in the State, the advantage, in this respect, of Pennsylvania over

Virginia is most extraordinary.

These official statistics enable me, then, again to say that slavery is

hostile to the progress of _wealth_ and _education_, to _science_ and

_literature_, to _schools_, _colleges_, and _universities_, to _books_

and _libraries_, to _churches_ and _religion_, to the PRESS, and

therefore to FREE GOVERNMENT; hostile to the _poor_, keeping them in

_want_ and _ignorance_; hostile to LABOR, reducing it to _servitude_ and

decreasing _two thirds_ the value of its products; hostile to _morals_,

repudiating among slaves the _marital_ and _parental_ condition,

classifying them by law as CHATTELS, _darkening_ the _immortal soul_,

and making it a _crime_ to teach millions of _human beings_ to _read_ or

_write_.

And yet, there are desperate leaders of the Peace party of Pennsylvania,

desecrating the name of _Democrats_, but, in fact, Tories and traitors,

who would separate that glorious old commonwealth from the North, and

bid her sue in abject humiliation for admission as one of the Slave

States of the rebel confederacy. Shades of Penn and Franklin, and of the

thousands of martyred patriots of Pennsylvania who have fallen in

defence of the Union from 1776 to 1863, forbid the terrible degradation.

DOWN IN TENNESSEE.

Sultry and wearisome the day had been in that Tennessee valley, and

after drill, we had laid around under the trees--tall, noble trees they

were--and the fresh grass was green and soft under them as on the old

'Campus,' and we had been smoking and talking over a wide, wide range of

subjects, from deep Carlyleism--of which Carlyle doubtless never

heard--to the significance of the day's orders. It was not an

inharmonious picture--Camp Alabama, so we had named it--for it was with

a 'here we rest' feeling that a dozen days before we had marched in at

noon. The ground sloped to the eastward--a single winding road of yellow

sand crept over the slope into the horizon, a mile or more away; north,

a hill rose with some abruptness; south and west, a grove of wonderful

beauty skirted the valley. A single building--an old but large log

farmhouse--stood near the tent, whose fluttering banner indicated

headquarters. This old house was well filled with commissary stores,

and, following that incomprehensible Tennessee policy, four companies of

our regiment, the twenty-third, had been detached to guard them under

Major Fanning--'a noble soldier he, but all untried.' We had never yet

seen active service, and our tents were still white and unstained. The

ground had been once the lawn of the deserted house--in the long ago

probably the home of a planter of some pretension; and, as we lay there

under the trees watching the boys over the fires, kindled for their

evening meal, the blue smoke curling up among the trees, it made, as I

have said, a most harmonious picture.

That fair June evening! I can never forget it, and I wish I were an

artist that I could show you the sloping valley, the white tents,

flushing like a girl's cheek to the good-night kisses of the sun, the

curling smoke wreaths, and far, far above the amethystine heaven, from

which floated over all a dim purple tint. I was the youngest

commissioned officer in the regiment, having been promoted to a vacancy

a week or two before through Major Fanning's influence.

We were all invited that evening to supper with our commanding officer

and his wife--who had been with him for a few days. A fresh breeze

stirred the trees at sunset, and, after slight attention to our

toilette, we dropped by twos and threes into the neighborhood of the

major's tent. A little back from the rows of other tents, a few fine

oaks made a temple in front, worthy even of its presiding genius, Grace

Fanning--but I am _not_ going to rhapsodize. She was a fair, modest,

young thing, with the girl rose yet fresh on her wife's cheek. I had

known her from childhood; very nearly of the same age, and the children

of neighbors, we had been inseparable; of course in my first college

vacation, finding her grown tall and womanly, I had entertained for her

a devoted boyish passion, and had gone from her presence, one August

night, mad with rejection, and wild with what I called despair. But

_that_ passed, and we had been good friends ever since--she the

confidential one, to whom I related my varied college love affairs,

listening ever with a tender, genial sympathy. I had no sister, and

Grace Jones (I am sorry, but her name _was_ Jones) was dear to me as

one. Two years of professional study had kept me away from my village

home, and a few words came once in a long while, in my mother's letters

'to assure me of Grace's remembrance and regard.' A little of the elder

sister's advising tone amused my one and twenty years and my incipient

moustache amazingly; and I resolved, when I saw her, to convince her of

my dignity--to patronize her. But the notes that called me home were too

clarion-like for a relapse into puppyism. My country spoke my name, and

I arose a man, and 'put away childish things.' I came home to say

farewell. A regiment was forming there, I enlisted, and a few days

before our departure, I stood in the village church, looking and

listening while Grace promised eternal fidelity to Harry Fanning. I was

a stranger to him. He had come to Danville after my departure, winning

from all golden opinions, and from Grace a woman's priceless heart. She

gave him freely to his country, and denied not her hand to his parting

prayer. I had had time only to say farewell to her, and the old footing

had not been restored, but I _think_ she spoke to the major of me, for

he soon sought me, giving me genial friendship and sympathy, and

procuring for me, as I have related, my commission. I had seen her but

once since she came to Camp Alabama, and she gave me warm and kindly

welcome as I came in, the last of the group, having found in my tent

some unexpected employment. Being a soldier, I shall not shock my fair

readers if I confess that it was--buttons. Ah! me, I am frivolous. But I

linger in the spirit of that happy hour. Grace's chair was shaded by a

gracefully draped flag; the major stood near her, his love for her as

visible in his eye as his cordial kindness for us. To me, in honor of my

'juniority,' as Mrs. Fanning said, was assigned a place near her. The

others had choice between campstools and blankets on the grass. And the

oddest but most respectable of contrabands served us soon with our

supper, so homelike that we suspected 'Mrs. Major's' fair hands of

interference.

It was a happy evening. Merry laughter at our camp stories rang silverly

from her fair lips. Or we listened eagerly to her as she told us of the

homes we had left, and the bonny maidens there, sobered since our

departure into patriotic industry. Stories of touching self-denial, with

a wholesome pathos, and sometimes from her dainty musical talk she

dropped, pebble-like, a name, as 'Fanny,' 'Carry,' 'Maggie,' and

responsive blushes rippled up over sunburned, honest faces, and a soft

mist brightened for a second resolute eyes. Presently the band--a part

only of the regiment's--began to play soft, well-known tunes. Through a

few marches and national airs, I looked and listened as a year before,

in the village church at home. And as the 'Star-Spangled Banner' rose

inspiringly, I felt the coincidence strangely, and could scarcely say

which scene was real: the church aisle and the bridal party, in white

robes and favors, with mellow organ-tones rising in patriotic strains

concerning the 'dear old flag,' or the group under the oaks; the young

wife in her gray travelling dress, and the uniformed figures gathered

around her; the moon-rise over the hill, lighting softly the drooping

flag, the major's dark hair, and Mrs. Fanning's sunny braids, the wild

notes of the same beloved melody overswelling all. But voices near

aroused me, and we joined in the chorus, and in the following tune,

'Sweet Home,' the usual finale of our evening programme. Then, as the

tones died, Grace lifted her voice and sang with sweet, pure soprano

tones, an old-time ballad of love and parting and reunion.

