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The

Continental Monthly:

Devoted To

Literature and National Policy


VOL. VI.--September, 1864--No. III.




OUR DOMESTIC AFFAIRS.


Not of those affairs which are domestic in a broad, national sense; not
of any of our home institutions, 'peculiar' or otherwise; not of
politics in any shape, nor of railroads and canals, nor of interstate
relations, reconstructions, amnesty; not even of the omnivorous
question, The War, do I propose to treat under the head of 'Our Domestic
Affairs;' but of a subject which, though scarcely ever discussed except
flippantly, and with unworthy levity, in that broad arena of public
journalism in which almost every other conceivable topic is discussed,
is yet second to none, if not absolutely first of all in its bearings
upon our domestic happiness. I refer to the question of domestic service
in our households.

The only plausible explanation of the singular fact that this important
subject is not more frequently discussed in public is, undoubtedly, to
be found in its very magnitude. Men and women whose 'mission' it is to
enlighten and instruct the people, abound in every walk of morals.
Religion, science, ethics, and every department of social economy but
this, have their 'reformers.' Before the great problem, How shall the
evils which attend our domestic service be removed? the stoutest-hearted
reformer stands appalled. These evils are so multiform and
all-pervading, they strike their roots so strongly, and ramify so
extensively, that they defy the attempt to eradicate them; and they are
thus left to flourish and increase. We have plenty of groans over these
evils, but scarcely ever a thoughtful consideration of their cause, or
an attempt worth noting to remove or mitigate them.

This is surely cowardly and wrong. This great question, which is really
so engrossing that it is more talked of in the family circle than any
other--this profound and intricate problem, upon the solution of which
the comfort, happiness, and thrift of every household in the land depend
more than upon almost any other--surely demands the most careful study,
and the deepest solicitude of the reformer and philanthropist. The
subject just now is receiving considerable attention in England, and the
journals and periodicals of that country have recently teemed with
articles setting forth the miseries with which English households are
afflicted, owing to the want of good servants. But, unfortunately, from
none of these has the writer been able to extract much assistance in
preparing an answer to the only practical question: How are the evils
of domestic service to be remedied? I quote, however, an extract from a
recent article in _The Victoria Magazine_, in order to show how far the
complaints made in England of the shortcomings of servants run parallel
with those of our own housekeepers. It is to be noted that the writer
confessedly holds a brief for the servants. If the facts are fairly
stated, the relation between a servant in an English family and her
employer differs widely from the like relation with us;

     'The prizes in domestic service are few, the blanks many. Ladies
     think only of the prizes. Needlewomen and factory girls, when they
     turn their attention to domestic service, see the hardworked,
     underfed scrub lacking the one condition which goes far to
     alleviate the hardest lot, that of personal liberty. People who
     have never known what it is to be subject to the caprices of a
     petty tyrant, scarcely appreciate this alleviation at its true
     value. They expatiate upon the light labors, the abundance, the
     freedom from anxiety which characterize the lot of servants in good
     places, with an unction worthy of Southern slaveholders. What more
     any woman can want they cannot understand. They think it nothing
     that a servant has not, from week to week, and month to month, a
     moment that she can call her own, a single hour of the day or
     night, of which she can say, 'This is mine, and no one has a right
     to prescribe what I shall do with it'--that, in most cases, she has
     no recognized right to invite any one to come and see her, and
     therefore can have no full and satisfying sense of home--that many
     mistresses go so far as to claim the regulation of her dress--that
     even in mature age and by the kindest employers she is treated more
     as a child to be taken care of than as a responsible, grown-up
     woman, able to think and judge for herself. These are substantial
     drawbacks to the lot of the pampered menial.... These complaints of
     the readiness of servants to leave their places are based on the
     assumption that they are under obligations to their employers. In
     many cases, no doubt, they are, though probably least so where
     gratitude is most expected. But, at any rate, employers are also
     under obligations to them. When one thinks of all servants do for
     us, and how little, comparatively, we do for them, it appears that
     the demand for gratitude might come more appropriately from the
     other side. It is an old saying that we value in others the virtues
     which are convenient to ourselves, and this is curiously
     illustrated in the popular ideal of a good servant. In the master's
     estimate besides the indispensable physical qualification of
     vigorous health--diligence, punctuality, cleverness, readiness to
     oblige, and rigid honesty, of a certain sort, are essentials.'

We would look long through our laundries and kitchens for the
'hardworked, underfed scrub' of the above extract; and the 'servant who
has not from week to week, and month to month, a moment that she can
call her own, a single hour of the day or night, of which she can say,
This is mine,' etc., does not belong to so numerous a class that her
sorrows in this respect invoke commiseration in the public journals. But
great as is the difference still between English and American servants,
as indicated by the above extract, the former are in a steadily
'progressive' state, and every year brings them nearer in their
condition to the happy--and, fortunately for the rest of mankind, as yet
anomalous--state of American domesticdom. An article in the London
_Saturday Review_ thus comments upon this progress:

     'It seems to be too generally forgotten that servants are a part of
     the social system, and that, as the social system changes, the
     servants change with it. In the days of our great-grandmothers, the
     traditions of the patriarchal principle and the subtile influences
     of feudalism had not died out. 'Servitude' had scarcely lost its
     etymological significance, and there was something at least of the
     best elements of slavery in the mutual relation of master and
     servant. There was an identification of interests; wages were
     small; hiring for a year under penal obligations was the rule of
     domestic service; and facilities for changing situations were rare
     and legally abridged. It was as in married life; as the parties to
     the contract were bound to make the best of each other, they did
     make the best of each other. Servants served well, because it was
     their interest to do so; masters ruled well and considerately, for
     the same practical reason. Add to this that the class of hirers was
     relatively small, while the class of hired and the opportunities of
     choice were relatively large. These conditions are now reversed. As
     education has advanced, the social condition of the class from
     which servants are taken has been elevated, and it is thought to be
     something of a degradation to serve at all. 'I am a servant, not a
     slave,' is the form in which Mary Jane asserts her independence;
     and she is only in a state of transition to the language of her
     American cousin, who observes, 'I am a help, not a servant.' It is
     quite true that there are no good servants nowadays, at least none
     of the old type; and the day is not perhaps so very distant when
     there will be no servants at all.'

The servant classes of France, Germany, and the other Continental
countries, seem to be, to a great extent, free from the faults that
beset those of England and America. A recent number of _Bell's Weekly
Messenger_ thus discusses this difference:

     'The truth is that among the Celtic and Sclavonian families service
     is felt to be honorable; those engaged in it take it up as a
     respectable and desirable condition. They are as willing to
     acknowledge it as the physician, the lawyer, or the clergyman is to
     admit and be proud of their own. A French female servant, at least
     away from Paris, wears a dress which marks at once what she is. She
     is not ashamed of her condition, and nowhere is there such real
     attachment between servants and their employers as in France. In
     England, on the other hand, it is difficult to persuade a young
     girl to accept domestic service; she requires what she imagines to
     be something higher, or--to use her own word--more 'genteel.' If
     she be a dressmaker, or a shop girl, or a barmaid, she assumes the
     title of 'young lady,' and advertises--to the disgust of all
     sensible people--as such. This monstrous notion, which strikes at
     the root of all social comfort, and a great deal of social
     respectability, is on the increase among us. It is not quite so
     rampant as it is in America, but it is tending in the same
     direction. In fact, our household prospects are not promising.
     Since we feel that home cookery is far from rivalling that of the
     clubs, restaurants are being established in the city equal to those
     of Paris, and the cartoon of _Punch_ is daily fulfilled with a
     terrible accuracy. 'What has your mistress for dinner to-day?' says
     the master of the house, on the doorstep, his face toward the city.
     'Cold mutton, sir.' 'Cold mutton! Ah! very nice; _very_ nice. By
     the by, Mary, you may just mention to your mistress that I _may_
     perhaps be detained rather later than usual to-day, and she is not
     to wait dinner for me.' With these things before our eyes, we
     cannot but feel grateful to any one who will _bona fide_ undertake
     to teach a little plain cookery. The want of this is the cause of
     more waste than any other deficiency. The laboring man marries; but
     he marries a woman who can add nothing to the comfort of his home;
     she supplies him with more mouths to feed, and she spoils that
     which is to be put into them; she becomes slatternly, feels her own
     incapacity, and, finding that she can do but little of her duty,
     soon leaves off trying to do it at all. As her family increases the
     discomforts of her home increase, and the end is
     frequently--drunkenness, violence, and appeals to the police
     magistrate.'

The writer of the present article pretends to no peculiar fitness for
the investigation of this important subject, and to no more varied and
profound experience than that which has fallen to the lot of tens of
thousands of others; but much observation leads to the conviction that
the experience of any single family extending through a series of years
of housekeeping, may be taken as a type of that of all families who have
to employ servants; and if what shall be advanced in these pages shall
have the effect of stimulating others more competent to thought upon the
subject, with a view to practical suggestions for the amelioration of
the universal difficulty, much will have been gained.

The chief evils we have to consider on the part of servants are,
briefly, ignorance, wastefulness, untidiness, pertness, or downright
impudence, and what is called 'independence,' a term which all
housekeepers thoroughly understand. I leave out of the category the
vices of intemperance and dishonesty, which, although lamentably
prevalent among the class to which we are accustomed to look for our
main supply of domestics, yet do not belong, as do the other faults I
have named, to the entire class, and I gladly set them down as moral
obliquities, as likely to be exceptional in the class under
consideration as in any other. With regard to the other specified
failings, every housekeeper will allow that it is so much the rule for a
servant to be afflicted with the whole catalogue, that the mistress who
discovers her hired girl to be possessed of a single good quality, the
reverse of any I have named, as for example, economy, neatness, or a
conscientious devotion to the interests of her employers, although she
may utterly lack any other, fears to dismiss her, for fear that the next
may prove an average 'help,' and have not a solitary good point. A girl
who combines all the above-named good qualities is a rare treasure
indeed, and the possessor of the prize is an object of envy, wide and
hopeless.

In commenting upon the causes which produce bad servants, I shall
confine myself more especially to those which develop in them the faults
of wastefulness, impudence, and 'independence,' both because every
housekeeper will allow that they are the most common as well as trying
of all, and because it is only for them, I confess freely, I have any
hope of suggesting a remedy. Ignorance of their duties is chronic in all
Irish and German girls when they first go out to service, and their
acquirement of the requisite knowledge depends very much upon the amount
of such knowledge possessed by the housekeeper who has the privilege of
initiating them. Untidiness is almost equally universal among the same
classes, and, being a natural propensity, is extremely difficult of
eradication. It may be stated, however, that given an average
'greenhorn,' Irish or German, the notable and tidy housewife will make
of her a very fair servant, as well instructed as her native
intelligence will allow, and, unless a downright incorrigible, whose
natural slatternliness is beyond the reach of improvement, a certainly
tolerably neat, and possibly a very tidy servant. And just here I will
remark that it is an unquestionable fact that the good housekeeper has a
much more encouraging prospect of making a useful servant out of one of
these same 'greenhorns' than of a girl who has been longer in the
country, and who has nevertheless yet to be 'licked into shape.' Of
course this remark covers the whole ground, and it is obvious that to
_start_ a girl right in habits of economy, respectfulness, etc., is
quite as important as to start her right in any other good habit. It is
not necessary to say further that starting right is not of itself
enough: there must ever accompany the progress of the servant in
improvement, the watchful eye and guiding hand of the skilled mistress
and head of the family. I cannot, within the scope of this article,
enter into the consideration of the important correlative branch of my
subject, which includes the fitness of housekeepers to make good
servants out of the rough, to keep good what they so find, or to improve
such as they receive, be they good or bad. It is obvious that this
fitness presupposes a practical knowledge of the science of
housekeeping--(how worthy it is to be called a 'science'!)--and a
willingness to accept and carry out the responsibilities which devolve
upon the mistress of a family. I admit that very many of those who keep
servants are utterly unfit in many important senses for the
responsibilities of family economists. Yet I still believe it possible
for even the most inexperienced housekeepers to adopt and pursue, in
their management of servants, one or two cardinal principles which will
save them a vast deal of vexation. Of these, more hereafter.

The very prevalent pertness and 'independence' of servants are due,
primarily, unquestionably to the great demand for them, and the ease
with which situations are procured. This is not, in my judgment, because
the supply is inadequate; I do not believe it is. It is because the
frequent changings of servants by our families places it in the power of
every one of the former to procure a situation without the slightest
trouble. A girl about to leave a place has but to inquire for two or
three doors around, to find some family about to change 'help.' This
'independence' is also undoubtedly fostered by a false and exaggerated
idea which these girls imbibe from their brothers, 'cousins,' etc.--the
voting 'sovereigns' of the land--of the dignity of their new republican
relation. Most of the 'greenhorns' _begin_ humbly enough, but, after a
few months' tutelage of fellow servants, and especially if they pass
through the experiences of the 'intelligence offices' (of which more
anon), they are thoroughly spoiled, and become too impudent and
'independent' for endurance. The male adopted citizen, fawned upon by
demagogues for his vote, is 'as good as anybody;' and why not Bridget
and Katrina?

Now I do not broach the abstract question of equality: I am willing to
admit that in the eye of our Maker we are, and before the law ought to
be, all equal--that is to say, _ought all to have an equal chance_; but
to abolish the idea of subordination in the employed to the employer,
and to abrogate the relation of dependence of the servant upon her or
his master or mistress, would simply be to reverse the teachings of
inspiration and nature. As well say that the child shall be independent
of the parent as that the servant shall not be subject in all reasonable
things to the master.

It is worthy of remark that this spirit of insubordination spoken of is
far more rife among girls of Irish birth who go out to service than
among the Germans, Scotch, or English. Neither is there among these
latter so much clannishness, or disposition to establish the feeling
under consideration as a _class_ prejudice and principle of conduct, as
there is among the former. The absence of such a homogeneity of feeling
among German, English, and Scotch domestics makes them much more
favorable subjects for the operation of the rules I propose to suggest
for their improvement.

The clannishness just alluded to is a very important influence among
those which tend to produce insubordination and other serious faults
among servants. Every housekeeper must have observed that a marvellous
facility of intercommunication exists among the servant classes, and
more particularly among the Irish. There seems to be some mysterious
method at work, whereby the troubles and bickerings of each mistress
with her 'help' are made known through the whole realm of servantdom. It
is no uncommon thing for a mistress to have minutely detailed to her by
her hired girl the particulars of some difficulty with a previous
servant, with whom she has no reason to believe the narrator has had any
intercourse. So frequently does this happen that many housekeepers
religiously believe that the Irish servants are banded together in some
sort of a 'society,' in the secret conclaves of which the experiences of
each kitchen are confided to the common ear. This belief is not confined
to American housekeepers, but obtains very extensively in England also.
The arrest and punishment of a woman in London for giving a good
'character' to a dishonest servant, who subsequently robbed her
employer, naturally caused some excitement in housekeeping circles in
that city, and numerous communications to _The Times_ evinced the
feeling upon the subject. In one of these 'A Housekeeper' boldly asserts
that there are combinations among the servants, and that housekeepers
who refuse to give a certificate of good character are 'spotted,' and
find in consequence the greatest difficulty in obtaining any servants
thereafter. Indeed, she asserts that in some instances, so rigorously
does the system work, offending families have been compelled to
relinquish housekeeping, and go into lodgings or abroad, until their
offence was forgotten! The fundamental principle which our housekeepers
believe to pervade these societies is that employers are fair game; that
the servant has to expect nothing but to be oppressed, persecuted,
overworked, ground down, and taken advantage of at every opportunity,
and that it is her duty, therefore, to hold the employer at bitter
enmity, and to make the best fight she can.

Now such a belief can scarcely be termed absurd, and yet it is
unquestionably groundless. The mysterious 'understanding' of servants,
and their wide knowledge of each other's experiences, may be explained
upon a perfectly simple and rational theory, and I think we may venture
to reject the 'society' hypothesis altogether.

Servant life is as much a world in itself as political, religious, or
art life. Indeed, its inhabitants are even _more_ isolated and
self-existent than those of any other sphere, for while the politician,
theologian, and artist are generally, to some extent, under the
influence of interests and passions other than those which belong
exclusively to their special walk, the dwellers in kitchens have but the
one all-embracing sphere, and its incidents, which seem to us so
trivial, are to them as important as the great events which we think are
worthy of being embalmed in epics or made imperishable in history. To
them the reproof of the mistress or the loss of wages for the careless
pulverization of a soup tureen is lawful theme for the agitation of all
servantdom. Martin Luther had his tussles with pope and devil, Handel
and Gluck had their wars with the hostile cabals, Henry Clay had his
John Randolph and Andrew Jackson--and Bridget and Catharine have their
disturbing and absorbing questions of 'wages,' and 'privileges,' and
other matters; and a wrangle that the mistress forgets in a day, the
maid carefully cherishes in her memory, and makes it the theme of widest
discussion. Without resorting, then, to the improbable notion of the
existence of a secret society among the servants, through which the
knowledge of our difficulties with them is disseminated, I think the
theory above outlined sufficiently explains what seems so mysterious.
There can, however, be no question that the feeling among servants
generally is unfortunately something like that alluded to above as the
imaginary inspiration of a hypothetical society, namely, that employers
are oppressive, exacting, and utterly selfish; and there is certainly a
tacit understanding that, as between servant and mistress, it is
'diamond cut diamond;' and the habit domestics have of making common
cause with a sister in trouble, no doubt practically works as much evil
as if such a society as has been mentioned really existed. The girl,
confronting her adversary, in military phrase, feels a hundred comrades
'touching her elbow,' and her lip is wonderfully stiffened thereby. Now
it is needless for me to say that the idea that these poor girls have,
that their employers are their natural enemies, is wrong and absurd, and
every housekeeper should endeavor to make this clear to her servants. If
this false idea could be eradicated, and the true theory established
that the interests of the employer and employé are identical, much will
have been accomplished toward making better servants.

Among the influences which are at work to spoil servants, none are more
baleful than the system, as at present conducted, of 'intelligence
offices.' These agencies _might_ be and _ought_ to be among the most
useful of our social institutions: they _are_, as a class, utterly
worthless, and many of them are positively dens of thieves. Almost
without exception they are conducted upon the vicious principle I have
just above discussed, and in them the servant is confirmed in her belief
that the employing class is a class of cruel oppressors. The interest of
the _employer_ seems to be held by the managers of most of these
institutions as absolutely of no account. The following conversation,
which actually took place in one of these offices, between its
proprietor and an applicant for a domestic, will illustrate, better than
a lengthy disquisition could do, the system upon which too many of these
employment agencies are conducted:

LADY. I want a girl for general housework.

PROPRIETOR. Well, I can suit you, if you _can_ be suited. Here's a girl,
now, just out of a place, and I can recommend her (beckoning to one of
the fifty girls who are seated in full hearing of all that passes).

LADY (after a few questions addressed to the girl, who, of course, can
cook, and bake, and wash and iron, and is extravagantly fond of
'childer,' etc., etc.). Well, there is one thing I am very particular
about. I want a girl who is _honest_. The last girl I had from you I had
to discharge for making too free with my stores for the benefit of her
own family relations.

PROPRIETOR (with an insolent sneer). Honest! humph! that depends upon
what you _call_ honest. _Some_ people call a girl a thief if she takes a
bit of cake from the pantry without saying, 'By your leave.' (Chorus of
giggles and approbatory nods from the sympathizing audience of fifty.)

The crude notions of the respective rights of _meum_ and _tuum_
furnished the 'help' graduated by such an institution, may be imagined.

Some pains are occasionally taken to provide a regular customer, whose
patronage it is desirable to retain, with a good servant, but generally
all is fish that comes to their net. The business is now in such ill
odor that intelligence-office servants are proverbial for worthlessness
and all the worst qualities of the class. I have known a thief, a
drunkard, and a vixen to be sent from one of these offices in
succession, the victimized housekeeper finally begging that no more be
sent, preferring to let the retaining fee go, than to be pestered any
further. It is well known that the more decent and self-respecting of
the class of domestics rarely, now, enter their names upon the books of
intelligence offices. Indeed, such seldom have occasion to seek places;
if they do, they usually prefer to advertise.

In this employment-agency business a radical reform is needed. A
respectable and conscientious man at the head of such an institution,
managing it upon the principle that it is just as much his interest to
furnish the employer with a good servant as to provide the servant with
a good place, would be truly a public benefactor. In this, as in all
other kinds of business, honesty would be found the best _policy_. It is
a base imposition to recommend as good a servant who is known to be bad,
and it is just as dishonest to recommend as good one whose character is
totally unknown. It should be the business of every purveyor of
household 'help' to ascertain, by rigid investigation, the characters
and qualifications of those who apply for places; and they should
steadily refuse to have anything to do with any they cannot honestly
recommend. This, we repeat, they would speedily find their best policy.
In this way, and this only, can they win back the confidence and
patronage of the public; and they would soon find that the worthless
characters who now constitute their main stock in trade, would be
superseded by a much better class. There would be another important
benefit to the servants themselves in such a course. In an office thus
conducted, the known necessity of being able to show a clean record in
order to procure a place, would reform many a bad servant, who now,
knowing that her twenty-five cents will procure her a place (and no
questions asked by the agent, so that he need tell no lies), has no
incentive to improvement or good conduct. There would soon be a rivalry
among servants as to who should stand highest upon the roll of merit.

The fault which has been before alluded to under the name of
'independence,' deserves more special mention than I have yet given it.
It is probably the most exasperating, as it is the most general of all
the failings of servants. It makes the timid and sensitive housekeeper a
slave in her own house. No matter how grave may be the offences of her
hired girl, she must bear them in the meekest silence. Even the most
friendly advice, conveyed in the blandest possible tone, is often
declined with freezing dignity or repelled with tart resentment. The
cook who makes a cinder of your joint, or sends you up disgusting slops
for coffee, or the laundress between whose clean and soiled linen you
are puzzled to choose, has almost invariably the reply, uttered with a
majestic sternness that never fails to crush any but a veteran and
plucky housekeeper: 'This is the first time any mistress ever found
fault with _my_ cooking (or washing), and I have always lived with the
_best families_, too.' The cutting emphasis with which this point of the
'best families' is pushed home, is familiar to nearly every housekeeper.
It was scarcely a departure from sober truth in the lady who, on being
asked if she kept a hired girl, replied that she had an Irish lady
boarding with her, who occasionally condescended, when she had nothing
of more consequence to do, to help a little in the work of the family.
An amusing trifle is going the rounds of the papers, which well hits
off, and without much exaggeraration, the self-assumed prerogatives of
the servant girl of our great cities:

     "Now, Miss Bradford, I always likes to have a good, old-fashioned
     talk with the lady I lives with, before I begins. I'm awful
     tempered, but I'm dreadful forgivin'. Have you Hecker's flour,
     Beebe's range, hot and cold water, stationary tubs, oilcloth on the
     floor, dumb waiter?' Then follows her planned programme for the
     week: 'Monday I washes. I'se to be let alone that day. Tuesday I
     irons. Nobody's to come near me that day. Wednesday I bakes. I'se
     to be let alone that day. Thursday I picks up the house. Nobody's
     to come near me that day. Friday I goes to the city. Nobody's to
     come near me that day. Saturday I bakes, and Saturday afternoon my
     beau comes to see me. Nobody's to come near me that day. Sunday I
     has to myself."

I have now pointed out some of the principal faults of servants, and
indicated what I believe to be some of the causes of those faults.
Alluding, in passing, to some influences which it seems to me might be
made available in correcting some of these faults, I have yet to mention
what I conceive to be the most important reason of all for the general
worthlessness of the class under consideration. And in noticing this I
shall necessarily couple with that notice some suggestions which I
firmly believe, if put into practice, will be exceedingly beneficial in
producing the reform we all so ardently wish for. And I feel the less
hesitation in saying this, because they are based upon no theory of my
own devising, but upon principles which are everywhere recognized and
acted upon, except, singularly enough, in the conduct of our domestic
affairs. To be brief, then, I attribute the greatest of the evils of our
system of domestic service _to a want of business management in our
domestic affairs_.

A wife, in the truest sense, is her husband's most important business
partner--his partner in a more complete and comprehensive sense than any
other he can have. It is not, as many seem to imagine, the business of
the wife to spend the money the husband earns. She is as much bound to
forward the mutual prosperity as he is. The household is her department
of the great business of life, as her husband's is the store, the
manufactory, or the office. Her department does not embrace the conduct
of great enterprises, bargains, speculations, etc.; she has only to
remember and act upon the brief, simple maxim: 'A penny saved is a penny
earned.' In this way she can greatly advance the common weal. If she
fails to act constantly upon this principle, she is an unfaithful and
untrustworthy partner, and is as much, to blame as if her husband were
to neglect his stock, his shipping, his contract, or his clients. Why
should the husband be expected to manage _his_ part of the business upon
sound and correct business principles--system, responsibility,
economy--while his helpmeet is letting hers go at loose ends, with a
shiftlessness which if he should emulate would ruin him in a year?

Now what is the principle upon which every good business man manages his
affairs? Why, simply that of _sovereignty_. In his domain his will is
law, and no employé dare question it. He has to deal with the male
counterparts of Bridget and Catharine, as porters, laborers, sometimes
as cooks and waiters; but he has no trouble. The 'independent' man soon
goes out of the door. If he be a manufacturer, he does not allow his
employés to help themselves to his stores and material. He keeps, if he
is a sensible man, his stock under lock and key, and exacts a rigid
accountability in their use. What is to prevent the introduction of just
such a system of accountability in the family economy? 'Why,' say many
housekeepers, 'we would not _dare_ to lock up our butter, and eggs, and
flour, and sugar; we could not keep a girl a day if we doled out our
stores and held our servants responsible for their economical use.' But,
dear, doubting mesdames, your business partner does this every day, and
we should like to see the clerk or apprentice who would even 'look
black' at him for doing it. Perhaps your business partner has to employ
girls; if so, he has many Irish among them; don't _they_ stand his
manner of doing business, without grumbling? If they don't, they find
another shop, that's all. Suppose this case: A manufacturer of jewelry
reasons as you do. He says: 'I cannot keep my hands satisfied unless I
give them free access to my stock of gold, silver, and diamonds. I must
throw open my tool drawers, so that they can help themselves; and I must
not ask how much material this or that manufactured article has taken to
make.' That man would have to shut up shop in a year, even if he were
not robbed of a dollar. Now, I ask, is it fair to expect the husband to
be orderly, systematic, and business-like, and to superintend his
business himself, while the wife surrenders her legitimate affairs to
the hands of ignorant and irresponsible subordinates?

But the female partner of the shrewd man of business, or the plodding,
hardworking mechanic, may be inclined to say, 'I hate business,' and to
think it hard that she should be called upon to regulate her household
affairs upon any such severe and rigid rules. But, my dear madam, apart
from the clear fact that it is your duty to manage your household wisely
and prudently, which we have seen cannot be done without business
system, of which you must be the head, I assure you that such a system
is neither intricate nor vexatious. It does not necessarily entail upon
you the least participation in the actual _labor_ of the family. It does
not absolutely require your personal presence at the scene of those
labors, although the woman who considers it beneath her dignity to go
into her kitchen, has no more business to undertake to keep house than
the master mechanic, who is too proud to enter his workshop, has to try
to carry on a shop. The absolutely _essential_ thing is that yours
should be the directing and controlling mind, and that to you _every one
in your employ should be held rigorously responsible_. Now don't tell me
that such a system cannot be introduced with the present race of
servants; that you would be left half the time without anybody to do
your work; that until mistresses can combine to lay down rules for the
better regulation of domestic service, you must submit to the present
evils. You are not justified in assuming any of these things to be so,
until you have honestly and thoroughly tried the experiment in your
single household. To make such a system work, it is of course necessary
that your servants should be made to understand perfectly certain facts,
which you should take pains distinctly to announce to every new domestic
you engage. They are so plainly just and reasonable that the most
captious servant cannot take exception to them as a matter of principle.
It must depend upon your persevering spirit and firm hand that they do
not fail in practice. First, you should tell your servant that,
employing them at a stipulated rate of wages, to do certain, work,
_their time belongs to you_. Tell them that you insist upon their being
absolutely under your direction and control, that you expect to grant
them all reasonable privileges, but that they must be regarded _as
privileges_, and not as _rights_. Tell them distinctly that, if you
prefer to keep your stores under lock and key, it is not because you
suspect their integrity, but because you consider it as your business as
a housekeeper to know what is the cost of your living. Tell them that
you are in the habit of keeping an accurate account of your expenses,
and that, in consequence, it is necessary that you should know of every
cent that is expended. If these facts are clearly made known and
consistently acted upon, much of the trouble of managing servants is
done away with.

Although the plan of keeping a book of family accounts only belongs
incidentally to the main subject under discussion, it is so important
that I cannot refrain from a more special mention of it than is given
above. It is the simplest thing in the world, not taking more than ten
minutes on an average every day. For reference, in case of a disputed
bill, it is invaluable, while its influence in keeping down expenses is
wonderfully wholesome.

If the affairs of a family are to be conducted on business principles,
the family account book cannot be neglected. It would be just as safe
and sensible for the merchant to neglect _his_ cash book, as for his
domestic partner, who undertakes to do her business properly, to fail to
keep _her_ cash book.

One of the regulations which is proposed posed above as part of the
system of family management is, in my judgment, as important in its
bearing upon the honesty of the servant as it is upon the question of
economy. I refer to the keeping the family stores under the immediate
care of the housekeeper. It is nothing to the discredit of servants that
this is said. More people are honest _through circumstances_ than is
generally supposed. Many a servant is tempted into habits of pilfering
by the free and unquestioned access she has to the family stores. I have
before used the case of a man carrying on a business and having employés
under him, to illustrate my subject. Suppose a merchant or a bank should
allow all their clerks free access to the safe or till, they knowing no
cash account was kept. If some of these boys or young men were tempted
to steal, would not the blame lie chiefly at the door of those who,
having it in their power, yet did not remove the temptation?

Having now given a few rules for the improvement of servants, which are
easily tried, and which I know from observation of their practical
working are _worth_ a trial by every housekeeper, I wish to add a few
words concerning the material of which, our present supply of servants
consists, and to offer some observations upon the question of a
prospective supply of possibly a better material.

It is probably no exaggeration to say that four fifths of our female
servants are Irish. I have already given several reasons why this class
are more intractable and difficult to manage than any other. To apply
the rules I have given to this class will be more difficult than to the
domestics of any other nation. But, as I have said, I have seen them
enforced with success even in cases where an Irish domestic was the
subject. And here let me repeat that almost everything depends upon the
_starting right_. No Irish girl ever yet went to a new place perfectly
sure of her ground, although they generally can measure the quality of
their mistress during the negotiations which precede the engagement. In
starting with a new servant, it is emphatically the first encounter that
must decide who is to be the ruler. Dignity, coolness, and decision,
upon the first attempt to 'put on airs,' will generally bring you off
permanent conqueror.

By some housekeepers German domestics are preferred. They are naturally
less impulsive and more amenable to control than the Irish. Their class
prejudices are not so violent; there is less unity of purpose among
them, and they are, in consequence, more favorable subjects for the
application of the rules given than are generally the Irish. It is,
however, difficult to assimilate the German girls to American customs.
They are not apt to learn, and great patience is required in teaching
them. The virtues of order and cleanliness seem to be not only rare in
them, but exceedingly difficult to graft upon them. Their cooking,
especially, is generally execrable. But once properly trained, they make
the best of servants. They are generally contented, almost always
cheerful and good tempered, and have little of that irritating pertness
and 'independence' so characteristic of the Irish domestic.

That branch of the present subject which relates to the going out to
service of American women has been publicly discussed somewhat more
extensively than any of the others, particularly of late, it having
entered largely into the question of woman's labor, which has been
attracting considerable attention. It is truly a deplorable thing that
household service is so generally regarded as a menial employment, not
fit for an American woman to engage in. Our countrywomen will do almost
anything rather than go out to service. They will work ten or twelve
hours a day in close, unwholesome shops, surrounded by all the unsexing
and contaminating influences attending the customary free and easy
commingling of male and female employés in such places. They will accept
avocations from which the native delicacy and neatness of an American
girl must revolt. They will put up with wages which will barely keep
body and soul together, wear the meanest clothes, submit to the vilest
tyranny and extortion, rather than enter a position where they will have
but the natural, wholesome labor of woman to perform, that of domestic
life; accompanied by all the pure influences and comforts of a home. I
would be rejoiced if anything I could say would be useful in removing
this absurd and injurious prejudice among American women toward domestic
service. There is surely nothing menial in the work they would have to
do. It is woman's work all over the world, far more so than a hundred
other occupations they now eagerly seek. Their repugnance to the
position itself is the sticking point. This repugnance is based upon a
chimera. They are, in any position in which they labor for wages,
'servants' in as complete a sense as if they labored for wages in
household employments. Far be it from me to say a word to lower that
just and honorable pride which is the birthright of the American girl.
But in declining domestic service for that of the shops, the American
girl declines an honest, reputable, healthful, and every way elevating
employment, for, in many cases, a dwarfing, degrading, wretched slavery;
she turns from her natural and proper sphere to enter a walk of harsh
and degrading experiences, in which it is not possible she can pass her
life. A word on this latter point: Almost every young woman expects some
day to marry. Now, I ask, what sort of a fitting can a girl receive in a
shop for the serious business of homekeeping? The significance of this
word 'homekeeping' is not apparent at a glance. It means far more than
mere 'housekeeping' although the latter is one of its most essential
elements. A girl of sixteen is forced to earn her own living. She
chooses to go into a shop. Grant that she escapes contamination from the
influences heretofore alluded to; that her health bears up under
confinement, bad air, scanty food, and insufficient clothing--all of
which are experiences too familiar with women who labor at mechanical
employments;--when she reaches a marriageable age, and takes the
important step which is to 'settle her for life,' what is her condition?
The chances are that she has become the wife of some hardworking
mechanic, or man of scanty means, who cannot afford to keep a fine lady
in his domestic establishment. But she knows no more of the mysteries of
housekeeping than she does of the Latin kalends. She must keep a
servant, who will waste the common substance, and keep her husband's
nose perpetually at the grindstone, to the great wear of mutual comfort
and temper. And once more: There is far more of forecast in young men
seeking wives than they commonly get credit for. The neat, smart girl,
who works in the shop, _may_ get a good husband--the young woman who is
a notable, tidy, thrifty housewife, is _sure_ to be sought after.

I would add a remark upon another point. American girls are frequently
heard to say they would not object to going out to service could they be
'treated as one of the family.' No American girl who respects herself
need fear that in an American family she will fail to command respect.
It should be remembered that the rigid line which is drawn in most
families between mistress and servant, is not simply because such
relations exist, but because there is generally absolutely nothing in
common between them save sex alone; no community of nationality,
religious belief, intelligence--nothing which can excite mutual
sympathy, or move to homogeneity. The American girl who lives out at
service need not fear that she will occupy a position in all respects
corresponding to that occupied by the great mass of servants.

It is highly probable that we shall be able hereafter to procure many
valuable servants from the South. When freedom shall have taken the
place of slavery, and labor becomes honorable in that section, many
Southern women will do--as many Northern women always have done--their
own work. In this way many servants will be set free. Then, when it
becomes necessary to pay wages to servants, there will be a swarming out
from the kitchens of the South of Dinah and Phillis _et als._, and many
of these superfluous servants will find their way North. Already out of
the bloody wreck of society at the South, through the flaming borders of
bayonets and cannon, have drifted into happy Northern homes thousands of
valuable servants, and they will be followed by thousands more, 'when
this cruel war is over.' We cannot judge of the qualities of colored
servants from the wretched specimens we have heretofore had among us.
The trained house-servants of the South are the best in the world. They
are docile, cleanly, quick-witted, and respectful to humbleness.

There have been many projects devised looking to the education of girls
for housekeeping. There was a very excellent institution in existence
ten years ago in one of the Eastern States, which combined with the
customary course of intellectual instruction a systematic training in
the mysteries of housekeeping. The writer has heard nothing of this
school for some years, and presumes it has failed for want of support.
We train our daughters only to shine in the drawing room, and the real
graces of life are neglected. Music, French, and Italian are very
excellent things, but they should stand second, not first, in the
acquirements which we should desire for those who are to be future
wives, mothers, and mistresses of families.[1] But this is a little
apart from the present subject. The idea of a school for training girls
for housekeeping, however, suggests a thought on the expediency of an
institution for the education of servants. Such a project has frequently
been urged as a most desirable one to be put into operation, though I am
not aware that it has ever been tried.[2] Of course it cannot be
expected that girls wishing to become servants could enter such an
institution if it cost anything for instruction. But there can be no
question that, purely as a matter of speculation, such a school would be
a success. If, in one of our large cities, an institution should be
opened by some one having the requisite knowledge, embodying the
principle of our present intelligence offices, taking young girls and
training them gratuitously, some for cooks, waiters, nursery maids,
laundresses, and a larger number for what is termed 'general housework,'
it being understood that in selecting the material the proprietor had an
eye to honesty and intelligence, it would be an immense success. The
servants graduating from such an institution would be eagerly sought
for, and would command the highest wages. The fee for furnishing a
servant could be placed at a much higher rate than is now paid at
intelligence offices, and would be paid readily, for the employer would
be reasonably confident of securing a good domestic. Such institutions
would go very far toward remedying the evils under which we now groan,
and I trust it will not be many years before schools for servants will
be among the recognized institutions of our country.



FOOTNOTES:

[1] The pity of it is that the majority of our young ladies, on leaving
school, know as little of music, French, and Italian as they can
possibly do of housekeeping.--ED. CON.

[2] The House of the Sisters of Mercy in New York is a worthy
commencement in the above-mentioned direction, and has, as far as we
know, hitherto proved successful.--ED. CON.




ÆNONE:

A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME.


CHAPTER XII.

A week passed away. It was toward the end of a bright and cloudless day,
and Rome was gradually arousing itself from its wonted siesta. The heat
had at no time been oppressive, for during the whole morning a cool
breeze had been gambolling across the Campagna from the sea; so that
even during the small hours of the day, the streets had not been kept
free from moving masses of life. Now that the atmosphere became still
further tempered, fresh throngs poured forth from all the smaller
passages and alleys, until the greater arteries of the city swarmed with
eager, animated crowds.

More now than at any other time during the few weeks that had just
elapsed; for upon the morrow was to commence the dedication of the great
amphitheatre of Titus, and thousands of strangers had already poured
into Rome to witness the games, combats, and pageantry. From the
surrounding towns and villages--from the cities of the south--from the
confines of the Alps--even from the farthermost provinces, countless
throngs had assembled to greet an occasion second only to the grand
triumphal entry with the spoils of Jerusalem.

From her window overlooking the streets, Ænone surveyed the panorama of
life spread out before her. Upon the battlements and towers of the
Cæsars' house, in full sight over against the Palatine Hill, floated the
imperial banners, gently waving their folds in anticipation of the
splendors of the ensuing days; and round about stood crowds of
strangers, wondering at the magnificence of the palace architecture, and
the vast compass of its walls, and straining their eager gaze in the
hope of being able to catch a chance glimpse of the emperor himself.
Farther down was the now completed Colosseum, around which other
thousands stood watching the pigmies who, in dark clusters upon the top
and along the edge, laboriously erected the poles upon which, in case of
need, to stretch the protecting velarium. This was the last outward
preparation of all; and when that was done, everything would be ready.
As one of these poles was being elevated, he who had hold of the lower
end of it lost his balance, and fell to the ground. He was lifted up
outside, dead--a shapeless, gory mass. The crowd shuddered to see that
helpless body falling from such a height; but, at the next moment, all
sympathy passed away. The man wore a slave's dress, and was recognized
as belonging to the prætorian lieutenant Patrocles. Upon the morrow, if
he had lived, he was to have appeared in the arena as a retiarius--he
would then most likely have been conquered and slain--it was merely a
day sooner--a victim outside the walls instead of within--he had
clambered up to overlook the ground upon which he was to have fought,
and need not thus recklessly have volunteered to aid the regular
laborers--it was his fate--_Deus vult_--what more could be said?

Ænone had not witnessed the fall, for she had not been looking at palace
or amphitheatre, both, of which were too familiar with her to attract
her attention. The one had been for years the centrepiece of her
view--and the other had grown up arch by arch and tier by tier so
steadily before her eyes that it seemed as though she could almost count
its stones. Her gaze was now fixed upon the open space beneath her
window, where the Sacred and Triumphal Walls joined--a space always at
that hour gay with a phantasmagoria of shifting life, and at this time
more than ever provocative of curiosity and attention. Its bordering
palaces, already being hung with lively tapestries for the morrow--its
sparkling fountains--its corners decked with arches--its pavement
thronged with carriages and horsemen--the crowds of slaves, beginning in
advance to take their holiday, and affording pleasing contrasts as they
wound their way in slender currents through the openings in the throng
of their betters--the soldiery passing here and there in large or small
detachments--where else in the world could such a varied scene of life
and animation be presented?