We had a wild little battle song in 'Our Mess,' written by Charlie

Marsh, our fair-haired boy-poet soldier, speaking of home, and the

country's need, and victory, and possible deaths in ringing notes. We

sang it there in the light of the slowly rising moon. The chorus was

like this:

'Our country's foe before us,

Our country's banner o'er us,

Our country to deplore us,

These are a soldier's needs.'

As we closed, Grace caught the strain, and with soft, birdlike notes

sang:

'Your country's flag above you,

Your country's true hearts love you--

So let your country move you

To brave, undying deeds.'

More songs followed, and happy words of cheer in distress, of

self-consecration, of past and future victory; but Major Fanning was

unusually silent. Hardly sad, for he flung into our conversation

occasional cheerful words; but gravely quiet, his dark eye following

every motion of his fair young wife. Finally we called on Captain

Carter, our 'oldest man,' a grave bachelor of forty-five, and to our

surprise, who knew him harsh and sometimes profane, he sang, with a

voice not faultless, but soft and expressive, that exquisite health of

Campbell's:

'Drink ye to her that each loves best,

And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,

We will not ask her name.

'And far, far hence be jest or boast,

From hallowed thoughts so dear;

But drink to her that each loves most,

As she would love to hear.'

Then silence for a little space; and the moonlight full and fair in

soldiers' faces, young and old, but all firm and true, and fair and full

on Grace Fanning's fresh, young brow. Then 'good-nights,' mingled with

expressions of enjoyment, and plans for the morrow. I left them last.

'I am glad you are here, Robert,' said the major; 'Grace would not be

all alone, even if I'--

Her white hand flashed to his lips, where a kiss met it, and laughingly

we parted. A few rods away, I paused and turned. They stood there under

the flag. Her bright head on his bosom, his arms about her, and the

silver moonlight over all. Fair Grace Fanning! Have I named my story

wrongly, pretty reader? I called it 'Camp Sketch,' and it reads too like

a love story. 'Ah! gentle girl, seeking adventure in fiction, but

shrinking really from even a cut finger, there is enough of battle even

in my little story, though you slept peacefully and happily that fair

June night, or waltzed yourself weary to the sound of the sea at the

'Ocean House.'

A few 'good nights' commendatory of our hostess and our evening greeted

me as I sought my tent and made ready for sleep. I was very happy, no

memory of our talk was sullied by coarse or unlovely thought; pure as

herself had been our enjoyment of Mrs. Fanning's society, and I slept

sweetly.

The long roll! None but those who have heard it when it means instant

danger and possible death, can conceive the thrill with which I sprang

from deep slumber, and made hasty preparation for action. Quick as I

was, others had been before me, and I found the half-dressed men drawn

up in battle line before the encampment. I took my place.

Behind us lay the camp, a wide, street-like space, fringed with a double

row of tents--at its foot the old log mansion; near that, a little in

front, but at one side, the flag of headquarters--this behind. Before us

the major--the western wood, and the flashing sabres of a band of

hostile cavalry. They came on heedless of the fast-emptying saddles, on,

_on_, and more following from the wood, the moon in the mid heaven,

clear like day.

A gallant charge--a firm repulse. Major Fanning's clear voice on the

night air, rallying the men to attack the furious foe. They sweep their

horses around to left, but calmly the major wheels his battalion, still

unflanked; again those fierce steeds try the first point of attack;

again we front them undaunted. In our turn, with lifted level bayonets

we charge; the enemy falls back--a shout threads along our lines,

changing suddenly into a wail, for, calling us on, our leader falls.

Pitiless to his noble valor, a well-aimed carbine-shot lays him low.

They lift him, some brave soldiers near; and, his young face bathed in

blood, they bear him to his waiting bride; he opens his eyes, as he

passes.

'Courage! victory! my boys!' he calls; then, seeing me: 'Go! tell her,

Robert.'

I call my orderly to my place, and before they have pierced our lines

with their beloved burden, I am at the tent door. She stands there

waiting, a little pistol in her hand--a light wrapper about her, and her

fair hair streaming over her shoulders. I look at her mutely; she knows

there is something terrible for her, and while I seek words, her eye

goes on, resting where down the moonlit trees they are bringing him. A

moment, she is by his side, and tearless and white, her hand on his

unanswering heart, she moves beside him. The soldiers lay their leader

on the ground under his flag, and her imperious gesture sends them back

to their places in the battle. And then she, sinking beside him, cries

out:

'Oh, Robert! will he never speak to me again? Help him!'

My two years at lectures had not been passed in vain, and surgery had

been my hobby. I knelt and strove to aid him. It was a cruel wound. I

asked for bandages. She tore them from her garments wildly. I stilled

the trickling crimson stream, and going into the tent, found some

restoratives. I poured the wine down his throat, and, soon opening his

eyes, he spoke:

'Grace!'

I stepped away--near enough for call, not near enough for intrusion.

Looking at the lines of dark forms topped by the light glimmer of stray

bayonets, I saw with dismay that our men were retreating before those

heavy charges; in thick, dense masses they moved back, nearing us. I

thought of our soldier chief, crushed under those wild hoofs; I thought

of Grace, unprotected in her youth and widowed, desolate beauty, and

sprang to her side, ready with my life for her.

The major saw it all, and, faint as he was, rose on his elbow, watching.

Charge after charge, wild and impetuous, break the slowly retreating

battalions. In vain I heard Carter's stern oaths (may the angel of tears

forgive him!), and Charlie Marsh's boyish calls. The men are facing us.

The enemy, cheering, and in the background huge torches flaming with

pitch, are ready for incendiarism.

'Grace! Grace! I _must_ rally them, let me go!' and I see Major Fanning

straggling in her arms. I clasp him also.

'It is certain death,' I say to her, mad with fright and misery.

'And this is worse, worse, Grace; you might better kill me!' his voice

was harsh--cruel even.

Suddenly she was gone, and I held him alone; catching his sword, she

sprang like a flash of lightning into the open space before the log

house, and, lifting the bare blade with naked, slender arm, its loose

sleeve floating from her shoulder like a wing, she faced those

panic-stricken men.

'For shame!' she cried; but her weak voice was lost; then, stern as the

angel of death, she stepped forward.

'The first man that passes me shall die!' and she swung the flashing

blade up, ready to fall. A moment's halt, and then, she spoke to them

with wonderful strange words. I cannot recall them; with inspired

eloquence she spoke, a slight, white-robed figure in the clear

moonlight, and the rout was stayed, and they turned bravely to meet the

foe. Then she came faint and weak to her husband's side again. He looked

up with glad, eager eyes.

'Darling!'