First before her eyes passed a number of the prætorian guard, with
martial music, cutting the crowd asunder like a wedge in their steady
march toward the imperial palace. Then came the chariot of the African
proconsul, with liveried footmen in front, and Nubian slaves, in short
tunics and silver anklets, running beside the wheels. After that a
covered van, toilsomely dragged along by tired horses and guarded by
armed slaves in livery. The imperial cipher was emblazoned upon the
dusty canvas screen thrown over the top, and from within, at intervals,
came half-smothered growls and roars. It was some wild beast arriving at
this late hour from Nubia--a contribution from some provincial
governor--a booty which had cost pounds of gold, and perhaps the lives
of many slaves, and which was now destined to perform, in the sanded
arena, the combats of the jungle. The crowd, which had let the African
proconsul pass by with but a careless glance of uninterested
scrutiny--for dignitaries were too common to excite much
curiosity--pressed tumultuously and with frantic eagerness around the
heavy cage, exulting in each half-stifled roar from within as though it
were a strain of sweet music--and thus followed the van until it arrived
at the amphitheatre and passed out of sight through one of the deep, low
arches leading to the tiers of grated stone cages, already well filled
with the choicest forest spoils of every tributary country.

Then came a black-bearded horseman. The trappings of his steed were
marked with the insignia of distinction; and footmen, with staves, ran
before him to clear the way. He sat with proud and haughty mien--as one
who felt his power and immunity, and yet with the expression of one
aware that all his rank and state could not protect him from secret
scorn and hate. Not many looked at him; for, in that thronging display
of wealth and power, a single gayly caparisoned horse and two liveried
footmen counted for almost nothing. One or two, however, of those few
who study men for their deeds alone, turned and gazed scrutinizingly
after him, for he had already taken rank as one of the historians of the
age. And as he passed farther along, a group of slaves, whose marked
features denoted Jewish descent, suffered expressions of aversion to
break from them; some turning their backs--some gazing up with faces
inflamed with the fiercest intensity of hate--while one, less cautious,
clenched his fist and hurled after the rider a handful of dust and
volleys of heavy Hebrew curses. And so the apostate Josephus passed on,
and was gradually lost to view.

After him, slowly wending his way on foot through the crowds,
occasionally moving aside to allow others, more urgent, the privilege of
passing him, and constantly careful not to excite the impatient wrath of
those nearest to him by a too lively pressure, yet all the time making
sure progress along his chosen path, came a single figure--a
white-bearded man, in plain, coarse tunic and well-worn sandals. Few
regarded him or even seemed to know that he was there, except when in
their hurry they found it expedient to jostle him one side. But in his
face gleamed an intelligence far beyond what could be expected from one
in his humble attire; and as Ænone watched him, a suspicion crossed her
that the poor, beggarly dress and the quiet, yielding mien were assumed
to baffle observation. Soon another person in similar dress but of fewer
years met him. The two joined hands and looked earnestly into each
other's eyes, and the older one appeared to mutter a word or two. What
was that word, at which the younger bent his head with reverent gesture?
Was it a command or a blessing? Whatever it was, in a second it was all
said. The hands then unclasped--the bended head raised with a startled
glance around, as though with a fear that even such a mere instant of
humble bearing might have betrayed something which should be kept
secret; and then the two men parted, and were swallowed up in different
sides of the concourse.

'I know that person,' said Cleotos, He had been gazing, for the past
minute, out at the same window with Ænone; and while attracted by the
humble figure of that old man, he had noticed that she had been equally
observant.

'You know him, Cleotos?'

'They call him Clemens, noble lady. He is a leader of the Christian
sect, and a person of influence among them. It was at Corinth that I
first saw him, and it was he who let me copy the good words which are
written upon my little leaf of parchment. That was two years ago, but I
still recognize him. What does he here? Why should he thus peril his
life In public?'

'Give me that little scroll, Cleotos,' said Ænone. 'Let me have it for
my own.'

Cleotos gazed at her for a moment in dismay. Was she about to use her
authority, and take away from him by force those few lines, which,
though he understood them so little, had often served to cheer his heart
with their promises of future rest and joy? If so, he must submit; but
of what avail, then, was all her previous kindness?

'I ask it not as mistress, but as friend,' she said, reading his
thoughts. 'I ask it because, when you are away, I shall need some memory
of what have been happy days, and because I may then often wish to apply
those same words of comfort to my own soul. You can make another copy of
the same, and, in your own land, I doubt not, can find, with proper
search, many more words of equal value.'

'In my own land?' Cleotos repeated, ed, as in a dream. But, though her
meaning did not as yet flash upon him, he knew that she spoke in
kindness, and that she would not ask anything which he would not care to
grant; and he drew the little stained parchment from beneath his tunic,
and handed it to her.

'Close, now, the window, Cleotos, and shut out from sight that giddy
whirl, for I have something to say to you.'

He closed the window with its silken blind; and then, in obedience to
her motion, glided away from before it She seated herself upon her
lounge, and he upon his accustomed stool in front of her.

'Think not, Cleotos,' she said, after a moment's silence, 'that I first
brought you hither to become a mere slave. It was rather done in order
that, when the proper time came, I might set you free. Had
she--Leta--but shown herself worthy of you, the day might have come when
I could have managed to free her also, and send you both home again
together. But that cannot be. You must go alone, Cleotos, but not, I
hope, despairingly. Once again in your own loved Samos, I know that,
sooner or later, there will be found some other one to make you forget
what you have suffered here.'

He could no longer doubt her meaning--she was about to give him to
liberty again. At the thought the blood rushed to his heart, and he
gasped for breath. For the moment, as he gazed into her face and saw
with what sisterly sympathy and compassion she looked upon him, the
impulse came into his mind to refuse the proffered freedom, and ask only
to remain and serve her for life. But then came such floods of memories
of his native place, which he had never expected to see again--and its
hills and streams and well-remembered haunts seemed to approach with one
bound so near to him--and the faces of the loved ones at home began once
again to look so tenderly into his own--and the thought of throwing off
even the light, silken chains which he had been wearing, and of standing
up in the sight of heaven a free man again, was so grateful to his
soul--what could he do but remain silent and overpowered with
conflicting emotions, and wait to hear more?

'Think not to refuse your liberty,' she said, as she read his doubts and
perplexities, 'It must not be. No man has the right to suffer
degradation when he can avoid it. And though I might continue kind to
you, who can answer for it that I should live to be kind to the end? No,
no; from this instant be a free man again. And, for the few moments that
remain to us, strive to think of me only as your equal and your friend.'

Still silent. What, indeed, could he say? She knew that he was grateful
to her, and that was enough. But why should he, of all slaves in Rome,
find such kindly treatment? What had he ever done to deserve it? And--as
often before--that puzzled look of wondering inquiry came over his face
while he gazed into her own. She noticed it, but now made no attempt to
disguise herself by any forced and unnatural assumption of haughty
pride. Were he at last to learn the truth, there could surely no harm
come of it.

'You must depart to-night,' she said, 'and before it becomes known that
I am sending you away; lest, knowing it, others might claim authority to
delay or prevent you. Take this little purse. It contains a few gold
pieces, which you may need. And here is a written pass which will lead
you to Ostia. There you will go to the tavern of the Three Cranes, and
inquire for one Pollio, who has a vessel ready to sail for Samos. In
that vessel your passage is paid. Show him this ring. It will be a token
for him to know you by. And keep the ring ever afterward, as a sign that
you have a friend left here, who will often think of you with pleasure
and interest.'

'My mistress,' he said, taking the ring and placing it upon his finger,
'what have I done that you should be thus kind to me?'

'Nay; no longer mistress, but friend,' she said, with a melancholy
smile. 'As such alone let us converse during the hour that remains, for
you must soon leave me. It may be that when you arrive at Ostia, the
vessel will not be ready to set sail, nor yet for a day or two, for its
owner spoke to my messenger concerning possible delays. If so, there
will be time for you to look around you, and think of the days when you
wandered along the shore, hand in hand with your chosen one. You will,
perhaps, go over those wanderings again--along the sands leading past
Druse's olive grove to the altar of Vesta, or to the--'

'How know you about Druse's grove?' he cried with a start; and again
that look of keen inquiry came into his face. It was but a single step
now--he stood upon the very border of the truth. Should she repress him?
It were hardly worth the while. So she let him gaze, and, if anything,
softened her features yet more into the old familiar expression.

'Past Druse's Grove, Cleotos--or to the smooth rock which the waves
washed at Cato's Point. Do you remember, Cleotos, how often we there
sat, you holding me with your arm while I slid down the sloping side,
the better to dip my naked feet into the water?'

With a wild sob he seized her hand, and threw himself at her feet. Near
to the truth as he had been standing, it seemed at the last to burst
upon him with as much force as though even a suspicion of it had been a
thing before impossible. And yet, at the same time, it appeared to him
as though he must have known it all the while; for how could he
comprehend his blindness?

'Ænone,' he cried, 'send me not away! Let me stay here to serve you
forever!'

'Oh, speak not thus!' she said, touching his lips lightly with her
finger. 'Had you not been about to go from here, you should never have
recognized me. Forget, now, all that has ever passed between us; or
rather, strive to remember it only as a pleasant dream which left us in
its proper time. If the Fates separated us, it was only because they
were wiser than ourselves. Those bright anticipations of our youthful
love could never have been fully realized; and, if persisted in, might
have led only to sorrow and despair. Let me not blush now at having
revealed myself to you. Think, for the few minutes that remain to us, of
friendship and of duty alone.'

Raising him up, she placed him beside her, and there they talked about
the past and its pleasant recollections. How the cross miller, who had
never been known to do a kindness to any one else, had sometimes let
them ride upon his horse--how they had once rowed together about the
bay, and he had taken her aboard his ship--how she had stolen away from
home each pleasant evening to meet him, and with what feeble
excuses--and the like. As the shades of afternoon deepened and shut out
from sight the gilded cornices and costly frescoes, and all else that
could remind them of present wealth, and as, each instant, their
thoughts buried themselves still further in the memories of the past, it
seemed to them, at last, as though they were again wandering hand in
hand upon the beach, or sitting upon the wave-washed rock at Cato's
Point.

With something wanting, however. No force of illusion could bring back
to either of them, in all its former completeness, that sense of mutual
interest which had once absorbed them. Whatever dreams of the past
might, for the moment, blind their perceptions, there was still the
ever-present consciousness of now standing in another and far different
relation to each other. Though Ænone musingly gazed upon his face and
listened to his voice, until the realities of the present seemed to
shrink away, and the fancies of other years stole softly back, and, with
involuntary action, her hand gently toyed with his curls and parted them
one side, as she had once been accustomed to do, it was with no love for
him that she did it now. He was only her friend--her brother. He had
been kind to her, and perhaps, if necessary, she might even now consent
to die for him; but, with all that, he was no longer the idol of her
heart. Another had taken that place, and, however unworthy to hold it,
could not now be dispossessed. And though Cleotos, likewise, as he
looked at her and felt the gentle pressure of her hand upon his
forehead, seemed as though transported into the past, until he saw no
longer the matron in the full bloom of womanhood, but only the young
girl sparkling with the fresh hue and sunshine of early youth, yet to
him still clung the perception that there was a barrier between them.
What though the form of the treacherous Leta may then have faded from
his memory as completely as though he had never seen her? What though.
Ænone's pleasant and sympathetic tones may have again melted into his
heart as warmly as when first whispered at Ostia? The smile upon her
face--the winning intonation of her voice--all might seem the same; but
he knew that he must bide within his own heart all that he had thus felt
anew, and be content with the offered friendship alone, for that not
merely her duty but her altered inclination had separated her from him
forever.

At last the brief hour came to an end, and Ænone arose. The sun had set,
and the darkness of night had already begun to shroud the city. Here and
there, from some of the more wealthy neighborhoods, faint glimmers of
lamp light shone out and marked the scenes of solitary study or of
festive gathering, but as yet these indications were few. Already the
chariots and horsemen who had thronged the Appian Way had dispersed--a
single rider here and there occupying the place where so lately gay
bands had cantered, disputing each available empty space of pavement.
The walks were yet crowded with loiterers, but of a different class.
Patricians and fair ladies had departed, and left the course to the
lower orders of citizens and to slaves, who now emerged from the arches
and alleys, and, anticipative of the morrow's holiday, swarmed in dusky
crowds hither and thither in search of rude pastime.

'You must go now,' said Ænone, dropping the curtain which she had lifted
for a moment in order to peer into the street. 'Stay not for anything
that belongs to you, for I would not that you should be hindered or
delayed. You have been here as mine own property; and yet, how do I know
that some pretence of others' right might not be urged for your
detention, if it were known that you were departing? Go, therefore, at
once, Cleotos, and may the gods be with you!'

She held out her hand to him. He took it in his own, and, for the
moment, gazed inquiringly into her face. Was this to be their only
parting? Nay, need there be a parting at all? A flush came into his
countenance as he felt one wild thought and desire burning into his
soul. What if he were to yield to the impulse which beset him, and
should throw himself at her feet, and ask her to forget the years which
had separated them, and the trials which had beset them, and to give up
all else, and depart with him? Alas! only one result could follow such
an appeal as that! In the vain attempt to gain her love, he would lose
her friendship also. She would part from him as an enemy who had taken
advantage of her sisterly affection to inflict an insult upon her. He
knew that this would surely be the consequence; but yet, for the moment,
he could scarce resist the maddening impulse to thus forfeit all while
striving to attain impossibilities.

'Shall we never meet again?' he said, at length, after the hard struggle
to command himself.

'It may be, in after years; who can tell?' she answered. 'And yet, let
us rather look the truth in the face, and not delude ourselves with
false hopes. The world is very wide, and the way from here to your home
is far, and the fatalities of life are many. Dear Cleotos, let us rather
make up our minds that this parting is for ever; unless it may be that
the gods will let us look upon each other's faces again in some future
state. But there may be times when you can write to me, or send some
message of good tidings; and then--'

'Talk not to me of the gods!' he interrupted, in a storm of passionate
exclamation. 'What have they ever done for us, that we should worship or
pray to them? Why look to them for blessings in a future state, when
they have done us such evil in the present life? Here we were poor and
lowly together; and have they not dragged us apart? And will they, then,
in another life, be the more disposed to let us see each other's
faces--you one of the nobles of the earth, and I one of its meanest
plebeians? Is it written in the temples or by the priests and oracles,
that when the Cæsars are throned in Olympus, their lowly subjects shall
be permitted to approach, them any nearer than when here? How, then,
could we meet each other better hereafter than now? Away with all talk
about the gods! I believe not in them! If we part now for this world, it
is for eternity as well!'

'Oh, say not that!' she exclaimed. 'And still pray to the gods as of
old, for they may yet bring good out of all that now seems to us so
obscure. Remember that to the best of us, this world offers little but
what is mingled with unhappiness. Take not, therefore, away from
yourself and me a belief in something better to come.'

'Take, then, with you, a belief in the God about whom I learned in
Greece, for He it is who tells of comfort hereafter for the poor and
oppressed, and He is the only one who does so,' Cleotos doggedly
answered.

'It may be--it may be,' she said. 'Who can tell which is right? We have
so often talked about it, and have not yet found out. They may both be
the true gods--they may neither of them be. Ah, Cleotos, my brother, let
us not doubt. It is pleasanter and safer, too, that we should believe,
even if we extend our faith to a belief in both. Choose, then, your own,
as I will mine. I must not abandon the gods in whose worship I have been
brought up; but when I pray to them, I will first pray for you. And
you--if you adopt the God of the Christians, who speaks so much better
comfort to your soul--will always pray to Him for me. And thereby, if
either of us is wrong, the sin may perhaps be pardoned, on account of
the other, who was right. And now, once more--and it may be for
ever--dear Cleotos, farewell!'

'Farewell, Ænone, my sister!' he said. And he raised her hand and
pressed it to his lips, and was about turning sorrowfully away, when the
door flew open, and Sergius Vanno burst into the room.




APHORISMS.--No. XII.


  See 'neath the swelling storm,
  The willow's slender form
  With grace doth ever yield;
  While oaks, the monarchs of the field,
  In pride resist the blast,
  And prostrate lie, ere it is past:
  But now the storm is o'er,
  The willow bows no more;
  While oaks from overthrow
  No rising ever know.

  So with the meek, in strife
  Against the storms of life;
  Though often roughly cast,
  They stand erect at last:
  But those who will not bend
  To what their God doth send,
  Are whelmed in lasting woe,
  And rising up will never know.




A GLANCE AT PRUSSIAN POLITICS.

PART I.

     [The author of the ensuing article, the topic of which is just now
     one of special interest, is MR. CHARLES M. MEAD, a gentleman who
     has spent the last year in Germany. Having resided in the family of
     Professor Jacobi, who fills the chair of history in the University
     of Halle, he has had excellent opportunities for making himself
     acquainted with his subject. Having a natural taste for political
     studies, he has investigated it in its many bearings with calm
     impartiality, and written upon it _con amore_. The conclusion will
     be given in our next issue.--EDITOR CONTINENTAL.]


The struggle now going on in Prussia, whatever may be the issue, must be
regarded as one of immense political importance. To Americans certainly,
no less than to any other people, is the character and progress of this
struggle a matter of profound interest. Though it cannot be said that
the contest is that of revolutionists or even of republicans against a
legitimately ruling monarch, yet the real principles involved in the
contest are in substance those of absolutism and of democracy.

Deep and irreconcilable as is now the opposition between the two
contending elements, all Prussians are proud of Prussia's history. In
order to a correct understanding of the present circumstances of the
country, a brief survey of its previous history is necessary.

In respect to the national domain, perhaps no other instance can be
found so striking as that here presented, of a steady growth of an
insignificant territory, from the first surrounded by powerful nations,
to a size which entitles it to rank among the first Powers of the earth.
Passing over the first few hundred years of her history, during which
period much confusion prevailed as to boundaries as well as everything
else, we find that as late as 1417 the country embraced a territory of
only about seven thousand eight hundred square miles, or of about the
size of Massachusetts; whereas its present extent is about one hundred
and twelve thousand square miles, _i. e._, about as large as New
England, New York, and New Jersey.

In respect to population, the increase is proportionally great. In 1417
it was only one hundred and eighty-eight thousand five hundred; now it
is over eighteen millions. As to general culture, the progress of the
nation and its present relative position in the scale of civilization
leave little for national pride to wish.

The history of the nation commences with the conquest of Brandenburg by
the Saxon emperor Henry I., in 927. He founded the so-called _North
Mark_, and set over it a margrave. The government was administered by
margraves until 1411, when, after a century of anarchy, during which the
Mark was struggled for by many aspiring dukes, it was delivered over by
the emperor Sigismund, an almost worthless possession, to Frederick of
Hohenzollern, burggrave of Nuremberg, with the title of elector.

The house of Hohenzollern is still the reigning dynasty. In 1701,
Frederick III., who became elector in 1688, secured from the emperor
Leopold I. the title of King Frederick I. Not king of Brandenburg, since
Brandenburg belonged to the Austrian empire, but king in Prussia, the
name of a Polish duchy acquired by John Sigismund as a feudal possession
in 1621, but in 1656 made an independent possession by Frederick
William. Not king _of_ Prussia, but _in_ Prussia, because not all the
territory to which that name belonged was included in the
afore-mentioned duchy. The rest was not annexed till 1772, so that
Frederick the Great was the first king _of_ Prussia. And not till 1815
was the name Prussia strictly a designation of the whole land now so
called.

We cannot stop even to glance at the political condition of the nation
during the period of the electorate, interesting as it might be, and
important as revealing the sources of subsequent political developments.
Yet in passing, this at least must be borne in mind, that there was all
the while a struggle going on between the nobility and the monarchy, the
latter gradually gaining in strength.

Frederick I., whose vanity led him to make it his main object to secure
the _name_ of king, did less than his immediate predecessor, the 'great
elector,' toward deepening the foundations of the monarchy. The most
noticeable feature of his reign was the increase of the standing army
from twenty-five thousand to fifty thousand. He secured the _title_ of
royalty. It remained for his son and successor to secure its power and
authority.[3]

Frederick William I. was the first absolute monarch of Prussia. He was a
man of rough manners and coarse tastes. Caring little for the pomp of
royalty, he jealously sought to maintain his hold on the essence of it.
No sooner had he dried the tears shed over his deceased father, than he
dismissed the larger part of the court attendants, cut off unnecessary
expenses, inaugurated a simple style of living in the court, and began
to direct his attention to the improvement of the military and financial
condition of the country. More than any predecessor, he identified the
office of king with that of commander-in-chief of the army. His
domineering disposition carried him so far that he personally scolded
and threatened with blows whoever seemed to him lazy and shiftless,
however little the matter personally concerned him. So violent was his
temper that, because his son, afterward Frederick the Great, displayed
more taste for literature, and less for religion and warfare, than he
had wished, he became disgusted with him, threateningly raised his cane
whenever he saw him; and, when the prince, exasperated by constant
abuse, formed a plan of escape to Sinsheim, the king, having discovered
it before its execution, was so infuriated that, except for the
intervention of bystanders, he would have run him through with his
sword. As it was, at one time he beat him furiously with his cane.
Frederick's confidant was executed before his eyes, and he himself
condemned to a long banishment from the court; and not till he had shown
signs of repentance, was he readmitted to it and to his father's favor.
Frederick William is famous for the 'tobacco club' which he established,
at whose sessions over the pipe and the beer he and his friends indulged
in the most unrestrained mirth and freedom; also for his monomania
concerning 'tall fellows'--a passion for securing as many regiments as
possible of extraordinarily tall soldiers, for which he spared no pains,
and often paid little regard to the personal wishes of the tall fellows
themselves. To increase their number, he scoured all Europe, other
monarchs being not unwilling to secure his good will by providing him
with the coveted men, for whom his almost insane passion made him
willing to give any price. But the real significance of his reign in
relation to Prussia's subsequent history, is the impulse which he gave
to her military tastes, and his success in establishing firmly the
absolute authority of the monarch. The power of feudal lords had already
been shattered; it required only a strong army and a strong will to
destroy it altogether. These the king possessed. He reigned at a time
when the obstacles to the exercise of unlimited power by the king were
not what they now are, viz.: a desire on the part of the people in
general for a constitutional government. The most certain way to secure
the esteem of the people was to centralize the power in himself, and
then exercise that power in the promotion of the people's material
welfare. This the king did. He laid the foundations of the still
existing system of general school education. He invited colonists from
abroad to settle in the more uncultivated parts of his domains. He
reformed the judiciary. He diminished the taxes, and yet by his economy
increased the real revenue of the state from two and a half to seven and
a half millions. Himself disinclined to become entangled in foreign
wars, he raised the troops and the money without which his son could not
have won the military glory which has given him the title of _the
Great_.

Frederick William I. established the absolute monarchy by internal
political changes and institutions. Frederick the Great secured for it a
solid foundation in the hearts of the people. The one was thoroughly
autocratic in disposition, and not seldom displayed this disposition too
offensively; the other knew how to use his hereditary power without
seeming to care about it. In fact, under the influence of Voltaire and
the French liberalism, he himself learned to cherish very liberal
opinions respecting popular rights. But practically he was absolute, and
preferred to be so. By his brilliant military successes in the two
Silesian wars and in the Seven Years' War he roused the national
enthusiasm for the royal house to the highest pitch. He secured for
Prussia the rank of a great Power in Europe. He enlarged her boundaries,
and, notwithstanding his expensive wars, promoted the general prosperity
of the land. Genial and kind-hearted, he won the affections of the
people, so that loyalty was easy and pleasant--none the less so, the
more completely the object of the loyalty was the king's person.

The reign of Frederick William II. was not characterized by any special
development in the political condition of the country. Lacking in energy
and decision, given to self-indulgence, controlled by courtiers and
favorite women, although by the partition of Poland he increased the
national domains, and by educational measures helped to promote German
literature instead of the French preferred by his father, he was yet too
inferior to the great Frederick to be able to uphold the glory of the
royal house. By his disgraceful withdrawal from the First Coalition and
the Treaty of Basle, by which he yielded to France all of Prussia lying
beyond the Rhine, he prepared the way for her subsequent humiliation by
Bonaparte.

The long reign of Frederick William III. is the richest period of
Prussia's history. Here begins that development whose progress is now
one of the most noteworthy of our time. The king, cautious,
conscientious, patriotic, but timid, declined to join the Second
Coalition (1799), hoping thereby to secure Prussia against the ravages
of war. Prominent Prussians, moreover, were positively friendly to
Napoleon; so that, even after the latter had violated his obligations by
marching through Prussian territory, the king hesitated a year to
declare war. This was done August 9, 1806; but two months later his army
was routed at Jena; Napoleon entered Berlin; the Prussians were finally
defeated at Friedland by the French, and at Tilsit, July 9, 1807, the
Prussian king was forced to give up the half of his domains, and to
furnish the conqueror a tribute of one hundred and forty millions of
francs. For six years Prussia lay prostrate at the feet of France. In
1812 he was compelled to furnish twenty thousand men to join Napoleon's
army in his invasion of Russia. Not till after the disastrous issue of
this invasion did king or people dare to lift an arm in defence of the
national independence. But these years compose just the period which
Prussians love to call that of Prussia's regeneration. The insolence of
the conqueror united the national heart. Full of the most flaming
patriotism, and not doubting that deliverance would finally come,
statesmen and warriors, Stein, Scharnhorst, Blücher, Schill, and others,
labored unweariedly to keep up the spirits of the people, and prepare
them for the coming War of Liberation. Now for the first time the cities
were invested with the right to regulate their own internal affairs. Now
for the first time the peasants were delivered from the serfdom under
which they had hitherto suffered. In short, the whole policy of the
Government was determined by the resolution to inspire the people with a
healthful, unconstrained, enthusiastic devotion to the national weal,
and, as a means to this end, with zeal for the king. These efforts were
fully successful. When the providential time arrived, and the king
issued, February 3, 1813, a call for volunteers, and, March 17, his
famous _Aufruf an mein Volk_, all Prussia sprang to arms. In alliance
with Russia, finally also assisted by Austria and Sweden, her troops
were engaged in nine bloody battles with the French between April 5 and
October 18, the enthusiasm of the people and the dogged intrepidity of
Blücher being at length rewarded by the decisive victory at Leipsic. The
immediate result of this victory for Prussia was the recovery of the
territory between the Elbe and the Rhine ceded to France by the
preceding king. At the congress of Vienna there were assigned to her in
addition all that she had possessed before the Treaty of Tilsit, half of
Saxony, and an increase of the former possessions on the Rhine. Some
further acquisitions and cessions were made at the second Treaty of
Paris, November 2, 1815, since which time the boundaries of Prussia have
been little changed.

This brief sketch of the so-called War of Liberation could not have been
avoided in an attempt to describe the present political condition of
Prussia. The enthusiasm with which the semi-centennial anniversary of
the battle of Leipsic was celebrated on the 18th of last October by men
of all parties and sentiments was a lively evidence of the profound
influence of that war on the national character. The chief significance
of the war for Prussia was its influence in uniting the people in the
pursuit of a common patriotic end. It was a struggle for national
existence; and all minor considerations were for the time forgotten. It
tended to break down the barriers which before had so effectually
separated the higher from the lower classes. The Government had need of
the hearty aid of all Prussians; and, in order to secure this, it was
necessary to abandon the invidious distinctions which, in spite of all
previous reformatory measures, made a large portion of the people
practically slaves. The sentiment was encouraged, that whoever was ready
to lay down his life for his country deserved full protection from his
country. The promise was made that this should henceforth be the spirit
and practice of the Government.

We are here to mark a twofold influence on the political sentiments of
the Prussian people springing from the war against French invasion. On
the one hand, from here dates the first positive preparations for, and
expectations of, a national representative assembly--a change from an
absolute to a limited monarchy; on the other, the perfect identification
of the interests of the king with those of the people, combined with a
real love for the royal family, made the people satisfied, after the
restoration of peace, to continue under the sway of a king in whom,
though his power was unlimited, they had perfect confidence that he
would use his power with conscientious regard to their good. To this day
the recollection of those years of pious loyalty, when every citizen
cherished a feeling of filial love and trust toward Frederick William
III., is the chief element of strength in the conservative party.
Prussia, they say, is what her kings have made her; the house of
Hohenzollern has raised her from an insignificant beginning to the rank
of a great Power; under this rule the people have prospered; no tyranny
has disgraced it; there is no need of a change; there is no danger that
a continuance of the former order of things can ever inure to our hurt;
gratitude to our sovereigns requires us not to attack their hereditary
prerogatives. There is danger of foreigners, especially republicans, not
fully appreciating the force of these considerations. To us, the fact
that one king, or even a series of kings, have ruled well, is no proof
that they have a divine right to rule; still less, that, when their
policy comes into conflict with the decided wishes of the people, they
have a right by unconstitutional measures to resist the popular will.
But it must be remembered that Prussia, even in the midst of the present
conflict, is thoroughly monarchical. No party pretends to wish any
change of the present form of government. Patriotism has so long been
associated with simple devotion to the royal house, and the royal house
has so uniformly proved itself not unworthy of this devotion, that it is
no easy matter, especially for those who by nature are conservative, to
be satisfied with a change which reduces the monarchical office to a
merely empty hereditary honor. In addition to this, it would be unfair
not to recognize the fact that the most cultivated and religious part of
the Prussian people belongs to the Conservative party. This, as a
general statement, is, as all acknowledge, true. That the exceptions,
however, are very numerous, is no less true. It is also, doubtless, not
unjust to assume that the dependence of churches and universities on the
state leads to much hypocritical piety and selfish loyalty. Yet the
general fact that the most estimable citizens are royalists, is not so
to be accounted for. The War of Liberation was a war not only against
French aggression, but against a power whose origin was to be traced to
a contempt not only of time-honored political customs, but also of
Christianity itself. Revolutions and republicanism became associated
with infidelity. It was natural, therefore, that Christians should
acquire the notion that every approximation toward democracy would
involve danger to the church; especially as the church and state were
united, and the king not only professed personal belief in Christianity,
but endeavored to promote its interests by his administrative measures.
It was to them a touching recollection that their king and the Austrian
and Russian emperors kneeled together on the battle field of Leipsic to
offer to the Lord of hosts their thanks for the victory that he had
vouchsafed to them. And when two years later the same monarchs united
themselves in the Holy Alliance, it is not strange, whatever may now be
thought of their motives, that Christians should have rejoiced at the
sight of princes publicly acknowledging their obligation to rule in the
interests of Christianity, and binding themselves to promote the
religious good of their subjects. As republicanism in France had
appeared in a positively unchristian form, here monarchism appeared in a
positively Christian form. Nothing was therefore more natural than that
their devotion to the king--already, for other reasons, hearty and
enthusiastic--should be increased as they thought they saw in him the
surest defender of the church. Instead, therefore, of encouraging or
wishing a separation of church and state--a consummation which it was in
the power of leading theologians, to procure--they preferred a still
closer union. Nor is it to be wondered at that, ever since, men of the
most earnest piety have made a defence of the royal prerogatives a part
of their religion, and that some have gone even so far as to deny that
in Prussia a Christian can be anything but a Conservative. It cannot but
serve to soften many prejudices against this party to know that men like
the venerable Professor Tholuck, of Halle, are decided supporters of the
Government, and regard the triumph of the Liberal party as almost
equivalent to the downfall of the church. And it may serve in part to
excuse the persistence of the Government in its course to know that it
is advised so to persist by men who should be supposed to have the
highest good of the country at heart.

But, on the other hand, as we have remarked, the seeds of the present
Liberal party were sown during this same period of national disaster,
and that, too, by the royal hand. The regeneration of Prussia is
attributed by all to the indefatigable efforts of the minister, Baron
von Stein, and, after he was deposed by command of Napoleon, of his
successor, Count Hardenberg. Their work, however, consisted not only in
abolishing villanage, the usufruct of royal lands, serfdom, the
exemption of the nobility from taxation, and the oppressive monopoly of
the guilds; in giving to all classes the right of holding landed
possessions and high offices; in the reconstruction of the courts; in
the enfranchisement of the cities; in the promotion of general
education; in relieving military service of many abuses and
severities;--this was not all: the king was moved to issue, October 27,
1810, an edict, in which he distinctly promised to give the people a
constitution and a national parliamentary representation. A year later
this promise was renewed. 'Our intention,' says the king, 'still is, as
we promised in the edict of October 27, 1810, to give the nation a
judiciously constituted representation.' That this promise was not
immediately fulfilled is, considering the condition of the country, not
specially surprising. Whatever may then have been the king's personal
inclinations, there is perhaps no reason to doubt that he intended to
introduce the constitution as soon as the return of peace should give
him the requisite means of devoting to the subject his undivided
attention. That the promise was originally drawn from him by the urgent
influence of his counsellors, especially Von Stein and Hardenberg, there
is every reason to believe. That he should have been inclined,
unsolicited, to limit his own power, is more than can ordinarily be
expected of monarchs. The bad love power because it gratifies their
selfish lusts; the good, who really wish the weal of their subjects, can
easily persuade themselves that the more freely they can use their
power, the better it will be for all concerned. But, for whatever
reasons, the pledge was given; yet, though Frederick William reigned
thirty years after giving it, he never fulfilled the pledge. It may be
that, had he done so, the party divisions which now agitate the land
would not have been avoided. Conservatives might have complained that he
had yielded too much to the unreasonable demands of an unenlightened
populace; Liberals might have complained that he had not yielded enough;
at all events, the opposing principles, of the divine right of kings,
and of popular self-government, whatever form they might have taken,
would have divided public sentiment. This may have been; but even more
certain is it that the failure on the part of the monarch to carry out a
promise solemnly and repeatedly made, a promise which he never would
have made unless believing that it would gratify his people, could not
but lead ultimately to a deep disaffection on the part of the people.
His course resembled too much the equivocating prophecies of the witches
in Macbeth; he kept the word of promise to the ear, and broke it to the
hope. It is then not strange that many should have found their faith in
royalty weakened, and come to the conclusion that whatever was to be
gained in the point of popular government must be secured by insisting
on it as a right which the Government _nolens volens_ should be required
to concede.

Such, in general terms, is the animus of the two political parties of
Prussia. Turning to a more particular consideration of the historical
progress of events, we find that the first movement toward a freer
development of popular character was made by Frederick the Great.
Throughout his life he was inclined, theoretically, to favor a
republican form of government; and, although he was no friend of sudden
changes, and did not think that the time had come for a radical change
in Prussia, he yet recognized the truth that a king's duty is to act as
the servant of the state; and, in spite of the sternness with which, in
many relations, he exercised his power, he introduced some changes which
may be regarded as the earnests of a permanent establishment of a
constitutional government. These changes consisted specially in the
increase of freedom which he allowed respecting the press, religion, and
the administration of justice. But, as we have seen, nothing like a real
limitation of the royal power was undertaken until the War of Liberation
seemed to make it a national necessity. The changes which Frederick
William's ministers made in the social and political condition of the
people were in themselves of vast and permanent importance. They were
made under the stimulus of a more or less clear recognition of the truth
of natural, inalienable rights. Fighting against a people whose
frightful aggressions were the product of this principle abnormally
developed, they yet had to borrow their own weapons from the same
armory. Or, if the republican principle was not at all approved, the
course of the Government showed that it was so far believed in by the
people that certain concessions to it were necessary as a matter of
policy. But these changes were yet by no means equivalent to the
introduction of republican elements in the Government. An approach was
made toward the granting of equality of rights; but this was only
_granted_; the Government was still absolute; strictly speaking, it had
the right, so far as formal obligations were concerned, to remove the
very privileges which it had given. But the _promise_ of something more
was given also. Besides the already-mentioned renewal of that promise,
the king, June 3, 1814, in an order issued while he was in Paris,
intimated his intention to come to a final conclusion respecting the
particular form of the constitution after his return to Berlin. In May,
1815, he issued another edict, the substance of which was that provision
should be made for a parliamentary representation of the people; that,
to this end, the so-called estates of the provinces should be
reorganized, and from them representatives should be chosen, who should
have the right to deliberate respecting all subjects of legislation
which concern the persons and property of citizens; and that a
commission should be at once appointed, to meet in Berlin on the first
of September, whose business should be to frame a constitution. But this
commission was not then appointed, and of course did not meet on the
first of September. Two years later the commissioners were named; but
their work has never been heard of.

Here is to be discerned a manifest wavering in the mind of the king
respecting the fulfilment of his intentions. The German States, taught
by the bitter experience of the late war the disadvantages of their
dismembered condition, and bound together more closely than ever before
by the recollection of their common sufferings and common triumphs, saw
the necessity of a real union, to take the place of the merely nominal
one which had thus far existed in the shadowy hegemony of the house of
Hapsburg. The German Confederation, essentially as it still exists, was
organized at Vienna by the rulers of the several German States and
representatives from the free cities, June 8, 1815. Although there was
in this assembly no direct representation of the people, it is clear
that its deliberations were in great part determined by the unmistakable
utterances of the popular mind. For one of the first measures adopted
was to provide that in all the States of the Confederacy constitutional
governments should be guaranteed. Frederick William himself was one of
the most urgent supporters of this provision. It is therefore not
calculated to elevate our estimation of the openness, honesty, and
simplicity for which this king is praised, and to which his general
course seems to entitle him, that as late as March, 1818, in reply to a
petition from the city of Coblenz, that he would grant the promised
constitution, he remarked that 'neither the order of May 22, 1815, nor
article xiii. of the acts of the Confederacy had fixed the _time_ of the
grant, and that the determination of this time must be left to the free
choice of the sovereign, in whom unconditional confidence ought to be
placed.' We are to account for this hesitation, however, not by
supposing that he originally intended to delay the measure in question
so long as he actually did delay it, but by the fears with which he was
inspired by the popular demonstrations in the times following the close
of the war. The fact was palpable, not only that the idea of popular
rights, notwithstanding the miserable failure of the French Revolution,
had become everywhere current, but that, together with this feeling, a
desire for German unity was weakening the hold of the several princes on
their particular peoples. At this time sprang up the so-called _Deutsche
Burschenschaft_, organizations of young men, whose object was to promote
the cause of German union. The tri-centennial anniversary of the
Reformation, in 1817, was made the occasion of inflaming the public mind
with this idea. The sentiment found ready access to the German heart. It
was shared and advocated by many of the best and ablest men. As
subsidiary to the same movement, was at the same time introduced the
practice of systematic and social gymnastic exercises, an institution
which still exists, and constitutes one of the most prominent features
of the German movement. Immense concourses of gymnasts from all parts of
Germany meet yearly to practise in friendly rivalry, and inspire one
another with zeal for the good of the common fatherland. But the
_Burschenschaft_ in its pristine glory could not so long continue. The
separate German Governments were naturally jealous of the influence of
these organizations, and, though not able to accuse them of directly
aiming at treason and revolution, were ready to seize the first pretext
for striking at their power. A pretext was soon found. A certain Von
Kotzebue, a novelist of some notoriety, suspected of being a Russian
spy, wrote a book in which he attacked the _Burschenschaft_ with great
severity. A theological student at Jena, Karl Sand, whose enthusiasm in
the cause of the _Burschenschaft_ had reached the pitch of a half-insane
fanaticism, took it upon him to avenge the wounded honor of the German
name. He visited Kotzebue at the dwelling of the latter, delivered him a
letter, and, while he was reading it, stabbed him with a dagger. Sand
was of course executed, and, though it was proved that the crime was
wholly his own, though the German Confederation, through a commission
appointed specially for the purpose of searching all the papers of the
participants in the _Burschenschaft_ movement, found no evidence of
anything like treasonable purposes, yet it was resolved that these
'demagogical intrigues' must cease. The _Burschenschaft_ was pronounced
a treasonable association; its members were punished by imprisonment or
exile. The poet and professor Arndt and the professor Jahn, prominent
leaders in the movement, were not only deposed from their
professorships, but also imprisoned. The celebrated De Wette was removed
from the chair of theology in the University of Berlin, simply because,
on the ground that an erring conscience ought to be obeyed, he had
excused the deed of Sand. In short, the princes intended effectually to
crush the efforts which, though indirectly, were tending to undermine
their thrones. Seemingly they succeeded. But they had only 'scotched the
snake, not killed it.' It is easy to see that these developments must
have shaken Frederick William's purpose. Of all things, the most
unpleasant to a monarch is to be driven by his subjects. In the present
case he saw not only a loosening of the loyalty which he felt to be due
to him, but also a positive transfer of loyalty, if we may so speak,
from the Prussian throne to the German people in general. If he should
now grant a popular constitution, he would seem not only to be yielding
to a pressure, but would be surrendering what he regarded as a sacred
right, into the hands of ungrateful recipients. He therefore set himself
against the popular current, gave up his former plan, and contented
himself with restoring, in some degree, the form of government as it had
existed before the establishment of the absolute monarchy. He gave, in
1823, to the estates of the provinces, a class of men consisting partly
of nobles and owners of knights' manors, partly of representatives of
the cities and of the peasants, the right of _advising_ the crown in
matters specially concerning the several provinces. Nothing further was
done in the matter of modifying the constitution during the reign of
Frederick William III., although he declared his _intention_ of
organizing a national diet.

Comparative quiet ensued till 1830, when the French revolution, followed
by the insurrection of the Austrian Netherlands against Holland, and of
Poland against Russia, again stirred the public mind. But, although the
Polish revolution, on account of its local proximity and ancient
political relations, threatened to involve Prussia in war, she yet
escaped the danger, and passed through the excitement with little
internal commotion. But the existence of disaffection was made manifest
by sundry disturbances in the chief cities, which, however, were easily
quelled. Suffering under no palpable oppression, accustomed once more to
peace, seeing no prospect of gaining any radical change in the form of
government except through violent and bloody measures, which, as
experience had proved, would, after all, be likely to be unsuccessful,
the masses of the people had little heart for a constant agitation in
behalf of an indefinite and uncertain good. Those who did continue the
agitation exhibited less of zeal for German unity and more for that sort
of liberalism which had been current in France, than had marked the
efforts of the _Burschenschaft_. Many of the leaders were obliged to
escape the country, in order to avoid arrest.

In 1840, Frederick William IV. ascended the throne. According to the old
custom, he summoned to Koenigsberg the estates of the provinces of
Prussia and Posen to attend the coronation and take their oaths of
fealty. On this occasion he inquired of this body whether they would
elect twelve members of the East Prussian knighthood, to represent the
old order of lords, and what privileges they wished to have secured.
They replied that they saw no need of reviving that order; and as to
privileges, instead of mentioning any in particular which they desired
to see protected, they wished them all protected and confirmed. They
then reminded the king of the promise of his father to give the nation
a constitution and a diet. The king replied that their reasons for
declining the first proposal were satisfactory, but the establishment of
a general representation of the people he must decline to grant, 'on
account of the true interests of the people intrusted to his care.' The
dissatisfaction produced by this reply was somewhat tempered by the
splendor of the coronation ceremonies, and by the hitherto unknown
condescension of the king in addressing the assembled throng as he took
upon him the vow to be a just judge, a faithful, provident, merciful
prince, a Christian king, as his ever-memorable father had been.
Personally he was a man of more than ordinary talents and of estimable
character. High expectations could be, and were, entertained of the
success of his reign. One of his first acts was to release from prison
those who were there languishing for having been connected with the
_Burschenschaft_. He manifested in his general policy a mildness and
benevolence which, had he lived when nothing had ever been heard of a
constitution, would have doubtless secured for him the uninterrupted
lore and devotion of his subjects. As it was, it is probable that his
reign would have been disturbed by no serious outbreak, had the occasion
for disturbance not come from without.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Frederick I. ruled till 1713; the succession since then has been as
follows: Frederick William I., 1713-'40; Frederick II. (the Great),
1740-'86: Frederick William II., 1786-'97; Frederick William III.,
1797-1840; Frederick William IV., 1840-'61; William I., 1861.




ASLEEP.

  What, darling, asleep in this sylvan retreat!
  Thy loose tresses sprinkled with rose petals sweet;
  Blown in from the sunlight, some float to thy breast;
  Less fragrant are they than their beautiful nest.

  There flutt'ring a moment they rise and they sink,
  As quivers a humbird his honey to drink,
  Or fond doves a-wooing that shiver their wings,
  Or throat of a song bird that throbs while he sings.

  These petals at last swoon far down in thy snow,
  Whose warm drifts of wonder they only can know;
  And hidden they lie there all rocked by thy breath,
  And pressed in soft odors to ravishing death.

  Thine eyes their dear curtains now shut from the light,
  Sweet veined and blue tinted they round to my sight,
  Fair shells of deep oceans! And sometimes a shell,
  When close to your ear, its home secrets will tell:

  But in music so mystic, you cannot guess
  The strange tales of Ocean it tries to confess.
  So lady, thine eyelids, as skies shut the sea,
  Or shells _try_ to whisper, are whisp'ring to me.

  As glad streams of day 'neath the dawn's glowing tide,
  So white keys of laughter thy curving lips hide,
  Warm gates of the morning, when morning is new,
  And red for the sunshine of smiles to break through!

  Thy round arms rest o'er thee so fair and so lone,
  Like that white path of stars across the night's zone:
  That pathway, when twilight late vanishing dies,
  Embraces the earth, though it quits not the skies.

  Thus stars kiss the hills, and the trees, and the plain,
  Yet never can they kiss the stars back again;
  Though yearning they thirst for those arms of the sky,
  They never will taste the white home where they lie.

  So rivers and oceans with influence sweet,
  Their mighty hearts swelling loved Luna to greet,
  Strain sobbing their bosoms to hold her dear face,
  And thrilled to their depths with her luminous grace,

  In tossing waves rapturous rise to her smile.
  In vain! Their coy queen half receding the while,
  In slow fainting cadence they sink to the shore,
  And hoarse tones of love-hunger moan evermore.

  Ah, lady, bright sleeper, my soul, like the sea,
  Illumed with thy beauty, is trembling to thee:
  I kneel in the silence, and drink in the air
  That, fragrant and holy, has toyed with thy hair;

  And hushed in thy presence with worshipping fear--
  The breeze even stills when it reaches thine ear--
  My lips dare not whisper in softest refrain
  The trance of my heart in its passionate pain.

  Oh, open thine eyes! let their smile make me brave--
  The Queen e'en of Ocean will _look_ at her slave!--
  Let me drown in their light--deliciously drown,
  And lay thy white hand on my head for a crown,

  And chrism. And thus regally shrived, might I dare
  Exhale the warm infinite incense of prayer
  From my deep soul to thine. Nor then couldst thou know
  The wealth of the censer. Thou wak'st!--must I go?




A CASTLE IN THE AIR.

  'I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
    Wherein at ease for aye to dwell;
  I said, 'O soul, make merry and carouse,
    Dear soul, for all is well.'

                                TENNYSON.


Times are changed. Most people (_i.e._, Bostonians) now build their
castles on the 'new land.'[4] But I belong to the old school, and I
still build mine in the air.

The situation has its advantages. As Miss Gail Hamilton observed, when I
had the pleasure of exhibiting it to her, it is airy. I need scarcely
add that it is the favorite haunt of those kindred spirits Ari-osto and
Ary Scheffer. It is too high ever to be reached by any unsavory odors
from the Back Bay. Cool in summer it is also, notwithstanding,
remarkably warm in winter. My castle is quite too retired for any
critics to intrude upon it. They cannot get at the plan of it even,
unless in the event of its being shown them by my friend, the editor of
a popular magazine, which is a betrayal too improbable to enter into my
calculations.

There is no stucco or sham about my castle. Like a fair and frank
republican, I built it all of pure freestone, from the doorsteps up to
the observatory. This observatory--I will speak of it while I think of
it--holds a telescope exactly like the one at Cambridge, except that the
tube has a blue-glass spectacle to screw on, through which it does not
put out one's eye to look at the moon.

My workmen never make mistakes nor keep me waiting. The painters paint,
the upholsterers upholster, and the carpenters _carpent_ precisely when
and as I wish. I do not have to heat myself by running over the town for
straw matting, nor to catch cold in crypts full of carpets. Everything
that I order comes to my door as soon as I order.

Every time that I go down Washington street, I choose something in the
shop windows for my castle--an engraving at Williams & Everett's, a
mosaic or classic onyx at Jordan's, or a camel's hair--for a dressing
gown, of course at Hovey's. It really costs surprisingly little, and is
an agreeable exercise of taste and judgment. It is likewise an exercise
of benevolence. I select as many things for my guests as I do for
myself. My castle is never too full. Little by little my tastes change;
and little by little, I let most of my old treasures go to make room for
new ones.

But certain principles always prevail in my selections. For instance, as
my particular friend, the Reverend George Herbert, remarked, as he
looked about him on one of his visits to my castle: 'Sober handsomeness
doth bear the bell.' I cannot admit anything gaudy, needlessly exotic,
or impertinently obtruding the idea of dollars. Now a travelled lady,
who had heard of my castle, once offered me for it a buhl cabinet, of
angry and alarming redness and a huge idol of a gilded trough, standing
on bandy legs, and gorged with artificial flowers. And I thanked her for
her kind intentions, ordered a handcart, sent the lumber to auction, and
applied the proceeds to the benefit of the insane.

Tapestry, however, clever bronzes, sheathed daggers from Hassam's with
beetles crawling on the hilts, and illuminated, brazen-clasped old
tomes abound at my castle. They come to me one by one, each bringing
with it its separate pleasure. I have no fancy for buying up, at one
fell swoop, the whole establishment of some bankrupt banker or
_confiscated_ Russian nobleman. Instead of slipping at once, like a
dishonest hermit-crab, into the whole investment of somebody else, I
rather choose to come by my own, as I suppose other more happily
constituted shell-fish do, by gradual and individual accretion or
secretion.

My winter parlor looks down Beacon street. It is lofty, like all the
rest of my apartments, but otherwise small and snug. The floor is of a
dark wood, polished to the utmost. The great wood-fire loves to wink at
its own glowing face mirrored in this floor; and, when alone, I often
skate upon it. But as I do not wish to see my less sure-footed friends
disposed about it in writhing attitudes expressive of agony and broken
bones, I usually keep it covered, up to a yard's breadth from the
dark-carved wainscot, with a velvety carpet, which was woven for me at
Wilton, and represents the casting scene in the 'Song of the Bell.' The
window curtains are of velvet, of just the shade of purple that nestles
in the centre of the most splendid kind of fuchsia, and have an Etruscan
border and heavy fringes of gold bullion. The walls are covered with a
crimson velvet paper, of the hue of the outer petals of that same
fuchsia, with little golden suns shining over it everywhere. One end of
the room is further lighted up by a portrait of the terrestrial fury
Etna, in a full suit of grape vines and an explosion of fiery wrath.
Opposite is a spirited scene, by an artist who shall be nameless,
suggested by a passage in an interesting sermon by Jonathan Edwards. The
contemplation of the latter picture, especially, makes a chance
sensation of chilliness a luxury rather than the contrary.

My tawny Scotch terrier, Wye-I, always takes up his position on the
purple plush cushion at one side of the fireplace, and the Maltese cat,
Cattiva, on the crimson one opposite, by instinct, because most becoming
severally to their complexions. The cat never catches mice. There are no
mice in my castle for her to catch. The dog is much attached to her. He
is considered remarkably intelligent. In gratitude for my forbearing to
cut off his tail, he uses it as a brush, watches the coals, and, when
they snap out, sweeps them up with it. He sometimes, with a natural
sensibility which does him no discredit, accompanies the performance
with the appropriate music which has earned him his name.

My summer parlor is much larger. It is paved with little hexagonal
tiles, green, purple, and white alternately, like a bed of cool violets,
with a border of marine shells in mosaic. The walls are cloaked as
greatly as the _Cloaca Maxima_, with verdant leaves, light and dark,
through which, here and there, peeps a rock. There is no arsenic among
them. The windows look seaward to see the ships come and go. Venetian
blinds, of the kind that turn up and down, admit only green light at
noon, softer or brighter according to my mood. Lace curtains sweep the
floor with a slumberous sound when the sea breeze breathes in. Some of
my visitors might say that this room was too empty. I should promptly
disagree with them. To a person of correct taste, not to speak of a
philanthropic bias, it must be painful to see, in warm weather, anything
which calls up a vision of warm handmaidens, laborious with their brooms
and dusters. Therefore I must persist in admitting here little furniture
besides the oriental bamboo couches and porcelain barrels that flank the
room, with little daisy-and-moss-like _chenille_ rugs beside them. One
Canton tepoy holds my _aquarium_, and another, beside the most
frequented of the lounges, the last number of the most weighty of North
American periodicals. If ever I take a nap, it is here.

In the centre of the room, a white-marble Egeria, carved by Thorwaldsen,
throws up between her hands a shaft of cold crystal water, pure as
truth, which spreads into a silvery veil all around her, and plashes
down in a snowy basin: no place could be more inviting for a bath. But
in the winter Egeria shows her power of adaptation by furnishing instead
a Geyser of hot water. Then I turn my scientific friends in here, when
they call upon me, to make them feel at home.

In the position of Jack Horner, sits Miss Hosmer's Puck. Opposite is a
mate production, which she never put on exhibition. It is Ariel, perched
hiding in a honeysuckle, and leaning slyly out to play on an Æolian harp
in a cottage latticed window.

Over the somewhat frequented couch of which I have spoken, there is a
picture by Paul Delaroche of

                     'Sabrina fair
  Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
    In twisted braids of lilies knitting
  The loose folds of her amber-dropping hair.'

On the other side hangs another painting which I prefer, partly perhaps
because even in my castle I was for a time at a loss how to procure it.
The subject was recommended to me by Hans Christian Andersen. It is the
story of a beautiful princess. Are not Danish princesses always
beautiful?

Her numerous brothers were so unfortunate as to be laid, by a witch,
under a spell of a most inconvenient sort. Every morning they were
turned into wild swans. Every day they were obliged to fly over many a
league of gray ocean to the mainland and back to their home, an island
in the midst of the sea. At every sunset they resumed their natural
shape, and were princes all night. One day they met their sister on the
shore. They undertook to carry her back with them. Her Weight made them
slower than usual. A storm came up in the after noon. There was a sad
probability of the swans being turned into princes again before they
could possibly 'see her home.'

In my picture, half of the swans are a plumy raft for her, and row her
through the air with their sweeping wings. Another relay, more tired,
perhaps, make a canopy over her, and fan her as they fly. Their
outstretched gaze sees only the island. But the princess, as she lies
facing backward, sees the danger. In despairing, motionless silence, she
looks at the sinking sun, with no color in her cheeks but that which he
casts upon her. The red, warning sun looks awfully back, face to face
with her, in the narrowing strip of blue sky between two horizontal bars
of thundering clouds, which the lightning is beginning to chain
together, that the night may come before its time, and the enchanted
princes and their sister may drown in darkness.

Church did the water very well, and Paul Weber the island. Rosa Bonheur
was so kind as to paint the swans--I need not say how. But the rest of
the picture was such a perplexity to me that I could think of nothing
better than to send for Mr. Laroy Sunderland to call one day when I was
out, and knock up Raphael to draw the princess, and Salvator Rosa, the
clouds, and Titian to see to the sky and light. When I came in again,
the completed whole met me as a pleasant surprise.

Not far off are Landseer's 'Challenge,' and a few other Arctic pieces of
his, which I look at in July to keep myself cool. But the chief of my
pictures are in the picture gallery, at the top of my castle, lighted
from above. _Connoisseurs_ assure me, with rare candor, that the
'Transfiguration,' 'Last Judgment,' 'Assumption of the Virgin,' and so
forth, there, are duplicates rather than copies of the originals.

In my library there is scarcely a single picture to be found, nor a
statue, nor a bust even, except of the duskiest, self-hiding bronze
overhead--only some dim, dark engraving, or brown, antiquated autograph,
fading in a little black frame, or a signet ring hanging against the
book written by the crumbled hand that once wore it--only relics having
the power to excite thought without distracting attention--- unobtrusive
memorials of the dead with whom I am soon to live. Rich, black, old
bookcases, carved all over in high relief, hold their immortal works or
the records of their undying deeds. Even the writings of the living are
sparingly admitted here. I stand on my guard constantly, lest I be
enslaved by their influence. It is less by obsequiousness to the Present
than by listening to the admonitions of the Past, that we may hope to
gain a hearing from the Future.

Saints and seraphs, such as they appeared to _Fra Angelico_, look in
upon me through the stained-glass windows, that I may always read and
study as if under their holy eyes. Ivy runs thickly over their deep
arched recesses, and over the stags' heads which surmount them. In
winter, little but painted beams and glow come through them. In summer,
the oriel opens of an evening to show me the phantom ships that haunt
the misty, dreamy harbor; and the lattices that look westerly over the
lake-like mouth of the Charles, are seldom shut against the sun or moon.

The floor is smoothly paved with broad, square slabs of freestone, on
which is here or there engraved one or another illustrious name, like a
'footprint on the sands of time,' with a date of birth and death. Tables
that match the bookcases support portfolios containing allegorical
designs by Relszch, Blake, and Albrecht Durer. On a writing desk, that
was once Vittoria Colonna's, a little Parian angel holds my ink for me,
kneeling as if to ask a blessing upon it, and to entreat me to blot no
pages with it in the souls whereon I write,

        [Greek: 'Mêde mousa moi
  Genoit aoidos êtis umnêsei kaka']

Before the reading chairs, plenty of tiger and leopard skins lie in wait
to cherish the cool feet of students, but there is nothing to trip up my
own, along the long diameter of the long oval room, if sometimes the
fancy seizes me to walk up and down there for hours alone, listening to
the 'voices' that are not 'from without.'

At the end opposite to the oriel, I have just had placed an organ, the
twin of the new one at the Music Hall, except that the faces on the
pipes are beautiful, and do not look as if it hurt them to pipe. The
world may be too small; but the organ cannot possibly be too large.
Malibran, Jenny Lind, or Mrs. Mott usually sings to it of an evening,
accompanied by Franz, Schubert, or Mendelssohn; or Beethoven drops in to
play one of his symphonies. Sunday nights, Handel performs upon it
regularly for a choir composed of Vaughan, Herbert, the minister who
chants 'Calm on the listening ear of night,' Madame Guyon, and Sarah
Adams. Between their hymns, Robertson preaches a sermon and reads from
the liturgy of King's Chapel. This service is designed as a special
easement to the consciences and stomachs alike of those oppressed
Christians, whom modern customs and physical laws impel, of an
afternoon, to be dining and digesting precisely at the hours during
which their pastors are unaccountably and unjustifiably in the habit of
preaching.

The books upon the shelves, last not least, are less numerous than
choice. Among them still are to be found the most masterly writings of
the most masterly minds in the three learned professions, and the
noblest treatises on the nobler of the arts and sciences. There are many
'chronicles of eld,' which, if not true, as the Frenchman said, at any
rate '_méritent bien de l'être_.' There are such few fictions as bear
the stamp of much individual thought, character, and observation.
Especially there is a great deal of biography; for biography is the
great, all-embracing epic of humanity.

Two suits of armor stand on guard, one on each side, by each
well-assorted bookcase. I always think it prudent to warn my incautious
visitors that these are _automata_, wound up and set to deal a box with
their gauntleted hands on each ear of each disorderly wight who puts a
book where it does not belong.

Below my library, and beyond my courtyard, is a boat in which I row
myself out in warm weather to visit my friends along the coast. When I
ply the oar, the crab-fishery is unproductive, droughts prevail, and I
am not often upset or drowned.

In my stable are sometimes to be found, eating unmingled oats, two tame
ponies, Mattapony and Poniatowski. They take my invalid acquaintance out
on airings in the daytime, and my lingering guests home at a reasonable
hour in the evening. The coachman thinks it is good for the horses to be
out in bad weather. He loves to wash the coach. For my own use, I keep a
large dapple-gray, an ex-charger of the purest blood. He has the
smoothest canter and the finest mouth that I ever felt; but, with decent
regard to appearances, and my private preferences, expressed or
understood, he never fails to prance in a manner to strike awe and
terror into all beholders, for full five minutes every time I mount him.

In the common world, I myself am, I trust, often amiable--always in some
respects exemplary. In my castle, I am always all that I ought to
be--all that I wish to be. I am as stately as Juno, as beautiful as
Adonis, as elegant as Chesterfield, as edifying as Mrs. Chapone, as
eloquent as Burke, as noble as Miss Nightingale, as perennial as the
Countess of Desmond, and as robust as Dr. Windship. I also understand
everything but entomology and numismatology; and if I do not understand
them, the only reason is that, as the dear little boys say, 'I _doe_
want to.'

The blossom-end of the day I keep to myself in my castle. I spend all
the mornings alone in the library writing--_calamo currente_, like one
of the heroines of the author of 'Ohone'--the most admirable romances
and poems of the age. People very seldom call to see me. When they do,
they go away again directly on hearing that I am engaged, without as
much as sending in a message. My porter has Fortunatus's purse, and is
giving discreet largesses, in collusion with the agent of the Provident
Association, to the less opulent of the beggars who apply for my
pecuniary aid, while I am providing above for the wants of those who
crave my higher wealth. So that really the only drawback to the pleasure
enjoyed by me at such times, is the idea of the frightful quarrels which
must arise, as soon as I put anything to the press, between the
booksellers, who stand ready to contend with one another for the honor
of publishing it. The very first novel I ever completed led to a duel
between the Montague and Capulet of the trade, in which each party must
have lost his life but for the strenuous interposition of Noah
Worcester. The fear of a repetition of that scene is all which withholds
me from more frequently answering the importunate calls of the public to
appear before them. Matters were simultaneously almost as bad between
Birket Foster and Darley. But I made a compromise there, by promising
that, the next time I got out an edition, I would get out another, and
that of the two each artist should illustrate one. Each eagerly agreed
to this arrangement, naturally feeling sure that such a comparison would
forever establish his own superiority.

Did I say there was but one drawback to my pleasure? There is one more.
It is the idea of the monotonous uniformity with which the Reviews will
eulogize me. They cannot say a word of commendation beyond what is
strictly true, I am fully aware; and I am not obliged to read any more
of it than I please. Still it may appear extravagant to the very few yet
unacquainted with the merits of my works.

Of an evening I am usually at home to visitors; and three times every
winter I give the young people a ball. It breaks up at twelve. I provide
none but the lightest wines. Nor do I encourage the 'round dances.' I
really cannot. Those who do not think it right to join in them would
either do so against their consciences, or feel left out and forlorn;
pretty girls would get overheated, tumbled, and torn, and carry about
the marks of black arms on their delicate waists; and youths,
unsurpassed in the natural nobleness of their port and presence, would
make ridiculous faces in their well-founded anxiety lest they should
lose the time or meet with collisions. But I give them, to make such
amends as I can, plenty of room, pure air, neither hot nor cold, and
flowers in abundance. Soyer furnishes their supper; Strauss and Labitzky
play for them; and they are in a measure consoled for their privations
by seeing and hearing how uncommonly handsome they look to the end of
the evening. The only qualifications I require for admission to the
entertainment are, that the candidates shall be generally acquainted
with one another, respectable in character, tasteful in dress, happy and
kind in their looks, and well-mannered enough to show that they have
assembled to give and receive as much innocent pleasure as they can.

Good talkers and good listeners only are invited to my dinner parties. I
give one every Wednesday. It is a pleasant thing to look forward to
through the first half of the week, and to look back upon through the
last.

My cook likes it. She is the complement to the unhappy gentleman who had
'the temperament of genius without genius.' She has the genius without
the temperament.

Part of my waiters are the attendant hands formerly engaged in the
service of the White Cat. They are always gloved, and never spill nor
break anything. Others, who are dumb, carry everything needed safely to
and fro between table and kitchen.

The walls of my dining room are hung with portraits of all of my
presentable ancestors, from the time of Apelles down to that of Copley.
There are not too many of them to leave room for some Dutch paintings of
fruit, game, and green-grocers' shops, for whets to the hunger.

My responsibility, with regard to the banquet, begins and ends with
seeing, as I never fail to do, that each of the banqueters has a
generally agreeable and peculiarly congenial companion. As for myself, I
maintain that a host has his privileges; and I always place the Reverend
Sydney Smith very near my right hand. On my left, I enjoy a variety. The
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table is sometimes so kind as to grace that
corner of my dinner table. So is a gentleman who was once two years
before the mast as an uncommon sailor; and so is Sir Lainful, and a
child from a neighboring college town, whose society is better than that
of most men.

Nothing is more promotive of digestion than laughter. I regret that my
experience does not enable me to speak quite so favorably of choking. By
means of the latter, my bright career was, on the very first of this
series of festivities, nearly brought to a premature close. But as upon
that occasion it was impossible for me to stop laughing, so likewise was
it impossible for me to stop living. Some sort of action of the lungs
was kept up, and complete asphyxia prevented; and, having smiled myself
nearly to death, I smiled myself back to life again. Ever since, my
_convives_, apprised of this mortal frailty of mine, time their remarks
more prudently, and allow me to take alternately a joke and a morsel.

Sir Walter Scott always sits at the farther end of the table. He is the
best talker that I ever heard, but not so good for dinner as he is for
luncheon, because what he says is too interesting, and takes away one's
appetite; nor for supper either, because he makes one dream. I always
contrive that the more plethoric of my guests shall take their seats
near him.

_I_ could never be tired of Macaulay; but he contradicts people, and
once made two ladies cry. They were introduced to me by an author to
whom I owe much enjoyment, Miss Wetherell, of the State of New York. One
was the bride of the Reverend John Humphreys, and the other Mrs. Guy
Carleton. To be sure, I did not see why they should cry--unless from
habit; but still, he ought not to have made them.

After dinner, those who show no signs of having talked themselves out,
are rewarded and encouraged by being privately invited to prolong their
stay, and meet a few other guests in the library.

Shakspeare always appears there among the first, collected and calm, but
whether happy or not, his manner does not show. With regard both to his
past and present life, his reserve is impenetrable. Like a mocking bird,
he utters himself in so many different strains, that I can seldom make
out which is most his own, except when he will sing one of his little
lyrics; when, I must say, I never heard so sweet and rich a voice but
that of Milton on such occasions, or those of Shelley's skylark and
cloud. But yet, whether this voice of his own says that the heart out of
which it comes is most glad or sad, I never can distinguish.

Dante comes with him, as tall, and, I think, as strong a man; but 'Pace'
is still upon his lips and not upon his brow. He complains that heaven
is a melancholy place to him. He has become better acquainted with
Beatrice, and finds her not more beautiful than the rest of the angels,
and otherwise rather a commonplace spirit.

To Goethe I usually have myself excused. To borrow a little slang from
the critics, he 'draws' uncommonly well, especially when he draws
portraits. But I do not care to have my eye trained much by an artist
who has such an infirmity of color that he does not know black from
white.

Schiller meets with many a welcome, and rarely a heartier one than when
he brings his Wilhelm Tell or Jungfrau. I should be glad to ask some of
those who are more intimate with him than I am, whether he is not a good
deal like three wise men, whose plays Socrates and I used to go to see
performed at Athens, two or three thousand years ago, when I was there.
Further, I should be glad to ask whether it would not be better if, in
one respect, he were more like them still. As he at least has seemed to
me to do, they threw the strength of their invention into two or three
impersonations; but as he sometimes does, they always--to steal a term
from the nearest grocery--lumped all the merely necessary and accessary
people, and called them simply 'Chorus.' Thus the wise men's ingenuities
and our memories were spared the trouble of assigning and remembering a
host of insignificant names; and there was no looking back to the
_dramatis personæ_, or _dramatos prosopa_, as we called them then, to
find out _who was who_.

A Government officer sometimes reports himself at my gates from Rydal,
with a washing tub of ink on castors, which he pushes about with him
wherever he goes, and in which, as in a Claude-Lorraine mirror, he
contemplates everything that he can both on earth and above. He is
constantly employed in fishing in it with a quill for ideas; and as
often as he catches one, even if it is half drowned, my door-keeper
opens to him.

Lady Geraldine was one of my most constant guests of an evening. But
after her courtship and marriage, she was too apt to bring in her
husband. I received him cordially enough two or three times,
particularly when he came with 'the good news from Ghent.' But on other
occasions his conversation was so far from agreeable, so unintelligible,
or, 'not to put too fine a point upon it,' unedifying, that at last my
porter was obliged to hand him out for immediate chastisement.[5] He
never came again. I do not quite see why not; for, if others are willing
to take pains for his good, he certainly should be no less so.

Mrs. Stowe does honor to one of the most honorable places in the
assembly--her head crowned with an everlasting glory by the spirit of
Uncle Tom.

Poor Charlotte Bronté is always present. She looks happy at last, with a
happiness that is not of this world; and if her laurels are but earthly
laurels, I often fancy that in the hand which smoothed her sisters'
deathbeds, I can discern a heavenly palm. There are not many secular
writers whom I would not turn away, if need were, to make room for her.
If I do not always admire her characters, I do her mind. I do not
altogether like her stories; but I want words to express my appreciation
of the way in which she tells them.

I may state in this place, as well as in any, that--an enlightened
conservative in all things--I always hold myself in readiness to
receive, with marked distinction, intellectual women, who 'keep to their
sphere,' such as Miss Mitchell, whose sphere is the celestial globe,
Miss Austin, whose sphere is the _beau monde_, and Miss Blackwell, whose
sphere is the pill.

Cromwell, or Frederick the Great either, would have secured a standing
invitation for Carlyle, I dare say; but it is impossible for me to
overlook his present state of politics. I have little doubt that it fell
upon him as a Nemesis, in the first place for writing bad English, and
secondly for daring to 'damn with faint praise' the loyal, generous,
joyous, chivalrous, religious soldier, Frederick, Baron de la
Motte-Fouqué, and prince of romance. When the latter presents himself
for admission my castle needs short siege. The drawbridge falls before
the summons; and when I see him cross my threshold with his lovely and
noble children, Ondine and Sintram, I should be almost too happy, if I
were not afraid of his being affronted by the mischievous humor of
Cervantes.

For Cervantes will make his way in now and then. It is impossible
utterly to banish so much originality, elegance, and grace as his, even
if the fun which accompanies them is sometimes too broad; and, when he
comes to see me, he is always on his very best behavior. Sir Thomas
Browne came once; but I thought he talked too much about himself; and
scarcely anybody seemed to know him.

Hazlitt brought me a letter of introduction from the Emperor Napoleon. I
was not inclined to think much of either of them; but I knew Hazlitt was
a friend of Lamb's; and I have a regard for Lamb, on account of his
regard for his sister. So my porter asked Mr. Hazlitt to walk in; and so
Mr. Hazlitt did. Presently I heard him say, in an aside to Mrs. Jameson,
that women were usually very stupid; if not by nature, by education and
principle. The next time he called I happened to be rather particularly
engaged in writing a review of him. Nobody ever heard him say anything
afterward.

Of course, I single out merely a few even of the 'representative men and
women' among my guests, and conveniences and luxuries in my
establishment. If I told over the tithe of them, I should become
diffuse; but if there is any one thing for which, more than for any
other thing, my writings are remarkable, that one thing[6] is a
thrice-condensed conciseness--in my castle in the air.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Land recently reclaimed from the Back Bay, near the foot of Beacon
street, in which the richer citizens of Boston are continually building
and furnishing the most showy houses.

[5] I was made a convert to that excellent officer, Corporal Punishment,
by the 'happy effects,' as medical writers say of blisters, thereby
brought about in the case of a divine of tender years, who had got at
his Bible through the medium of German (not Luther's).

Taking for his text the first verse of Genesis, he paraphrased it: 'In
the beginning, all things projected themselves from within outward, and
evolved a Final Cause out of the depths of their individual
consciousness.' As soon as he had got through his discourse and
gratefully asked a blessing on all that we had 'learned and taught,' the
sexton, who apparently entertained unusually high and comprehensive view
of the duties of his calling, attended the preacher to the vestry.
Thence presently issued cries indicative not only of remorse, but of
some kind of physical distress. The two are often connected as
intimately as mysteriously in the discipline of the visible world,
although we are often assured by those who must know, that they have
nothing whatever to do with each other In the invisible. On the
reappearance of the offender, as he meekly wiped his eyes and passed
down the aisle, he was heard, in a broken voice, inquiring of the
deacons where a Hebrew dictionary could be bought; and I have since been
credibly informed that before he arrived at maturity he had learned a
good deal.

Now anybody can read German; in fact, a great many persons seem wholly
unable to stop. But if we do not keep a theological boy to read our
Greek and Hebrew for us, then what do we keep one for? Or, to make the
question intelligible to those among us who speak the Sweden-borgian
tongue, what 'uses does he perform?'




THE DEVIL'S CAÑON IN CALIFORNIA.


This wonderful ravine is more generally known under the name of the
_Geysers of California_, an ambitious misnomer, which associates it with
the grand Geysers of Iceland, and has given rise to erroneous ideas in
regard to the nature and action of the springs it contains.

The prevalent idea of a geyser is a hot fountain, sometimes quiescent,
but at others rising in turbulent eruption. The mere existence of a hot
spring does not imply a 'geyser,' for, if such were the case, their
number would be very great, hot springs in many parts of the world being
frequent if not general accompaniments of volcanic action.
Unquestionably, the Geysers of Iceland, the 'Strokr,' and the spring of
the Devil's Cañon, the 'Witches' Caldron', are the results of volcanic
action; but that action differs essentially in its operation. The
'Strokr' and the 'Great Geyser' are intermittent, and are accounted for
by the siphon theory: the 'Witches' Caldron' is always full and boiling,
and no difference is seen in it from one year's end to another.

It is not, moreover, a fountain, but a basin in the hillside, in which a
black and muddy spring is always bubbling without overflowing.

The great eruptions of the Icelandic Geysers are, it has been observed,
accounted for by the siphon theory; in other words, this theory supposes
the existence of a chamber in the heated earth, not quite full of water,
and communicating with the upper air by means of a pipe, whose lower
orifice is _at the side_ of the cavern and _below_ the surface of the
water. The water, being kept boiling by the intense heat, generates
steam, which soon accumulates such force as to discharge the contents of
the pond into the air through the narrow vent, or, at least enough to
allow of the escape of the superfluous steam. In the Great Geyser of
Iceland this eruption occurs with tremendous power, lasting only a few
moments, when, all the volume of water falling back into the pool, it
sinks much below its ordinary level, and remains quiescent for several
days, until a fresh creation of steam repeats the phenomenon.

'The Witches' Caldron,' which is the 'Great Geyser' of California, on
the contrary, never rises into the air; the subterranean pond of which
it is the safety valve, may be considered to rise in it, as in a pipe,
to the surface. It is not necessary to suppose a siphon; a straight
pipe, communicating with the air, will account for all that is peculiar
to this hot spring.

Before attempting to describe the wonders of the 'Devil's Cañon,' it may
be well to give some account of the Geysers of Iceland, to render this
essential difference in character the more striking, especially as
numerous theories, professing to account for the Californian phenomena,
have been propounded by the people of that State, none of which are
thoroughly satisfactory to any one who has examined them attentively.

The following is taken from 'Letters from High Latitudes,' which
appeared in 1861, and is only one of many accounts by Iceland
travellers. Those interested in these matters will derive much
information from the sketches of Mr. J. Ross Browne, which have had many
readers through _Harper's Magazine_. We quote:

     'I do not know that I can give you a better notion of the
     appearance of the place than by saying that it looked as if for
     about a quarter of a mile the ground had been honey-combed by
     disease into numerous sores and orifices; not a blade of grass grew
     on its hot, inflamed surface, which consisted of
     unwholesome-looking, red, livid clay, or crumbled shreds and shards
     of slough-like incrustations. Naturally enough, our first impulse
     on dismounting was to scamper off to the Great Geyser. As it lay at
     the farthest end of the congeries of hot springs, in order to reach
     it we had to run the gauntlet of all the pools of boiling water and
     scalding quagmires of soft clay that intervened, and consequently
     arrived on the spot with our ankles nicely poulticed. But the
     occasion justified our eagerness.

     'A smooth, silicious basin, seventy-two feet in diameter and four
     feet deep, wide at the bottom, as in washing basins on board a
     steamer, stood before us, brimful of water just upon the simmer;
     while up into the air above our heads rose a great column of vapor,
     looking as if it was going to turn into the Fisherman's Genie. The
     ground above the brim was composed of layers of incrusted silica
     like the outside of an oyster shell, sloping gently down on all
     sides from the edge of the basin.

     'As the baggage train with our tents and beds had not yet arrived,
     we fully appreciated our luck in being treated to so dry a night;
     and having eaten everything we could lay hands on, we sat quietly
     down to chess, and _coffee brewed in geyser water_; when suddenly
     it seemed as if beneath our very feet a quantity of subterranean
     cannon were going off: the whole earth shook, and Sigurdr, starting
     to his feet, upset the chess board (I was just beginning to get the
     best of the game), and started off at full speed toward the great
     basin. By the time we reached its brim, however, the noise had
     ceased, and all we could see was a slight movement in the centre,
     as if an angel had passed by and troubled the water. Irritated by
     this false alarm, we determined to revenge ourselves by going and
     tormenting the Strokr.

     'The Strokr--or the _Churn_--you must know, is an unfortunate
     geyser, with so little command over his temper and his stomach that
     you can get a _rise_ out of him whenever you like. All that is
     necessary is to collect a quantity of sods, and throw them down his
     funnel. As he has no basin to protect him from these liberties, you
     can approach to the very edge of the pipe, about five feet in
     diameter, and look down at the boiling water, which is perpetually
     seething at the bottom. In a few minutes the dose of turf you have
     administered begins to disagree with him; he works himself up into
     an awful passion--tormented by the qualms of incipient sickness; he
     groans and hisses, and boils up and spits at you with malicious
     vehemence, until at last, with a roar of mingled pain and rage, he
     throws up into the air a column of water forty feet high, which
     carries with it all the sods that have been chucked in, and
     scatters them scalded and half digested at your feet. So irritated
     has the poor thing's stomach become by the discipline it has
     undergone, that long after all foreign matter has been thrown off,
     it goes on retching and spluttering, until, at last, nature is
     exhausted, when, sobbing and sighing to itself, it sinks back into
     the bottom of its den. Put into the highest spirits by the success
     of this performance, we turned to examine the remaining springs. I
     do not know, however, that any of the rest are worthy of any
     particular mention. They all resemble in character the two I have
     described, the only difference being that they are infinitely
     smaller, and of much less power and importance.

     'As our principal object in coming so far was to see an eruption of
     the Great Geyser, it was of course necessary to wait his pleasure;
     in fact, our movements entirely depended upon his. For the next two
     or three days, therefore, like pilgrims round some ancient shrine,
     we patiently kept watch, but he scarcely deigned to vouchsafe us
     the slightest manifestation of his latent energies. Two or three
     times the cannonading we heard immediately after our arrival
     recommenced--and once an eruption to the height of about ten feet
     occurred; but so brief was its duration, that by the time we were
     on the spot, although the tent was not eighty yards distant, all
     was over; as after every effort of the fountain, the water in the
     basin mysteriously ebbed back into the funnel. This performance,
     though unsatisfactory in itself, gave us an opportunity of
     approaching the mouth of the pipe, and looking down its scalded
     gullet. In an hour afterward the basin was brimful as ever.

     'On the morning of the fourth day a cry from the guides made us
     start to our feet, and with one common impulse rush toward the
     basin. The usual subterranean thunders had already commenced. A
     violent agitation was disturbing the centre of the pool. Suddenly a
     dome of water lifted itself up to the height of eight or ten
     feet--then burst and fell; immediately after which a shining liquid
     column, or rather sheaf of columns, wreathed in robes of vapor,
     sprang into the air, and in a succession of jerking leaps, each
     higher than the last, flung their silver crests against the sky.
     For a few minutes the fountain held its own, then all at once
     appeared to lose its ascending energy. The unstable waters
     faltered--drooped--fell, 'like a broken purpose,' back upon
     themselves, and were immediately sucked down into the recesses of
     their pipe.

     'The spectacle was certainly magnificent; but no description can
     give an idea of its most striking features. The enormous wealth of
     water, its vitality, its hidden power, the illimitable breadth of
     sunlit vapor, rolling out in exhaustless profusion--all combined to
     make one feel the stupendous energy of nature's slightest movement.

     'And yet I do not believe that the exhibition was so fine as some
     that have been seen: from the first burst upward to the moment the
     last jet retreated into the pipe, was no more than a space of seven
     or eight minutes, and at no moment did the crown of the column
     reach higher than sixty or seventy feet above the surface of the
     basin. Now early travellers talk of three hundred feet, which must,
     of course, be fabulous; but many trustworthy persons have judged
     the eruptions at two hundred feet, while well-authenticated
     accounts--when the elevation of the jet has been actually
     measured--make it to have attained a height of upward of one
     hundred feet.'

Such are the peculiar characteristics of the Geysers of Iceland,
differing in almost every essential point from the hot springs, so
called, in California. We propose to show that the phenomena of the
Devil's Cañon appear in other parts of the world in connection with some
known volcano, which has at some period in history been in active
operation, and that there is strong reason to believe that they can be
explained by the sinking of cold water into the earth, in a country rich
in salts and minerals, and encountering a volcanic focus, from which the
water is discharged hot and strongly impregnated with the salts through
which it has passed. It was Humboldt's opinion that hot springs
generally originated thus, for he says in 'Kosmos':

     'A very striking proof of the origin of hot springs by the sinking
     of cold meteoric water into the earth, and by its contact with a
     volcanic focus, is afforded by the volcano of Jorullo. When, in
     September, 1759, Jorullo was suddenly elevated into a mountain
     eleven hundred and eighty-three feet above the surrounding plain,
     two small rivers, the Rio de Cuitimba and the Rio de San Pedro,
     disappeared, and some time afterward burst forth again during
     violent shocks of an earthquake, as hot springs, whose temperature
     I found, in 1803, to be 186.4° Fahr.'