Infinite love, soul-recognition, shone on both faces, and then blank

unconsciousness crept over his. Firmly our boys met the charging steeds

now. That moment had restored to them their courage. Emptied saddles

were frequent, but still fresh forces dashed from the wood. Is there no

hope for us? Must we be overpowered? Is all this valor vain? Grace from

her husband's side looks mutely up to heaven. I find my place among the

men. Little hope remains. Some one calls 'retreat.' 'Just once more,'

cries Charlie, and falls before us. But listen; above the battle din

comes a new, an approaching sound from the eastward.

Along the yellow road pours swiftly a force of cavalry, behind the

rumble of cannon almost flying over the ground, and high in air, reeling

from the swift motion of its bearer's steed, the banner of the free. We

are saved! A wild shout rings along our lines. Among the enemy,

frightened consultation followed by flight; another second, and our

friends are with us and beyond us in hot pursuit.

Brief question and answer told us of the friendly warning in the distant

camp, the hasty march to aid us. The rest we saw. Then, 'A surgeon for

Major Fanning.' The man of the green sash had not grown callous. There

were tears in his eyes as he rose from his vain endeavors, saying only:

'I can do nothing here; I am needed elsewhere.'

Our young hero was dead!

They composed his limbs, laying him on a blanket under the trees, and

Grace sat down beside him, tearless still, but pale as her dress, or the

white hand lying cold over the soldier's pulseless heart.

'Robert, send them away,' she said to me, as sympathizing strangers

pressed round; and they left us alone with the dead. I spoke at last the

commonplaces of consolation, suggested and modified by the hour and my

soldier feelings.

'Yes, Robert,' she answered, 'I gave him long ago. GOD will comfort me

for my hero--in time. Do not speak to me just yet. Do not let any one

come.'

The tears came now, and she wept bitterly, silently, under the starry

banner, beside the dead. I heard the hum of many voices, and now and

then a cry of pain, and knew they were all helping the sufferers. Then I

turned to her again. Her streaming hair swept the ground, golden in the

light. Her fair face was hidden on the cold dead face. And I dared not

speak to her. Oh, that picture! Poor Grace Fanning! and the silver,

silver moonlight over all.

POETRY AND POETICAL SELECTIONS.

'Oh, deem not in this world of strife,

An idle art the Poet brings;

Let high Philosophy control,

And sages calm the stream of life;

'Tis he refines its fountain springs,

The nobler passions of the soul.'

In the annals of literature, Poetry antedates Prose. Creation precedes

Providence, not merely in the order of sequence, but what is usually

called intellectual and physical grandeur. So in genius and taste,

Poetry transcends prose. In the work of Creation the Almighty broke the

awful stillness of Eternity, by His first creative fiat, and angels were

the first-born of God. They took their thrones in the galleries of the

universe, and in silent contemplation sat. They spoke not; for words, as

signs of thought or will or emotion, were not then conceived, and,

consequently, then unborn. They gazed in rapture on one another, and in

solemn silence thought. Their emotions bodied forth the Anthem of

Creation.

Human words being created breath, and breath being air in motion, prior

to these language was impossible. And as the deaf are always dumb,

language, like faith, comes by hearing. But hearing itself is a

pensioner, waiting upon a speaker; consequently, it must ever be

contingent on a cause alike antecedent and extrinsic of itself. It is,

therefore, equally an oracle of reason and of faith that, however God

may have communicated to angels, to _man_ He spoke in articulate sounds,

before man articulated a thought, a feeling, or an emotion of his soul.

And as an emotional soul is but a harp of many strings, a hand there

must have been to play upon its chords, before melody and harmony,

twins-born of Heaven, had either a local habitation or a name.

But, it may be asked--Is there not in the regions of Poetry an aeolian

harp, found in the cave of AEolus, on which the winds of heaven played

many a celestial symphony, without the skill or touch of human hand?

Grant all that the Poetic Muse assumes, and then we ask--Who made the

harp? And whence directed came the musing sylvan Zephyrus and his choir?

Came they not from a land of images and dreams?

But we are inquiring for originals. Images and originals are the poles

apart. An original without an image is possible; but an image without an

original is alike impossible and inconceivable. Hence, alike

philosophically and logically, we conclude that _neither man nor angel

addressed each other until they themselves had been addressed by their

Creator_. Then they intercommunicated thought, sentiment, and emotion

with one another as God had communicated to them.

The mystery of language and Poetry is insoluble but on the admission of

a revelation or communication of some sort, unconceived by the human

mind, unexecuted by the human hand. If invention and creation be the

grand characteristics of the Poet, Moses, if uninspired, was a greater

Poet than Homer, or Milton, or Shakspeare, on the hypothesis that he

invented the drama which he wrote. The first chapter of Genesis is the

greatest and most splendid Poem ever conceived by human imagination, or

written by human hand.

All Poets, ancient and modern, are mere plagiarists, if Moses was

uninspired. We prove his Divine Legation by the intrinsic and

transcendent merits of the Poem which he wrote. Imagination originates

nothing absolutely new. It merely imitates and combines. It is regarded

as the creative faculty of man; but its material is already furnished.

The portrait of an unreal Adam is as conceivable as a child without a

father, or an effect without a cause.

Thus we are obliged, by an inseparable necessity, to admit the

credibility of the Poem which he wrote. And what does Moses say? Nothing

more than that _God spoke, and the universe was!_ This is the sublime of

true Poetry. This is more than the logic of the proposition, _God was,

therefore we are!_ It is more than the philosophy, _ex nihilo, nihil

fit!_ or than, that _nothing_ cannot be the parent of _something_.

But we must place our foot on a higher round of the ladder, before we

can stand on such an eminence as to see, in all its fair proportions,

the column on which the Muses perch themselves.

Job, and not Moses, shall be our guide, and the oracle alike of our

reason and our imagination. But who is Job? There is not much poetry in

the name, Job. But Rome and its vulgate vulgarized this hallowed name,

and Britain followed Rome. His name in Chaldee, Syriac, and Arabic, is

Jobab. There is more poetry in this. There is no metre, no poetry in a

monotone or monosyllable. Born among rocks and mountains, the proper

theatre of a heaven-inspired Muse--not in Arabia the Happy, but in

Arabia the Rocky--he was a heart-touching, a soul-stirring, emotional

Bard. In such a case the clouds that overshadow the era of the man only

enhance the genius and inspiration of the Poet.

In internal and external evidence, according to our calendar of the

Muses, he is the first-born of the Poets that yet survive the wasteful

ravages of hoary Time. He sings not, indeed, of Chaos and Eternal Night.

But as one inspired by a heaven-born Muse, he echoes the chorus of the

Angelic Song, when on the utterance of the first _fiat_ the Morning

Stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy. Hence we

argue, that Poetry is not only prior to prose, but that language, its

intellectual and emotional embodiment, is heaven-conceived, and

heaven-born.

But in a short essay it would be out of place and in bad taste to

attempt a discourse upon the broad field of ancient or modern Poetry. We

merely attempt to suggest one idea on this rich and lofty theme. Our

radical conception of the essential and differential attribute of

Poetry, as contradistinguished from prose, however chaste, pure,

beautiful, and philosophic, is not mere art, nor science, but

_creation_.