The most marked characteristics of the springs of the Devil's Cañon are,
the small space in which they are all contained; the profusion and
variety of mineral salts, and the proximity of different minerals,
almost flowing into each other, but never mingling; the number and
different forces of the steam jets on every side; and the remarkable
appearance of the soil.

The approach to the Devil's Cañon is through a section of country
bearing evident traces of volcanic action, and rich in mineral springs,
of which the most important are those of the Napa Valley. First among
these, at the greatest distance from the volcano (if we may be allowed
to call it so), is the soda spring of Napa, a cold spring, greatly
resembling in flavor the water of the Congress Spring at Saratoga.
Passing up the Napa Valley, we find a tepid sulphur spring near St.
Hellon's, known as the 'White Sulphur Spring,' being strongly
impregnated with that mineral, and tasting much like the famous 'White
Sulphur' of Virginia. Its waters, however, are slightly warm, and,
although stronger than those of the 'Warm Springs' of the Blue Ridge, a
basin as clear and buoyant as that could easily be made.

This spring is owned by Mr. Alstrom, of the Lick House, at San
Francisco, and, being in a charming valley, is fast becoming the most
popular watering place on the Pacific coast. About twelve miles beyond
the Sulphur Springs are the 'Hot Springs,' which resemble the
description just given of the Icelandic Geysers--the little
geysera--there being the same quaking bog around them, which emits steam
to the tread, and the surface being scabby, like an old salt meadow
under a midsummer sun. These waters are scalding hot, but are pure,
excepting a trace of iron. If they have been analyzed, the writer has
not seen the results.

The Devil's Cañon lies about fifteen miles beyond the Hot Springs, and
in the heart of a wild, mountainous country, difficult of access, and
barren of vegetation, except of the most hardy character, such as the
manzanita and Californian oak. Molten mercury, pure and rich, is found
in the crevices of the rocks. Quartz and basalt are freely met with, and
on Geyser Peak disintegrating lava.

Here the road attains an elevation of three thousand feet, and on either
hand are broad and fertile valleys, with rivers winding through them,
the Russian River valley and the Napa being the most beautiful beneath,
while before us are gorges and barren hills, that rise above each other
in picturesque confusion.

The first view of the Devil's Cañon is obtained from one of these
desolate hills. At our very feet, fully two thousand feet below,
seemingly a sheer descent, rises a little column of smoke or vapor, and
the opposing hills, which rise abruptly to the height of a thousand
feet, seem cleft by a narrow chasm, the sides of which and the
neighboring hillside seem to have been burnt over by fire, and baked of
many colors, like the neighborhood of an old brick kiln. Any one who has
seen the island of St. Helena will at once recognize it as the same
phenomenon which is famous in the 'Hangings,' the blasted precipice by
the side of Longwood Farm, overhanging the valley which Napoleon chose
for his last resting place. This striking similarity is all the more
worthy of note from its occurring there in a purely volcanic island,
every inch of which is decomposed or crumbling lava or lava rock. At the
'Hangings' the soil has the appearance of having been slowly roasted,
long after the central fires which produced the island had lost their
energy.

Descending the mountain we find ourselves on the brink of a precipice,
overhanging a turbulent stream about two hundred feet below, and facing
the ravine or cañon, which contains these wonders, and which is smoking
incessantly throughout its entire length.

Just at this commanding point a hotel has been erected, from the portico
of which in the early morning we can watch the grand columns of vapor
opposite, before they are shorn of a portion of their splendor by the
rising sun.

It is possible to walk the entire length of the ravine, surrounded by
jets of steam, and little bubbling springs of mineral water; some
hissing, some sputtering, others roaring, and others shrieking; the
ground being soft and hot, your stick sinking into the clayey ooze, and
a puff of spiteful steam following it as withdrawn; your shoes white or
yellow, as you tread the chalk or the sulphur banks, and your feet
burning with the hot breath of the sulphur blasts below.

If you are not stifled by the sulphur fumes above, be thankful; and when
at last you reach the 'Mountain of Fire' at the head of the ravine, and
look back upon the perils of your upward journey, you think of poor
Christian in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Bunyan in his dreams
never imagined a more horrible place.

It is a vale of wonders--Nature's laboratory, where chemistry is to be
studied. The name and number of the springs is 'legion,' Hot Sulphur,
Warm Sulphur, Blue Sulphur, White Sulphur, Alum, Salt, and nobody knows
all the mineral compounds. You may stand with one foot in a cold bath
and another in a hot one--if you can. With one hand you may dip up alum
water, as bitter and pure as chemistry can compound it, and with the
other sulphur water, that shall sicken your very soul. If you have
rheumatism, bathe in the splendid sulphur baths or the Indian Spring; if
your eyes are weak, use the eye-water, which beats any ever charmed by
magical incantations.

In the midst of this ravine, into which so many springs are emptying
themselves, is a little stream, which, starting from the head of the
cañon quite cool and pure, receives all their mingled waters, and
gradually increases in heat and abominable taste, until at last it
defies description.

Its stones and the rocks that line its banks, owing probably to the
protection of the cooler water, are tolerably firm in texture, all other
parts of the ravine being burned to a powder which crumbles in the hand,
or, when mixed with water, forms an ooze or clay. Many of these stones
by the sides of this little stream are banded with colors like the
Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior (to compare great things with small),
and probably from the same cause. These beautiful cliffs, the
Schwee-archibi-kung of the Indians, are colored by percolations of
surface-water, by which the coloring matter of various minerals and
acids is brought to the face of the precipice, and it is reasonable to
suppose that the drainage of the mountains behind the Devil's Cañon,
sinking to similar beds of minerals, is thrown out by the volcano below
in the shape of steam or mineral springs. It is impossible to drill a
hole two feet deep in the side of the ravine without provoking a little
jet of steam. Now, Daubeny, who is the highest authority on volcanoes,
states that the greater part of their ascending vapor is mere steam, and
that in 'Pantellaria (a volcanic island near Sicily) steam issues from
many parts of this insular mountain, and hot springs gush forth from it
which form together a lake six thousand feet in circumference.'

Similar jets of steam and hot water are observed at St. Lucia, near the
crater Oalibou, where also there is a continual formation of sulphur
from the condensation of the vapors, a phenomenon which is lavishly
displayed in the Devil's Cañon, and in fact around most known volcanoes.
The writer observed it fully two miles from the active volcano of
Kilawea, forming a fine sulphur bed, and a body of steam so dense that
rheumatic natives of Hawaii were in the habit of using it as a vapor
bath.

The jets of steam in the cañon are of the most curious variety. One,
honored by the name of the 'Devil's Steamboat,' is quite a formidable
affair, high up on the hillside, and puffing uninterruptedly, and so
powerfully that the steam is invisible for at least five feet from the
vent. The ground about it is too soft to permit approach, and the heat
too great to tempt it. On a frosty morning, just before sunrise, it is a
fine sight. This, however, is only one of hundreds. It would be imagined
that if they all came from the same source, they would puff in some sort
of unison--that the beatings of the mighty heart below would be felt
simultaneously in every pulse; but the fact is quite the reverse. No
tune or concord is preserved by any two in the cañon; one moves with the
quiet regularity of respiration, while the next is puffing with the
nervous anxiety of a little high-pressure tug boat. It affords endless
amusement to listen to their endless variety of complaint; some are
restless, some spiteful, and some angry, while others sound as merrily
as a teakettle, or beat a jolly 'rub-a-dub,' 'rataplan,' that makes a
man's soul merry to hear. In fact, there is a little retreat just out of
the cañon, styled the Devil's Kitchen, where the pot and the saucepan,
the gridiron and the teakettle are visible to men gifted with
imaginations strong enough to grasp the unseen.

The great feature of the cañon, which has given it the unmerited name of
'Geyser,' is the Witches' Caldron, a small cavity in the hillside,
seemingly running back into the hill at an angle of forty-five degrees,
filled with villanous black mud in unceasing commotion.

How different from the pellucid basin of the Great Geyser! Lord Dufferin
tells us that he '_brewed his coffee_ in the Geyser water.'

The mud boils like the angry lava-waves of a volcano; it is always of a
very high temperature, and occasionally runs over the rim of the basin,
but never rises violently into the air. It looks like black sulphur
(bitumen), and has a brimstone smell. Certainly it is a diabolical pit,
and worth coming far to see, but it shows none of the phenomena which
tempt travellers to Iceland.

It more closely resembles the salses or mud volcanoes of Central and
South America, and is a phenomenon very common on the sides of
volcanoes. As far back as the time of Pliny it was observed that 'in
Sicily eruptions of wet mud precede the glowing (lava) stream.'

Humboldt recognizes in the 'salses, or small mud volcanoes, a transition
from the changing phenomena presented by the eruptions of vapor and
thermal springs, to the more powerful and awful activity of the streams
of lava that flow from volcanic mountains.'

Although the recent discovery of the Devil's Cañon in California makes
it impossible to say at what time, if ever, this smothered volcano may
have been more active, we have accounts of analogous phenomena in
Central America and San Salvador, in the Ausoles of Ahuachapan, near the
volcano of Izalco, which were described in 1576 by Licenciado Palacio,
and also in what was called the 'Infernillo,' on the side of the volcano
of San Vicente, which was mentioned by the Spanish _Conquistadores_. We
also know something of the subsequent history of these volcanoes; for M.
Arago has remarked that

     'The volcano of Izalco is extremely active. Among its eruptions may
     be cited those of 1798, 1805, 1807, and 1825. On the occasion of
     the last eruption the course of the river Tequisquillo was altered
     to the extent of several kilomètres.'

Also:

     'The volcano of San Vicente, called also Sacatecoluca, was
     distinguished in 1643 by a very violent eruption which covered all
     the surrounding country with ashes and sulphur. In January, 1835, a
     new eruption of this volcano destroyed many towns and villages.'

Now let us see what old Palacio says of the springs on the side of this
fearful volcano of Izalco:

     'The springs, which the Indians call 'Hell,' are all within the
     space of a gunshot across, and each makes a different noise. One
     imitates the sound of a fuller's mill; another that of a forge, and
     a third a man snoring. The water in some is turbid; in some clear;
     in others red, yellow, and various colors. They all leave deposits
     of corresponding colors. Collectively the springs form the Rio
     Caliente, running underground for a quarter of a league, and so hot
     on reaching the surface as to take the skin off a man's feet.
     Double the range of a musket shot from these springs are others,
     which flow from a rock fifteen feet long by nine feet broad, split
     in the centre, sending out with water columns of smoke and steam,
     with a fearful sound, distinguishable for half a league.'

A later visitor has given an account of the same springs, which may be
thus condensed:

     'Not far from Apaneca and in the vicinity of the town of
     Ahuachapan, are some remarkable thermal springs, called _Ausoles_.
     They emit a dense white steam from a semi-fluid mass of mud and
     water in a state of ebullition, which continually throws off large
     and heavy bubbles. [The mud bubbles of the Witches' Caldron are
     quite as extraordinary.] They occupy a considerable space, the
     largest not less than one hundred yards in circumference. In this
     one the water is exceedingly turbid, of a light brown color, and
     boils furiously. The waters in the other caldrons vary in color,
     and form deposits of the finest clay of every shade. Steam ascends
     in a dense white cloud, shutting out the sun; the ground is all
     hot, soon becoming insupportable. In places a little jet of steam
     and smoke rises fiercely from a hole in the hills, while in others
     boiling water rushes out as if forced from a steam engine. The
     water possesses varying mineral qualities.

     'All these springs are on the side of the volcano Apaneca, one of a
     cluster of which Izalco is the most active, and Santa Anna the
     mother volcano.'

These accounts would be equally correct if applied to the Devil's Cañon;
but the following appears to surpass it in the power of the volcano
below. It is condensed from a description by the same traveller, whose
name cannot be ascertained:

     'On the north side of the volcano of San Vicente (a water volcano
     occupying the geographical centre of San Salvador, seven thousand
     feet above the sea), at the head of a considerable ravine, and near
     the base of the mountain, is a place called 'El Infernillo.'

     'For the space of several hundred yards, rills of hot water spring
     from the ground, which looks red and burned, and there are numerous
     orifices sending out spires of steam with a fierce vigor like the
     escape of a steam engine. The principal discharge is from an
     orifice thirty feet broad, opening beneath a ledge of igneous
     rocks, nearly on a level with the bottom of the ravine. Smoke,
     steam, and hot water are sent out with incredible velocity for a
     distance of forty yards, as if from a force pump, with a roar as of
     a furnace in full blast. The noise is intermittent (although never
     ceasing entirely) and as regular as respiration. All around are
     salts, crystallized sulphur, and deposits of clay of every shade.
     There is no vegetation in the vicinity, and the stream for a mile
     is too hot for the hand to bear.'

Such a striking similarity in phenomena at so great a distance apart, in
connection with active or dormant volcanoes, would seem to be enough to
prove the connection in any candid mind, and utterly refute the idle
theory that all this heat may be produced by the chemical action of
water on beds of sulphates or phosphates just below the surface. The
temperature of the water should be sufficient to show that it comes from
great depths. The writer was unable, from want of a thermometer, to
verify the temperatures of the various springs in the Devil's Cañon, but
was told that they average 201°, and as most of them were boiling, it
appeared not to be far from the truth. Since Arago discovered, in 1821,
that the deepest artesian wells were the hottest, it has been observed
that the hottest springs are the purest; and from their geological
surroundings, many are proved to come from great depths. The Aguas
Calientes de las Trincheras, near Puerto Cabello, issue from _granite_,
at a temperature of 206°; the Aguas de Comaugillas, near Guanaxuato,
from _basalt_, at 205°. To more fully establish the volcanic origin of
the phenomena of California and Central America, if such a thing were
necessary, it can, however, be shown that similar phenomena are found
around the crater of a volcano in _actual eruption_.

A graphic account of 'White Island,' in the South Pacific, from the pen
of Captain Cracroft, R. N., who visited it with the Governor of New
Zealand, in H. M. S. Niger, speaks of boiling springs, 'geysers,' and
steam-escapes, in connection with a very remarkable active volcano.

As very few are acquainted with this singular island, his description of
his visit is given in full:

                                          'Sunday, _January_ 15, 1862.

     'This morning we were well inside the Bay of Plenty, and as the
     wind declined to a calm, I got steam up, and stood for White
     Island, on which there is a volcano in active operation. The white
     cloud of smoke that always hovers over it was in sight before eight
     o'clock, in shape like a huge palm tree, and at eleven o'clock, H.
     E., the governor, gladly accompanied me ashore, with all the
     officers of the ship that could be spared from duty.

     'As we approached the island, its aspect was of the most singular
     and forbidding description. Except on its northern face, to which
     the sulphurous vapor does not appear to reach, it is utterly
     destitute of vegetation: here and there are a few patches of
     underwood; but in every other direction the island is bald, bleak,
     and furrowed into countless deep-worn ravines. The centre of the
     island has been hollowed out by the crater of the volcano into a
     capacious basin, almost circular, and, excepting to the south,
     where there is a huge cleft or rent, its sides or edges rise almost
     perpendicular full eight hundred feet from the base. After some
     trouble, carefully backing in with the swell, a landing was
     effected on the south side, when a most extraordinary sight was
     displayed to our view. Before us, in the hollow of the basin, was a
     lake of yellow liquid, smoking hot, about a hundred yards in
     diameter, as near as could be guessed. Around this, but chiefly
     toward the north side, were numerous jets of steam spouting out of
     the ground. A strong sulphurous smell pervaded the atmosphere, and
     warned us what was to be expected from a nearer proximity to the
     crater in active operation at the farther end of the lake, to
     which, nothing daunted by its appearance, our party was determined
     to penetrate. Our advance was made cautiously; the surface of the
     ground was in some places soft and yielding, and we knew not to
     what brimstone depths an unwary step might sink us. There were
     little ravines to be crossed, which had to be first carefully
     sounded. As we proceeded on the soft, crustaceous surface,
     diminutive spouts of vapor would spit forth, as if to resent our
     intrusion. In skirting the edge of the lake, its temperature and
     taste were both tested; the former varied with the distance from
     the seething bubbling going on at the extremity; in some places the
     hand could be kept in, but 130° was the highest registered, without
     risk to the thermometer, by Mr. Lawrenson, assistant surgeon: the
     taste may be imagined, but not described!

     'Continuing our advance, the roaring and hissing became louder and
     louder, as though a hundred locomotives were all blowing off
     together, while the steam from the crater and numerous geysers
     surrounding it was emitted in huge volumes, ascending full two
     thousand feet in the air. Most fortunately it was a perfect calm,
     or the fumes of the sulphur would alone have sufficed to stop our
     progress; but there was also every reason to believe, judging from
     the description I have by me of a former visit, that the volcano
     was to-day in a more quiescent state than usual. Everywhere sulphur
     was strewed around, and we had only to enlarge any of the vapor
     holes to obtain it in its pure crystallized state. We were now
     within a few yards of the crater--huge bubbles of boiling mud were
     rising several feet from the surface of the lake--the heat and
     sulphurous vapor were almost insupportable; it was evident that no
     animal life could long exist here. But before leaving this caldron,
     one of the mids, more venturous than the rest, climbed up a small,
     semi-detached hill, and his example being followed, we beheld a
     scene that beggars all description. In full activity a roaring
     fountain shot up into the scorching atmosphere: we deemed this to
     be molten sulphur, but no flame was visible in the daylight; stones
     were thrown in, but they were projected into the air as high as the
     ship's mast-heads. It was a sight never to be forgotten; and we
     retraced our steps to the boats with the satisfaction of having
     been permitted to make a closer examination of this grand natural
     curiosity than any previous visitor. We saw no indication of either
     animal or insect life, and it is not likely that any can exist on
     this island. On the beach, which was composed of large bowlders,
     lay the bones of an enormous whale, and a couple of whale birds
     hovered round the boats as they pulled back to the ship.'

Here we have an account agreeing in every respect, as far as it goes,
with the appearance of the desolate valley known as 'Geyser Cañon,' the
same 'burnt-out' look of the land, the same jets of steam, large and
small, and boiling caldrons of mud.

'The surface of the soil was soft and yielding,' according to the
gallant captain, and the punching of a stick called out spiteful little
jets of steam. It is to be regretted, however, that the observant
officer does not acquaint us with the taste of the waters. Probably one
swallow was enough for him, if it was sulphur water; and he does not
even tell us that, so that it is impossible to say whether the numerous
kinds of salts noticed in California are to be traced here. His
testimony is explicit that these 'geysers' occur on the sides of a great
volcano.[7]

Thus, in conclusion, it will be seen how a comparison of all the
phenomena occurring in the 'Devil's Cañon'--where, without any other
positive proof, we suspect the existence of a deep-seated volcano--with
similar thermal springs and jets of steam on the sides of known
volcanoes, in many and distant parts of the world, either now or at some
recorded time in active operation, drives us irresistibly to the
inference that the so-called 'Geysers' are of similar origin, and only
another manifestation of the dormant energies of the interior of our
globe; now bursting out in lava flames, as on Hecla or Vesuvius, and now
mildly presenting us with a tepid bath.

As to the name of geyser being applied to the Californian phenomena, we
protest against it. A true geyser is a natural hydraulic machine of
magnificent power; it is a spring, to be sure, but a mineral spring is
not necessarily a geyser, and there is as much difference between the
'Geysers of California' and the Strokr or the 'Great Geyser,' as there
is between a squib and a musket-shot. Call the springs AUSOLES, if you
please, like their counterparts of Ahuachapan, or 'give the devil his
due,' and call the place as it was called by its discoverer.

THE DEVIL'S CAÑON is not a bad name for such a diabolical, sulphurous,
hot, and altogether infernal den.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Said the pleader to the judge, 'If there is any one thing which,
more than any other thing, proves the thing, this thing is that thing!'
'Which thing?' said the judge to the pleader.

[7] White Island is in the Bay of Plenty, not far from Auckland, the
government seat of New Zealand, on the more northerly of the two islands
forming the group. According to Mr. George French Angas, whose Travels
in New Zealand are quoted In Dicken's _Household Words_ for October 19,
1850, the neighboring mainland (if the word may be applied to the
principal inland) abounds in hot springs of volcanic origin.

Mr. Angas says:

'I visited the boiling springs which issue from the side of a steep
mountain, called Te Rapa. There were nearly one hundred of them; they
burst out, bubbling from little orifices in the ground, which are not
more than a few inches in diameter, the steam rushes out in clouds with
considerable force: the hillside is covered with them, and a river of
hot water runs down into the lake. The soil around is a red-and-white
clay, strongly impregnated with sulphur and hydrogen gas; pyrites also
occur. Several women were busy cooking baskets of potatoes over some of
the smaller orifices: leaves and ferns were laid over the holes, upon
which the food was placed. They were capitally done.

'About two miles from this place, on the edge of a great swampy flat, I
met with a number of boiling ponds; some of them of very large
dimensions. We forded a river flowing swiftly toward the lake, which is
fed by the snows melting in the valleys of the Tongariro. In many
places, in the bed of this river, the water boils up from the
subterranean springs below, suddenly changing the temperature of the
stream, to the imminent risk of the individual who may be crossing.
Along whole tracts of land I heard the water boiling violently beneath
the crust over which I was treading. It is very dangerous travelling,
for, if the crust should break, scalding to death must ensue. I am told
that the Rotuma natives, who build their houses over the hot springs in
that district, for the sake of constant warmth at night, frequently meet
with accidents of this kind: it has happened that when a party has been
dancing on the floor, the crust has given way, and the convivial
assembly has been suddenly swallowed up in the boiling caldron beneath!
Some of the ponds are ninety feet in circumference, filled with a
transparent pale-blue boiling water, sending up columns of steam.
Channels of boiling water run along the ground in every direction, and
the surface of this calcareous flat around the margin of the boiling
ponds covered with beautiful incrustations of lime and alum, in some
parts forming flat saucer-like figures. Husk of maize, moss, and
branches of vegetable substances were incrusted in the same manner. I
also observed small deep holes, or wells, here and there among the grass
and rushes, from two inches to as many feet in diameter, filled with
boiling mud, that rises in large bubbles as thick as hasty pudding;
these mud pits sent up a strong sulphureous smell. Although the ponds
boiled violently, I noticed small flies walking swiftly, or rather
running on their surface.

The steam that rises from these boiling springs is visible for many
miles, appearing like the jets of a number of steam engines.'--Vol. ii.,
pp. 113, 114, 115.




FLY LEAVES FROM THE LIFE OF A SOLDIER.

PART I.--SCALES.


We were in the _three_-months.

There! I feel as proud of that as one of the Old Guard would have been
in saying: 'I was of the Army of Italy.'

There is but one _three_-months (pronounced with the accent strongly
resting on the numeral adverb, after the Hibernian). All others are
spurious imitations. I refer to the early days of the war: the dark days
that followed the first fall of Sumter, when our Southern friends had
just finished the last volume of the lexicon of slavery, that for so
long a time had defined away our manhood, our national honor, and our
birthright of freedom, with such terrible words as 'coercion,'
'secession,' 'fratricidal war,' 'sovereign States,' and what not; before
we had begun to look without fear even at the title page of the new
Gospel of Liberty: the days when we were mudsills and greasy mechanics,
whose pockets were to be touched: the days, in short, when we were still
inclined to crawl upon our bellies, from the preference arising out of
long and strong habit. Then, you remember, the rebellion was to be
crushed in sixty days. So the President issued his proclamation, of date
the 15th of April, A. D. 1861 (and of the independence of the United
States the _first_), calling out SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND men for ninety
days to do it.

On the same day we were mustered into the service as a part of this
gigantic force of seventy-five thousand, at the bare suggestion of whose
numbers the refractory South was confidently expected to abandon its
rash enterprise, and kindly resume its sway over us. Before the awful
ceremony known as 'mustering in,' we were sixty odd excited young
gentlemen, hailing from and residing in all parts of the country. After
it we were Company N, commanded by Captain John H. Pipes, of the First
Regiment of District of Columbia Volunteers, commanded by Colonel
Charles Diamond, as the muster rolls called us, or the 'American
Sharpshooters,' as we called ourselves.

Major McDuff mustered us in. He did it after this fashion: First he
walked out into the yard of the War Department, where the company stood
at 'parade rest,' or the nearest militia approach thereto, waiting to be
absorbed. Then he had us marched across the yard and halted; then up it;
then down it; then back to the first position; then forward in a line a
few paces; then, by the right flank, into the back yard, where he left,
us, at a 'rest,' for two hours and fifty-three minutes, while he retired
into the War Department building, probably to ascertain if the thing was
regular. Then, at the fifty-fourth minute, or thereabout, after the
second hour, he caused us to be marched into our original position.
After gazing at us uneasily for a few minutes, he proceeded to inspect
our arms with the utmost care: the importance of which manoeuvre will
more fully appear from the fact that they intended to take us, and did
take many of us, _sans_ lock, stock, or barrel. Then he told us that we
were--called into the--service--of the--United States--for--three
months--to serve in the District--not to go beyond the District--under
any circumstances. Then he called the roll, so accurately (never having
seen it before) that nearly all of us recognized our names, and in
hardly more than two and three quarters the time it would have taken the
orderly sergeant to do it. Then we were told to hold up our right hands,
and a stout party, well known to all early volunteers, stepped forward
from wherever he had been before, and, introducing himself by
exclaiming, in solemn and cavernous tones, 'THE FOLLOWING IS THE OATH!'
swore us in. Then, after another short adjournment of half an hour, we
were marched to our barracks.

That was a queer organization, the 1st D.C. Vols., composed as it was of
a cloud of independent companies--thirty-five, or thereabout, in all, I
think--all made up of men from everywhere, largely in the tadpole stage
of Unionism, and all sworn in for service in the District, not to go
beyond the District. Early in May they were organized into eight
battalions of four or five companies each, commanded by
lieutenant-colonels, majors, or the senior captains. Nearly every
company occupied its own separate 'armory' or barracks, and all the
officers and men lived at home when not actually on guard or other duty!

It was an awful feeling that sandwiched the gaps of new-born exultation
at finding ourselves real soldiers--that feeling of a merged identity;
the individual Smith sold for glory at $11 per mensem, and lost, lost in
an aggregate: become only a cog in a little machine connected with a
larger machine that forms part of the great machine called an army. One
thing saved us the full horror of this discovery: we were not bothered
with corps, divisions, brigades, or even greatly with regiments, in
those days, and if individually we were ciphers or merely recurring
decimals, collectively 'our company' was of the first importance; and
this reflection stiffened the breasts of our gray frock coats, and
caused our scales (we wore scales!) to shine again.

_First night_. Everybody wants to be on guard! Think of that, old
soldiers, and grin. The captain details twice as many as are necessary,
to prevent clamor. Some of the more enthusiastic of the disappointed
ones offer to stay at the armory all night, to be on hand in case of
anything happening. We can never be certain about the enemy's crossing
the Long Bridge, you know. The company, guard and all, is drilled
vigorously, in squads, for two hours. Then the unhappy fellows who are
to go home loiter themselves, with many wistful glances, out of the
building. Then the guard plays euchre, reads, reads aloud, sings,
fences, and drills. A few sleepy heads lie down in corners about one
A.M., and are not going to sleep, but nevertheless shortly complain of
being kept awake by the noise. 'Never mind,' growls the melancholy man
of the company; 'won't hear any of this to-morrow night. D----d glad to
go to sleep then.' The melancholy man, now as hereafter, is voted a
bore, but, as I presently discover, turns out to be pretty nearly right,
and achieves the sad triumph of being able to say, 'Told you so;
wouldn't believe me; now see.'--Daylight. No one has been asleep, yet,
strange to say, everyone has waked up and found everyone else snoring.
No one waits for _reveillé_, this first morning. You stretch yourself,
and endeavor to rise. Which is you, and which the board floor? You
rather think this must be you that has just got up, because it aches so
down the grain, and its knots or eyes--yes, they are eyes--are so full
of sand. This must be how Rip Van Winkle felt after his nap in the
Catskills, you think. You wonder how those fellows Boyce and Tripp can
skylark so on an empty stomach. Three hours to breakfast. You police the
quarters with vigor. 'Heavens, what a dust! Open the windows, somebody;
and look here, Sergeant! the floor hasn't been sprinkled.' The sharp,
quick tones of the sergeant of the guard (more like the sound of a
tenpenny nail scratching mahogany than aught else in nature) soon set
matters right. You think you have surely swallowed your peck of dirt
that morning, and feel even more gastric than you usually do on an empty
stomach. You can go home to breakfast now: but you hear Johnny Todd's
cheery voice sing out; 'Fall in, cocktail squad!' and march off with a
score of your comrades to the nearest restaurant, which, finding just
open, the squad incontinently takes possession of. You take a cocktail,
a whiskey cocktail, with the edge of the green glass previously lemoned
and dipped in powdered sugar. 'Ah,' says Todd to everybody, and
everybody, to everybody else, including Todd, 'that goes to the right
place' (slapping it affectionately). Oh, reader, if wearer of p[)a]hnts,
did you ever meet with a decoction, infusion, or other mixture
whatsoever, vinous, alcoholic, or maltic, with or without sugar, that
did _not_ go to the right place? And if there was a fault, wasn't it in
the addition of a trifle too much lemon peel? The crowd takes another of
the same sort. You take another. Then you wish you hadn't.

You go to the office that day, for, in common with two-thirds of the
company, you are a clerk in one of the Departments as well as a soldier;
and you can think and talk of nothing but the war. The oldsters quiz
your enthusiasm unmercifully, and cause your complexion to assume a red
and gobbling appearance, and your conversation to limp into
half-incoherent feebleness. Nevertheless everyone is very kind to you,
for you are a great pet with the old fogies--their prize 'Jack;' and
even old Mr. Gruff rasps down his tones, so that those harsh accents
seem to pat you on the back. Your handwriting, usually so firm and easy,
quavers a little, and exhibits more of the influence of the biceps
muscle than of your accustomed light play of the wrist and fingers. But,
you think, it's the rifle that does it, and are rather proud of this.

_Second night._ You rush down after an early dinner, in rash anxiety to
be drilled. Arriving very red and hot at the armory, you find bales of
straw and boxes on the sidewalk in front, and hear dreadful rumors that
our armory is to be taken away; that we are to have regular barracks,
and live there all the time; that we are to draw rations, and cook them.
Dismay is on every face. The melancholy man alone seems not to be
jostled from his habitual sad composure: he explains to the inquiring,
doubting crowd that the ration consists of 'one and a quarter pounds of
fresh beef or three quarters of a pound of salt beef, pork, or bacon,
fourteen ounces of flour or twelve ounces of hard bread, with eight
pounds of coffee, ten of sugar, ten of rice or eight quarts of beans,
four quarts of vinegar, four pounds of soap, one and a quarter pounds
candles, and two quarts of salt, to the hundred rations. But you won't
get fresh meat often, nor yet flour, and I reckon you'll have to take
beans instead of rice pretty much all the time, now't South Car'lina's
out.' _We_ eat salt pork! or beans either, except very occasionally.
There began to be serious symptoms of mutiny. Fippany and one or two
others declaimed so violently against the outrage, that the more
enthusiastic of us felt bound to use our influence to prevent the spread
of a disaffection that seemed to us highly calculated to embarrass the
action of the Government in this crisis. The end of it was that we
marched up to our new quarters, and, in the excitement of moving in and
receiving our clothing and camp and garrison equipage, had forgotten our
troubles, when (just as the melancholy man discovered that the overcoats
were seven short of the right number, that the mess pans all leaked, and
that the quarters were full of fleas) our orders to move were
countermanded, and we marched back again in joy. There were fewer
volunteers for guard duty that night, and the natural rest of the
sergeant of the guard was undisturbed save by the occasional nightmare
of having overslept the hour for relieving the meek sentinels (not yet
instructed in the art of awakening drowsy non-commissioned officers by
stentorian alarms, and indeed not yet knowing accurately the measure of
their 'two hours on'), or by some louder howl than usual from poor Todd
second, who, having continued his course of eye-opening to the hours
when sober citizens and prudent soldiers incline to close theirs, spent
the major portion of the night in dramatic recitations of the beauties
of Shakspeare, utterly neglecting and refusing to 'dry up,' although
frequently admonished thereto by the growls and eke by the curses of his
comrades.

The next afternoon and evening, including in the latter elastic term
many hours more properly claimed by the night, were spent in confused
and bungling attempts to issue the clothing and camp and garrison
equipage considerately provided for us by the Government. First
everybody opened all the boxes at once, and grabbed for everything. Then
everybody put his things back and petitioned for somebody else's. 'My
overcoat is too big.' 'Mine is too short.' 'Golly! what sleeves!' 'What
are these bags for?' 'Those things knapsacks! how you goin' to fassen
'em? no straps!' 'My canteen has no cork.' ... '_Silence_!' roars the
captain, and '=Silence!=' rasps the orderly sergeant, three times as
loudly and six as disagreeably. And then everybody being ordered to
replace everything, that a proper system of distribution may be adopted,
half of us hide our plunder away, and the other half dump their prizes
promiscuously and in sullenness. 'Here, here!' barks Sergeant Files;
'this kind of thing's played out. There were sixty-five canteens;
where's the other sixty?' Presently the confusion unravels a little,
but, after a breathing spell, begins again worse than ever, when our
melancholy friend, Smallweed, having signed the clothing receipt
doubtfully, presently announces, with the air of an injured martyr, that
he supposes it's all right, but he can't find all the things he signed
for. Then everybody frantically examines into this new difficulty, and
discovers that they signed for everything, and got nothing. Poor Captain
Pipes scratches his head perplexedly, and smokes in anxious puffs.
Sergeant Files hustles everybody about, exposes several shamefaced
impostors, who have more than everything, and by the timely announcement
that Smallweed's deficiency consists of two overcoat straps, which are
no longer used in the service, restores comparative quiet. Smallweed,
however, retires up and shakes his head dubiously, remarking in an
undertone, to a weak-eyed young man, who stands in mortal awe of him,
that it may be all right, but he don't see it.

Drills, drills, drills! For the next week we have nothing but
drills--except guard duty. Squad drills, company drills, drills in the
facings, drills under arms, drills in the morning, noonday drills,
drills at night. Besides these, the office all day, and guard duty every
third night. Talk about the patriotic days of '76! you think--was there
ever anything like this? In less than a week everybody is played out;
everybody, that is, except a lymphatic, dull-visaged backwoodsman, named
Tetter, who drags through everything so slowly and heavily, that he
can't get tired, and an old Polish cavalryman, named Hrsthzschnoffski,
or something of the kind, but naturally called Snuffsky, who knows
neither enthusiasm nor fatigue, who never volunteers for a duty nor ever
begs off from it. Growls arise. Men pale about the cheeks, beady in the
forehead, and dark under the eyes, begin to collect in knotlets, and
talk over the situation. 'We enlisted to fight,' the bolder spirits
hint; 'we came to fight, not to drill and guard armories. Why don't they
take us out and let us whip the enemy, and go back to our business?' But
presently comes

_The 19th of April._ No drill to-night. What is that? A fight in
Baltimore? Nonsense! True though, for all that, as history will vouch.
Six regiments of Massachusetts troops have been attacked in Baltimore by
the 'Plugs,' and cut to pieces. Where was the 'Seventh!' we wonder,
educated in the creed of its invincibility and omnipresence. The Seventh
was there too, and has been massacred. Colonel Lefferts is killed. There
is a stir around the armory door, the knot of idlers gives way
respectfully, and admits a little man, the pride of the regiment, always
cool, collected, handsome, and soldierly--Colonel Diamond. He says half
a dozen words in a whisper to the captain, writes three lines with a
pencil on the fly leaf of an old letter, gives a comprehensive glance
around, in which we feel he sees everything, salutes the captain, and
marches briskly, almost noiselessly, into the street. Smallweed, the
melancholy man, rolls up his blanket, packs his knapsack, combs his hair
sadly, and moans out: 'Detail for the guard: Private Smallweed. I'm
d----d if I stand this any longer! I'll write to----'

'Fall in men; fall in under arms; fall in lively now!' barks the orderly
sergeant. 'Get up here, Snuffsky. Tetter, don't you mean to fall in at
all?' and so on. Volunteers are wanted for special and perhaps dangerous
service. Perhaps dangerous! (Quick movement of admiration.) 'Every man
willing to go will step two paces to the front.' The company moves
forward in line, much to the disgust of Sergeant Files, who finds he
must make a detail after all. Lieutenant Frank, Sergeant Mullins,
Corporal Bledsoe, and twenty privates are presently detailed, and, after
tremendous preparation and excitement, during which Smallweed discovers
that some one has stolen his percussion caps, and is incontinently
cursed by Sergeant Files for his pains, march off amid the cheers of the
disappointed remainder. We mourn our sad lot at being left out of the
detail, when presently comes a second detail: Second Lieutenant
Treadwell, Sergeant Ogle, Corporal Funk, and twenty privates, of whom
you, Jenkins, are one. As you get ready, you adopt stern resolves,
stiffen that upper lip, and confide a short message for some one to one
of the survivors, in case, as you proudly hint, you should not return.
The survivor rewards you with a pressure of the hand, and a look of
wonder at your coolness.

'_Support_--ARMS! _Quick_--MARCH!' the lieutenant says, almost in a
whisper, as we leave the building, and are fairly in the street. Where
are we going? Why do we go down Pennsylvania Avenue? This is not the
way to Long Bridge. Are the enemy attacking the navy yard? all wonder;
no one speaks. 'Halt!' Why, this is the telegraph office! and we take
possession of it in the name of the United States. Despatches between
Baltimore and Richmond have passed over the wires that very evening, and
we even interrupt one with our sword bayonets. Then we hear the truth
about that Baltimore business. The Southern operators and clerks crow
over and denounce us. We feel gulpy about the throat, and those of us
who yet tremble at the thought of 'fratricide,' wish they were out of
this, until Smallweed effects a diversion by dexterously, though quite
accidentally, upsetting the longest-haired, loudest-mouthed operator
into the biggest and dirtiest spittoon. But worse than this is in store
for the unlucky sympathizers, for, after thinking sadly over his feat,
the same melancholy Smallweed suddenly asks them what tune the Southern
Confederacy will adopt as its national air. One incautious Georgian
suggests 'Dixie,' he reckons. ''Spittoon,' I should think,' says
Smallweed mournfully. For which he is pronounced by the same gentleman
from Georgia to be a divinely condemned fool. How hungry we grew, and
how pale and seedy, before the relief came at 8 A.M., with the great
news that the other detail had seized the Alexandria boat!

This is the age of seizures. We seize all the steamers. We seize the
railroad, A train comes in, and we seize the cars. Then there is a let
up: the Confederate lexicon still at work, flashing out the last feeble
jerks of its poison. We release the telegraph; we release the railway;
we release the steamers. One of the latter, the George Page, goes down
to Alexandria, straightway to become a _ram_, terrible to the
weak-minded, though harmless enough in reality. Then we seize them all
again, and, this time, with the railway--praised be Allah!--a train of
cars! Presently a detachment, envied by the disappointed, goes out from
our company on this train to reconnoitre. Communication with the great
North is cut off. Every stalk of corn in all Maryland rises up, in the
nightmare that seems to possess the capital, a man, nay, a 'Southron,'
terrible, invincible, Yankee-hating. Will relief never come? Where are
those seventy-five thousand? Where is the Seventh? Officers in mufti are
known to have been sent out to Annapolis and Baltimore with orders and
for news. Others arrive in Washington filled with strange and vague
tidings of impending disaster. But as yet these doves have no news save
of the deluge. Presently an early _reveillé_ startles us from our beds
of soft plank, and, as we fall in sleepily, fagged and exhausted in mind
and body by this work, so new and so trying, we are electrified by the
hoarse croak of Sergeant Files--he too is used up. 'Volunteers to go
beyond the District,' step two paces t'the front--H'rch!' Four men
remain in the ranks. All eyes turn to this shabby remnant, but they
remain immovable, with the leaden expression belonging to the victims of
the Confederate lexicon, that seems to say, unaccused, '_I am not
ashamed._' These men are instantly detailed for guard duty at the armory
for the next twenty-four hours.

The rest of us reach the railway station shortly after daylight, are
told off into platoons, and embarked on the train which the hissing
engine announces to be waiting for us. Our comrades in this adventure
are Captain Hoblitzel's company, the 'Swartz-Jägers,' brawny mechanics,
sturdy Teutons, and all of a size. These are Germans, remember, not what
we call Hessians; not the kind that are destined to make Pennsylvania a
byword; not the kind that advance in clogs but retreat in seven-league
boots. We part from our German friends with a rousing cheer, as heartily
returned, at a bridge which they are to guard. Then we have the cars to
ourselves. Surely this is the _ne plus ultra_ of railway travelling;
free tickets and a whole seat to yourself. We are to keep our rifles out
of sight, unless an emergency arises. The funny men play conductor,
announcing familiar stations in unintelligible roars, and singing out
'Tickets!' importunately. This is our first real danger. There is real
excitement in this. We all hope there will be a fight; all except
Smallweed, who remains melancholy, according to his wont, save when a
sad pun breaks the surface into a temporary ripple of quiet smiles. And
so, with wild jokes, mad capers, and loudly shouted songs, we whirl
along, twenty miles an hour, over bridges, through cuts, above
embankments, always through danger and into danger. Hoot, toot! shrieks
the engine; the breaks are rasped down; the train slowly consumes its
momentum in vainly trying to stop suddenly. Silence reigns. Every man
nervously, as by instinct, grasps his rifle, half cocks it, looks to the
cap, and thrusts his head out of the window. A shout: 'There they are!'
'Where?' Several of the more nervous rifle barrels protrude uncertainly
from the windows. 'Steady men, _steady!_' from the clear voice of
Captain Pipes. 'I see them.' 'There they are.' 'Three of them.' 'One of
them has on gray clothes, and--'

'THE SEVENTH, by----!' rings in every ear. No matter who said it. '_The
Seventh_,' every throat shouts. Then such a cheer, and such another, and
such another after that, and such a tiger after that, and such other
cheers and such other tigers!--until the train stops, and, regardless of
orders, unheeding the vain protests of the captain or the curses of the
lieutenants, or the objurgations of Sergeant Files, we rush madly,
pellmell, from the cars. Everybody shakes hands with the Seventh man,
and with everybody else. He is thirsty: sixty odd flasks are uncorked
and jammed at him. Hungry, too? The men hustle him into the cars, and
almost into the barrels of pork and bread, with which we came provided
in quantities sufficient, as we thought in our simplicity, for a siege,
though really, as I have since found reason to believe, amounting to
less than a thousand rations.

'Where is the Seventh?' 'At the Junction.' We are only a mile from the
Junction. All aboard again, and we steam up to the Junction, just in
time to see the leading companies file into the station, from their
historical march--famous from being the first of the war, twice famous
because Winthrop told its story; in time to see the Eighth Massachusetts
follow our favorite heroes; in time to bring the Seventh to Washington;
in time thus to terminate the dark hours of anxious suspense and doubt
that followed the 19th of April and the drawing of the first blood in
the streets of Baltimore.

Dulness succeeds this spurt of glory, and there is nothing more
interesting than guarding the Long Bridge or a steamboat, alternating
with drills, drills, drills! We are initiated into the mystery of the
double quick, under knapsacks and overcoats. Men begin to be detailed on
extra duty. More men are detailed on extra duty. Doctor Peacack makes
his appearance. The sick list becomes an institution. It is curious to
notice how the same men, detailed for guard, police, or fatigue, appear
on the sick list, and, being excused by the mild Peacack, straightway
reappear in the 'cocktail squad.' But a wink, as good as a nod, from the
captain, and the fragrant oil of the castor bean, prescribed to be taken
on the spot, soon corrects these little discrepancies. The guardhouse
becomes an institution. Todd second is a frequent inmate; he will drink.
Swilliams is another, who takes a drink, and becomes insane; takes
another, and becomes sick; takes another, and then a quiet snooze, with
his head resting on the nearest curb. We call these unfortunates
'Company Q;' a splendid joke. The captain drills us as far as 'On the
right, by file, into line,' and apparently can get no farther. So we
think, and that the first lieutenant kn=ows twice much as the captain.
And, oh! how we come to hate Sergeant Files, and his hard, carking
voice, always rasping somebody about something! We have been in service
a month. The city is full of troops; the heights back are covered with
camps; the 'Fire Zouaves' have introduced the Five Points to our
acquaintance; General Blankhed is still giving passes to go to Richmond;
the enemy's pickets stare at ours from other end of Long Bridge; nobody
is hurt as yet. Presently comes an order constituting the 'American
Sharpshooters,' the 'Fisler Guards,' the Union Carbineers,' the 'Seward
Cadets,' and the 'Bulger Guards,' a battalion, to be known as the Ninth
Battalion (did I say there were only eight? no matter) of the First
Regiment of District of Columbia Volunteers, and to be commanded by
Major Johnson Heavysterne, the _beau ideal_ of a militia major--fat,
pompous, not much acquainted with military, but, to use his own
vocabulary, knowing right smart in the fish and cheese line. But let me
deal kindly with the honest old soul; he meant well, but he had bad
luck; and he made me, Private William Jenkins, the writer of these
disjointed phrases, sergeant-major of the battalion. Whereof, kind
reader, more anon: for here I left off my _scales_ and sewed on my
_chevrons_. (That is, she did. Please see PART II.)




THE SACRIFICE


  The blood that flows for freedom is God's blood!
  Who dies for man's redemption, dies with Christ!
  The plan of expiation is unchanged:
  And, as One died, supremely good, for all,
  So one dies still, that many more may live.

  So fall our saviours on the bloody field,
  In deadly swamps, along the foul lagoons,
  On the long march, in crowded hospitals,
  Of wounds, of weariness, of pain and thirst,
  Of wasting fevers and of sudden plagues,
  Of pestilence, that lurks within the camp,
  Of long home-sickness, and of hope deferred,
  Of languishing, in hostile prisons chained--
  And, with their blood, they wash the nation clean,
  And furnish expiation for the sin
  That those who slay them have been guilty of.

  So God selects the noblest of the land:
  He culls the qualities that are His own--
  Our courage, patience, love of human kind,
  Our strong devotion to the cause of Right,
  Our noblest aspirations for the time
  When every man shall stand erect and free,
  Self-elevated, God-appointed king!
  Knowing no equals, save his brother men;
  Ruling no lieges, save his own desires;
  The undisputed sovereign of himself,
  Owning no higher sovereignty but God.

  God culls these qualities, that are Himself--
  These sparks of Deity that live in man--
  And, in man's person, offers up Himself,
  A long, perpetual sacrifice for sin.

  This is the plan--the changeless plan of Heav'n:
  The good die, that the evil may be purged;
  The noble perish, that the base may live;
  The free are bound, that slaves may break their bonds;
  Those who have happy homes are self-exiled,
  That other exiles may have happy homes;
  The bravest sons of Freedom's land are slain,
  That the oppressed of tyrant realms may live;
  The guilty land is washed in innocent blood;
  And slavery is atoned for by the free.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Oh! desolate mother, wailing for thy son,
  Be comforted. He was a chosen one.
  The Lord selected him from other men,
  Because the Eternal Eye discerned in him
  Some noble attribute, some spark divine,
  Some unseen quality, that was from God,
  And is a part of God, howe'er obscured
  By human weakness, or by human sin--
  Something deemed worthy for the sacrifice
  That shall redeem a nation. Weep no more;
  For thou art blessed among womankind!




STRECK-VERSE.


The heart freezes upon the snowcapped summit of a mountain of learning.

Lead heads will not answer as plummets to fathom the depths of the
  Infinite.

Charitable views are enlarged by tear mists.

Thorns form footholds by which to reach the rose.

Looking up to the sun, the sad behold rainbows through their tears.




THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.--A POLISH DRAMA.

Dedicated to Mary.


     'To be, or not to be, that is the question.'

     'To the accumulated errors of their ancestors, they added others
     unknown to their predecessors Doubt and Fear;--therefore it came to
     pass that they vanished from the face of the earth, and a deep
     silence shrouded them forever.'--_Koran_ il. 18.


In offering to the public a translation of the great drama of Count
Sigismund Krasinski, a statesman and poet of Poland, it is not the
intention of the translator to enter upon any detailed analysis of this
widely and justly celebrated work. Such a dissection would diminish the
interest of the reader in the development of the plot, and moreover
pertains properly to the critics, to whom 'The Undivine Comedy' is
especially commended. It is so full of original and subtile thoughts, of
profound truths, of metaphysical deductions and psychological
divinations, that it cannot fail to repay any consideration they may
bestow upon it. A few general remarks, however, seem necessary to
introduce it, in its proper light, to the reader.

It was published in 1834, and, although it appeared anonymously, it at
once succeeded in attracting the attention of the readers and thinkers
of Poland, Russia, France, and Germany. Its author is now known to have
been Count Sigismund Krasinski, a member of one of the most ancient and
distinguished families of Poland. He was equally eminent as poet,
patriot, and statesman. He took an active and important part in the
social and political questions of his day, many of which are ably
discussed in this drama; questions which have so long disturbed the
peace of Europe, and whose solution is perhaps to be finally given in
our land of equality and freedom.

'The Undivine Comedy' was not intended for the stage, and, as if to
sever it as widely as possible from all scenic associations, Count
Krasinski makes no use of the terms 'scenes' or 'acts.' This omission
gives a somewhat singular appearance to what is, in fact, a drama; the
translator has, however, remained faithful throughout to the original
form. As the hero, the count, is styled 'The Man' throughout the
original, the name has been preserved, in spite of its awkward
appearance in English: the spirit of a poetic work, full of mystic
symbolism, evaporates so readily in the process of translation, that no
sacrifice of the literal meaning has been made to grace or elegance.

'The Undivine Comedy,' so called in contradistinction to 'The Divine
Comedy' of Dante, is the first purely _prophetic_ play occurring in the
world of art. Its scenes are indeed all laid in the _time to come_; its
persons, actions, and events are _yet to be_. The struggle of the dying
Past with the vigorous but immature Future, forms the groundwork of the
drama. The coloring is not local, nor characteristic of any country in
particular, because the truths to be illustrated are of universal
application, and are evolving their own solutions in all parts of the
civilized world.

The soul of the hero, 'The Man,' is great and vigorous; he is by nature
a poet. Belonging to the Future by the very essence of his being, he yet
becomes disgusted by the debasing materialism into which its living
exponents, the '_New Men_, have fallen, he loses all hope in the
possible progress of humanity, and is presented to us as the champion of
the dying but poetic Past. But in this he finds no rest, and is involved
in perpetual struggles and contradictions. Baffled in a consuming
desire to solve the perplexing religious and social problems of the day
by the force of his own intellect; longing for, yet despairing of, human
progress; discerning the impracticability and chicanery of most of the
modern plans for social amelioration--he determines to throw himself
into common life, to bind himself to his race by stringent laws and
duties. The drama opens when he is about to contract marriage.

His Guardian Angel, anxious to save him, tries to lead him, through the
accomplishment of human duties, safely into that mystic Future, which he
had already vainly tried to find through the power of his own intellect.
The Angel chants to him:

'Peace be to men of good will. Blessed is the man who has still a heart;
he may yet be saved!

'Pure and true wife, reveal thyself to him; and a child be born to their
house!'

Thus the words once heard by the shepherds, and which then announced a
new epoch to humanity, open the drama. It is indeed only 'men of good
will,' men who sincerely seek the truth, who, in great or new epochs,
are able to comprehend it, or willing to receive it. And the number of
those who have preserved a _heart_ during the excitement and passions of
such eras, is always very small, and without it they cannot be saved,
for love and self-abnegation are the essence of Christianity.

To instil new life and hope into the wearied 'Man,' the Angel ordains
that a pure and good woman shall join her fate with his; that innocent
young souls shall descend and dwell with them. Domestic love and quiet
bliss are the counsel of the heavenly visitant.

Immediately after the simple chant of the Guardian Angel, the voice of
the Evil Spirit is heard seducing 'The Man' from the quiet path of
humble human duties. The glories of the ideal realm are spread before
him; Nature is invoked with all her entrancing charms; ambitious desires
of terrestrial greatness are awakened in his soul; he is filled with
vague hopes of paradisiacal happiness, which the Demon whispers him it
is quite possible to establish on earth. In the temptations so cunningly
set before him by the Father of Lies, three widely-spread metaphysical
systems are shadowed forth: the ideal or poetic; the pantheistic; and
the anthropotheistic (Comte's), which deifies man. The vast symbolism of
this original drama is especially recommended to the attention of the
critic.

Abiding by the counsel of the Angel, our hero marries, thus involving
another in his fate. He makes a solemn vow to be faithful, in the
keeping of which vow he takes upon himself the responsibility of the
happiness of one of God's creatures, a pure and trusting woman, who
loves him well. A husband and a father, he breaks his oath. Tempted by
the phantom of a long-lost love, the Ideal under the form of a 'Maiden,'
he deserts the real duties he has assumed to pursue this Ideal,
personated indeed by Lucifer himself, and which becomes--true and
fearful lesson for those who seek the infinite in the human!--a
loathsome skeleton as soon as grasped. From the false and disappointing
search into which he had been enticed by the demon, he returns to find
the innocent wife, whom he had deserted, in a madhouse. False to human
duties, his punishment came fast upon the heels of crime.

In the scene which occurs in Bedlam we find the key which admits us to
much of the symbolism of this drama. We are conducted into the madhouse
to visit the broken-hearted wife, and are there introduced into our
still-existing society, formal, monotonous, cold, and about to be
dissolved. Our hero had himself married the Past, a good and devout
woman, but not the realization of his poetic dreams, which nothing
could have satisfied save the infinite. In the midst of this scene of
strange suffering, we hear the cries of the Future, and all is terror
and tumult. This Future, with its turbulence, blood, and demonism, is
represented as existing in its germs among the maniacs. Like the springs
of a volcanic mountain, which are always disturbed before an eruption of
fire, their cries break upon us; the broken words and shrill shrieks of
the madmen are the clouds of murky smoke which burst from the explosive
craters before the lava pours its burning flood. Voices from the right,
from the left, from above, from below, represent the conflicting
religious opinions and warring political parties of this dawning Future,
already hurtling against those of the dissolving Present.

Into this pandemonium, by his desertion of her for a vain ideal, our
hero has plunged his wife, the woman of the Past, whom he had sworn to
make happy. And it is to be observed that she was not necessarily his
inferior, but, in the world of _heart_, superior to himself. A true and
pure character, feeling its inferiority and anxious to advance, cannot
long remain in the background; it has sufficient stamina to attain the
height of self-abnegating greatness. God sometimes deprives men of the
strength necessary for action, but He never robs them of the faculty of
progress, of spiritual elevation. Head and heart throb with the same
pulsation; the brain thinks not aright without the healthful heart.
Meanness and grovelling are always voluntary, and their essence is to
resist superiority, to struggle against it, to try to degrade it: thus,
all the bitter reactions of the Past against the changes truly needed
for the development of the Future, spring from a primeval root of
baseness.

An admirable picture of an exhausted and dying society is given us in
the person of the precocious but decrepit child, the sole fruit of a sad
marriage. Destined from its birth, to an early grave, its excitable
imagination soon consumes its frail body. Nothing could be more
exquisitely tender, more true to nature, than the portraiture of this
unfortunate but lovely boy.

After the betrayal of our hero by his Ideal, the Guardian Angel again
appears to give him simple but sage counsel:

'Return to thy house, and sin no more!

'Return to thy house, and love thy child!'

But vain this sage advice! As if driven to the desert to be tempted, we
again meet our hero in the midst of storm and tempest, wildly communing
with Nature, trying to read in her changeful phenomena lessons he should
have sought in the depths of his own soul; seeking from her dumb lips
oracles only to be found in his fulfilment of sacred duties; for only
thus is to be solved the perplexing riddle of human destiny. 'Peace to
men of good will!' Roaming through the wilderness, sad and hopeless, and
in his despair about to fall into the gloomy and blighting sin of caring
for no one but himself, the Angel again appears, and again chants to him
the divine lesson that only in self-sacrificing love and lowly duties,
can the true path to the Future be found:

'Love the sick, the hungry, the despairing!

'Love thy neighbor, thy poor neighbor, as thyself, and thou wilt be
redeemed!'

The reiterated warning is again given in vain. The demon of ambition
then appears to him under the form of a gigantic eagle, whose wings stir
him like the cannon's roar, the trumpet's call; he yields to the
temptation, and the Guardian Angel pleads no more! He determines to
become great, renowned, to rule over men: political power is to console
him for the domestic ruin he has spread around him, in having preferred
the dreams of his own excited imagination, to the love and faith of the
simple but tender heart which God had confided to him in the holy bonds
of marriage. The love and deification of self in the delusive show of
military or political glory, is the lowest and last temptation into
which a noble soul can fall, for individual fame is preferred to God's
eternal justice, and men are willing to die, if only laurel crowned,
with joy and pride even in a bad cause.

In the beginning of the third part of the comedy we are introduced into
the 'new world.' The old world, with its customs, prejudices,
oppressions, charities, laws, has been almost destroyed. The details of
the struggle, which must have been long and dreadful, are not given to
us; they are to be divined. Several years are supposed to have passed
between the end of the second and the beginning of the third part, and
we are called to witness the triumphs of the victors, the tortures of
the vanquished. The character of the idol of the people is an admirable
conception. All that is negative and destructive in the revolutionary
tendencies of European society, is skilfully seized upon, and incarnated
in a single individual. _His mission is to destroy._ He possesses a
great intellect, but no heart. He says: "_Of the blood we shed to-day,
no trace will be left to-morrow._" In corroboration of this conception
of the character of a modern reformer, it is well known that most of the
projected reforms of the last century have proceeded from the brains of
logicians and philosophers.

This man of intellect succeeds in grasping power. His appearance speaks
his character. His forehead is high and angular, his head entirely bald,
his expression cold and impassible, his lips never smile--he is of the
same type as many of the revolutionary leaders during the French reign
of terror. His name is Pancratius, which name, from the Greek, signifies
the union of all material or brutal forces. It is not by chance that he
has received this name. The profound truth in which this character is
conceived is also manifested in his distrust of himself, in his
hesitation. As he is acting from false principles, he cannot deceive
himself into that enthusiastic faith with which he would fain inspire
his disciples. He confides in Leonard, because he is in possession of
this precious quality.

His monologue is very fine; perhaps it stands next in rank to that of
Hamlet. It opens to us the strange secrets of the irresolution and
vacillation which have always characterized the men who have been called
upon by fate alone to undertake vast achievements. In proof of this, it
is well known that Cromwell was anxious to conceal the doubts and fears
which constantly harassed him. It was these very doubts and fears which
led him to see and resee so frequently the dethroned Charles, and which
at last drove the conscience-stricken Puritan into the sepulchre of the
decapitated king, that he might gaze into the still face of the royal
victim, whose death he had himself effected. Did the sad face of the
dead calm the fears of the living?

It is well known, that Danton addressed to himself the most dreadful
reproaches. Even, at the epoch of his greatest power, Robespierre was
greatly annoyed because he could not convince his cook of the justice
and permanence of his authority. Men who are sent by Providence only to
destroy, feel within them the worm which gnaws forever: it constantly
predicts to them, in vague but gloomy presentiments, their own
approaching destruction.

A feeling of this nature urges Pancratius to seek an interview with his
most powerful enemy, 'The Man;' he is anxious to gain the confidence of
his adversary, because he cannot feel certain of his own course while a
single man of intellectual power exists capable of resisting his ideas.
In the interview which occurs between the two antagonistic leaders of
the Past and Future, the various questions which divide society,
literature, religion, philosophy, politics, are discussed. Is it not a
profound truth that in the real world also, _mental_ encounters always
precede _material_ combats; that men always measure their strength,
_spirit to spirit_, before they meet in external fact, _body to body_?
The idea of bringing two vast systems face to face through living and
highly dramatic personifications, is truly great, suggestive, and
original.

But as the Truth is neither in the camp of Pancratius nor in the feudal
castle of the count, our hero, the victory will profit neither party!

The opening of the last act is exceedingly beautiful. No painter could
reproduce on canvas the sublime scenery sketched in its prologue; more
gloomy than the pictures of Ruysdael, more sombre than those of Salvator
Rosa. Before describing the inundation of the masses, our author
naturally recalls the traditions of the Flood. The nobles, the
representatives of the Past, with their few surviving adherents, have
taken refuge in their last stronghold, the fortress of the Holy Trinity,
securely situated upon a high and rocky peak overhanging a deep valley,
surrounded and hedged in by steep cliffs and rocky precipices. Through
these straits and passes once howled and swept the waters of the deluge.
As wild an inundation is now upon them, for the valley is almost filled
with the living surges of the myriads of the 'New Men,' who are rolling
their millions into its depths. But everything is hidden from view by an
ocean of heavy vapor, wrapping the whole landscape in its white, chill,
clinging shroud. The last and only banner of the Cross now raised upon
the face of the earth, streams from the highest tower of the castle of
the Holy Trinity; it alone pierces through and floats above the cold,
vague, rayless heart of the sea of mist--nought save the mystic symbol
of God's love to man soars into the unclouded blue of the infinite sky!

After frequent defeats, after the loss of all hope, the hero, wishing to
embrace for the last time his sick and blind son, sends for the
precocious boy, whose death-hour is to strike before his own. I doubt if
the scene which then occurs has, in the whole range of fiction and
poetry, ever been surpassed. This poor boy, the son of an insane mother
and a poet-father, is gifted with supernatural faculties, endowed with
second or spiritual sight. Entirely blind, and consequently surrounded
by perpetual darkness, it mattered not to him if the light of day or the
gloom of midnight was upon the earth; and in his rayless wanderings he
had made his way into the dungeons, sepulchres, and vaults, which were
lying far below the foundations of the castle, and which had for
centuries served as places of torture, punishment, and death to the
enemies of his long and noble line. In these secret charnel houses were
buried the bodies of the oppressed, while in the haughty tombs around
and above them lay the bones of their oppressors. The unfortunate and
fragile boy, the last sole scion of a long line of ancestry, had there
met the thronging and complaining ghosts of past generations. Burdened
with these dreadful secrets, when his vanquished father seeks him to
embrace him for the last time, he shudderingly hints to him of fearful
knowledge, and induces his parent to accompany him into the subterranean
caverns. He then recounts to him the scenes which are passing before his
open vision among the dead. The spirits of those who had been chained,
tortured, oppressed, or victimized by his ancestors appear before him,
complaining of past cruelties. They then form a mystic tribunal to try
their old masters and oppressors; the scenes of the dreadful Day of
Judgment pass before him; the unhappy and loving boy at last recognizes
his own father among the criminals; he is dragged to that fatal bar, he
sees him wring his hands in anguish, he hears his dreadful groans as he
is given over to the fiends for torture--he hears his mother's voice
calling him above, but, unwilling to desert his father in his anguish,
he falls to the earth in a deep and long fainting fit, while the
wretched father hears his own doom pronounced by that dread but unseen
tribunal: '_Because thou hast loved nothing, nor revered aught but
thyself and thine own thoughts, thou art damned to all eternity!_'

It is true this scene is very brief, but, rapid as the lightning's
flash, it lasts long enough to scathe and blast, breaking the darkness
but to show the surrounding horror, to deepen into despair the fearful
gloom. Although of the most severe simplicity, it is sublime and
terrible. It is so concise that our hearts actually long for more,
unwilling to believe in the reality of the doom of that ghostly
tribunal. It repeats the awful lessons of Holy Writ, and our conscience
awakes to our deficiencies, while the marrow freezes in our bones as we
read.

The close of the drama is equally sublime. Because the 'TRUTH' was
neither in the camp of Pancratius nor the castle of the count, IT
appears in the clouds to confound them both.

After Pancratius has conquered all that opposed him--has triumphantly
gloated over his Fourieristic schemes for the _material_ well-being of
the race whom he has robbed of all higher faith--he grows agitated at
the very name of God when it falls from the lips of his confidant,
Leonard: the sound seems to awaken him to a consciousness that he is
standing in a sea of blood, which he has himself shed; he feels that he
has been nothing but an instrument of destruction, that he has done
certain evil for a most uncertain good. All this rushes rapidly upon
him, when, on the bosom of a crimson sunset cloud, he perceives a mystic
symbol, unseen save by himself: 'the extended arms are lightning
flashes, the three nails shine like stars--his eyes die out as he gazes
upon it--he falls dead to the earth, crying, in the strange words spoken
by the apostate emperor Julian with his parting breath: '_Vicisti
Galilee_!' Thus this grand and complex drama is really consecrated to
the glory of the Galilean!

The intense melancholy characterizing every page of this drama, has its
root in the character and intensity of the truths therein developed, and
is not manifested in artistic declamation, in highly wrought phrases, or
in glowing rhetorical passages proper for citation. It is as bitter as
life; as gloomy as death and judgment. The style is one of utter, almost
bald, simplicity. The situations are merely indicated, and the
characters are to be understood, as are those of the living, rather from
a few words in close connection with accompanying facts, than from
eloquent utterances, sharp invectives, or bitter complaints. There are
no highly wrought amplifications of imaginative passions to be found in
its condensed pages, but every word is in itself a drop of gall,
reflecting from its sphered surface a world of grief, of agony. The
characters pass before us like shadows thrown from a magic lantern,
showing only their profiles, and but rarely their entire forms. Flitting
rapidly o'er our field of vision, they leave us but a few lines, but so
true to nature, so deeply significant, that we are able to produce from
these shifting and evanescent shadows a complete and rounded image. Thus
we are enabled to form a vivid conception of every character--we know
the history of their past, we divine the part they will play in the
future. We know the friends, the godfather, the priest, in whom we find
an admirable sketch from a decomposed and dying society. He who, in a
proper state of things, would have been the representative of living
spiritual principles, is a mere supernumerary. He makes signs of the
cross, pronounces accustomed formulas, but he never once thinks of
examining into the strange and contradictory relations existing between
the husband, forced by his very being into the Future, and the wife,
fettered by the conventions and chains of the Past. Neither does he
study, with an eye enlightened by philanthropy and spirituality, the
poor infant, whose mental restlessness began in the cradle, although his
character and destiny seem to have been comprehended by the father. The
priest, however, remains cold and indifferent throughout, never once
seeking to render the two beings, whom he had himself united in a
sacramental bond, intelligible to each other, nor to save the
unfortunate boy brought to him for baptism, the sole fruit of this
unhappy marriage.

Our author also stigmatizes the whole medical art of our day as a
science of death and moral torture. While the anguished father tries to
penetrate the decrees of Providence, and in his agony demands from God
how the innocent and helpless infant can have deserved a punishment so
dreadful as the loss of sight, the doctor admires the strength of the
nerves and muscles of the blue eyes of the fair child, at the same time
announcing to his father that he is struck with total and hopeless
blindness. Immediately after the declaration of this fearful sentence,
he turns to the distressed parent to ask him if he would like to know
the name of this malady, and that in Greek it is called [Greek:
amaurôsis]

Indeed, through the whole of this melancholy scene, only one human being
manifests any deep moral feeling--a woman, a servant! Falling upon her
knees, she prays the Holy Virgin to take her eyes, and place them in the
sightless sockets of the young heir, her fragile but beloved charge.
Thus it is a woman of the people who, in the midst of the corrupt and
dissolving society, alone preserves the sacred traditions of sympathy
and self-sacrifice.

The cruel tyranny of Pancratius and the mob, is also full of important
lessons. From it we gather that despotism does not consist in the fact
of the whole power being vested in the hands of one or many, _but in the
truth that a government is without love for the governed, whatever may
be its constitutional form_. One or many, an assembly of legislators or
a king, an oligarchy or a mob, may be equally despotic, if love be not
the ruling principle.

With these few remarks, some of them necessary for a full comprehension
of this subtile and many-sided Polish drama, we leave the reader to the
pleasant task of its perusal.

He will find a full and eloquent criticism, in which its faults and
beauties are ably discussed, in a course of 'Lectures on Sclavonic
Literature,' delivered by the Polish poet Mickiewicz, before the College
of France. Most of the above remarks have been condensed from his
valuable work.




PART I.


THE IDEAL.

Stars are around thy head--under thy feet surges the sea--a rainbow
forever floats upon the waves before thee--painting the mists, or
melting them into light--whatsoever thou lookest upon is thine--the
shores, the cities, the men belong to thee--the heavens are thine--it
seems as if nothing ever equalled thy glory!

         *       *       *       *       *

To alien ears thou chantest airs of inconceivable rapture--thou weavest
hearts into one with a single touch of thy fairy fingers, and with a
breath again dividest them--thou forcest tears--thou driest them with a
smile--alas! the next moment thou frightenest the wan smile from the
quivering lip for a time--too often, forever!

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

The living stream of Beauty flows on through thee, but thou thyself art
not Beauty!

Woe to thee! woe! the child crying on the lap of its nurse, the field
flower unconscious of its gift of perfume, have more merit before the
eyes of the Lord than thou!

         *       *       *       *       *

What has been thy origin, thou empty shadow, bearing witness to the
Light, yet knowing not the Light, which thou seest not, and wilt not
see!

In anger, or in mockery, wert thou made? Who was thy creator? Who gave
thee thy short and mobile life, and taught thee such seductive magic,
that thou seemst to glitter for a moment like an angel before thou
sinkest into clay, to creep like a worm, and be stifled in thine own
corruption?

Thy beginning is one with that of the woman.

         *       *       *       *       *

Yet, alas! thou sufferest, although thy agony brings nought to the
birth, and avails thee nothing.

The groans of the lowest beggar are counted in heaven, compensated amid
the music of angels' harps--but thy sighs, thy despair, fall into the
bottomless abyss, and Satan gathers them together, and joyfully adds
them to the pile of his own lies and delusions--and the Lord will deny
and disown them, as they have denied and disowned the Lord!

         *       *       *       *       *

But not for this do I pity thee, spirit of Poetry, mother of Beauty and
Freedom! No. I mourn for the unhappy souls who are forced to remember or
divine thee upon chaotic worlds destined to destruction--alas! thou
ruinest only those who consecrate themselves to thee, who become the
living voices of thy fame!

And yet, blessed is it when thou takest up thine abode in a man, as God
dwelt in the world, unseen, unknown, yet everywhere great and mighty,
the Lord, before whom all creatures bow and say: 'He is here!'

Such a man will bear thee like a star upon his radiant brow; he will
never turn from thee even for the duration of a little word; he will
love men, and, like a man, walk with his brethren.

And he who guards thee not, who is willing to betray thee, to devote
thee to the idle pleasure of men--from him thou turnest sadly away,
scattering in pity a few fading flowers upon his head; he plays with the
dying bloom, and weaves his death-wreath all the days of his short life.

Thy beginning is one with that of the woman!

         *       *       *       *       *

     'De toutes les bouffonneries la plus serieuse est le
     mariage.'--_Figaro._

     Of all jests the most serious is marriage.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. Peace be to men of good will!

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

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

     He flies onward.

CHORUS OF EVIL SPIRITS. Rise! rise, spectres and phantoms! Hover near
him! Head them and lead them on, thou, the yesterday-buried idol, the
shadow of the dead love of the Poet! Bathe thyself anew in the vapors of
the ideal realm; wreathe thy mouldering brow with the fair buds of
spring; and float on before him, thou, once the beloved of the Poet!

Rise, Glory, rise! Old eagle, well stuffed and preserved in hell,
descend from thy crumbling perch, unfold thy gigantic wings whitened in
the rays of the sun, and wave them above the head, until they dazzle the
eyes of the Poet!

Come forth from our vaults, thou rotting masterpiece from the pencil of
Beelzebub, thou glowing picture of an earthly Eden, which has dizzied
the brain of so many philosophers! Get the old rents in thy canvas
reglued; the holes and cracks refilled with varnish; wrap thyself in
the magic webs of hazy clouds and glittering mists; fly to the Poet, and
unroll thyself ever before him!

And thou, Nature! surround him with mountains, cliffs, and seas; lull
him with golden dawns and crimson eves; inweave him in thy magic circle
of azure days and starry nights; O mother Nature--closely embrace the
Poet!

         *       *       *       *       *


     A village. A church. The Guardian Angel is seen floating and
     swaying to and fro upon it.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. If thou keepest the Holy Vow, thou wilt be my brother
forever before the face of our Heavenly Father!       Vanishes.

     The interior of the church. Wax lights blaze upon the altar--many
     witnesses are standing round it. A Priest is reading the marriage
     service.

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

     The Bride and Groom rise--he presses the hand of the Bride, and
     conducts her to one of the relatives. All depart except the Groom;
     he remains alone in the church.

BRIDEGROOM. I have descended to an earthly betrothal, I have found her
of whom my spirit dreamed.

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

         *       *       *       *       *

     A saloon filled with people. Music, dancing, lights, flowers; the
     Bride dances--after a few rounds she remains standing--meets the
     Groom, draws apart from the crowd, and leans her head upon his
     breast.

BRIDEGROOM. How beautiful thou art, my love, in thy exhaustion, with
flowers and pearls falling in soft confusion through the masses of thy
wavy hair, glowing with the rapid motion of the dance, and blushing with
maiden shame!

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

BRIDE. I will be to thee a true wife, as my mother taught me, as my own
heart teaches me. But there are so many men here--there is so much
noise--and it is so hot--

BRIDEGROOM. Go and join once more the dance. I will stand here, and
watch thee as thou floatest on, as I have often gazed in dreams upon the
circling angels.

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

BRIDEGROOM. I pray thee, love, go.

     Music and dancing.

         *       *       *       *       *

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

EVIL SPIRIT. It is not long since at this same hour I coursed the
earth--the spirits of the lower world now drive me on; they force me to
assume a holy part.

     He flies over a garden.

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

     He flies over a graveyard.

Living bloom and fresh charms of buried maidens, lost here, and floating
vainly about above forgotten graves--fly into, and paint my swarthy
cheeks with roseate hues of youth and love!

Under this white stone a fair-haired girl moulders and festers into
wormy rottenness; shadows of her lustrous curls, come--twine round my
burning brow!

Under this fallen cross, two soft eyes of heavenly blue are dying in
their sunken sockets--to me! to me! the pure and lambent flame which
once lightened and glimmered through them!

Behind those iron bars which guard that vault of kings, a hundred
torches burn to light corruption--a princess was buried there to-day: ye
white and lustrous robes of costly satin, come! fluttering like snowy,
downy doves leave to the worms, undraped, the youthful form--fly through
the trellised grating--and softly fall around my scathed and fleshless
limbs!

And now, on! on! on!

         *       *       *       *       *

     A sleeping apartment. A night lamp stands upon a table, and shines
     upon the face of the husband sleeping beside his wife.

THE MAN (_still sleeping_). Ha! whence comest thou? I have neither heard
nor seen thee for months--for years.

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

A holy calm is on thy brow--all that I have ever dreamed--have ever
loved--unite in thee!

     Awaking suddenly.

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

     Gazing long upon her.

Ah! I once thought thou wert my early Dream--but thou art it not;--after
years of time, it has returned to me--and is not thee, Mary, nor like
thee!

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

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

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

THE MAN. Cursed be the hour in which I married a wife, in which I
deserted the Love of my youth, the thought of my thought, the soul of my
soul....

WIFE (_awaking_). What is it, Henry? Does the day already break? Is the
carriage at the door? We have so much to attend to to-day.

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

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

THE MAN. Sleep, sleep, I pray.

WIFE. My dearest, tell me what is the matter with you! Your voice
trembles, your cheeks burn with fever.

THE MAN (_jumping out of bed_). I only want fresh air--for God's sake,
stay here; do not follow me! Once more I beg you will not rise!

     He leaves hurriedly the chamber.

         *       *       *       *       *

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

THE MAN. Since the bells rang in my marriage morn, I have dozed away
life like a lump of clay, vegetating like a peasant, sleeping like a
German boor. The whole world around me seems asleep in my own image.
What a monotonous existence! I have visited relations, gone to shops,
seen physicians, and when a child was born to me, I went for a nurse.

     It strikes two upon the tower clock.

Return to me! return, O my old and misty realm, so safely sheltered in
the world of thought! Ye shadowy yet lovely forms, once wont to throng
around me through the lonely midnight hours, hear my adjuration, and
return! return!

     He wrings his hands.

O my God! hast Thou in very truth sanctified the ties which link two
bodies into one?

Hast Thou surely said that nothing should avail to break them, even when
the two souls repel each other; when to advance at all, they must move
on upon opposing pathways, while the two chained bodies stiffen into
frozen corpses?

And now that thou art again near me, my all, oh, take me with thee! If
thou art but a dream, the creation of an o'erwrought brain, let me too
be but a dream, a cloud, a mist, that I may be one with thee!

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

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

THE MAN. Stay, and melt not like a dream away! If thou art beautiful
above all other beauty; a thought above all other thoughts--why tarriest
thou no longer than a wish a fading vision?

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

A FEMALE VOICE. The chill of the night air will fall upon your breast,
my dear. Come back, Henry; it is fearful to be here alone in this vast
dark room.

THE MAN. Yes; in an instant.

The fair spirit has vanished, but she promised to return for me--and
then farewell house and garden! and farewell wife! created for the house
and garden, but not for me!

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

THE MAN. But my child--O God!

     He leaves the garden.

         *       *       *       *       *

     A large saloon. Two candles stand upon an open piano. A cradle is
     near it, in which lies a sleeping child. The Man reclines upon a
     sofa, covering his face with his hands. The Wife is seated at the
     piano.

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

THE MAN. Thank you.

WIFE. I have also sent to the confectioner and ordered cakes and ices,
for I suppose you have invited many guests to the baptism of our infant.
He is to furnish us with some of those chocolate confections, with the
name of our son, George Stanislaus, upon them.

THE MAN. Thank you.

WIFE. God be thanked that the ceremony is so soon to be completed, and
that our little George will be made an entire Christian; for although he
has been already baptized with water, it always seems to me as if he
were wanting something.

     She goes to the cradle.

Sleep, darling, sleep! Art thou dreaming, that thou thus tossest about
thy white arms, and sufferest no covering to remain around thee? So
now--that will keep thee warm--lie so! How very restless my baby is
to-day! What can be the matter with him? My darling! my beautiful!
sleep! sleep!

THE MAN (_aside_). How hot and sultry it grows! A storm is rising; will
not the lightning flash from heaven, and strike me to the heart!

WIFE. Neither yesterday, nor to-day, nor for the last week--O God! it is
now almost a whole month since you have, of your own accord, addressed a
single word to me--and every one says I am growing so pale and thin!

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

     (To his wife.)

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

WIFE. Alas! it is a matter of perfect indifference to you; you never
even see me! When I come near you, Henry, you turn your head away; and
if I sit down beside you, you cover your face with your hands.

I went to confession yesterday, and carefully thought overall my faults
and follies--but I could not remember in what way I had so grievously
offended you.

THE MAN. You have not offended me.

WIFE. O God! My God!

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

WIFE. You kill me with the words _my duty_! Rather say at once, _I do
not love you_--then I would at least know all--the worst!

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

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

     She kneels before him with the infant in her arms.

THE MAN (_raising her gently from the ground_). Think not of what I have
said. Gloomy moments sometimes come upon me, confusion--faintness--

WIFE. But one word more, I implore! one promise, Henry! that you will
never cease to love him!

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

     He kisses her brow, she embraces him. At that moment a loud clap of
     thunder is heard, followed by strains of music--the chords grow
     ever wilder and more wild.

WIFE. Hark! What is that?

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

THE MAIDEN (_entering_). O my beloved, I bring thee joy and peace: come,
follow me! Throw off the earthly fetters which enchain, thee, O my love,
and follow me! I have sought thee from a new world of endless bliss, in
which night never comes--ah! I am only thine!

WIFE. Save me, holy Mother of God!

This ghost is ghastly pale--its eyes are dying out--its voice is hollow
as the rolling of the death-hearse with the corpse!

THE MAN. Thy white brow glitters; thy fair head is wreathed with
flowers, O beloved!

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

THE MAN. Around and from thee rays the light of heaven! but once to hear
thy voice--then die!

THE MAIDEN. She who restrains and impedes thee is but an illusion; her
life a passing breath; her love a dying leaf, to fall with thousands of
its fellows at the first chill breath, lost and withered--but I will
endure forever!

WIFE. Henry--Henry! hide me! Oh do not leave me! the air is filled with
sulphur, heavy with the breath of the grave!

THE MAN. Envy not, nor slander, O woman of dust and clay! Behold the
Ideal in which God created you--His first thought of what you were meant
to be. But following the counsel of the serpent, you became what you now
are!

WIFE. I will never leave you!

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

WIFE. Henry! Henry! Henry!

     She falls to the floor in a fainting fit, with the child in her
     arms; loud and repeated claps of thunder are again heard.

         *       *       *       *       *

     The baptism. Guests. Father Benjamin. The Godfather and Godmother.
     The nurse with the child in her arms; the Wife seated upon the
     sofa. Retainers and servants in the background.

FIRST GUEST. I wonder where the count is hiding.

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

FIRST GUEST. How pale and tired the countess looks, and as yet she has
spoken to no one.

THIRD GUEST. This christening reminds me of a ball which I once
attended; the host had just lost his whole estate at cards, and was a
complete bankrupt, while he continued to receive his many guests with
the courtesy of despair.

FOURTH GUEST. I left my lovely princess, and came here, because I
thought to play my part at a gay breakfast; but I am disappointed, for
it seems to me that I am, as the Scripture hath it, in the midst of
'wailing and gnashing of teeth.'