The universe itself is a grand Heroic Poem. Hence its instrument is that

power usually called Imagination. But _human_ imagination is not first,

second, or third in rank on the scale of the universe. God Himself

imagined the universe before He created it. His imagination is infinite.

The Cherubim and Seraphim have wings that elevate them above our zenith.

And angels, too, excel us in this creative faculty, and therefore veil

their faces before the Majesty of heaven and earth. Still, man has an

humble portion of it, and can turn it to a good account.

But there is another idea essential to the character of Poetry, as good

or evil in its spirit and adornings. We need scarcely say, for we are

anticipated by every reflecting mind, that this is the _spirit_ of the

Poem. Poetry, in the abstract, is not necessarily good or evil. It may

be Christian, Jewish, Pagan, or Infidel in its spirit and tendencies. It

may corrupt or purify the heart. It may save or ruin the reader in

fortune or in fame. Hence, as Poetry is powerful to elevate or degrade,

to purify or to corrupt a people, much depends on the spirit of the

Poetry which they may put into the hands of the youth of a country; as

well observed by an eminent moralist: 'Let me write the poems or

ballads of a people, and I care but little who enacts their laws.'

The genius of a Poet is a rare genius. And most happily it is so; for

elevated taste and high-toned morality are not, by any means, the common

heritage of man. Anacreon and Burns were genuine Poets. They uttered, in

fine style, many truths; and were not merely fluent in their respective

languages, but affluent. But, perhaps, like some other men of mighty

parts and grand proportions, better for mankind they had never been

born. A Cowper and a Byron, in their whole career of song, will exert a

very different influence, not only on earth, but in eternity, on the

destiny of their amateurs. We need not argue this position as though,

among a Christian people, it were a doubtful or debatable position. If

the evil spirit, or the melancholy demon, that fitfully possessed the

first king of Israel, was expelled by the skilful hand of his successor,

even when his youthful fingers awoke the melodies of the lyre, how much

more puissant the exquisite Odes of the sweet Psalmist, inspired as they

were with sentiments and views alike honorable to God and man, to

elevate the conceptions, purify the heart, ennoble the aspirations, and

adorn the life of man!

As the cask long retains the odor of the wine put into it, so the moral

and religious fragrance of many a fine poetic effusion, securely lodged

in the recesses of memory, may yield, and often does yield, a rich

repast of pleasurable associations and emotions which, beside their

opportune recurrence in some trying or tempting hour or season of

adversity, do often energize our souls with a moral heroism to deeds of

nobler daring, which result in enterprises full of blessings to

ourselves, and not unfrequently to our associates in the walks of life,

and radiate through them salutary light for generations to come.

Imagination, like every other faculty, is to be cultivated. But here we

are interrogated--'What is Imagination?'

No distinction has given critics more trouble, in the way of definition,

than that between Imagination and Fancy. Fancy, it is held, is given to

beguile and quicken the temporal part of our nature; Imagination to

incite and support the eternal.

It would be vain to enumerate the various definitions of this term, or

to attempt to give even an abstract of the diversity of views

entertained by philosophers respecting the nature and extent of its

operations. It is regarded by some writers as that power or faculty of

the mind by which it conceives and forms ideas of things communicated to

it by the organs of sense. So defines our encyclopaedias. Bacon defined

it to be the 'representation of an individual thought.' But Dugald

Stewart more philosophically defines it as the 'power of modifying our

conceptions, by combining the parts of different ones so as to form new

wholes of our own creation.' The Edinburgh Encyclopaedia, not satisfied

with this, says Webster defines it to be the _will working on the

materials of memory, selecting parts of different conceptions, or

objects of memory, to form some new whole_.

This has long been our cherished view of Imagination. It creates only as

a mechanic creates a chest of drawers, a sideboard, a clock, or a watch.

It originates not a single material of thought, volition, or action.

But, mechanic-like, it works by plumb and rule on all the materials

found in the warehouse of memory; and manufactures, out of the same

plank of pine, or bar of iron, or wedge of gold, or precious stone, some

new utensil, ornament, or adornment never found in Nature. In its

present form it is the offspring of the art and contrivance of man.

Hence our invulnerable position against Atheism or Deism. _No one could

have created the idea of a God or of a Christ, without a special

inspiration, any more than he could create a gold watch without the

metal called gold._

The deaf are necessarily dumb. The blind cannot conceive of color. A

Poet cannot work without language, any more than the nightingale could

sing without air. Language and prototypes precede and necessarily

antedate writing and prose. Hence the idea of Poetry is preceded by the

idea of Prose, as speaking by the idea of hearing. There was reason, and

an age of reason, without, and antecedent to, rhyme; and therefore we

sometimes find rhyme without reason, as well as reason without rhyme.

Rhyme, however, facilitates memory and recollection. Memory, indeed, is

but a printed tablet, and recollection the art and mystery of reading

it. Poetry, therefore, is both useful and pleasing. It aids

recollection, and soothes and excites and animates the soul of man. It

makes deeper, more pungent, more stimulating, more exciting, and more

enduring impressions on the mind than prose; and, therefore, greatly

facilitates both the acquisition and retention of ideas and impressions.

Of it Horace says ('Ars Poetica'):

'Ut pictura, poesis; erit, quae, si propius stes,

Te capiet magis, et quaedam, si longius abstes.

Haec amat obscurum; volet haec sub luce videri,

Judicis argutum quae non formidat acumen:

Haec placuit semel, haec decies repetita placebit.'

No one ever attained to what is usually called _good taste_ who has not

devoted a portion of his time and study to the whole science and art of

Poetry. We do not mean good taste in relation to any one manifestation

of it.

There is a general as well as a special good taste, but they are

distinguishable only as genus and species. There is, it may be alleged,

a _native_ as well as an _acquired_ taste. This may also be conceded.

There is in some persons a greater innate susceptibility of deriving

pleasure from the works of Nature and of Art than is discoverable in

others. Still we cannot imagine any one gifted with reason and

sensibility to be entirely destitute of it. It is an element of reason

and of sense peculiar to man. As a fabulist once represented a cock in

quest of barleycorns, scraping for his breakfast, saying to himself, on

discovering a precious and brilliant gem: 'If a lapidary were in my

place he would now have made his fortune; but as for myself, I prefer

one grain of barley to all the precious stones in the world.'

But what man, so feeling and thinking, would not 'blush and hang his

head to think himself a man'? Apart from the value of the gem, every man

of reason or of thought has pleasure in the contemplation of the

beautiful diamond, whether on his own person or on that of another.

Taste seems to be as inseparable from reason as Poetry is from

imagination. It is not wholly the gift of Nature, nor wholly the gift of

Art. It is an innate element of the human constitution, designed to

beautify and beatify man. To cultivate and improve it is an essential

part of education. The highest civilization known in Christendom is but

the result or product of good taste. Even religion and morality, in

their highest excellence, are but, so far as society is concerned,

developments and demonstrations of cultivated taste. There may, indeed,

be a fictitious or chimerical taste without Poetry or Religion; but a

genuine good taste, in our judgment, without these handmaids, is

unattainable.

But as no interesting landscape--no mountain, hill, or valley, no river,

lake or sea--affords us all that charms, excites or elevates our

imagination viewed from any one point of vision, so the poetic faculty

itself can neither be conceived of nor appreciated, contemplated out of

its own family register.

There is in all the 'Fine Arts' a common paternity, and hence a family

lineage and a family likeness. To appreciate any one of them we must

form an acquaintance with the whole sisterhood--Poetry, Music, Painting,

and Sculpture.

And are not all these the genuine offspring of Imagination? Hence they

are of one paternity, though not of one maternity. The eye, the ear, and

the hand, has each its own peculiar sympathetic nerve. For, as all God's

works are perfect, when and where He gives an eye to see or an ear to

hear, He gives a hand to execute. This is the law; and as all God's laws

are universal as perfect, there is no exception save from accident, or

from something poetically styled a _lusus naturae_--a mere caprice or

sport of Nature.

But the philosophy of Poetry is not necessary to its existence any more

than the astronomy of the heavens is to the brilliancy of the sun or to

the splendors of a comet. A Poet is a creator, and his most perfect

creature is a portraiture of any work of God or man; of any attribute of

God or man in perfect keeping with Nature or with the original

prototype, be it in fact or in fiction, in repose or in operation.

Imitation is sometimes regarded as the test of poetic excellence. But

what is imitation but the creation of an image! Alexander Pope so well

imitates Homer, that, as an English critic once said, in speaking of his

translation of that Prince of Grecian Poets--'a time might come, should

the annals of Greece and England be confounded in some convulsion of

Nature, when it might be a grave question of debate whether Pope

translated Homer, or Homer Pope.'

For our own part, we have never been able to decide to our own entire

satisfaction, which excels in the true Heroic style. Pope, in his

translation of the exordium of Homer, we think more than equals Homer

himself:

'Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring

Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing!

That wrath which hurled to Pluto's dark domain

The souls of mighty chiefs in battle slain;

Whose limbs, unburied on the fatal shore,

Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore;

Since great Achilles and Atrides strove,

Such was the sovereign doom and such the will of Jove.'[18]

We opine that Pope, being trammelled with a copy, and consequently his

imagination cramped, displays every attribute of poetic genius fully

equal, if not superior, to that of the beau ideal of the Grecian Muse.

But Alexander Pope, of England, is not the Pope of English Poetry, a

brother Poet being judge, for Dryden says:

'Three Poets, in three distant ages born,

Greece, Italy, and England did adorn;

The first in majesty of thought surpassed,

The next in melody--in both the last:

The force of Nature could no further go,

To make the third she joined the other two.'

And who awards not to Milton the richest medal in the Temple of the

Muses! Not, perhaps, for the elegant diction and sublime imagery of his

PARADISE LOST, but for his grand conceptions of Divinity in all its

attributes, and of humanity in all its conditions, past, present, and

future.

We Americans have a peculiar respect for Lyric Poetry. We have not time

for the Epic. If anything with us is good, it is superlatively good for

being brief. Short sermons, short prayers, short hymns, and short metre

are peculiarly interesting. We are, too, a miscellaneous people, and we

are peculiarly fond of miscellanies. The age of folios and quartos is

forever past with Young America. Octavos are waning, and more in need of

brushing than of burnishing. But still we must have Poetry--_good_

Poetry; for we Americans prefer to live rather in the style of good

lyric than in that of grave, elongated hexameter. Variety, too, is with

us the spice of life. We are not satisfied with grand prairies, rivers,

and cataracts, and even cascades and _jet d'eaus_!

Collections of miscellaneous Poetry seem alike due to the Poetic Muse

and to the American people. We love variety. It is, as we have remarked,

the spice of American life; and our country will ever cherish it as

being most in harmony with itself. It is, moreover, more in unison with

the conditions of human nature and human existence. There is, too, as

the wisest of men and the greatest of kings has said, 'a time for every

purpose and for every work.' No volume of Poetry or of Prose can,

therefore, be popular or interesting to such a nation as we are, that

does not adapt itself to the versatile genius of our people, and to the

ever-varying conditions of their lives and fortunes.

There is, therefore, a propriety in getting up good selections, because

a greater advantage is to be derived from well selected specimens of the

Poetic Muse than from the labors of any one of the great masters of the

Lyre! Who would not rather visit a rich and extensive museum of the

products and arts of civilized life--some well assorted repository of

its scientific or artistic developments, than to traverse a whole state

or kingdom in pursuit of such knowledge of the wisdom, talents, and

contrivances of its population?

Of all kinds of composition, Poetry is that which gives to the lovers of

it the greatest and most enduring pleasure. Almost every one of them can

heartily respond to the beautiful words of one who was not only a great

Poet, but a profound philosopher--Coleridge--who, speaking of the

delight he had experienced in writing his Poems, says: 'Poetry has been

to me its own exceeding great reward. It has soothed my afflictions; it

has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and

it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the

Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.'

In no way can the imagination be more effectually or safely exercised

and improved than by the constant perusal and study of our best Poets.

Poetry appeals to the universal sympathies of mankind. With the

contemplative writers, we can indulge our pensive and thoughtful tastes.

With the describers of natural scenery, we can delight in the beauties

and glories of the external universe. With the great dramatists, we are

able to study all the phases of the human mind, and to take their

fictitious personages as models or beacons for ourselves. With the great

creative Poets, we can go outside of all these, and find ourselves in a

region of pure Imagination, which may be as true to our higher

instincts--perhaps more so--than the shows which surround us.

If it be as truthfully as it has been happily expressed by the prince of

dramatic Poets, that

'He who has no music in his soul

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,'

it should be a paramount duty with every one who loves his species, and

cultivates a generous philanthropy, to patronize every effort to diffuse

widely through society, Poetry of genuine character, and to cultivate a

taste for it as an element of a literary, religious, and moral

education. We commend, as a standard of appreciation of the true

character of the gifts of the Poetic Muse, the following critique from

Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham:

''Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,

Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes,

Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;

True wit is everlasting, like the sun,

Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retired,

Breaks out again, and is by all admired.

Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound

Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,

Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;

And all in rain these superficial parts

Contribute to the structure of the whole,

Without a genius too--for that's the soul;

A spirit which inspires the work throughout,

As that of Nature moves the world about;

A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit;

E'en something of divine, and more than wit;

Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown,

Describing all men, but described by none.'