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

GODFATHER AND GODMOTHER. I receive it.

A GUEST. Look! look! the countess rises from the sofa, and comes slowly
forward as if in a dream!

ANOTHER GUEST. How she reels and totters--poor thing! She is advancing
to the infant--how deadly pale she grows!

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

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

GODFATHER AND GODMOTHER. I renounce them.

A GUEST. Hush! the countess--look!

WIFE (_laying her hand softly on the head of the infant_). Where is thy
father, tell me, George?

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

WIFE. Bless thee, George! I bless thee, my son! Become a poet, that thy
father may love thee, and never desert thee, George!

GODMOTHER. I conjure you, my dear Mary!

WIFE. Become a poet! that thus thou mayst serve thy father, mayst please
him, and then he will forgive thy mother, and return--

FATHER BENJAMIN. For the love of God, countess!

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

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

GUESTS (_whispering among themselves_). All this is very extraordinary.
What can have happened here? We had better leave the house immediately.

     Meanwhile the solemn ceremony is completed--the crying infant is
     again placed in his cradle.

GODFATHER (_standing by the cradle_). George Stanislaus! you have just
been made a Christian, and entered into the pale of human society; in
after years you will also be a citizen, and, through the grace of God
and the wise training of your parents, you may become a great statesman:
remember that you must love your native land; that it is noble and
beautiful to die for your country!

     Exit all.

         *       *       *       *       *

     A beautiful landscape, diversified with hills and forests; a
     mountain in the distance.

THE MAN. That for which I have so long striven, for which I have so
ardently prayed, is at last almost within my grasp!

The world of men lies far below me; the human pismires there may throng
their ant-hills, and struggle on for crumbs and flies--may burst with
rage if they fail to find them, or die with despair if they should lose
them. I have left all to....

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

     She glides rapidly on.

         *       *       *       *       *

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

THE MAN. Where is she gone? The morning breeze dies suddenly away, the
thick mists gather, and the sky grows dark.

There! I have gained at last the very top of this steep peak;--heavens,
what a frightful abyss yawns before me! How moaningly the wind howls up
this rocky pass!

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

THE MAN. Where art thou? thy voice is almost lost in the distance. How
can I follow thee through this abyss?

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

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

ANOTHER VOICE. What! a great, immortal soul, which in a single moment
should be able to traverse the boundless space of heaven, to faint and
perish at a cliff on the side of a hill! Stout heart! sublime soul,
shuddering, and imploring thy feet to go no farther! poor things!

THE MAN. Appear! Take forms with which I may contend, which may be
overthrown! If I start or quail before you, may _she_ never again be
mine!

THE MAIDEN (_from the other side of the abyss_). Seize my hand, and
swing thyself over to me!

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

The flowers start from thy temples, tear themselves loose from thy hair,
and when thou touchest them, they crawl like lizards, and writhe and
hiss like adders!

THE MAIDEN. My beloved!

THE MAN. Merciful God! the wind has twisted and torn off thy floating
drapery; it hangs in squalid rags about thee!

THE MAIDEN. Why dost thou linger?

THE MAN. The rain drops from thy heart, and freezes as it
falls;--skeleton bones look forth from thy bosom!

THE MAIDEN. Thou hast promised, hast sworn!

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

CHORUS OF EVIL SPIRITS. Old Satan, welcome back to hell! Thou hast
seduced and ruined a mighty spirit, admired by men, a marvel to itself.

Sublime soul, haughty heart--follow thy beloved!

THE MAN. Wilt thou then damn me, O my God! because I have believed that
Thy Beauty far surpassed the loveliness of earth; because I have left
all to follow it; and have suffered for it until I have grown the very
jest of devils?

EVIL SPIRIT. Hear, brothers, hear!

THE MAN. The last hour strikes! the storm whirls in black and
ever-widening circles--the sea is breaking and dashing higher and higher
against the rocks, and as it mounts them, draws me on--an invisible
power urges me forward--nearer--ever nearer--bands of men advance from
behind upon me--mount my neck--and plunge me into the abyss!

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

THE MAN. It is vain to struggle; useless to combat! the giddy bliss of
the abyss draws me on--my head is dizzy--the plunge is inevitable--my
brain whirls!--O God!--Thy fiend has conquered!

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

     At this very moment of time the holy water of baptism is poured
     upon the head of the infant, George Stanislaus.

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

Return to thy house: and love thy child!

         *       *       *       *       *

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

THE MAN. Where is the countess?

SERVANT. My lady is ill.

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

SERVANT. The countess is not here, my lord.

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

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

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

SERVANT. To the madhouse!

     He rushes out.

THE MAN. Hear me, answer me, Mary!

Ah, I know you are only hiding for a moment to punish me for my
desertion; but I suffer, Mary!

Mary, my own Mary, in pity speak!

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

John! Caroline! nurse!

The whole house seems deaf and dumb!

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

Ah! I have never wished to wrong any human being; I would have made the
whole world happy; yet I have plunged the woman who trusted herself to
me, the innocent creature whom I swore to love and guard, into the hell
of those already damned on earth!

I blast all upon whom I breathe; and am doomed to destroy myself also!
Hell has only released me for a few hours, that I might present to men
its living image upon earth!

Upon what a pillow of horror will she lay to-night her helpless head!
with what harmonies have I surrounded her in the darkness?--the wild
shrieks and howls of madmen in their cells!

I see her there! that brow so calm, so innocent, upon which no harsh
thought ever rests, is sunk and buried in her little hands. Her pure
thoughts wander idly now through space; they rove in search of the
husband who deserted her--and the unfortunate weeps--and is mad! mad!

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. (_She is seen opening a barred door, and
wears a great bunch of keys at her girdle._) Are you a relation of the
countess?

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

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. We have indeed but little hope of her
recovery. I am sorry my husband is not at home; he could have explained
the whole case to you. She was brought here in convulsions
yesterday--how very hot it is to-day!

     Wiping the perspiration from her face.

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

Only think of it--this asylum costs us two hundred thousand--but you are
growing impatient--tell me, is it true that the Jacobins seized her
husband at midnight, and thus drove her mad?

I beg you....

         *       *       *       *       *

     A room with a grated window. A bed, a chair. The Wife is lying upon
     a sofa, supported by pillows.

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

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

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

     Approaches his wife.

VOICE (_from the ceiling_). You have chained and fettered God himself!
You have already put one God to death on the cross; I am the second, and
you have given me into the hands of the headsman.

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

VOICE (_from the wall on the left_). The comet tracks its way in fire
across the sky; the day of wrath already breaks--the trump of Judgment
sounds!

THE MAN. Mary--do you know me?

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

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

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

THE MAN. I can carry you in my arms to the carriage, which is waiting
for you at the door; I want to take you home, Mary!

WIFE. Yes, we will go home. But you must wait for me; leave me for a
little while, and I will become worthy of you, Henry!

THE MAN. I do not understand you, Mary.

WIFE. Ah! I have prayed through weary days and endless nights; at last
God heard me, and smiled upon me!

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

WIFE. Listen, Henry! After you left me, a great change came upon my
spirit, and I felt what was wanting to make you love me. I cried to God
unceasingly; I struck my breast; I placed a blessed candle on my bosom;
I did penance; I said: 'Lord God be merciful unto me! Oh send down upon
me the spirit of Poetry, that I may be loved!'

And on the third day I was a Poet!

THE MAN. Mary!

WIFE. You will no more despise me; no longer leave me to my lonely
evenings; for I am full of inspiration, a Poet, Henry!

THE MAN. Never! never!

WIFE. Look upon me! have I not grown like yourself? I understand
everything now; I can explain and describe all that is: I chant the sea,
the stars, the clouds, battles--yes, stars--seas--storms--but battles?
No, I have never seen a battle. You must take me to see a battle, Henry.
I must watch men die! I must see and describe a corpse--a shroud--the
night dew--the moon--a cradle--a coffin:

  Endless space will spread around me,
    I will seek the farthest star,
  Cleaving swift the air around me,
    Searching beauty near and far.
  Like an eagle onward cleaving,
  All the Past behind me leaving,
  Chaos dark around me lying,
  Through its dimness lightly flying,
  Through its infinite abysses,
  On through darker worlds than this is,
  Farther--farther--ringing--ringing--
  Sounds the curse my soul is singing....

THE MAN. Horrible! horrible!

WIFE (_throwing her arms round him, and resting her head on his bosom_).
My Henry! my Henry! I am so, so happy!

VOICE (_from below_). I have murdered three kings with my own hand; ten
are still left for the block: a hundred priests still sing mass--

VOICE (_from the left_). The sun has lost the half of its glory; its
light is dying; the stars have lost their way, and hurtle each other
from their paths--woe! woe!

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

WIFE. Do not look so sad, Henry. Cheer up, you make me again unhappy!
What is the matter? I can tell you something will make you so glad.

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

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

THE MAN. What are you saying, Mary?

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

It is I who have done this; first I blessed him--then I affixed a curse
to the blessing: I know he will be a Poet!

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

WIFE. There is some one above us, suffering from strange and incurable
madness; is it not so?

THE MAN. Very strange.

WIFE. He does not know what he is saying; but I can tell you how it
would all be if God should go mad.

     She seizes him by the hand.

All the worlds would go flying about, up and down, and crash against one
another: every worm would cry out: 'I am God!' and then some of them
would die every moment; they would all perish one after the other!

All the comets and suns would go out in the sky! Christ would redeem us
no longer; He would tear His bleeding hands away from the nails, and
pitch the cross into the bottomless abyss. It falls!

Listen! how this cross, the hope of millions, goes crashing and hurtling
against the stars! Hark! it breaks! it flies asunder! the sky grows dark
with the ruined fragments--they fall like hail, deeper, deeper--a wild
storm surges from them--dreadful!

The holy Mother of God alone continues to pray, and the faithful stars,
her servants, which have not yet deserted her:--but she too will plunge
where all created things are storming down, for God is mad--and Christ
has thrown away His Cross!

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

WIFE. I have given wings to our son, and dipped him under the waves of
the sea, that he might take into his soul all that is beautiful,
sublime, and terrible. He will return to you a poet, and you will
rejoice in him.

Ah me! ah me!

THE MAN. Do you suffer, Mary?

WIFE. Some one has hung up a lamp in my brain--and the light sways and
flickers--I cannot bear it!

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

WIFE. Poets never live long.

     She faints.

THE MAN. Help! Save her! Help!

     Several women rush in.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. Pills--powders--no. She can swallow nothing
solid; a fluid potion is the best.

Margaret, run for the apothecary!

     Speaking to the Count.

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

WIFE. Henry, my Henry, farewell!

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

THE MAN. Mary! Mary!

     Takes her in his arms.

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

     Her head sinks upon his breast.

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

THE MAN. Her pure heart breaks--nor love nor wrong can ever reach her
more! O Mary! Mary!

     The Physician enters and approaches the sofa.

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




SOUND REFLECTIONS.

A TORCHER.

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

BRIDAL.

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




THE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT.


On Wednesday, the fifteenth day of June, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and sixty-four, the following resolution, which
had already passed the Senate, was put upon its final passage in the
House of Representatives as a joint resolution of Congress, to be
proposed to the people of the United States for an amendment to the
Constitution:

     'SECTION 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a
     punishment for crime, whereof the party shall have been duly
     convicted, shall exist in the United States, or any place subject
     to their jurisdiction.

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

The resolution was rejected for failure of the two-thirds vote required
by the Constitution on a question of amendment; the vote standing, yeas
ninety-four, nays sixty-five. Which vote has definitely determined two
things: first, that the party which calls itself Democratic is afraid to
trust this question to the people, and so belies its honored name; and
secondly, that there is a political element in our country whose
attachment to the slaveholding interest survives the attachment of the
slaveholding interest to the Union. Is this the best evidence of
patriotism?

Three years ago this summer of 1864, even after the treason of Southern
leaders had precipitated the flagrant Southern rebellion, ay, and even
after treason had dared the loyal army of the nation and flaunted its
defiant banner on the field of battle, the sentiment of a forbearing
people declared that no interference with the local establishments of
the treason-infected South would be permitted. So faithful were we to
the compromises of our fathers; so loth to believe in the wicked purpose
that had moved the rebellion. Three years of desperate resistance to the
nation's authority, three years of war, with its lessons of bitterness,
and grief, and death, and agony worse than death, have convinced us that
no further compromise is possible. Men told us so before, but we were
too devoted to the Union to believe in a treason that would not stop
short of the nation's complete dishonor. God be thanked that we know the
issue at last! Our conviction has gradually, but how immovably,
established itself! And now the sentiment of the people, no longer
forbearing, but not less just, and based upon the same unalterable
devotion to the Union, withdraws the pledges of the past and dictates an
amendment to the Constitution that shall leave no possibility of
slaveholding treason hereafter. That sentiment has found expression in
two mass conventions, representing the undoubted overwhelming majority
of the people, and it remains now to show the justice of it. It is
accordingly the purpose of this paper to discuss the nature of the
proposed amendment, and to state some controlling reasons in favor of
it.

The question, plainly stated, is: Ought the Constitution to be amended
so as to abolish slavery throughout the United States? Or, in other
words, Ought liberty to become part of the supreme law of the land?
Ought the idea of the nation to be now, at last, incorporated into the
law of the nation, and so made a fixed fact of the nation's history?

It should seem that the mere statement of the question suggests the
basis and positive force of the affirmative of it. For it reminds us at
once of the mighty revolution that has agitated and aroused it. The
progress of a century has been crowded into less than a decade of years.
The statesmanship of 1850 (profound and patriotic, as alas! it is to be
feared, too much of what we call statesmanship to-day is not) has been
outgrown. Let us not be startled by the statement. The highest art of
politics is to recognize existing facts. No thinking person will deny
that the policies of the past are powerless to-day. We cannot, if we
would, unmake the history of the last ten years. _Tempora mutantur, et
mutamur in illis_. Or, as a distinguished and eloquent son of Tennessee
lately paraphrased this old maxim: 'The world moves, and takes us along
with it, whether we will or not.'

Our discussion naturally divides itself into two branches: first, as to
the right, or constitutional power, to adopt the proposed amendment; and
secondly, as to the expediency and necessity of it.


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

No characteristic of the American people is more marked than their
regard for law; and in nothing is that characteristic more striking than
in their respect for the Constitution, the supreme law of the land.
Whatever seems to come in conflict with that supreme law must encounter
an irresistible odium. And herein appears the splendid fruit of the
teachings of our great legists and statesmen, enforced, as they are, by
the hereditary traditions of our Anglo-Saxon birthright. It is,
moreover, a standing proof that democracy is not necessarily radical and
destructive; and so furnishes us with a complete answer to the
assumptions of English Tories, as in Alison's 'History of Europe,' that
democracy is but the organized exponent of the self-willed passions of
the multitude. What thing, indeed, is more wonderful than the tenacity
with which conscientious men still cling to the doctrine (that had once
some reason for it) of constitutional guaranties in behalf of
slavery--an institution that has inspired the most monstrous treason of
all history! What people but the American would still be hesitating,
after the solemn experience of these three years, to strike down every
possible support to slavery!

Surely the lesson of the French Revolution, in its trumpet-toned warning
to the nations against a destructive radicalism, has not been lost upon
us. How ought we to adore the Providence, guided by whose inspiration
(as with becoming reverence we may believe) Washington and his
supporters directed our infant republic in the track of English
conservatism, fearful of the vagaries of the Red Republicanism of
France! This prudent policy justifies itself more and more in our
experience; and to-day the great heart of the people beats in unison
with those Providential leadings. Therefore it is that the question, in
reference to any measure, Is it constitutional? far from exciting
ridicule, as sometimes with superficial thinkers it has done, is to be
recognized as proof of our magnificent control over the wayward factions
of the hour, and of our abiding trust in the hardly less than inspired
wisdom of our fathers, to which we thus make our ultimate appeal. For
the Constitution is the organic law of the nation, and stands for the
firm foundation of our national life. The indissoluble bond of the
Union, it is itself the palladium of our liberties. It is, in fine, the
grandest chart of liberty and law, of justice and political order, which
the world ever saw. The man who dares knowingly violate its provisions
merits the punishment that followed the sacrilegious touch of David's
servant to the ark of the covenant--instant death. In the midst of a
fierce conflict with traitors who set at nought its binding force, let
us beware lest in our zeal to punish them we be not guilty of an equal
crime!

We yield, then, to no one in our devotion to the Constitution. We will
not allow that any one goes before us in reverence for it. But we are of
those who think that the time has come, in the providence of God, for
an amendment to its provisions.

Indeed, the Constitution derives not the least portion of its claim upon
our tender regard from the fact that it recognizes the eternal law of
progress; and, while establishing a government whose stability should be
as enduring as the principles upon which it is based, does not assume to
declare that it has exhausted the possibilities of the future. Guarding
against any and every impulse of popular passion, it nevertheless leaves
scope for the necessary changes of time and circumstance, which may make
the politic statesmanship of one period the exploded fallacy of the
next. For of the science of politics it may be said, as in the glowing
eulogy of Macaulay upon the philosophy of Bacon: 'It is a philosophy
which never rests, which has never attained its end, which is never
perfect. Its law is progress. A point which yesterday was invisible is
its goal to-day, and will be its starting-post to-morrow.' Political
science, indeed, is only another one of those 'illustrations of
universal progress,' which the genius of Herbert Spenser has made
familiar to our literature. And therefore it is that we cannot too much
admire the sagacity of the patriots who framed our Constitution. It was
a sagacity drawing its inspiration from all history, which taught, and
teaches, that if progress is attempted to be checked, it will find vent
in volcanic revolution. Reformation is the watchword of history: anarchy
and destruction the fate of those nations which heed it not.

Thus it was that the principle of amendment found its way into the
Constitution of the United States--a principle so just that by it we are
enabled in these bitter days to faithfully withstand the usurpation that
seeks to justify itself by appealing to the right of revolution. For in
the principle of amendment (as has heretofore been stated in this
magazine) the right of revolution was at the same time recognized and
exalted; and by it a means of war was made a means of peace, and so
revolution was sought to be forestalled. Nothing but despotism itself
would have disregarded this humane provision of the Constitution, and
sought a remedy for alleged grievances that is only justified by
despotism.

What, then, is the principle of amendment in our Constitution, and what
are its provisions? They are found in the fifth article, and read thus:
'_The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it
necessary, shall propose amendments to this Constitution_, or, on the
application of the legislatures of two thirds of the several States,
shall call a convention for proposing amendments, which, in either case,
_shall be valid to all intents and purposes, as part of this
Constitution, when ratified by the legislatures of three fourths of the
several States_, or by conventions in three fourths thereof, as the one
or the other mode of ratification may be proposed by the Congress;
provided, ... that no State, without its consent, shall be deprived of
its equal suffrage in the Senate.'

Can anything be clearer? And yet how men have contrived to mystify the
whole question by vague declamation about the rights of States! As if
those rights of States that were meant to be protected, were not
carefully guarded by the article itself, and especially by the proviso
'that no State, without its consent, shall be deprived of its equal
suffrage in the Senate'! As if, too, the rights of the States were
everything, the rights of the Nation nothing! It might well be asked,
moreover (as, indeed, a discriminating writer in _The Evening Post_ has
lately asked), whether the _people_ of the States have no rights that
are to be considered in this discussion; whether there are not certain
reserved rights of the people that have been violated by many
States--rights reserved in the very constitutions of those States, as
well as in the Constitution of the United States? But let it be noted,
as above intimated, that this fifth article is duly careful to guard the
rights of States. Three fourths of the States must concur in the
amendment; and in no event may a State be unwillingly deprived of its
equal suffrage in the Senate, which is the distinguishing mark of the
independent equality of all the States in the Union. On the other hand,
the rights of the States being thus protected in a manner and degree
which we must suppose to have been satisfactory to the men who framed
and the States which ratified the Constitution, the article then
proceeds to care for the rights of the Nation, by declaring that the
amendment duly ratified by three fourths of the States 'shall be valid,
as part of the Constitution:' thus binding all the States, the three
fourths which have ratified it, and the one fourth which may not have
ratified it. We have here a key to the motives of the Southern
rebellion. The leaders of Southern politics knew well that an amendment
like the one now proposed must one day come, and that whenever it should
come, article fifth left them no pretext for resistance. So they
precipitated their revolution, and have only hastened that inevitable
day.

But it is objected that the right to amend the Constitution does not
give us the right to enlarge its powers. Why not? And if not, to what
things does the right of amendment extend? Such an interpretation makes
article fifth an absurdity. This objection springs from the same
mischievous doctrine of State sovereignty, which has so outraged the
patriotic common sense of the people by the denial of our right to
'coerce' a State, and tends to the same result--nullification and
secession. It is good logic for a confederation, but bad logic for a
nation, to say that the articles of its organic law may not be changed
by the will of the people. And let us not neglect to observe in the
provisions of article fifth the strong incidental proof that the
Constitution of the United States was meant to be the basis of a
_nation_, and not the compact of a _confederation_. For how may this
article be reconciled with the theory of a compact? _Three fourths_ of
the States may concur in adopting an amendment that shall be valid as
part of the Constitution, which declares itself to be the supreme law of
the land, over _all_ the States.

This incidental point serves fitly to introduce the second branch of our
discussion, namely:


II. THE EXPEDIENCY AND NECESSITY OF THE PROPOSED AMENDMENT.

For slavery, or, in other words (lest we seem to offend some), a
rebellion in the interests and for the avowed establishment of slavery,
has struck _at the life of the nation_; and in self-defence the nation
must strike down slavery. If our Government is only the compact of a
confederation, then not only is there no need, but we have not the right
to adopt the proposed amendment. For by it an institution fostered by
the legislation of some of the States would be overthrown, in defiance
of that legislation. But the right, or constitutional power, of itself
implies the necessity to adopt the amendment whenever the occasion for
it may arise. The right is made part of the Constitution: the necessity,
or expediency, must be determined by circumstances outside of the
Constitution. We contend that circumstances at present point to the
complete extinguishment of slavery as the political necessity of the
period. The time for timid counsels is past. The day of tenderness for
Southern prejudices is gone by.

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

1. The proposed amendment finds its justification and highest warrant,
as a measure of political reform, in the _fact of the Southern
Confederacy_. This fact, pure and simple, is the controlling and
abundant necessity for it. We need not take the ground that slavery is
the cause of the rebellion: though to the philosophical inquirer it
certainly seems difficult to reach any other conclusion. We Americans
are so much under the influence of partisan prejudices, so surrounded
with the complications of present and past political issues, that for us
a dispassionate study of this point is almost, or quite, impossible. But
the investigations of impartial and unprejudiced foreigners seem
remarkably to concur in designating slavery as the moving cause of the
war. We may cite, for example, the recent profound review of the slave
power by Professor Cairnes. And surely no person who pauses to reflect
upon the inherent nature of the slave system as a labor basis of
society, will venture to deny that such a principle is at war with the
elemental principles of our Government. No person will deny that slavery
depreciates the dignity of labor, which is the pride and boast of our
institutions. Nor does it need any but the logic of common sense to
point out the incongruity of a free government resting, even partially,
upon a basis of slave labor.

But all this may be waived. We may discard all these considerations.
Perhaps it is wise to discard them. Let us forget our differences of
political opinion in the past, and seek for points of agreement in the
present. Taking this position, we cannot ignore the fact of the Southern
Confederacy, and that the avowed basis of it is slavery. It is a
stubborn fact confronting us at the outset of our inquiry, and, like
Banquo's ghost, 'will not down.' Proclaiming boldly that free labor is a
mistake, and unblushingly affirming as a doctrine of social and
political economy that 'capital must own labor,' the Southern
Confederacy challenges the Christian civilization of the age, and
declares its right to exist as an independent nation of slaveholders.
How may we explain so monstrous a pretence? There is but one explanation
that is adequate. It may be stated in a single word, _ambition_. The
lesson of our experience is that this malignant system of slavery, the
chattel slavery of the South, is too great a temptation to the ambition
of men. Let us not disregard it. Political ambition stands always ready
to strike hands with the devil, and the devil is always near the
conscience of ambitious men. We have no recourse but to remove the
temptation. The death-knell of Carthage is well appropriated: _Servitudo
est delenda_. So long as a vestige of the slavery establishment remains,
the temptation remains--a deadly risk to our Government. The peril of it
is too great. And this furnishes a complete answer to the superficial
objection that there is no need of the amendment because slavery is dead
already; for ambition may revive it, and what ambition _may_ do it
_will_ do. In other words, and to sum up the argument on this point:
Whatever may have been our individual opinions and beliefs before the
rebellion (variant enough at all times), the attempted establishment of
a confederacy avowedly based on slavery, proves beyond possibility of
cavil that chattel slavery, to which we have been lenient without limit,
is a temptation too great for the peace of the nation, and therefore the
highest interests of the nation require its removal.

2. The simple fact of the Southern Confederacy is also the basis of our
second proposition. For it reveals clearly the necessity of the proposed
amendment as a thing essential to be added to the organic law, in order
to carry out the purpose of it. That purpose is thus expressed in the
preamble to the Constitution: 'We, the people of the United States, _in
order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, insure domestic
tranquillity, provide for the common defence, promote the general
welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our
posterity_, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United
States of America.' Every one of the objects therein specified is, in
the baleful light of the rebellion, a plea for the amendment.

We are aware that this preamble has heretofore served as a basis for the
stanchest conservatism, and wisely so. We are of those who have always
contended that the 'blessings of liberty' are best secured by whatever
tends most to strengthen the Union--the asylum and hope of liberty,
without which liberty, disorganized and unprotected, were a vain show.
We are of that opinion still, and therefore support the amendment,
because we are for strengthening the Union and making it 'more perfect.'
We have not changed: circumstances have changed. What was formerly
conservatism is now radicalism, and radicalism is now the true
conservatism. For the period is one of transition, a crisis period, when
these two forces, to be of use, must be interfused, and thus become a
combined power of reform.

So long as the cotton and slaveholding interest could be held in check
and kept measurably subordinate to the supremacy of the Constitution,
there was hope that eventually the steadily-increasing forces of free
labor would overpower the gradually-decreasing forces of slave labor. It
was believed that by the silent action of natural laws freedom would, in
the long run, assert itself superior, and the ideal of our Government,
universal freedom, would thus at last become a reality and fact. Such,
we have been taught to believe, was the doctrine of the statesmanship of
1850. Such was the underlying argument of Webster's great 7th of March
speech--the enduring monument of his unselfish patriotism, seeking only
the good of his whole country. Such was his meaning when he declared
that the condition of the territories was fixed by an 'irrepealable
law,' needing no irritating legislation to assure their freedom.

Contrary to the hopes of our fathers, the slave system had prospered and
grown strong--chiefly because of the impetus given to it by the growth
of cotton, as was clearly shown by Webster in the speech just noted. We
suppose no candid reader of our history will deny this point. But the
system had no vital force within itself, and could not withstand those
laws of nature and free emigration to which we have adverted. It sought
protective legislation, and got it. Still, it was hampered by
limitations, notwithstanding it had present control of the cotton
growth. So the question of the slave trade was mooted. Thus it came to
pass that within half a century after it had expired by limitation of
the Constitution, that monstrous anomaly of the Christian era was sought
to be revived. And so corrupt had public sentiment become that the slave
trader captain of the yacht Wanderer could not be convicted by a jury of
his countrymen of violating the ordinance of the nation against this
traffic.[8] Will any one dare affirm that the tone of public feeling in
the South on this subject was not higher and purer in the time of
Jefferson than in the time of Buchanan? To what a depth of moral
degradation the nation might have sunk under the thus retrogressive
influences of ungodly Mammon, setting God and Christianity at total
defiance, may not easily be conjectured. But that law of action and
reaction which balances the powers of nature with such equal justice,
holds good also in the world of mind; and in the providence of God the
time of reaction came at last, and the temper of the nation reverted to
its pristine purity. That time came when defiant Mammon waxed so bold as
to threaten the nation's life. Under the protective statutes of
Congress, jealously watching over the local institutions of States,
slavery had grown to be a dominating power in the country; and, bound
by legislation and compromise, and the strict letter of the
Constitution, the people could only protest, and bide the inevitable
issue of such arrogant domination.

Now no longer is slavery dominant. Its own hand has struck down the
protecting shield of a quasi-constitutional guaranty, and all men feel
that its condemnation is just. Now there is 'none so poor to do it
reverence.' Why is this? It is the uniform course and consequence of
sin. 'Because sentence against an evil work is not executed speedily,
therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil.'
But God has spoken at last in a voice that we must heed. It is the voice
of war, a voice of woe; the voice of civil war, the chief of woes.
Slavery is now at our mercy. And mercy to it is to be measured by our
humanity to man and our fear of God. 'The word is nigh thee, even in thy
own mouth.' _Servitudo delenda est: deleta est_. Slavery is to be
destroyed: it is already destroyed. Shall we permit it a chance to be
revived? The way is opened to us, as it was not to our fathers, to
remove the curse from our borders. We shall be false to every
inspiration of patriotism if we now fail to remove it. The time has come
to complete the unity of the Constitution, and make the ideal purpose of
it, as stated in the preamble, a living fact. Shall we let the
opportunity slip? Now, at last, we may ordain a Constitution by which 'a
more perfect Union' shall 'secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves
and our posterity.'

3. A third reason for the proposed amendment, not less cogent though
more familiar to our political discussions than the two already named,
is found in article fourth, section second, of the Constitution:
'Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all the privileges and
immunities of citizens of the several States.' Everybody knows that this
section of the Constitution has been heretofore practically a dead
letter, albeit as fully a part of the supreme law as that other
provision in the same section for the rendition of 'persons held to
service.' So everybody knows equally well the reason of it. It was a
concession to the fierce passions of slaveholding politics. From the
very nature of the case there could not be the same toleration of speech
and press in a Slave State which the men from a Slave State enjoyed in a
Free State. It was incendiary. So for half a century there has been this
virtual nullification of one of the justest compromises of the
Constitution; and citizens of the United States have, within the limits
of the United States, been tarred and feathered, and burnt, and hung,
and subjected to indignities without number and without name. Nobody
will probably be willing to say that such a state of things is worthy to
be continued. The hope of peaceable relief has for long restrained the
hands of a people educated to an abhorrence of war. We have submitted to
a despotism less tolerant than the autocracy of Russia, or the
absolutism of France--hoping, vainly hoping, for some change; willing to
forego all things rather than dissever the Union, which we have held,
and hold, to be foremost, because bearing the promise of all other
political blessings; pardoning much to a legacy left the South for which
it was not primarily responsible, and ready to second the humane care of
a feeble race, and clinging to the hope of that better time to which all
the signs pointed, when, by force of freedom, there could be no more
slavery. The time has come, though sooner and under other circumstances
(alas! far other circumstances) than we expected. We need now no longer
give guaranties to the slaveholding interest. Taking advantage of such
as it had, it has not hesitated to attack its sole benefactor, and now
all our obligations are at an end. The Congress of the nation may and
will take care that, secession being stifled, there shall not
henceforth be a nullification of the least provision of the organic law,
out of mistaken tenderness for the interest of any section. We have at
last learned a nobler virtue than forbearance, and henceforth either the
Constitution, in all its parts, is to be supreme, or else the nation
must die. One or other of these things must result. Let him who can
hesitate between them write himself down a traitor; for he is one. No
patriot can hesitate. No lover of his country can falter in a time like
this. And if three years of war have not taught a man that this is the
alternative, that man does not deserve a country.

4. But there is a more emphatic expression of our fundamental law than
any yet cited; which, if left to its proper working, as now it may be,
strikes at the root of slavery. It is the fourth section of the fourth
article of the Constitution. 'The United States shall guarantee to every
State in this Union a republican form of government.'

The essence of republicanism is freedom. A republic that, like Sparta,
permits the enslavement of any portion of its people, is surely not
predicated upon the true idea of a republic; and it is worth while to
consider that the ancient republics found their bane in slavery, and
that the aristocratic republics of modern times, like Venice, have
perished. Only those republics survive to-day which, like San Marino,
have free institutions. A republic is a country where the whole people
is the public, and the state the affair of the whole people. It is a
_public affair_ (as its name imports), a thing of the public; and this
is not true of any other than a democracy. For the essential idea of
such a government is expressed in the maxim: 'the greatest good to the
greatest number;' and in that other maxim which is part of our
Declaration of Independence, that 'government derives its just powers
from the consent of the governed.' It needs no argument to show that
these maxims are violated in a country where any portion of the people
are deprived of their highest good--liberty. For what is the object of
government? To protect men from oppression. And our republican doctrine
is that this is best accomplished in a form of government which gives to
the voice of all men the controlling power. 'The voice of the people is
the voice of God,' because humanity is of God. The doctrine is that the
state is made for the individual, not the individual for the state; just
as our Saviour declared that 'the Sabbath was made for man, not man for
the Sabbath.' These things being so (and it is not pretended that they
are novel, for they are very trite), does it not immediately appear how
essentially opposed is slavery to the idea of a republic? Therefore when
the Constitution guarantees to every State a republican form of
government, it guarantees to all the people of every State a voice in
its control. And whatever State disfranchises any portion of its people
violates this provision of the Constitution.

To the objection that, at the time of adopting the Constitution, all the
States were Slave States, with a single exception, and therefore within
the meaning of that instrument slavery and a republican form of
government are not incongruous, there are two answers. First, it is
matter of history that the framers of the Constitution acted throughout
with reference to the eventual abolition of slavery; as has been already
adverted to in this paper. Therefore such States as have retained their
slave establishments have done so in violation of the spirit of this
provision of the Constitution; while such States as have since been
admitted into the Union with slave establishments have been admitted by
compromises, equally in violation of that provision, but acquiesced in
by the whole country, as the slave establishments of the original
States had been, and therefore equally binding on our good faith. We are
now no longer bound by any compromises. We have kept our plighted faith
strictly and fairly, though the Slave States have not. Our duty now is
to reconstruct, if we can, the fabric of the Union. If, in doing this,
we abolish slavery entirely, which makes impossible the full realization
of this guaranteeing clause, the guaranty will spring into new life and
become a power in the law of the land. Secondly, what is meant by a
republican form of government within the meaning of the Constitution
must be determined by reference to the Declaration of Independence,
which is the basis of our Government, and declares the principles of it.
That Declaration was promulgated as embodying the doctrines of a new
age--an age in which the rights of man should at last be maintained as
against the rights of royalty and privilege. It is, therefore, the
soundest rule of interpretation to refer the ambiguities of the organic
law to the declaration that preceded and introduced it and made it
possible. And so interpreting, will any one say that slavery is
compatible with the principles of the Declaration of Independence?

In support, moreover, of the view here taken, may be cited the opinion
of many of our statesmen, as expressed on the question of admitting new
States into the Union: as, for instance, when Missouri applied for
admission with a slave constitution. Nor is it competent to offset this
with the opinion of such statesmen as have advocated the doctrine of the
Virginia Resolutions of State sovereignty; for they notoriously
disregarded the paramount supremacy of the Constitution. The
conscientious doubt of others as to making the exclusion of slavery a
condition precedent to admission into the Union, proves not the
incorrectness of this position, but strengthens it, by showing that only
a controlling love of the Union caused the doubt, which originated in a
policy that would not even seem to do injustice to any State.

But whatever may be true as to the opinions of the fathers and early
statesmen of the republic; whatever may be true as to the precise
meaning of the term 'republican form of government' in the Constitution;
surely, in the light of our rebellion, there cannot longer be a doubt as
to the inherent antagonism of slavery to the principles of republican
government. The Southern Confederacy sprang into existence as an
oligarchy of slaveholders, willing (if need be) to live under a military
despotism (as is the fact to-day, and will be hereafter if the world
should witness the dire misfortune of its success), rather than submit
to the searching scrutiny of republican ideas, with freedom of speech
and press and person. And so it is that we recur to the simple fact of
the Southern Confederacy for the vindication of the proposed amendment
in all its bearings, finding in that fact the full warrant and
justification of it.

5. There is still another reason for the proposed amendment, that may be
urged with great force, on the ground of expediency; namely, that it
would settle the whole question of reconstruction in a manner and with
an effect that could not be gainsaid. For, once incorporated into the
fundamental law, there could not then arise questions touching the
validity of acts by which slaves are declared freemen. There would be
nothing left to hang a doubt upon. The Proclamation of Emancipation as a
war measure is undoubtedly a proper proceeding; but as a means of
effecting organic changes, and as possible to operate beyond the period
of actual war, it is open to many grave objections. Freedom being thus
made the law of the land, there would be no longer reason for
differences, as now there are wide differences among conscientious and
capable men, as to the proper mode of reinvesting the States usurped by
the rebellion with their rightful powers as kindred republics of the
nation. Constituent parts of a common and indivisible empire, those
powers cannot be destroyed by a usurping rebellion.

But, it is objected, the proposed amendment destroys certain of those
powers. Yes, it takes away all pretended right to hold slaves. For the
right of slavery is nowhere recognized in the Constitution. The fact of
slavery as part of the local establishments of some States could not be
ignored, although, as is well known, the word 'slave' was expressly
ruled out of the Constitution. Hence, the famous provisions for the
rendition of '_persons held to service_' (art. iv. sec. 2), and for the
apportionment of representatives and direct taxes, 'by adding to the
whole number of free persons ... _three fifths of all other persons_'
(art. i. sec. 2): which are the only recognition slavery finds in our
Constitution.

It is true, therefore, that slavery, never a right, but always a wrong,
under the Constitution, as under the law of nature and revelation, is
now to be no longer recognized even as a fact. To abolish it by this
amendment is to abolish it entirely throughout the Union, irrespective
of apparent State rights. The repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law remits
the question of restoring 'persons held to service' to the safeguards of
trial by jury, but has no further force. To supplement and complete the
work of reconstruction, we need to make impossible the pretence of a
power anywhere within the domain of the United States to hold a person
in bondage.

To the objection we have just noted, that certain State rights are thus
destroyed, there are two sufficient answers. First, in no State of the
Union, it is believed, does slavery exist by virtue of positive law. It
is the subject of legislation only as a recognized fact in society. It
exists in Virginia in violation of the Bill of Rights, which is part of
the organic law of that State, and, in its essential features, of every
slaveholding State. Therefore to abolish it is both to fulfil the duty
of the United States in guaranteeing to every State a republican form of
government, and to assert the only true doctrine of State rights,
namely, that the legislation of a State shall conform to the fundamental
law at once of the State itself and the nation. And thus the Bill of
Rights of a slaveholding State will be no longer a mockery, but a living
power. Secondly, the destruction of this pseudo right of a State to hold
slaves is no cause of complaint--even supposing it were a legitimate and
proper right.[9] For, the Constitution once adopted, the provision for
amendment, as part of it, has also been ratified and adopted; and
therefore, by a familiar principle of law, the exercise of that
provision may not afterward be questioned. It is not for the parties who
have once solemnly ratified an agreement to complain of the carrying
into effect of its terms. They must forever hold their peace.

Thus, by virtue of the proposed amendment, all the States of the Union
will become Free States, and there will be no longer the anomaly of a
free nation upholding slavery. It will then, moreover, have been settled
by the highest authority in the land, that a republican form of
government means, first of all, freedom; and so a free constitution will
be the unquestionable condition precedent of the admission of any State
into the Union. This doctrine will seem monstrous to the believer in
State sovereignty as paramount to the sovereignty of the nation: so it
will seem monstrous to the believer in secession and rebellion. But by
the lover of the Union (who alone is the true patriot in our country) it
will be accepted as a doctrine that adds another bond of unity to the
nation, and so tends to secure its perpetual strength.

In fine, the Constitution itself is all bristling with arguments for
this amendment. Besides the provisions already quoted, there is the
fifth article of the amendments, declaring that 'no person shall be
deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law,'
which has now a significance unknown before. Oh, how the rebellion has
interpreted for us and commented upon the provisions of the
Constitution! In the dread light of its unholy fires, we see, as never
before, how cursed and doubly accursed a thing is slavery--making men
forget all that is holiest and sacredest, quenching all their
inspirations of patriotism, and leading them to sell body and soul for
mad ambition. How true, alas! is the poet's word: 'How like a mounting
devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition!'

We _must_, therefore, put an end to slavery. In its whole essence and
substance, it militates against the perpetuity of our national Union. To
think of preserving both it and the Union is to shut our eyes wilfully
to the facts of the last half century, and the culminating condemnation
of slavery in the rebellion. A Southern journal (_The Nashville Times_)
has lately said, with great truth and force: 'Slavery can no more
violate the law of its existence and become loyal and law-abiding than a
stagnant pool can freshen and grow sweet in its own corruption.' Discard
all other considerations; say, if we please, that slavery has nothing to
do with the origin of the war; yet we must recognize the fact of a
confederacy avowedly basing itself on the system of slavery, and which
is in the interest of slaveholders, and is fostered by the minions of
despotism all over the world. Then, if we can, let us come to any other
conclusion than the one suggested in the proposed amendment.

This confederacy in the interest of slaveholders threatens the life of
the nation. There is a limit to the powers of the Constitution, and we
may not pass beyond it. But shall we deny that there is a higher law
back of the Constitution, back of all constitutions--namely, that
'safety of the people,' which is 'the supreme law'? If we say that there
is no such thing as moral government in the world; that a beneficent God
does not sit in the heavens, holding all nations as in the hollow of His
hand; yet we cannot deny this law of self-preservation. This law, this
higher law of human society, the law political, in the very nature of
things, demands the amendment.

Above all, let us not ignore the lessons of the war. The million graves
of the heroes fallen in defence of our liberties and laws, are so many
million wounds in the bleeding body of the nation, whose poor, dumb
mouths, if they had voice, would cry out to Heaven against the system
which has moved this foul treason against those liberties and laws. Let
us, then, in the white heat of this terrible crisis, adopt the
amendment, and stamp on the forefront of the nation, as its motto, for
all time, those magnificent words of Webster: 'Liberty _and_ Union, now
and forever, one and inseparable!' For let us be well assured that the
Southern Confederacy cannot triumph. In the darkest and most mournful
period of the despotism of the first Napoleon, when all hearts were
failing, a minister of the Church of England spoke these words of the
military empire of France, and they may fitly be spoken of the military
empire of the South to-day:

'It has no foundation in the moral stability of justice. It is
irradiated by no beam from heaven; it is blessed by no prayer of man; it
is worshipped with no gratitude by the patriot heart. It may remain for
the time that is appointed it, but the awful hour is on the wing when
the universe will resound with its fall; and the same sun which now
measures out with reluctance the length of its impious reign, will one
day pour his undecaying beams amid its ruins, and bring forth from the
earth which it has overshadowed the promises of a greater spring.'[10]

FOOTNOTES:

[8] The writer saw the defiant little yacht lying snug at the Savannah
wharf, in October, 1859--after the trial.

[9] In the constitution of the _republic_ of Texas (1836), it is
declared (sec. 9 of General Provisions), 'All persons of color who were
slaves for life previous to their immigration to Texas, and who are now
held in bondage, _shall remain in the like state of servitude_.' But in
the constitution of the _State_ of Texas (1845) there is no such
declaration; and article i., the Bill of Rights, sec. 1, declares: 'All
power is inherent in the people.' The foregoing provision of the Texan
constitution of 1836, is believed to be the only actual establishment of
slavery in any Southern State, and even that has been abrogated, as is
seen, by the State constitution of 1845. (See Hurd's Law of Freedom and
Bondage, vol. ii.)

[10] Alison's History of Europe, vol. iii. p. 461.




AVERILL'S RAID.


  Say, lads, have ye heard of bold Averill's raid?
  How we scoured hill and valley, dared dungeon and blade!
  How we made old Virginia's heart quake through and through,
  Where our sharp, sworded lightning cut sudden her view!
    Three cheers!

  Red battle had trampled her plains into mire;
  The homestead and harvest had vanished in fire;
  But far where the walls of the Blue Ridge arose,
  Were prize for our daring and grief for our foes.
    Three cheers!

  There was grain in the garners, fresh, plump to the sight;
  And mill-wheels to grind it all dainty and white;
  There were kine in the farmyards, and steeds in the stall,
  All ready, when down our live torrent should fall.
    Three cheers!

  And in the quaint hamlets that nestled more far,
  Were contrabands pining to know the north star;
  And home guards so loath to leave home and its joys,
  But who dreamed not they staid prize for Averill's boys.
    Three cheers!

  Oh, keen did we grind our good sabres, and scan
  Our carbines and pistols, girths, spurs, to a man!
  Then up and away did we dash with a shout,
  With cannon and caisson, away in and out.
    Three cheers!

  Away in the forest and out on the plain;
  The stormy night gathered, we never drew rein;
  The raw morning cut us, but onward, right on,
  Till again the chill landscape in twilight grew wan.
    Three cheers!

  Sleet stung us like arrows, winds rocked us like seas,
  And close all around crashed the pinnacle-trees;
  Red bolts flashed so near, the glare blinded our eyes,
  But onward, still on, for in front shone the prize.
    Three cheers!

  We climbed the steep paths where the spectre-like fir
  Moaned of death in the distance; we ceased not to spur!
  Death! what that to us, with our duty before!
  Then onward, still on our stern hoof-thunder bore.
    Three cheers!

  We dashed on the garners, their white turned to black;
  We dashed on the mills, smoky veils lined our track;
  We dashed on the hamlet, ha, ha! what a noise,
  What a stir, as upon them rushed Averill's boys!
    Three cheers!

  The contrabands came with wide grins and low bows,
  And old ragged slouches swung wide from their brows;
  But the home guards ran wildly--then blustered, when found
  Not made food for powder, but Union-ward bound.
    Three cheers!

  The kine turned to broils at our camp fires--the steeds,
  The true F. F. V.'s, fitted well to our needs;
  They pranced and they neighed, as if proud of the joys
  Of bearing, not home guards, but Averill's boys.
    Three cheers!

  We dashed on the rail-track, we ripped and we tore;
  We dashed on the depots, made bold with their store;
  Then away, swift away, for 'twas trifling with fire;
  We were far in the foe's depths, and free to his ire.
    Three cheers!

  Fierce Ewell and Early and Stuart and Hill
  Launched forth their fleet legions to capture and kill;
  But we mocked all pursuit, and eluded each toil,
  And drummed unopposed on their dear sacred soil.
    Three cheers!

  We swam icy torrents, climbed wild, icy roads
  Where alone wolf and woodman held savage abodes;
  We floundered down glary steeps, ravine, and wall,
  Either side, where, one slip, and a plunge settled all:
    Three cheers!

  The dark, mighty woods heaved like billows, as o'er
  Burst harsh jarring blasts, and like breakers their roar;
  While clink of the hoof-iron and tinkle of blade
  Made sprinkle like lute in love's soft serenade.
    Three cheers!

  Oh, footsore and weary our steeds at last grew!
  Oh, hungry and dreary the long moments drew!
  We froze to our saddles, spur hardly could ply:
  What of that! we were lucky, and now could but die!
    Three cheers!

  But we wore through the moments, we rode though in pain;
  Were sure to forget all when camp came again;--
  So we rode and we rode, till, hurrah! on our sight
  Burst our tents, as on midnight comes bursting the light!
    Three cheers!




OBSERVATIONS OF THE SUN.


As much interest is manifested for increased knowledge of solar
characteristics, and as many astronomers and numerous amateurs are daily
engaged in their investigation, I have thought that the experience of
thousands of observations and the final advantages of a host of
experiments in combination of lenses and colored glasses, resulting
highly favorably to a further elucidation of solar characteristics,
would be interesting, especially to such as are engaged in that branch
of inquiry.

My experiments have resulted in two important discoveries. First, by a
new combination of lenses, I prevent heat from being communicated to the
colored glasses, which screen the eye from the blinding effects of solar
light, and thus avoid the not infrequent cracking of these glasses from
excess of heat, thereby endangering the sight--whereas, by my method,
the colored glasses remain as cool after an hour's observation as at the
commencement, and no strain or fatigue to the eye is experienced.
Secondly, the defining power of the telescope is greatly increased, so
that with a good three-and-a-quarter inch acromatic object-glass, with
fifty-four inches focal length (mine made by Búron, Paris), I have
obtained a clearer view of the physical features of the sun than any
described in astronomical works.

In a favorable state of the atmosphere, and when spots are found lying
more than halfway between the sun's centre and the margin, or better
still, if nearer the margin, when the spots lie more edgeways to the
eye, I can see distinctly the relative thickness of the photosphere and
the underlying dusky penumbra, which lie on contiguous planes of about
equal thickness, like the coatings of an onion. When these spots are
nearer the centre of the sun, we see more vertically into their depths,
by which I frequently observe a third or cloud stratum, underlying the
penumbra, and partially closing the opening, doubtless to screen the
underlying globe (which, by contrast with the photosphere, is intensely
black) from excessive light, or to render it more diffusive.[11] The
concentric faculæ are then plainly visible, and do not appear to rise
above the surface of the photosphere (as generally described), but
rather as depressions in that luminous envelope, frequently breaking
entirely through to the penumbra; and when this last parts, forms what
are called 'spots.' The delusion in supposing the faculæ to be elevated
ridges, appears to me to be owing to the occasional depth of the faculæ
breaking down through the photosphere to the dusky penumbra, giving the
appearance of a shadow from an elevated ridge. What is still more
interesting, in a favorable state of the atmosphere, I can distinctly
see over the _whole_ surface of the sun, not occupied by large spots or
by faculæ, a network of pores or minute spots in countless numbers, with
dividing lines or faculæ-like depressions in the photosphere, separating
each little hole, varying in size, some sufficiently large to exhibit
irregularities of outline, doubtless frequently combining and forming
larger spots.[12] When there are no scintillations in the air, the rim
or margin of the sun appears to be a perfect circle, as defined, in
outline, as if carved. By interposing an adjusted circular card, to cut
off the direct rays of the sun, thus improvising an eclipse, not a stray
ray of light is seen to dart in any direction from the sun, except what
is reflected to the instrument, diffusively, from our atmosphere; thus
proving that the corona, the coruscations or flashes of light, seen
during a total or nearly total eclipse of the sun by the moon, are not
rays direct from the sun, but reflections from lunar snow-clad
mountains, into her highly attenuated atmosphere. Solar light, being
electric, is not developed as light until reaching the atmosphere of a
planet or satellite, or their more solid substance, which would explain
why solar light is not diffused through space, and thus account for
nocturnal darkness.

The combination of glasses which enabled me to inspect the above details
may be stated briefly thus: In the place of my astronomic eyepiece, I
use an elongator (obtainable of opticians) to increase the power. Into
this I place my terrestrial tube, retaining only the field glasses, and
using a microscopic eyepiece of seven eighths of an inch in diameter.
Over this I slide a tube containing my colored glasses, one dark blue
and two dark green, placed at the outer end of the sliding tube, one and
a half inches from the eyeglass. The colored glasses are three quarters
of an inch in diameter, and the aperture next the eye in diameter half
an inch. The power which I usually employ magnifies but one hundred and
fifty diameters; and I use the entire aperture of my object glass. This
combination of colored glasses gives a clear dead white to the sun, the
most desirable for distinct vision, as all shaded portions, such as
spots, however minute, and their underlying dusky penumbra, are thus
brought into strong contrasts.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Imagine an immense sphere enclosed within two contiguous and
equally thin envelopes, and yet sufficiently thick to show their edges
distinctly when broken; the outer, a photosphere, having an intensely
bright surface, and the inner, or penumbra, of a dull gray surface;
while the enclosed hollow space is all dark, with the exception of an
occasional fleecy cloud, floating within, and contiguous to the inner
envelope. Now remove a large irregular piece from the outer, and a
smaller piece from the inner envelope, and you have an exact idea of the
appearance of a spot; contrasting the comparative brilliancy of the
photosphere with the penumbra; their relative thickness; the intense
blackness within, and occasional cloud stratum floating beneath the
opening, as seen, under the most favorable circumstances, with a good
telescope.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] The Nasmyth willow-leaf appearance, I think, is either the result
of imperfect vision, defective instruments, or unfavorable state of the
air, distorting the unvarying result of my observations, as above
described, which have been a thousand times repeated in our clearer
atmosphere, both on the coast and interior mountain regions. My
observation of a general pore-like character, over the whole surface of
the photosphere of the sun, is, I think, corroborated by considering the
spots, as usually known and visible with ordinary instruments, as merely
greater pores of the same general character.




AN ARMY: ITS ORGANIZATION AND MOVEMENTS.

_FOURTH PAPER_.


In previous papers we have briefly related the history of the art of war
as now practised, stated the functions of the principal staff
departments, and mentioned some of the peculiar features of the
different arms of military service. It remains to describe the
operations of an army in its totality--to show the methods in which its
three principal classes of operations--marching, encamping, and
fighting--are performed.

The first necessity for rendering an army effective is evidently
military discipline, including drill, subordination, and observance of
the prescribed regulations. The first is too much considered as the
devotion of time and toil to the accomplishment of results based on mere
arbitrary rules. The contrary is the truth. Drilling in all its
forms--from the lowest to the highest--from the rules for the position
of the single soldier to the manoeuvres of a brigade--is only
instruction in those movements which long experience has proved to be
the easiest, quickest, and most available methods of enabling a soldier
to discharge his duties: it is not the compulsory observance of rules
unfounded on proper reasons, designed merely to give an appearance of
uniformity and regularity--merely to make a handsome show on parade.
Nothing so much wearies and discourages a new recruit as his drill; he
cannot at first understand it, and does not see the reason for it. He
exclaims:

  'I'm sick of this marching,
  Pipe-claying and starching.'

He thinks he can handle his musket with more convenience and rapidity if
he is permitted to carry it and load it as he chooses, instead of going
through the formula of motions prescribed in the manual. Perhaps as an
individual he might; but when he is only one in a large number, his
motions must be regulated, not only by his own convenience, but also by
that of his neighbors. Very likely, a person uneducated in the mysteries
of dancing would never adopt the polka or schottish step as an
expression of exuberance; but if he dances with a company, he must be
governed by the rules of the art, or he will be likely to tread on the
toes of his companions, and be the cause of casualties. Military drill
is constantly approaching greater simplicity, as experience shows that
various particulars may be dispensed with. Formerly, when soldiers were
kept up as part of the state pageants, they were subjected to numberless
petty tribulations of drill, which no longer exist. Pipe-clayed belts,
for example, have disappeared, except in the marine corps. Frederick the
Great was the first who introduced into drill ease and quickness of
execution, and since his day it has been greatly simplified and
improved.

One great difficulty in our volunteer force pertains to the institution
of a proper subordination. Coming from the same vicinage, often related
by the various interests of life, equals at home, officers and men have
found it disagreeable to assume the proper relations of their military
life. The difficulty has produced two extremes of conduct on the part of
officers--either too much laxity and familiarity, or the entire
opposite--too great severity. The one breeds contempt among the men, and
the other hatred. After the soldier begins to understand the necessities
of military life, he sees that his officers should be men of dignity and
reliability. He does not respect them unless they preserve a line of
conduct corresponding to their superior military position. On the other
hand, if he sees that they are inflated by their temporary command, and
employ the opportunity to make their authority needlessly felt, and to
exercise petty tyranny, he entertains feelings of revenge toward them. A
model officer for the volunteer service is one who, quietly assuming the
authority incident to his position, makes his men feel that he exercises
it only for their own good. Such an officer enters thoroughly into all
the details of his command--sees that his men are properly fed, clothed,
and sheltered--that they understand their drill, and understand also
that its object is to render them more effective and at the same time
more secure in the hour of conflict--is careful and pains-taking, and at
the same time, in the hour of danger, shares with his men all their
exposures. Such an officer will always have a good command. We think
there has been a tendency to error in one point of the discipline of the
volunteer forces, by transferring to them the system which applied well
enough to the regulars. In the latter, by long discipline, each man
knows his duty, and if he commits a fault, it is his own act. In the
volunteers, the faults of the men are in the majority of cases
attributable to the officers. We know some companies in which no man has
ever been sent to the guard house, none ever straggled in marching, none
ever been missing when ordered into battle. The officers of these
companies are such as we have described above. We know other
companies--too many--in which the men are constantly straying around the
country, constantly found drunk or disorderly, constantly out of the
ranks, and constantly absent when they ought to be in line. Invariably
the officers of such companies are worthless. If, then, the system of
holding officers responsible for the faults of the men, were adopted, a
great reform would, in our judgment, be introduced into the service. It
is a well-known fact in the army that the character of a regiment, of a
brigade, of a division even, can be entirely changed by a change of
commanders. A hundred or a thousand men, selected at random from civil
life anywhere, will have the same average character; and if the military
organization which these hundred or thousand form differs greatly from
that of any similar organization, it is attributable entirely to those
in command.

Passing to the army at large, the next matter of prominent necessity to
be noticed is the infusion in it of a uniform spirit--so as to make all
its parts work harmoniously in the production of a single tendency and a
single result. This must depend upon the general commanding. It is one
of the marks of genius in a commander that he can make his impress on
all the fractions of his command, down to the single soldier. An army
divided by different opinions of the capacity or character of its
commander, different views of policy, can scarcely be successful.
Napoleon's power of impressing his men with an idolatry for himself and
a confidence in victory is well known. The _moral_ element in the
effectiveness of an army is one of great importance. Properly stimulated
it increases the endurance and bravery of the soldiers to an amazing
degree. Physical ability without moral power behind it, is of little
consequence. It is a well-known fact that a man will, in the long run,
endure more (proportionately to his powers) than a horse, both being
subject to the same tests of fatigue and hunger. A commander with whom
an army is thoroughly in accord, and who shows that he is capable of
conducting it through battle with no more loss than is admitted to be
unavoidable, can make it entirely obedient to his will. The _faculty of
command_ is of supreme importance to a general. Without it, all other
attainments--though of the highest character--will be unserviceable.

However large bounties may have given inducements for men to enlist as
soldiers, it is undeniable that patriotism has been a deciding motive.
Under the influence of this, each soldier has entertained an ennobling
opinion of himself, and has supposed that he would be received in the
character which such a motive impressed on him. He has quickly
ascertained, however, when fully entered on his military duties, that
the discipline has reduced him from the position of an independent
patriot to that of a mere item in the number of the rank and file.
Military discipline is based on the theory that soldiers should be mere
machines. So far as obedience is concerned, this is certainly correct
enough; but discipline in this country, and particularly with
volunteers, should never diminish the peculiar American feeling of being
'as good as any other man.' On the contrary, the soldier should be
encouraged to hold a high estimation of himself. We do not believe that
those soldiers who are mere passive instruments--like the Russians, for
example--can be compared with others inspired with individual pride.
Yet, perhaps, our discipline has gone too far in the 'machine'
direction. To keep up the feeling of patriotism to its intensest glow is
a necessity for an American army, and a good general would be careful to
make this a prominent characteristic of the impression reflected from
his own genius upon his command. Professional fighting is very well in
its place, and there are probably thousands who are risking blood and
life in our armies, who yet do not cordially sympathize with the objects
of the war. But an army must be actuated by a living motive--one of
powerful importance; in this war there is room for such a motive to have
full play, and it is essential that our soldiers should be incited by no
mere abstract inducements, by no mere entreaties to gain victory, but by
exhibitions of all the reasons that make our side of the struggle the
noblest and holiest that ever engaged the attention of a nation.

But we must leave such discussions, and proceed specifically to the
subject of this paper--the methods of moving an army.

A state of war having arrived, it depends upon the Government to decide
where the _theatre of operations_ shall be. Usually, in Europe, this has
been contracted, containing but few _objective points_, that is, the
places the capture of which is desired; but in our country the theatre
of operations may be said to have included the whole South. The places
for the operations of armies having been decided on, the Government
adopts the necessary measures for assembling forces at the nearest
point, and accumulating supplies, as was done at Washington in 1861. A
commander is assigned to organize the forces, and at the proper time he
moves them to the selected theatre. Now commences the province of
_strategy_, which is defined as 'the art of properly directing masses
upon the theatre of war for the defence of our own or the invasion of
the enemy's country.' Strategy is often confounded with tactics, but is
entirely different--the latter being of an inferior, more contracted and
prescribed character, while the former applies to large geographical
surfaces, embraces all movements, and has no rules--depending entirely
on the genius of the commander to avail himself of circumstances. It is
the part of strategy, for instance, so to manoeuvre as to mislead the
enemy, or to separate his forces, or to fall upon them singly. Tactics,
on the contrary, are the rules for producing particular effects, and
apply to details. The strategy of the commander brings his forces into
the position he has chosen for giving battle; tactics prescribe the
various evolutions of the forces by which they take up their assigned
positions. It was by strategy that General Grant obtained the position
at Petersburg; it was by tactics that his army was able to march with
such celerity and precision that the desired objects were attained.

Marches are of two classes--of concentration and of manoeuvre. The
former, being used merely for the assembling of an army, or conducting
it to the theatre of operations, need but little precision; the latter
are performed upon the actual theatre of war, often in the presence of
the enemy, and require care and skill for their proper conduct. The
details of marches are of course governed by the nature of the country
in which they are performed, but so far as practicable they are made in
two methods--by parallel columns, or by the flank. The former is the
most usual and the most preferable in many respects; indeed, the latter
is never adopted except when compelled by necessity, or for the purpose
of executing some piece of strategy. A careful arrangement of all
details by commanders, and a steady persistence in their performance on
the part of the troops, are required to permit this class of marches to
be made safely in the presence of an enemy.

For the use of an army of a hundred thousand men about to march forward
against an enemy, all the parallel roads within a space of at least ten
miles are needed, and the more of them there are the better, since the
columns can thereby be made shorter, and the trains be sent by the
interior roads. Where a sufficient number of parallel roads exist,
available for the army, it is usual to put about a division on
each--sometimes the whole of a corps--according to the nature of the
country and the objects to be attained. We will attempt to illustrate
the march of an army by columns in the following diagram.

[Illustration]

Suppose that E and F are two towns thirty miles apart, and that there
are road connections as represented in the diagram. The army represented
by the dotted line A B, wishes to move to attack the army C D. Cavalry,
followed by infantry columns, would be sent out on the roads E M N and E
G I, the cavalry going off toward P and K to protect the flanks, and the
infantry taking position at I and O. Meantime another column, behind
which are the baggage trains, covered with a rear guard, has moved to L.
If the three points I, L, and O are reached simultaneously, the army can
safely establish its new line, the baggage trains are entirely
protected, and the whole country is occupied as effectually as if every
acre were in possession.

The formation of a marching column varies according to circumstances,
but is usually somewhat as follows, when moving toward an enemy:

[Illustration:

  Skirmishers.

    Advance guard.

    Brigade of infantry.

    Battery of artillery.

    Main body of infantry.

    Main body of artillery.

    Ambulances and wagon
    trains

    Rear guard.]

The dots representing the ambulances and wagon trains do not show the
true proportion of these to the rest of the column, and it cannot be
given except at too great a sacrifice of space. They occupy more road
than all the other parts of the column combined. With the advance guard
go the engineers and pioneers, to repair the roads, make bridges, etc.

The difficulties and dangers attending a _flank march_ can be made
apparent by a diagram:

[Illustration]

Let A B and C D represent two armies drawn up against each other in
three lines of battle, on opposite sides of a stream, E F. The commander
of the army A B, finding he cannot cross and drive the enemy from their
works, determines, by a flank march to the left, to go around them,
crossing at the point E. In order to effect this he must send his trains
off by the road I K L to some interior line, and then slowly unfold his
masses upon the single road K E H. By the time the head of his column is
at H the rear has not perhaps left K, and thus the whole length of his
army is exposed on its side to an attack by the enemy, which may sever
it into two unsupporting portions. It will be perceived that to
accomplish such marches with security, they must be made in secret as
far as possible, until a portion of the marching force reaches the rear
of the enemy; the column must be kept compact, and great vigilance must
be exercised. In his progress from the Rapidan to the James, General
Grant made three movements of this character with entire success, each
time putting our forces so far in the rear of the rebels that they were
compelled to hasten their own retreat instead of delaying to avail
themselves of the opportunity for attacking.

Besides the topography of the country, various circumstances influence
the manner in which a march is conducted--particularly the position of
the enemy. When following a retreating foe, the cavalry is sent in the
advance, supported by some infantry and horse artillery, to harass the
rear guard, and, if practicable, delay the retreat until the main army
can come up. This was the case in the peninsula campaign, from Yorktown
to the Chickahominy. Again, the exact position of the enemy may not be
known, or he may have large bodies in different places, so that his
intentions cannot be surmised. It is then necessary to scatter the army
so as to cover a number of threatened points, care being exercised to
have all the different bodies within supporting distances, and to be on
guard against a sudden concentration of the enemy between them. This was
the case in the campaign which ended so gloriously at Gettysburg. The
rebels were then threatening both Harrisburg and Baltimore, and the two
extremities of our army were over thirty miles apart, so as to be
concentrated either on the right, left, or centre, as events might
determine. It happened that a collision was brought on at Gettysburg,
and both armies immediately concentrated there. The corps on the right
of our army was obliged to march about thirty-two miles, performing the
distance in about eighteen or nineteen hours, and arriving in time to
participate in the second day's battle. As much skill is evinced by a
commander in preliminary manoeuvring marches and the assignment of
positions to the different portions of his army as in the direction of a
battle. Napoleon gained many of his victories through the effects of
such manoeuvres.

_Time_ is a very important element in marching. An army which can march
five miles a day more than its opponent will almost certainly be
victorious, for it can go to his flank, or assail him when unprepared,
Frederick the Great achieved his successes by imparting mobility to his
troops, and Napoleon also was a master of that peculiar feature in that
faculty of command of which we have before spoken, that enables a leader
to obtain from his men the maximum amount of continued exertion. To
achieve facility in marching, all the equipments of the soldiers should
be as light as possible, and the columns should be encumbered with no
more trains than are absolutely indispensable. Officers of the highest
class must be prepared to forego unnecessary luxuries, and to march with
nothing more than a blanket, a change of clothing, and rations for a few
days in their haversacks.

When a march is contemplated, orders are issued from the general
headquarters prescribing all the details--the time at which each corps
is to start, the roads to be taken, the precautions to be observed, and
the points to be gained. Usually an early hour in the morning is fixed
for the commencement of the march. If not in the immediate presence of
the enemy, and a surprise is not intended, the _reveillé_ is beaten
about three o'clock, and the sleepy soldiers arouse from their beds on
the ground, pack up their tents, blankets, and equipments, get a hasty
breakfast, and fall into their ranks. If some commander--perhaps of a
regiment only--has been dilatory, the whole movement is delayed. Many
well-formed plans have been defeated by the indolence of a subordinate
commander and his failure to put his troops in motion at the designated
hour. Such a delay may embarrass the whole army by detaining other
portions, whose movements are to be governed by those of the belated
fragment. At four o'clock, if orders have been obeyed, the long columns
are moving. Perhaps four or five hours are occupied in filing out into
the road. While the sun is rising and the birds engaged at their matins,
the troops are trudging along at that pace of three miles an hour, which
seems so tardy, but which, persisted in day after day, traverses so
great a distance. Every hour there is ten or fifteen minutes' halt,
enabling the rear to close up, and the men to relieve themselves
temporarily of their guns and knapsacks. Soon the heat commences to grow
oppressive, the dust rises in suffocating clouds, knapsacks weigh like
lead, and the artillery horses pant as they drag the heavy guns. But the
steady tramp must be continued till about eleven o'clock, when a general
halt under the shelter of some cool woods, by the side of a stream, is
ordered. Two or three hours of welcome rest are here employed in dinner
and finishing the broken morning's nap. After the intenser heat of the
day is past, the tramp recommences, and continues till six or seven
o'clock, when the place appointed for encamping is reached. Soon white
tents cover every hill and plain and valley, the weary animals are
unharnessed, trees and fence rails disappear rapidly to feed the
consuming camp fires, there is a universal buzz formed from the laugh,
the song, the shout, and the talking of twenty thousand voices: it
gradually subsides, the fires grow dim, and silence and darkness fall
upon the scene.

Such marching, with its twenty, twenty-five, or thirty miles a day, is
light compared with the harassing fatigues of a retreat, before the
pursuit of a triumphant enemy. To accomplish this movement, so as to
save the organization and the material of an army, without too great a
loss of life, tests in the highest degree the skill of a commander and
the fortitude of the men. In a retreat, the usual order of marching is
reversed--the trains are sent in the advance, and the troops must remain
behind for their protection. Often it happens that they are obliged to
remain in line all day, to check by fighting the advance of the enemy,
and then continue their march by night. The dead and wounded must, to a
great extent, be left on the field; supplies are perhaps exhausted, with
no opportunity for replenishment; the merciless cannon of the enemy are
constantly thundering in the rear, his cavalry constantly making inroads
upon the flanks. Weary, hungry, exhausted, perhaps wounded, the soldier
must struggle along for days and nights, if he would avoid massacre or
consignment to the cruelties of a prison. The rout of a great army--the
disorganization and confusion of a retreat, even when well
conducted--the toil and suffering and often slaughter--are the saddest
scenes earth can present. Who can paint the terrors of that winter
retreat of the French from Moscow? Fortunately, in our war we have had
nothing to equal in horrors the retreats of European armies, but no one
who passed through those trying seven days fighting and marching which
closed the Peninsula campaign, can ever fail to shudder at the
sufferings imposed on humanity by a retreat.




VIOLATIONS OF LITERARY PROPERTY.

THE FEDERALIST.--LIFE AND CHARACTER OF JOHN JAY.


Among the rights which are ill protected by law, and yet of essential
importance to the individual and society, are those of literary
property. If any bequest should be sacred, it is that of thought,
convictions, art--the intellectual personality that survives human
life--and the 'local habitation and the name' whereby genius, opinion,
sentiment--what constitutes the best image and memorial of a life and a
mind, a character and a career, is preserved and transmitted. And yet,
with all our boasted civilization and progress, no rights are more
frequently or grossly violated, no wrongs so little capable of
redress, as those relating to literary property. Herein there is a
singular moral obtuseness a want of chivalry, an inadequate sense of
obligation--doubtless in part originating in that unjust legislation, or
rather want of legislation, whereby international law protects the
products of the mind and recognizes national literature as a great
social interest. Within a few months, the biography of our pioneer
author,[13] whose memory his life and character, not less than his
genius, had singularly endeared to the whole range of English
readers--was prepared by a relative designated by himself, who, with
remarkable tact and fidelity, completed his delicate task, according to
the materials provided and the wishes expressed by his illustrious
kinsman. A London publisher reprinted the work, with eighty pages
interpolated, wherein, with an utter disregard to common delicacy toward
the dead or self-respect in the living, unauthentic gossip is made to
desecrate the reticent and consistent tone of the work, pervert its
spirit, and detract from its harmonious attraction and truth. A greater
or more indecent and unjustifiable liberty was never taken by a
publisher with a foreign work; it was an insult to the memory of
Washington Irving, to his biographer and those who cherish his fame.

Not many weeks ago, an eloquent young divine, who had in no small degree
saved the State of California to the Union, by his earnest and constant
plea for national integrity, died in the midst of his useful and noble
career: forthwith the publisher of a Review, in whose pages some of his
early essays had appeared, announced their republication: in vain the
friends and family of Starr King protested against so crude and limited
a memorial of his genius, and entreated that they might be allowed to
glean and garner more mature and complete fruits of his pen, as a token
of his ability and his career; and thus do justice, by careful selection
and well-advised preparation, to the memory they and their fellow
citizens so tenderly and proudly cherished: no; the articles had been
paid for, the recent death of the writer gave them a market value, and
the publishers were resolved to turn them to account, however good taste
and right feeling and sacred associations were violated.

Again, one of the few legal works of American origin which has a
standard European reputation is Wheaton's 'International Law.' Its
author was eminently national in his convictions; foreign service and
patriotic instincts had made him thoroughly American in his sympathies
and sentiments; no one of our diplomatic agents sent home such
comprehensive and sagacious despatches, having in view 'the honor and
welfare of the whole country;' and no one who knew Henry Wheaton doubts
that, were he living at this hour, all his influence, hopes, and faith
would be identified with the Union cause.

Yet an edition[14] of his great work has lately appeared, edited in an
opposite interest; and the standard reference on the law of nations, so
honorable to the legal knowledge, perspicacity, and candor of an
American author, goes forth perverted and deformed by annotations and
comments indirectly sympathetic with the wicked rebellion now
devastating the nation. Can a greater literary outrage be imagined? Is
it possible more grossly to violate the rights of the dead?

Aware that certain rules apply to the annotation of legal treatises not
recognized in other departments of literature, and diffident of personal
judgment in this respect, in order to ascertain how far our sense of
this violation of literary property and reputation was well founded, how
far we were right in asserting a partisan aim, we requested an
accomplished lawyer, thoroughly versed in the literature of his
profession, and experienced as an editor, to examine this edition of
Wheaton, and state his own opinion thereof: to him we are indebted for
the following clear and palpable instances of a perverted use of a
standard American treatise, endeared to many living friends of the
author, and all his intelligent and patriotic countrymen: of the
'additions' to the original by the editor, he says:

     '1. They indicate considerable reading and industry, but are far
     too voluminous, and abound in extended extracts from speeches,
     state papers, and statutes, which should have been omitted
     altogether, or very much abridged.

     '2. They contain no language complimentary to the Administration,
     little or nothing in defence of the Government--none that can be
     offensive to Jefferson Davis; and, as a whole, they give the
     impression that he regards the Confederate position as being quite
     as defensible, on the principles of international law, as that of
     the United States.

     '3. He has no word of censure for Lord John Russell, and no word
     of apology for Mr. Seward. He nowhere calls the Confederates
     _rebels_, and nowhere thinks the conduct of France suspicious or
     unfriendly.

     '4. His positions are unquestionably the same with those of
     Seymour, Bishop Hopkins, Professor Morse, Judge Woodward, etc.

     '5. He is everywhere cold--more willing to wound than bold to
     strike; and yet he fretfully commits himself before he gets
     through, in defence of slavery and extreme democratic positions.

     '6. He does not pretend that he was ever requested by the great
     author with whose productions he has taken such liberties to
     undertake the editorial duties.

     'His language is so general that one needs to read it carefully to
     feel the full force of what I have said.

     'In the preface (page 1-20), he speaks of 'Spanish American
     independence, now jeopardized by our _fratricidal_
     contest'--fratricidal is indeed a favorite word; he uses it in an
     offensive sense as regards the United States. Page 99, note, he
     says of slavery, what is utterly untrue, that 'the Constitution
     recognized it as property, and pledges the Federal Government to
     protect it.' The noble act of June 19, 1862, forbidding slavery in
     United States Territories, he comments on in this wise: 'This act
     wholly ignores the decision of the Supreme Court (meaning the Dred
     Scott case) on the subject of slavery.' He then inserts the whole
     act in the note, only to hold it up to censure--'testing it by
     international law' as interpreted by him. At page 605 he denounces
     that law as 'obnoxious not only to the principles of international
     law, but to the Constitution of the United States.' His note and
     extracts, including long extracts from speeches of Thomas, of
     Massachusetts, and Crittenden, of Kentucky, fill more than
     twenty-two pages--reserving a line or two of text at the top. To
     say nothing of the sentiments, such notes are a shameful abuse of
     the reputation and work of Mr. Wheaton, and a perversion of the
     duties and rights of an editor. But a word of the sentiments. He
     exhausts himself and the records of the past in accumulating
     precedents to condemn the policy of freeing slaves as a war
     measure, or of arming them in the nation's defence.

     'At page 614, in this same note, speaking of the effect of the
     Proclamation of Emancipation, he says: 'The attention of publicists
     may well be called to the withdrawal of the four millions of men
     from the cultivation of cotton, which, is the source of wealth of
     the great commercial and manufacturing nations of Europe.' That is,
     he suggests this as a ground for interference in our affairs on the
     principles of _his_ international law. He further adds that this
     cultivation of cotton is 'by nature a virtual monopoly of the
     seceded States;' that is, nature preordained the negroes to be
     slaves in the seceded States to raise cotton; and hence natural and
     international law require emancipation proclamations to be put
     down. Did Stephens ever go farther? Again, on the same page, he
     says: 'The effect on the United States, _in the event of the
     reestablishment of the Federal authority,_' without the
     Proclamation in force, etc., 'would be _seriously felt_, in its
     financial bearings,' etc.--'abroad as well as at home.' Not
     satisfied, therefore, with suggesting a justification of
     intervention, on the basis of international law, he appeals to the
     cupidity of foreigners as well as natives, by hinting also that
     financial ruin may follow the triumph of Freedom and the Federal
     armies. What a shame that an American editor should use the great
     name of Wheaton to give dignity to such suggestions in foreign
     countries.' He then gives--all in the same interminable note (page
     614)--an extract from _The Morning Chronicle_, of May 16, 1860, of
     which I give you this delicious morsel: 'No blacks, no cotton, such
     is the finality.' At page 609, he speaks of the 'incompatibility of
     confiscation of property with the present state of civilization.'
     At page 609, he quotes, with evident delight, the sanctimonious
     despatch of Lord John Russell about sinking ships in Charleston
     harbor, which his lordship calls a 'project only worthy the times
     of barbarism;' and the American annotator, who could use page after
     page to degrade his own Government for emancipating slaves, of
     course could not be expected to refer to any of the precedents that
     would have silenced Lord John, and have justified the United
     States; and he therefore passes on with no reference to them.

     'At page 669, Mr. Wheaton says: 'The validity of maritime captures
     must be determined in a court of the captor's Government,' etc.
     This American editor does not so much as allude to the fact, that
     while he is writing, the highways of the ocean are lighted by the
     fires of American merchantmen, plundered, and then burned, without
     condemnation of any court, by vessels fitted out in English ports,
     in open violation of the first principles of international law, and
     which have never been in any port under the jurisdiction of the
     piratical Confederacy!

     'Some of his indications of sympathy with the rebellion are quite
     in excess of those of Lord John, with whose views, on the whole, he
     seems well enough pleased. For example, at page 254, Lord John is
     quoted as follows: 'Has a commission from the _so-called_ President
     Davis,' etc.; but at page 107 and generally, the American editor,
     not willing to imply that there is any doubt about the reality or
     permanency of the Confederate concern, nor being willing to offend
     its managers, speaks of 'the President of the Confederate States,'
     and 'an act of Congress of the Confederate States,' etc.; and when
     he reaches page 535, as if to set Lord John a better example (and I
     believe there had been some Confederate victories about the time he
     was writing that note), he says: 'A proclamation was issued by
     _President Davis_, on the 14th of August, 1861, ordering all
     citizens adhering to the Government of the United States, etc., to
     depart from the _Confederate States_ in forty days.' It is very
     evident the author approves this order as warranted by
     international law, at least according to his interpretation
     thereof.

     'Need I go farther to satisfy you of the temper and character of
     the notes, and the views of their author? I can hardly suppress the
     expression of my indignation that such a use should have been made
     of this great national work--that such an opportunity should have
     been lost to say something worthily in favor of colonization and
     freedom, and in vindication of our nation, in its great struggle
     with the relics of barbarism in its midst, and with the selfish and
     ambitious spirits of the European continent, so ready to take
     advantage of our troubles to promote their own schemes.'

We now come to another and more generally obnoxious instance of this use
of standard national works for personal or political objects. The
'Federalist,' from the circumstances under which it was written, the
influence it exerted, the events with which it is associated, the
character of the writers, and the ability manifest both in their
arguments and the style--has long been regarded as a political classic.
It was the text book of a large and intelligent party at the time of and
long subsequent to the adoption of the Constitution; and few works of
political philosophy, written to meet an exigency and prepare the way
for a governmental change, have attained so high and permanent a rank
among foreign critics and historians. It is evident that such a work,
whoever owns the copyright or boasts the authorship, has a national
value and interest. To preserve it intact, to keep it in an eligible and
accessible form before the public, is all that any editor or publisher
has a right to claim. Much has been written as to the authorship of the
respective papers, and some passages have been variously rendered in
different editions; but the general scope and merit of the work, and the
obvious and unchallenged identity of style and opinion with the
acknowledged authors as regards most of the articles, make the
discussions on these points of comparative little significance to the
reader of the present day, who regards the work as a whole, seizes its
essential traits, and is _en rapport_ with its magnanimous tone, so
wholly opposed to petty division of credit in a labor undertaken from
patriotic motives, and by scholars and gentlemen. Enough that we have
here the reasonings of enlightened citizens, the views of statesmen, the
arguments whereby the claims of the Constitution were vindicated.
Whoever is familiar with the history of the period, finds in this
remarkable work a memorable illustration of that rectitude and wisdom
which presided over the early counsels of the nation, and an evidence of
the rare union of sagacity and comprehensiveness, of liberal aspiration
and prudential foresight, of conscientiousness and intelligence, which
has won for the founders of the republic the admiration of the world. In
these pages, how much knowledge of the past is combined with insight as
to the future, what common sense is blent with learning, what
perspicacity with breadth of view! Each department of the proposed
government is described and analyzed; the political history of Greece,
Rome, the Italian republics, France, and Great Britain examined for
precedents and illustrations; popular objections answered; popular
errors rectified; this provision explained, that clause justified; the
judicial, legislative, and executive functions defined; national revenue
discussed in all its relations; the advantages of our civil list, of a
republic over a democracy in controlling the effects of faction, are
clearly indicated; as are those attending the reservation of criminal
and civil justice to the respective States: on the one hand the defects
of the old Confederacy are stated with emphasis and truth, and on the
other, the transcendent benefits of Federal union are elaborately
argued, and economy, stability, and vigor proved to be its legitimate
fruits. Of the evils of the old system, it is said: 'Let the point of
extreme depression to which our national dignity and credit have sunk,
let the inconvenience felt everywhere from a lax and ill-administered
government, let the revolt of a part of North Carolina, the memory of
insurrection in Pennsylvania, and actual insurrection in Massachusetts,
declare it.' An unique distinction of this political treatise is that
while Pericles, Cato, Hume, Montesquieu, Junius, and other classical and
modern authorities are cited with scholarly tact, the most practical
arguments drawn from the facts of the hour and the needs of the people,
are conveyed in language the most lucid and impressive. To give a
complete analysis of the 'Federalist' would require a volume; the glance
we have cast upon its various topics sufficiently indicates the extent
and importance of the work. Not less memorable is the spirit in which it
was undertaken. 'A nation without a national government,' it is said,
'is, in my view, an awful spectacle;' and elsewhere--'The establishment
of a constitution in times of profound peace, by the voluntary consent
of a whole people, is a prodigy, to the completion of which I look
forward with trembling anxiety.' 'I dread,' writes Jay, 'the more the
consequences of new attempts, because I know that powerful individuals
in this and in other States are enemies to a General National Government
in every possible shape.'