We neither intend nor desire to institute any invidious comparisons

between Old Britain and Young America. We are one people--one in blood,

one literature, one faith, one religion, in fact or in profession. Our

language girdles the whole earth. Our science and our religion more or

less enlighten every land, as our sails whiten every sea, and our

commerce, in some degree, enriches every people. There is a magnanimity,

a benevolence, a philanthropy, in English Poetry, whether the Muse be

English, Scotch, Irish, or American, that thrills the social nerve and

warms the kindred hearts of all who think, or speak, or dream in our

vernacular. The pen of the gifted Bard is more puissant than the

cannon's thundering roar or the warrior's glittering sword; and the

soft, sweet melodies of English Poetry, gushing from a Christian Muse,

are Heaven's sovereign specifics for a wounded spirit and an aching

heart!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18:

[Greek: Menin aeide, thea, Peleiadeo, Achileos,

Oulomenen, he myri' Achaiois alge' etheken,

Pollas d' iphthimous psychas Aidi proiapsen

Heroon, autous de heloria teuche kynessin

K.T.L.]]

PATRIA SPES ULTIMA MUNDI.

FLAG OF OUR UNION.

National Song.

BY HON. ROBERT J. WALKER

_Dedicated to the Union Army and Navy._

The day our nation's life began,

Dawned on the sovereignty of man,

His charter then our Fathers signed,

Proclaiming Freedom for mankind.

May Heaven still guard her glorious sway,

Till time with endless years grows gray.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled,

Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Americans, your mighty name,

With glory floods the peaks of fame;

Ye whom our Washington has led,

Men who with Warren nobly bled,

Who never quailed on land or sea,

Your watchword, _Death or Liberty_!

Flag of our Union! float unfurled,

Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

It was the Union made us free,

Its loss, man's second fall would be.

States linked in kindred glory save,

Till the last despot finds a grave;

And angels hasten here to see

Man break his chains, the whole earth free!

Flag of our Union! float unfurled,

Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Ye struggling brothers o'er the sea,

Who spurn the chain of tyranny,

Like brave Columbus westward steer,

Our stars of hope will guide you here,

Where States still rising bless our land,

And freedom strengthens labor's hand.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled,

Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Ye toiling millions, free and brave,

Whose shores two mighty oceans lave:

Your cultured fields, your marts of trade,

Keels by the hand of genius laid,

The shuttle's hum, the anvil's ring

Echo your voice that God is King.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled,

Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Hail! Union Army, true and brave,

And dauntless Navy on the wave.

Holy the cause where Freedom leads,

Sacred the field where patriot bleeds;

Victory shall crown your spotless fame,

Nations and ages bless your name.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled,

Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

A FANCY SKETCH.

I am a banker, and I need hardly say I am in comfortable circumstances.

Some of my friends, of whom I have a good many, are pleased to call me

rich, and I shall not take it upon myself to dispute their word. Until I

was twenty-five, I travelled, waltzed, and saw the best foreign society;

from twenty-five to thirty I devoted myself to literature and the art of

dining; I am now entered upon the serious business of life, which

consists in increasing one's estate. At forty I shall marry, and as this

epoch is nine years distant, I trust none of the fair readers of this

journal will trouble themselves to address me notes which I really

cannot answer, and which it would give me pain to throw in the fire.

Some persons think it beneath a gentleman to write for the magazines or

papers. This is a low and vulgar idea. The great wits of the world have

found their best friends in the journals; there were some who never

learned to write,--who ever hears of them now? I write anonymously of

course, and I amuse myself by listening to the remarks that society

makes upon my productions. Society talks about them a great deal, and I

divide attention with the last novelist, whether an unknown young lady

of the South, or a drumhead writer of romances. People say, 'That was a

brilliant article of so and so's in the last ----, wasn't it?' You will

often hear this remark. I am that gentleman--I wrote that article--it

was brilliant, and, though I say it, I am capable of producing others

fully equal to it.

Many persons imagine that business disqualifies from the exercise of the

imagination. This is a mistake. Alexander was a business man of the

highest order; so was Caesar; so was Bonaparte; so was Burr; so am I. To

be sure, none of these distinguished characters wrote poetry; but I take

it, poetry is a low species of writing, quite inferior to prose, and

unworthy one's attention. Look at the splendid qualities of these great

men, particularly in the line in which the imaginative faculties tend.

See how they fascinated the ladies, who it is well known adore a fine

imagination. How well they talked love, the noblest of all subjects--for

a man's idle hours. Then observe the schemes they projected. Conquests,

consolidations, empires, dominion, and to include my own project, a

bullion bank with a ten-acre vault. It appears that a lack of capital

was at the bottom of all their plans. Alexander confessed that he was

bankrupt for lack of more worlds, and is reputed to have shed tears over

his failure, which might have been expected from a modern dry-goods

jobber, but not from Alexander. Caesar and Bonaparte failed for the want

of men: they do not seem to have been aware of the existence of Rhode

Island. I think Burr failed for the lack of impudence--he had more than

all the rest of the world together, but he needed much more than that to

push his projects ahead of his times. As for myself, when I have doubled

my capital, I shall found my bullion bank in the face of all opposition.

The ten-acre lot at the corner of Broadway and Wall street is already

selected and paid for, and I shall excavate as soon as the present crop

is off.

There is no question that the occupation of banking conduces to literary

pursuits. When I take interest out of my fellow beings, I naturally take

interest in them, and so fall to writing about them. I have in my

portfolio sketches of all the leading merchants of the age, romantically

wrought, and full of details of their private lives, hopes, fears, and

pleasures. These men that go up town every day have had, and still have,

little fanciful excursions that are quite amusing when an observer of my

talent notes them down. I know all about old Boscobello, the Spanish

merchant, of the house of Boscobello, Bolaso & Co. My romance of his

life from twenty to forty fills three volumes, and is as exciting as the

diaries of those amusing French people whom Bossuet preached to with

such small effect. Boscobello has sobered since forty, and begs for

loans as an old business man ought to. I think he sees the error of his

ways, and is anxious to repair his fortunes to the old point, but it is

easier to spend a million than to make it. My cashier reports his

account overdrawn the other day, and not made good till late next

afternoon. This is a sign of failing circumstances, and must be attended

to.

When Boscobello comes in about half past two of an afternoon for the

usual loan of a hundred dollars to enable him to go on, I amuse myself

by talking to him while I look over his securities. He has two or three

loans to pay up before three o'clock, in different parts of the town,

and we cannot blame him for being in a hurry, but this is no concern of

mine. If he _will_ get into a tight place, one may surely take one's

time at helping him out: and really it does require some little time to

investigate the class of securities he brings, and which are

astonishingly varied. For instance, he brought me to-day as collateral

to an accommodation, a deed to a South Brooklyn block, title clouded; a

Mackerelville second mortgage; ten shares of coal-oil stock; an

undivided quarter right in a guano island, and the note of a President

of the Unterrified Insurance Company. 'How much was the cartage, Bos?'

said I, for you see my great mind descends to the smallest particulars,

and I was benevolent enough to wish to deduct his expenses from the

bonus I was about to charge him for the loan. 'Never mind the cartage,'

said he, 'that's a very strong list, and will command the money any day

in Wall street, but I have a particular reason for getting it of you.'

'The particular reason being,' said I, 'that you can't get it anywhere

else. Jennings,' I continued to my cashier, 'give Mr. Boscobello

ninety-five dollars Norfolk or Richmond due-bills, and take his check

payable in current funds next Saturday for a hundred.'

Poor old Boscobello! A man at forty ought not to look old, but Bos had

often seen the sun rise before he went to bed, and he _had_ been gay, so

all my aunts said. Some stories Bos has told me himself, o' nights at my

house, after having in vain endeavored to induce me to take shares in

the guano island, or 'go into' South Brooklyn water lots. 'I'm too old

for that sort of a thing, Bos,' I say; 'it's quite natural for you to

ask me, and I don't blame you for trying it on, but you must find some

younger man. Tell me about that little affair with the mysterious Cuban

lady; when you only weighed a hundred and forty pounds, and never went

out without a thousand dollars in your pocket--in the blooming days of

youth, Bos, when you went plucking purple pansies along the shore.'

Boscobello weighs over two hundred now, and would have a rush of blood

to the head if he were to stoop to pluck pansies. Mysterious Cuban

ladies, in fact ladies of any description, would pass him by as a

middle-aged person of a somewhat distressed appearance, and the dreams

of his youth are quite dreamed out. Nevertheless, when he warms with my

white Hermitage, the colors of his old life come richly out into sight,

and the romantic adventures of wealth and high spirits overpower, though

in the tame measures of recital, all the adverse influences of the

present hour. But as the evening wanes, the colors fade again; his

voice assumes a dreary tone; and I once more feel that I am with a man

who has outlived himself, and who, having never learned where the late

roses blow, is now too old to learn.

The reader will perceive I am sorry for Boscobello. If I am remarkable

for anything, it is for my humanity, consideration, and sympathy.

These qualities of my constitution lead me to enter into the affairs of

my clients with feeling and sincerity, but I fear I am sometimes

misunderstood. Not long ago I issued an order to my junior partners to

exercise more compassion for those unfortunate men with whom we decline

business, and not to tumble them down the front steps so roughly. Let

six of the porters attend with trestles, I said, and carry them out

carefully, and dump them with discretion in some quiet corner, where, as

soon as they recover their faculties, they may get up and walk away. I

put it to the reader if this was not a very humane idea, and yet there

are those who have stigmatized it as heartless.

I wish I was better acquainted with the way in which common people live.

I can see how I have made mistakes in consequence of not understanding

the restricted means and the exigencies of these people, who are styled

respectable merchants. Thus when Boscobello has made some more than

ordinarily piteous application, I have said, 'Boscobello, dismiss about

fifty of your servants;' or, 'Boscobello, sell a railroad and put the

money back again into your business;' or, 'Boscobello, my good friend,

limit your table, say, to turtle soup, champagne, and truffles; live

more plainly, and don't take above ten quarts of strawberries a day

during the winter,--the lower servants don't really need them;' or,

'Boscobello, if you are really short, send around a hundred or so of

your fast trotters to my stables, and I'll pay you a long figure for

them, if they are warranted under two minutes.' Boscobello has never

made any very definite replies to such advice, and I have attributed his

silence to his nervousness; but I begin to suspect he has'nt quite

understood me on such occasions. Then again, when Twigsmith declared he

was a ruined man, in consequence of my refusal of further advances, and

that he should be unable to provide for his family, I said: 'Why,

Twigsmith, retire to one of your country seats, and live on the interest

of some canal or other, or discount bonds and mortgages for the country

banks.' Actually, I heard Twigsmith mutter as he went out, that it

wasn't right to insult a man's poverty. Now I hadn't the remotest idea

of injuring Twigsmith's feelings, for he was a very clever fellow, and

we made a good thing out of him in his time, but it seems that my advice

might not have been properly grounded.

It begins to occur to me that there _may_ be such a case as that a man

may want something, and not be able to get it; and again, that at such a

time a weak mind may complain, and grow discouraged, and make itself

disagreeable to others.

There is a set of old fellows who call themselves family men, and apply

for discounts as if they had a right to them, by reason of their having

families to provide for. I have never yet been able to see the logical

sequence of their conclusions, and so I tell them. What right does it

give anybody to my money that he has a wife, six children, and lives in

a large house with three nursery-maids, a cook, and a boy to clean the

knives? 'Limit your expenses,' I say to these respectable gentlemen, 'do

as I do. When Jennings comes to me on Monday morning, and reports that

the receipts of the week will be eighty millions, exclusive of the

Labrador coupons, which, if paid, will be eighty millions more, I say,

'Jennings, discount seventy, and don't encroach upon the reserves; you

may however let Boscobello have ten on call.' This is true philosophy;

adapt your outlay to your income, and you will never be in trouble, or

go begging for loans. If the Bank of England had always managed in this

way, they wouldn't have been obliged to call on our house for assistance

during the Irish famine.'

These family men invite me to their wives' parties, constantly,

unremittingly. The billets sometimes reach my desk, although I have

given orders to put them all into the waste basket unopened. I went to

one of these parties, only one, I give you my honor as a gentleman, and

after Twigsmith and his horrid wife had almost wrung my hand off, I was

presented to a young female, to whom Nature had been tolerably kind, but

who was most shamefully dressed. In fact her dress couldn't have cost

over a thousand dollars--one of my chambermaids going to a Teutonia ball

is better got up. This young person asked me 'how I liked the Germania?'

Taking it for granted that such a badly dressed young woman must be a

school teacher, with perhaps classical tastes, I replied that it was one

of the most pleasing compositions of Tacitus, and that I occasionally

read it of a morning. 'Oh, it's not very taciturn,' she replied; 'I mean

the band.' 'Very true,' said I, 'he says _agmen_, which you translate

band very happily, though I might possibly say 'body' in a familiar

reading.' 'Oh dear,' she replied, blushing, 'I'm sure I don't know what

kind of men they are, nor anything about their bodies, but they

certainly seem very respectable, and they play elegantly; oh, don't you

think so?' 'I am glad you are pleased so easily,' I answered; 'Tacitus

describes their performances as indeed fearful, and calculated to strike

horror into the hearts of their enemies. But,' continued I, endeavoring

to make my retreat, for I began to think I was in company with an inmate

of a private lunatic hospital, 'they were devoted to the ladies.'

'Indeed they are,' said she,'and the harpist is _so_ gallant, and gets

so many nice bouquets.' It then flashed across my mind that she meant

the Germania musicians. 'They might do passably well, madame,' said I,

'for a quadrille party at a country inn, but for a dress ball or a

dinner you would need three of them rolled into one.' 'Oh, you gentlemen

are so hard to please,' she replied; and catching sight of the

Koh-i-noor on my little finger, she began to smile so sweetly that I

fled at once.

It was at that party that I perspired. I had heard doctors talk about

perspiration, and I had seen waiters at a dinner with little drops on

their faces, but I supposed it was the effect of a spatter, or that some

champagne had flown into their eyes, or something of that sort. But at

this party I happened to pass a mirror, and did it the honor to look

into it. I saw there the best dressed man in America, but his face was

flushed, and there were drops on it. This is fearful, thought I; I took

my _mouchoir_ and gently removed them. They dampened the delicate

fabric, and I shook with agitation. The large doors were open, and after

a struggle of an hour and three quarters, I reached them, and promising

the hostess to send my _valet_ in the morning to make my respects, which

the present exigency would not allow me to stay to accomplish, I was

rapidly whirled homeward. I can hardly pen the details, but on the

removal of my linen, it was found--can I go on?--tumbled, and here and

there the snowy lawn confessed a small damp spot, or fleck of moisture.

Remorse and terror seized me. Medical attendance was called, and I

passed the night in a bath of attar of roses delicately medicated with

_aqua pura_. Of course, I have never again appeared at a party.

People haven't right ideas of entertainment. What entertainment is it to

stand all the evening in a set of sixteen-by-twenty parlors, jammed in

among all sorts of strange persons, and stranger perfumes, deafened with

a hubbub of senseless talk, and finally be led down to feed at a long

table where the sherry is hot, and the partridges are cold? Very

probably some boy or other across the table lets off a champagne cork

into your eyes, and the fattest men in the room _will_ tread on your

toes. One might describe such scenes of torture at length, but the

recital of human follies and miseries is not agreeable to my

sensibilities.

I dare say the reader might find himself gratified at one of my little

fetes. The editors of this journal attend them regularly, and have done

me the honor to approve of them. You enter on Twelfth avenue; a modest

door just off Nine-and-a-half street opens quietly, and you are ushered

by a polite gentleman--one of our city bank presidents, who takes this

means to increase his income--into an attiring room. Here you are

dressed by the most accomplished Schneider of the age, in your own

selections from an unequalled _repertoire_ of sartorial _chef d'ouvres_,

and your old clothes are sent home in an omnibus.

I might delight you with a description of the ball room, but the editors

have requested me to the contrary. Some secrets of gorgeous splendor

there are which are wisely concealed from the general gaze. But a floor

three hundred feet square, and walls as high as the mast of an East

Boston clipper, confer ample room for motion; and the unequalled

atmosphere of the saloon is perhaps unnecessarily refreshed by fountains

of rarest distilled waters. This is also my picture gallery, where all

mythology is exhausted by the great painters of the antique; and modern

art is thoroughly illustrated by the famous landscapes of both

hemispheres. The luxuriant fancy of my favorite artist has suggested

unique collocations of aquaria and mossy grottoes in the angles of the

apartment, where the vegetable wealth of the tropics rises in perfect

bounty and lawless exuberance, and fishes of every hue and shape flash

to and fro among the tangled roots, in the light of a thousand lamps. In

the centre, I have caused the seats of the orchestra to be hidden at the

summit of a picturesque group of rocks, profusely hung with vegetation,

and gemmed with a hundred tiny fountains that trickle in bright beads

and diamonds into the reservoir at the base. From this eminence, the

melody of sixty unequalled performers pervades the saloon, justly

diffused, and on all sides the same; unlike the crude arrangements of

most modern orchestras, where at one end of the room you are deluged

with music, and at the other extremity you distinguish the notes with

pain or difficulty. The ceiling, by a rare combination of mechanical

ingenuity and artistic inspiration, displays, so as to quite deceive the

senses, the heavens with all their stars moving in just and harmonious

order. Here on summer nights you see Lyra and Altair triumphantly

blazing in the middle sky as they sweep their mighty arch through the

ample zenith; and low in the south, the Scorpion crawls along the verge

with the red Antares at his heart, and the bright arrows of the Archer

forever pursuing him. Here in winter, gazing up through the warm and

perfumed air, you behold those bright orbs that immemorially suggest the

icy blasts of January: Aldebaran; the mighty suns of Orion; diamond-like

Capella; and the clear eyes of the Gemini. Under such influences, with

the breath of the tropics in your nostrils, and your heart stirred by

the rich melodies of the invisible orchestra, waltzing becomes a sublime

passion, in which all your faculties dilate to utmost expansion, and you

float out into happy forgetfulness of time and destiny.

Rarely at these fetes do we dance to other measures than those of the

waltz, though at times we find a relief from the luxuriance of that

divine rhythm in the cooler cadences of the Schottish. By universal

consent and instinct, we banish the quadrille, stiff and artificial; the

polka, inelegant and essentially vulgar; and the various hybrid

measures with which the low ingenuity of professors has filled society.

But we move like gods and goddesses to the sadly joyful strains of

Strauss and Weber and Beethoven and Mozart, and the mighty art of these

great masters fills and re-creates all our existence.

Sometimes in these divine hours, thrilled by the touch of a companion

whose heart beats against and consonantly with mine, I catch glimpses of

the possibilities of a free life of the spirit when it shall be released

from earth and gravitation, and I conjecture the breadth of a future

existence. This will only seem irrational to such as have squeezed out

their souls flat between the hard edges of dollars, or have buried them

among theologic texts which they are too self-wise to understand.

History and the experience of the young are with me.

From twelve to four you sup, when, and as, and where, you will. A

succession of little rooms lie open around an atrium, all different as

to size and ornament, yet none too large for a single couple, and none

too small for the reunion of six. What charming accidents of company and

conversation sometimes occur in these Lucullian boudoirs! You pass and

repass, come and go, at your own pleasure. Waltzing, and Burgundy, and

Love, and Woodcock are here combined into a dramatic poem, in which we

are all star performers, and sure of applause. These hours cannot last

forever, and the first daybeams that tell of morning, are accompanied by

those vague feelings of languor that hint to us that we are mortal. Then

we pause, and separate before these faint hints of our imperfection

deepen into distasteful monitions, and before our fulness of enjoyment

degenerates into satiety. Antiquity has conferred an immortal blessing

upon us in bequeathing to us that golden legend, NE QUID NIMIS;[19] a

legend better than all the teachings of Galen, or than all the dialogues

of Socrates. For in these brief words are compressed the experiences of

the best lives, and Alcibiades and Zeno might equally profit by them.

They contain the priceless secret of happiness; and do you, reader,

wisely digest them till we meet again.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: 'Not too much.']

THE SOLDIER.

[BURNS.]

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,

The farmer ploughs the manor;

But glory is the soldier's pride,

The soldier's wealth is honor.

The brave, poor soldier ne'er despise,

Nor count him as a stranger;

Remember he's his country's stay

In day and hour of danger!

OUR PRESENT POSITION: ITS DANGERS AND ITS DUTIES.

ADDRESSED TO THE PEOPLE OF ALL POLITICAL PARTIES.

When Daniel Webster replied to Senator Hayne, of South Carolina, during

the exciting debate on the right of secession, he commenced his

ever-memorable speech with these words:

'When the mariner has been tossed for many days in thick weather

and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the first

pause in the storm--the earliest glance of the sun--to take his

latitude, and ascertain how far the elements have driven him from

his true course. Let us imitate this prudence before we float

farther, that we may at least be able to conjecture where we now

are.'