Under such a sense of responsibility, with such patriotic solicitude did
Hamilton, Madison, and Jay plead for the new Constitution with their
fellow citizens of New York in the journals of the day, and it is these
fragmentary comments and illustrations which, subsequently brought
together in volumes, constitute 'the Federalist'; and well did they,
toward the close of the discussion, observe: 'Let us now pause and ask
ourselves whether, in the course of these papers, the proposed
Constitution has not been satisfactorily vindicated from the aspersions
thrown upon it, and whether it has not been shown worthy of the public
approbation and necessary to the public safety and prosperity.' Whatever
degree of sympathy or antagonism the intelligent reader of the
'Federalist' may feel, he can scarcely fail to admit that it is a
masterly discussion of principles, and that the influence it exerted in
securing the ratification of the Constitution in the State of New York,
was a legitimate result of intelligent and conscientious advocacy. But
the work has other than merely historical and literary claims upon our
esteem at this hour. Its principles find confirmation here and now, in a
degree and to an extent which lends new force and distinction to its
authors as writers of political foresight and patriotic prescience.
There are innumerable passages as applicable to the events of the last
three years as if suggested by them; there are arguments and prophecies
which have only attained practical demonstration through the terrible
ordeal of civil war now raging around and in the heart of the republic.

When we saw the announcement of a new edition[15] of this national work,
we hailed it as most seasonable and desirable: when the first volume
came under our notice, our first feeling was one of gratitude to the
editor for having taken such care to reproduce the work with the
greatest possible correctness of text, obtained by patient collation of
the different editions: regarding his labors as those of a disinterested
historical student, ambitious to bring before the public a work full of
warning and wisdom for this terrible national crisis, we at first saw in
his annotations and comments only the labor of love whereby a standard
work is illustrated and made more emphatic and complete: but, ere long,
we found a spirit of detraction at work, a want of sympathy with the
tone and a want of understanding of the motives of the authors, which
made us regret that, instead of this partisan edition, the 'Federalist'
had not been reissued with a brief explanatory introduction, and without
note or comment.

Instead of a hearty recognition, we find a narrow interpretation of
these eminent men: long-exploded slanders, born of partisan spite, are
more in the mind of the editor than the permanent and invaluable traits
which, to a generous and refined mind, constitute the legitimate claims
of the work itself and the authors thereof. Guizot remarks: 'In the
discussions of the numbers' (the 'Federalist'), 'for all that combines a
profound knowledge of the great elementary principles of human
government with the wisest maxims of practical administration, I do not
know in the whole compass of my reading, whether from ancient or modern
authors, so able a work.' _The Edinburgh Review_ says: 'The 'Federalist'
is a publication that exhibits an extent and precision of information, a
profundity of research and an acuteness of understanding, which would
have done honor to the most illustrious statesmen of ancient or modern
times.'

In contrast with these and similar instances of eminent foreign
appreciation, the editor of this edition of the 'Federalist' attributes
to tact what is due to truth, represents the people, as such, as opposed
to the Constitution, and Hamilton, Jay, and Madison 'poor antagonists'
in combating their objections; if so, how does he account for the
remarkable triumph of their dispassionate exposition and lucid
arguments? In all political and literary history there are few more
benign and distinguished examples of the practical efficiency of
intelligent, patriotic, and conscientious reasoning against ignorance,
prejudice, and partisan misrepresentation. And yet, in the face of this
testimony, by the self-constituted editor of this national work,
Hamilton is described as sophistical and disingenuous, whose object is
to deceive rather than to instruct, to mislead rather than enlighten,
and whose motives are partisan rather than patriotic.

Throughout the introduction there is a spirit of latent detraction;
insinuations against the aims and methods, if not against the character
of the illustrious men whose memories are our most precious inheritance;
we feel that, however industrious in research and ingenious in
conjecture, the tone and range of the critic's mind are wholly
inadequate for any sympathetic insight as to the nature of the men whose
writings he undertakes to reintroduce to the public--and this
irrespective of any difference of political opinion: something more than
verbal accuracy and patient collation is requisite to interpret the
'Federalist' and appreciate its authors; even a political opponent, of
kindred social and personal traits, would do better justice to the
theme: and a truly patriotic citizen of the republic, at such a crisis
as the present, could never find therein an appropriate occasion to
magnify political differences at the expense of national sentiment.

Whatever the literary merit or political interest of the 'Federalist,'
its moral value is derived from our faith in the absolute sincerity and
profound convictions of its authors: not only does the internal evidence
of every page bear emphatic testimony thereto, but the correspondence of
each writer as well as of contemporary statesmen, attest the same truth:
they regarded the condition of the country as ruinous, and lamented that
the fruits of victory turned to ashes on the lips of the people, because
there was no homogeneous and vital organization to conserve and
administer the invaluable blessings won by the sword: against the
suicidal jealousy of State rights as adequate for prosperous
self-reliance without the bonds and blessings of a vital National
Government, they earnestly directed the most patriotic and intelligent
arguments: of these the 'Federalist' is the chief repertory; hence its
value and interest as a popular treatise which prepared the way for the
intelligent adoption of the Constitution; yet in this edition the
introductory remarks impugn the sincerity of the authors, and attempt to
revive the political heresy of extreme State as opposed to Federal
power, which it is the primary object of the work to expose and condemn;
and this at a time when the fatal doctrine is in vogue as what may be
called the metaphysical apology for the most base and barbarous
rebellion against free government recorded in history. According to this
editor, Chancellor Livingston was 'dilatory and uncertain,' Duane
sympathized with the Tories in power, Hamilton exaggerated the troubles
of the country and consciously sought to make his fellow citizens
attribute, against the facts, the depreciated currency and the dearth of
trade to the weakness of the Confederation--making a false issue to
effect a political triumph: 'his plan of operations,' his 'tact,' are
referred to as if, instead of being a true patriot and conscientious
statesman, he was a mere special pleader, intriguing and ambitious. Add
to this that, when introducing the 'Federalist' to the public in what
purports to be an historical preface, he is silent on the wonderful
fruits of the Constitution therein advocated--and fails to indicate, as
would any candid critic, the remarkable proofs which time and experience
yield of the practical wisdom and patriotic foresight of the men whose
honorable prestige he thus indirectly seeks to undermine. Jay, we are
told, was regarded 'by the majority of his fellow citizens as selfish,
impracticable, and aristocratic;' he is said to have been 'induced to
undertake' his share of the 'Federalist;' he speaks of the small part he
actually did write, without alluding to the fact that illness withdrew
him from work of all kinds, after his third paper had been
contributed--thus conveying the impression of a lukewarm zeal and even
utter indifference; whereas not only do his own words confute the
imputation, but we have Madison's declaration that the idea of the
'Federalist' was suggested by Jay; 'and it was undertaken last fall,' he
writes to Jefferson, 'by Jay, Hamilton, and myself. The proposal came
from the two former. The execution was thrown, by the sickness of Jay,
mostly on the two others.' It is even insinuated by this editor that Jay
confined himself to topics which could be discussed 'without
compromising in the least his general political sentiments, and without
obliging him to assent even by implication to any portion of the
proposed Constitution.' The representative duties and offices again and
again forced upon John Jay--whether as a writer, jurist, envoy, or
legislator--the evidence of his own letters, and especially the
testimony of his fellow statesmen, adequately confute such
misrepresentations as we have noted. It is a thankless, and, we believe,
a superfluous task to vindicate the manliness, sincerity, and patriotism
of the authors of the 'Federalist' and their fellow statesmen; indeed,
their illustrious opponents in political questions again and again bore
witness to the worth, wisdom, and integrity of the _men_, while many
disputed the doctrine of the writers; popular sentiment embalms their
fame and cherishes their memories; the insinuations of any
self-constituted editor cannot impair the confidence or reverse the
verdict which time has only confirmed and national growth made more
emphatic. On the other hand, such attempts to diminish the personal
authority, by misrepresenting the methods and motives of these eminent
men, as are exhibited in the whole tone and manner of this editorship of
a national work, imply a perverted sense of the duties of the hour, an
insensibility to the terrible crisis through which the nation is
passing, that cannot be too severely condemned by the patriotic and
intelligent of all parties. Now, if never before, we should keep bright
the escutcheon of our country's honor, and renew our love and admiration
for the fathers of the republic and our faith in their principles.

Scrupulous as firm, Jay acted with judicial moderation; he advocated the
last petition before declaring hostility against Great Britain--desirous
of trying every means before accepting the dread alternative of war; he
insisted upon a general convention of the States before deciding upon
the new Constitution; he was loyal until loyalty became an abrogation of
free citizenship; law and justice with him went hand in hand with
reform, and rectitude, not impulse, gave consistency to his course. Such
a man lays himself open to factious criticism far more than reckless
politicians, who are restrained by no sense of responsibility; but, on
the other hand, in the last analysis, they stand forth the most pure
because the most patient, just, and truly patriotic of representative
statesmen.

'Mr. Jay,' says John Adams, 'had as much influence in the preparatory
measures for digesting the Constitution and in obtaining its adoption as
any man in the nation;' yet according to this editor of the
'Federalist,' he found therein 'little that he could commend, and
nothing for which he could labor:' the same authority declares that he
was regarded 'by the majority of his fellow citizens as selfish,
impracticable, and aristocratic;' while Dr. McVickar justly remarks that
the first thing that strikes us in contemplating his life is 'the
unbroken continuity, the ceaseless succession of honorable confidences,
throughout a period of twenty-eight years, reposed in Jay by his
countrymen.'

But instead of dwelling upon such abortive disparagement, the only
importance of which arises from its being annexed to and associated with
a standard political text-book, let us refresh our memories, our
patriotism, our best sympathies of mind and heart, by tracing once more
the services and delineating the character of this illustrious man,
whose benign image seems to invoke his countrymen, at this momentous
climax of our national life, to recur to those principles and that faith
which founded and should now save the republic.

Among the French Protestants who were obliged to seek a foreign home
when the Edict of Nantes was revoked, was Pierre Jay, a prosperous
merchant of Rochelle, who took up his abode in England. This statement
alone is no inadequate illustration of the character of John Jay's
paternal grandfather; sagacity, enterprise, and application, are
qualities we may justly infer from commercial success; and when the
fruits thereof were, in no small degree, sacrificed by adherence to a
proscribed religion, no ordinary degree of moral courage and pure
integrity must have been united to prudential industry. Those who
believe in that aristocracy of nature whereby normal instincts are
transmitted, will find even in this brief allusion to the Huguenot
merchant traits identical with those which insured the public usefulness
and endear the personal memory of his grandson. The latter's father,
Augustus Jay, was one of three sons. He, with many others of the second
generation of exiled French Protestants, found in America a more
auspicious refuge than even the more free states of Europe afforded. A
family who had previously emigrated to New York, under similar
circumstances, naturally welcomed the new _emigré_; and the daughter of
Bathezan Bayard became his wife. Their children consisted of three
daughters and one son, who was named Peter for his grandfather. One of
the prominent names of the original Dutch colonists of New York is Van
Cortland; and Peter Jay married, in 1728, Mary, a daughter of this race,
by whom he had ten children, of which John, the subject of this sketch,
was the eighth. Genealogists, who reckon lineage according to humanity
rather than pride, might find in the immediate ancestry of John Jay one
of those felicitous combinations which so often mark the descent of
eminent men among our Revolutionary statesmen. With the courteous and
intelligent proclivities of Gallic blood the conservative, domestic, and
honest nature of the Hollander united to form a well-balanced mind and
efficient character. With the best associations of the time and place
were blended the firmness of principle derived from ancestors who had
suffered for conscience' sake; so that in the antecedents and very blood
of the boy were elements of the Christian, patriot, and gentleman; which
phases of his nature we find dominant and pervasive throughout his life;
for it is a remarkable fact in the career of John Jay that by no triumph
of extraordinary genius, by no favor of brilliant circumstances did he
win and leave an honored name, but through the simple uprightness and
the sound wisdom of a consistent and loyal character--so emphatic and
yet unostentatious as to overcome, in the end, the most rancorous
political injustice. His early training was no less favorable to this
result than his birth. His father removed to Westchester county, and, on
a pleasant rural domain still occupied by the family, the future
jurist's childhood was passed. At that time there was a French church at
New Rochelle, the pastor of which was an excellent scholar; and this
gentleman fitted young Jay for college. He gave early proofs of a
studious turn of mind and a reticent temperament; acquiring knowledge
with pleasure and facility; and, for the most part, exhibiting a
thoughtful demeanor. In some of his father's letters, alluding to his
childhood, he is described as a boy of 'good capacity,' of 'grave
disposition,' and one who 'takes to learning exceedingly well.' He
attended the grammar school of the French clergyman until the age of
fourteen, and then entered King's (now Columbia) College, at that time
under the care of President Johnson. Here he became intimate with
three youths with whom he was destined to be memorably associated
in after life, and whose names, with his own, have since become
historical--Gouverneur Morris, Alexander Hamilton, and Robert R.
Livingston. We can easily imagine that the diversities of character
between these remarkable men were already evident; the ardor and
frankness of Hamilton, the emphatic rhetoric of Morris and fluent grace
of Livingston must have singularly contrasted with the reserve,
seriousness, and quietude of Jay; yet were they akin in the normal basis
of character--in the love of knowledge, in loyalty to conviction, and
that heart of courtesy which harmonizes the most diverse gifts of mind
and traits of manner; even then no common mutual respect must have
existed between them, and difference of opinion elicited both wit and
wisdom. In a letter to the latter of these young friends, written soon
after, Jay speaks of himself as 'ambitious;' but little in his
subsequent life justifies the idea; he had more pride of character--more
need to respect himself--than ambition, as that word is usually
understood; excellence more than distinction was his aim;--no one of the
leaders in the Revolution sought office less, none fulfilled its duties
with more singleness of purpose, or escaped from its responsibilities
with greater alacrity; the instincts of John Jay were mainly for truth,
duty, and success, in the higher acceptation of the term. What he
undertook, indeed, he strove to do well, but it was from an ideal
rectitude and a pride of achievement more than a desire to gain applause
and advancement; his ambition was more scholarly than political or
personal. He graduated with the highest honors on the fifteenth of May,
1764, and delivered the Latin salutatory. His family had gained wealth
and position in commerce, and it is probable that, with his
clear-sighted perseverance, John Jay would have been a most successful
merchant; but his tastes were intellectual; he determined to study
law--at that period, in this country, when Blackstone's 'Commentaries'
had not appeared, before Chancellor Kent had written, or a law school
had been established, a discipline so arduous and uninviting as to be
conscientiously adopted only by the most self-reliant and determined.

For a brief period Jay was the law partner of his friend Livingston,
afterward the chancellor of the State. The evidences of his professional
career, like those of so many eminent lawyers, are inadequate to suggest
any clear idea of his method and ability, except so far as the respect
he won, the practice he acquired, and the style of those state papers
which are preserved, indicate argumentative powers, extensive knowledge,
and finished style: in a few years he had become eminent at the bar, and
while in the full tide of success, the exigencies of public affairs--the
dawn of the American Revolution, called him from personal to patriotic
duties. He was an active participant in the first meeting called to
protest against the injustice and oppression of the British Government,
and elected one of the committee of fifty chosen by the people, to
decide upon a course of action: at his instance they recommended the
appointment of deputies from each of the thirteen colonies. Jay was the
youngest member of the Congress that met on the 5th of September, 1774,
and was selected as one of the committee to draft an address to the
people of Great Britain; in the next Congress he was one of the
committee to prepare the declaration showing the causes and necessity of
a resort to arms, and of that appointed to draft a petition to the
king--as a last resort before actual hostilities; he also wrote the
address to the people of Canada, Jamaica, and Ireland. The address to
the people of Great Britain opens thus:

     'When a nation, led to greatness by the hand of liberty, and
     possessed of all the glory that heroism, munificence, and humanity
     can bestow, descends to the ungrateful task of forging chains for
     her friends and children, and, instead of giving support to
     freedom, turns advocate for slavery and oppression, there is reason
     to suspect she has either ceased to be virtuous, or been extremely
     negligent in the appointment of her rulers.'

It concludes as follows:

     'It is with the utmost regret that we find ourselves compelled, by
     the overruling principles of self-preservation, to adopt measures
     detrimental in their consequences to numbers of our fellow subjects
     in Great Britain and Ireland. But we hope that the magnanimity and
     justice of the British nation will furnish a Parliament of such
     wisdom, independence, and public spirit, as may save the violated
     rights of the whole empire from the devices of wicked ministers and
     evil counsellors, whether in or out of office; and thereby restore
     that harmony, friendship, and fraternal affection between all the
     inhabitants of his majesty's kingdoms and territories, so ardently
     wished for by every true and honest American.'

These and other state papers, emanating, as Jefferson declared, 'from
the finest pen in America,' won the eloquent admiration of Chatham, and,
by their dignified, rational, and well-informed spirit, had a great
influence in securing, at the outset of the momentous struggle, the
respect and sympathy of the wise and conscientious in both hemispheres,
for the people and their enlightened and intrepid representatives.

As correspondent with the other colonies, in all the important
discussions and arrangements, we find John Jay earnest, sagacious, and
indefatigable: chosen a delegate to the New York colonial convention, he
could not be present in Congress to sign the Declaration of
Independence; but he reported the resolutions whereby his State endorsed
that memorable instrument--her first official act toward American
independence.

In 1774, Jay had married the daughter of Governor Livingston, of New
Jersey; and the glimpses which his correspondence affords of his
domestic life, indicate that in this regard he was peculiarly blest, not
only in the sweet and dignified sympathies of a family inspired by
tenderness, loyalty, and faith, but in the freshness and vigor of his
own affections, whereby retirement became far more dear than the
gratification even of patriotic ambition in an official career. His home
was indeed overshadowed by the dark angel, and the loss of a beloved
daughter long and deeply saddened his heart; but there was a daily
beauty in the confidence and sympathy of his conjugal relation--hinted
rather than developed in the freedom of his letters to the home whose
attractions were only increased by absence and distance, in the respect
and love of his sons, and the tender consideration devoted to his blind
brother; while, spreading in beautiful harmony from this sacred centre,
his heart and hand freely and faithfully responded to numerous and
eminent ties of friendship, associations of enterprise and philanthropy,
and the humblest claims of neighborhood and dependants.

His next eminent service was to draft the Constitution of New York;
subsequently amended, it yet attests his patriotism and legal insight;
while his own illustrations sanctioned its judicial workings: one of the
council of safety and appointed chief justice of the supreme court, Jay
maintained, but never abused the high authority with which he was thus
invested; kindness to political opponents, devoid of all bitterness,
inflexibly just, he was often compared to the unyielding and
self-possessed characters of antiquity. When Clinton was preparing to
join Burgoyne, Jay held his first court at Kingston--administering
justice under the authority of an invaded State, and on the very line of
an enemy's advance; under such circumstances, his uniform dignity,
calmness, faith in the people, in the cause, and in the result, made a
deep and salutary impression, enhanced by the courage exhibited in his
charge to the grand jury. In order to serve as delegate to the Congress
over which he soon presided, Jay resigned the chief justiceship on the
tenth of November, 1778; and signalized his advent by a logical,
seasonable, and cheering address to the people on the condition of
affairs.

Jay's mind was essentially judicial: he had the temperament and taste as
well as the reasoning powers desirable for legal investigation, and the
probity and decision of character essential to an administrator of law.
With strong domestic proclivities and rural taste--the conflicts,
excitement, and responsibilities of a political career were alien to his
nature; but the functions of the higher magistracy found in him a
congenial representative. Accordingly, it is evident from his
correspondence and the concurrent testimony of his kindred and friends,
that while as chief justice his sphere of duty was, however laborious,
full of interest to his mind--the vocation of a diplomatist was
oppressive: he undertook it, as he had other temporary public offices,
from conscientious patriotism; the same qualities which gave him
influence and authority on the bench commended him specially to his
fellow citizens as a negotiator in the difficult and dangerous
exigencies produced in our foreign relations by the war with Great
Britain. Tact, sagacity, courage--the ability to command respect and to
advocate truth and maintain right--dignity of manner, benignity of
temper--devotion to his country--all the requisites seemed to combine in
the character of Jay, on the one hand to enforce just claims, and, on
the other, to propitiate good will. To raise a loan and secure an
alliance in Spain seemed a hopeless task: Jay undertook it, much to his
personal inconvenience and with extreme reluctance. The history of his
mission, as revealed by his correspondence and official documents, is a
history of vexations, mortifications, and patient, isolated struggles
with difficulties, such as few men would have encountered voluntarily or
endured with equanimity. The Spanish Government shrank from a decisive
course, feared self-committal, promised aid, and to concede, on certain
terms, the right of the United States to navigate the Mississippi. Jay
took council of Franklin, who advised him not to accede to the terms
proposed, but to maintain 'the even good temper hitherto manifested.'
Meantime Congress drew on him for the loan without waiting to hear that
it had been negotiated; after a small advance, the Spanish Government
declined the loan unless the sole right of navigating the Mississippi
were granted. Having thus failed to accomplish the great object, which
indeed was unattainable except at a sacrifice which subsequent events
have proved would have essentially interfered with the prosperous
development of the Southwest--Jay, sensitively vigilant of his country's
credit, despite his habitual prudence, accepted the bill at his own
credit; boldly assuming the responsibility; his claims on the Spanish
Government were proved; Franklin remitted twenty-five thousand dollars;
of the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, due December, 1780, only
twenty-five thousand was paid by the following April; his outstanding
acceptances amounted to two hundred and thirty-one thousand dollars--the
greater part of which was due in two months. A more painful situation
for a gentleman of refinement and honor can scarcely be imagined than
that of John Jay--living without any salary, living on credit, scarcely
recognized by the proud court to which he had been accredited; and yet
maintaining his self-respect, persistent in his aim, courteous in his
manner, faithful to his trust, harassed by anxiety--patient, true, and
patriotic. As we read the lively and genial letters of the lamented
Irving, when American minister at Madrid seventy years later, what a
contrast to the high consideration and social amenities he enjoyed, are
the humiliations and the baffled zeal of Jay, when obliged to 'stand and
wait,' under circumstances at once so perplexing and hopeless! In March,
1782, the bills were protested; but the credit that seemed utterly
destroyed was soon retrieved, though Jay found himself constrained, by
the instructions of his Government, to yield the right of navigating the
Mississippi in order to secure the treaty; having drawn and presented
it, his presence was no longer requisite, and he proceeded to France to
act in concert with Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, and Lee in negotiating
for peace.

In June, 1782, Jay arrived in Paris, and, with Franklin, for the most
part carried on the negotiations which resulted in the treaty of peace;
it was a period of 'painful anxiety and difficult labor:' Hamilton,
Jefferson, and other of his eminent countrymen recognized warmly his
services and his success: he did not altogether agree with Franklin, and
was pertinacious in claiming all respect due to the Government he
represented, assuring the British envoy that he would take no part in
the business unless the United States 'were treated as an independent
nation:' he drew up such a commission as would meet his views. While
Hamilton gave Jay full credit for sagacity and honesty, he thought him
suspicious, because he so far evaded his instructions as not to show
'the preliminary articles to our ally before he signed them:' this
caution, however, arose from Jay's patriotic circumspection; he excused
himself on the ground that his instructions 'had been given for the
benefit of America, and not of France,' and argued justly that there was
discretionary power to consult the public good rather than any literal
directions, the spirit, aim, and scope thereof being steadily adhered
to. Subsequent revelations abundantly proved that sagacity rather than
suspicion, and knowledge more than conjecture justified Jay's course.
There is a letter of Pickering, when Secretary of State, to Pinckney,
when about to visit France as envoy from the United States Government,
in regard to which Washington manifests in his correspondence particular
solicitude for the absolute correctness of its statements; wherein the
treachery of the French Government is demonstrated from official
documents. Jay, during his residence in Spain, had ample opportunity to
realize the selfish intrigues of the Bourbon dynasty, and he had a
better insight as to the real objects of the French Government, from
examining its policy at a distance and in connection with an ally, than
Franklin, who had been exposed to its immediate blandishments, and had
so many personal reasons for confidence and hope. Vergennes, then prime
minister, looked to the relinquishment of the fisheries, and while
France, from animosity to Great Britain, cheerfully aided us in the war
of the Revolution, it was no part of her secret purpose to foster into
independent greatness the power which she befriended from motives of
policy during her own struggle with England. Jay, therefore, insisted
upon a recognition of our independence on the part of Great Britain, not
as the first article of the treaty, but as _un fait accompli_; and
wisely declined to allow the French minister, whose plans and views he
so well understood, to see the advantageous terms we made with the
formidable enemy of France, until those terms were accepted, and the
treaty signed.

After visiting England and returning to Paris, having declined an
invitation from the Spanish Government to resume negotiations, and also
a tender from his own Government of the English mission, Jay returned to
his native land with delight, and on landing in New York, on the 24th of
July, 1784, was received with great honor and affection. Ten years of
public life had so little weaned him from his legal proclivities that he
had determined to resume practice; but Congress urged upon him the
important position of Secretary of Foreign Affairs, which place he
filled with distinguished ability until the convention to form the
Constitution met. In his correspondence, Jay's views of government are
frankly and clearly unfolded: he had experienced the manifold evils of
inadequate authority; and while he would have power emanate from the
people, he deeply felt the necessity of making it sufficient for the
exigencies of civil society: a strong General Government, therefore, he
deemed essential to national prosperity; his theory was not speculative,
but practical, founded upon observation and experience: it was sustained
by the wisest and best of his countrymen: it was, however, opposed to a
prevalent idea of State rights, a jealousy of their surrender and
infringement; comparatively few of his fellow citizens had, by reading
and reflection, risen to the level of the problem whose solution was to
be found in a charter at once securing all essential private rights and
local freedom, while binding together, in a firm and patriotic union,
the will and interests of a continent. Add to these obstacles the fierce
partisan feeling engendered by the circumstances of the time and
country--fears of aristocratic influences on the one hand, and sectional
intrigues on the other, and we can easily perceive that the first duty
of the enlightened and patriotic was to clear away prejudices, explain
principles, advocate cardinal political truths, and lift the whole
subject out of the dense region of faction and into the calm and clear
sphere of reason and truth. Accordingly, Hamilton, Madison, Jay, and
others, by public discussion sought to elucidate and vindicate the
Constitution: by conversation, correspondence, in the committee room and
the assembly, through reference to the past, analysis of the present,
anticipations of the future, John Jay, directly and indirectly advocated
and illustrated the Constitution. With his gifted coadjutors he became
an efficient political essayist; and, though prevented by illness from
contributing largely to the 'Federalist,' he wrote enough to identify
himself honorably with that favorite American classic of statesmen. His
frankness, lucid style, perspicuous sense, made him as effective a
writer in his own manner as the more intrepid Hamilton. When Washington
came to New York to be inaugurated as first President of the United
States, Jay proffered his hospitality with characteristic simplicity and
good sense; he received the votes of two States as Vice President; at
Washington's request he continued to perform the duties of Foreign
Secretary until Jefferson assumed the office, when, with eminent
satisfaction and in accordance with Jay's views, the President sent the
latter's name to the Senate as Chief Justice, thus associating him with
his Administration.

When Genet's arrival had stimulated partisan zeal into reckless faction,
and his insulting course widened the breach between the two political
sects, their representatives were exposed to all the unjust aspersion
and violent prejudice born of extreme opinions and free discussions: one
party held in high esteem the principles of the British constitution,
recognized the moral as well as civic necessity of a strong central
Government, and dreaded the unbridled license of French demagoguism;
they steadily opposed any identity of action or responsibility in
foreign affairs, cherished self-respect and self-reliance as the
safeguard of the States, and sustained the dignified and consistent
course of Washington: of these, John Jay was one of the most firm and
intelligent advocates, and hence the object of the most unscrupulous
partisan rancor: the name of Monarchist was substituted for Federalist,
of Jacobin for Democrat: on the one hand, the British minister
reproached the American Government with injustice to British subjects
and interests, contrary to treaty stipulations; on the other, Genet
complained of the ingratitude of the Government, and sought to array the
people against it: England had not as yet fulfilled her part of the
treaty; along the frontiers her troops still garrisoned the forts; the
lakes were not free for American craft, and no remuneration had been
made by Great Britain for the negroes which her fleet carried off at the
close of the war: meantime her warlike attitude toward France made
still fiercer the conflict of the respective partisans on this side of
the Atlantic; American seamen were impressed; crowds surrounded the
President's house, clamorous for war; and he was only sustained in the
Senate by an extremely small majority, while the Democratic party were
eager for immediate action against England. At this crisis, Washington
resolved to try another experiment for conciliation, and to this end
proposed Jay as especial envoy to Great Britain. His nomination was
opposed in the Senate, but prevailed by a vote of eighteen against
eight. The mission was not desired by him. Uncongenial as were absence
from home and diplomatic cares, this exile and duty were, in all private
respects, opposed to his tastes and wishes; he foresaw the difficulties,
anticipated the result, but, once convinced that he owed the sacrifice
of personal to public considerations, he now, as before and
subsequently, brought all his conscientiousness and intelligence to the
service of his country. His reception at the court of St. James was kind
and considerate, and his intercourse with Grenville, then Secretary of
Foreign Affairs, carried on with the greatest mutual respect. A treaty
was negotiated--Jay obtaining the best terms in his power: no state
paper ever gave rise to more virulent controversy; it became a new line
of demarcation, a new test of party feeling: Hamilton was its eloquent
advocate, Jefferson its violent antagonist: Washington doubted the
expediency of accepting it; and it passed the Senate by a bare majority.
While in a calm retrospect we acknowledge many serious objections to
such a treaty, they do not account for the intense excitement it caused;
and the circumstances under which it was executed sufficiently explain,
while they do not reconcile us to, the signal advantages it secured to
Great Britain. She agreed to give up the forts;--but this concession had
already been made; to compensate for illegal captures; there was a
provision for collecting British debts in America; and in a commercial
point of view American interests were sacrificed; it was declared a
treaty wherein a weak power evidently succumbed to a strong: but on the
other hand, public expectation had been extravagant: no reasonable
American citizen, cognizant of the state of the facts and of party
feeling, could have believed it possible to secure, at the time and
under the circumstances, a satisfactory understanding; and no candid
mind could doubt that a negotiator so patriotic, firm, and wise as John
Jay had earnestly sought to make the best of a difficult cause, or that
he was 'clear in his great office'--an office reluctantly accepted. It
has been well said of Jay's treaty that 'now few defend it on principle,
many on policy.' When its ratification was advised by the Senate, and it
became public, the whole country was aroused; all the latent venom of
partisan hate and all the wise forbearance of patriotic self-possession
were arrayed face to face in so fierce an opposition that Washington
justly described the period as 'a momentous crisis.' It was denounced as
cowardly; it was defended as expedient; copies were publicly destroyed
amid shouts of exultation: Jay was burned in effigy; the Boston Chamber
of Commerce voted in favor of its ratification: Hamilton, under the
signature of 'Camillus,' analyzed its claims, and deprecated the bitter
hostility it had evoked; and Fisher Ames, in pleading for moderation to
both parties, in the House of Representatives, embalmed his patriotic
counsel with such heroic patience and eloquent references to his
approaching end, that his speech became one of the standard exemplars of
American eloquence.

     'When the fiery vapors of the war lowered in the skirts of our
     horizon,' he observes, 'all our wishes were concentred in this
     one--that we might escape the desolation of the storm: this treaty,
     like a rainbow on the edge of the storm, marked to our eyes the
     space where it was raging, and afforded, at the same time, the sure
     prognostic of fair weather: if we reject it, the vivid colors will
     grow pale; it will be a baleful meteor, portending tempest and
     war.'

And he ends this remarkable speech in these words:

     'I have thus been led by my feelings to speak more at length than I
     had intended. Yet I have perhaps as little personal interest in the
     event as any one here. There is, I believe, no member who will not
     think his chance to be a witness of the consequences greater than
     mine. If, however, the vote should pass to reject, and a spirit
     should rise, as it will, with the public disorders, to make
     confusion worse confounded, even I, slender and almost broken as my
     hold upon life is, may outlive the Government and Constitution of
     my country.'

Jay's own remarks on the subject in his private correspondence, are
characteristic alike of his rectitude of purpose and equanimity of soul:
'The approbation,' he observes, in a letter to Dr. Thatcher, 'of one
judicious and virtuous man relative to the conduct of the negotiations,
affords me more satisfaction than clamor and intrigue have given me
concern.'

Before the outbreak of political animosity on account of the treaty, and
during his absence on that mission, Jay had been elected Governor of the
State of New York; had that instrument been published in April instead
of July, he would not have been chosen; and yet, despite the fever of
partisan feeling, he made no removals. At the close of this memorable
year, Washington died: that illustrious man held no man in greater
esteem than Jay: to him and Hamilton he had submitted his Farewell
Address: when the former's term of office expired, he determined to
retire; and did so on the 1st of July, 1801, declining the reappointment
as Chief Justice, earnestly tendered him. He now removed to his paternal
estate at Bedford, in Westchester county, New York, to enjoy
long-coveted repose from public duties. Thenceforth his life was one of
dignified serenity and active benevolence. The superintendence of his
farm, co-operation in philanthropic enterprises, the amenities of
literature, the consolations of religion, and the graces of hospitality
congenially occupied his remaining years--years abounding in respect
from his countrymen, and the satisfactions of culture, integrity, and
faith. He rebuilt the family mansion, occasionally made visits on
horseback to New York and Albany. Now zealous in building up a church,
and now benignly considerate of a dependant's welfare--loyal and happy
in his domestic relations, interested in the welfare of both nation and
neighborhood, and preserving his intimacy with the classics and the
Scriptures--the last thirty years of John Jay's life, in their peaceful
routine and gracious tenor, reflected with 'daily beauty' the sustained
elevation of mind and the consistent kindliness and rectitude of a
Christian gentleman. On the 17th of May, 1829, he died, crowned with
love and honor. The echoes of party strife had long died away from his
path: the clouds of party malice had faded from his horizon: all felt
and acknowledged, in his example and character, the ideal of an American
citizen. Not as a brilliant but as a conscientious man, not as a
wonderfully gifted but as an admirably well-balanced mind, not as an
exceptional hero but as a just, prudent, faithful, and benignant human
being--true to the best instincts of religion, the highest principles of
citizenship, the most pure aspirations of character--are cherished the
influence and memory of Jay.

His personal appearance is familiar to us through the masterly portraits
of Stuart: that in judicial robes has long been a favorite examplar of
this eminent artist, exhibiting as it does his best traits of expression
and color: although destitute of those vivid tints which Stuart
reproduced with such marvellous skill, the keen eyes, fine brow,
aquiline nose, pointed chin, and hair tied behind and powdered, with the
benign intelligence pervading the whole, render this an effective
subject for such a pencil: it is a face in which high moral and
intellectual attributes, dignity, rectitude, and clear perception
harmoniously blend: the lineaments and outline are decidedly Gallic: one
thinks, in looking at the portrait, not only of the able jurist,
Christian gentleman, and patriot--but also of his Huguenot ancestor, who
fought at Boyne, urbanely accepted exile rather than compromise faith,
and suffered persecution with holy patience and adaptive energy of
intellect and character.

The political opinions of Jay were obnoxious to a large party of his
countrymen; but had we not so many examples in history and experience of
the blind prejudice and malicious injustice generated by faction, it
would seem incredible, as we contemplate, in the impartial light of
retrospective truth, his character and career, that any imaginable
diversity of views on questions of state policy, could have bred such
false and fierce misconstruction in reference to one whose every memory
challenges such entire respect and disinterested admiration. As it is,
the record of his life, the influence of his character seem to borrow
new brightness from the evidences of partisan calumny found in the more
casual records of the past. Singularly intense and complicated is the
history of the period when Jay's prominence and activity in the
political world were at their height. On the one hand, the triumph of
freedom in the New World; on the other, the atrocities committed in her
sacred name in the Old: the American and French Revolutions, considered
in regard to their origin, development, and results, seem to have
brought to a practical test all principles of government and elements of
civic life inherent in human society: so that they have since afforded
the tests and illustrations of the most enlightened publicists and
statesmen, and now yield the most familiar and emphatic precedents for
political speculation and faith. In England, Pitt, Burke, Fox, and
Mackintosh represented, with memorable power, the opposing elements of
conservatism and reform, of social order and revolution, of humanity and
of authority; while in America, Hamilton, Adams, Morris, Jay, and other
leading Federalists, repudiated the license and condemned the
encroachments of France, as Jefferson and his followers advocated the
French republic on abstract principles of human rights and as having
legitimate claims upon American gratitude. No small part of the
bitterness exhibited toward Jay by the latter party arose from his
having testified, with Rufus King, that Genet intended to appeal from
the Government to the people of the United States--an audacious purpose
on the part of the French envoy, which excited the just indignation of
every citizen whose self-respect had not been quenched in the flame of
political zeal: accordingly he, to a peculiar extent, 'shared the odium
which the French Revolution had infused into the minds of its admirers:'
partial to the spirit if not the letter of the English constitution,
convinced by the absolute moral necessity of a strong central
Government, an enlightened and strenuous advocate of law, a thorough
gentleman, and a sincere Christian--his undoubted claim to the
additional distinction of pure patriot did not save him from the
aristocratic imputations, which professed champions of popular rights
then and there attached to all men who recognized as essential to social
order and progress, respect for and allegiance to justly constituted
authorities in government and society: jealousy of the rights of the
people was the ostensible motive of a political opposition to Jay,
which, at this day and with all the evidence before us, seems
inexplicable until we remember how the mirage of party fanaticism
distorts the vision and perverts the sympathies of men.

But to a well-poised, clear-sighted, upright character like his, the
storms of faction seemed innocuous: how candid is his own confession of
faith, how just his reasoning, and enlightened his principles, and
patriotic his motives, as revealed in every act, state and judicial
paper, recorded conversation, and private letter! 'Neither courting nor
dreading public opinion,' he writes (in his account of the Spanish
mission), 'on the one hand, nor disregarding it on the other, I joined
myself to the first assertors of the American cause, because I thought
it my duty; and because I considered caution and neutrality, however
secure, as being no less wrong than dishonorable.' As he had espoused
the cause deliberately, he served it conscientiously, and met the
difficulties in the way of organizing the Federal Government with
philosophical candor: 'It was a thing,' he observes, in his first
contribution to the 'Federalist,' 'hardly to be expected that in a
popular revolution, the minds of men should stop at the happy mean which
marks the boundary between power and privilege, and combines the energy
of government with the security of private right.'

An æsthetical student and delineator of character remarks that 'where we
recognize in any one an image of moral elevation, which seems to us, at
the first glance, unique and transcendent, I believe that, on careful
examination, we shall find that among his coevals, or in the very nature
of the times, those qualities which furnish their archetype in him were
rife and prevalent.'[16] The highest class of American statesmen and
patriots, and especially those grouped around the peerless central
figure of Washington, afford striking evidence of the truth of this
observation. A certain spirit of disinterested integrity and devotion,
an elevated and consistent tone of feeling and method of action alike
distinguished them; and nothing can be imagined more violently in
contrast therewith than the inadequate standard of judgment and scope of
criticism adopted by those who, actuated by partisan zeal and guided by
narrow motives, apply to such characters the limited gauge of their own
insight and estimation--endeavoring to atone by microscopic accuracy for
imbecility in fundamental principles.' Hence the foreign publicist of
large research and precise historical knowledge, the scholar of broad
and earnest sympathies, the patriot of generous and tenacious
principles, find in these exemplars of civic virtue objects of permanent
admiration; while many of their self-appointed commentators, entrenched
in pedantic or political dogmas, and devoid of comprehensive ideas and
true magnanimity, fail to recognize and delight in depreciating
qualities with which they have no affinity, and whose legitimate
functions they ignore or pervert--for 'Folly loves the martyrdom of
Fame.' With all due allowance for honest differences of opinion as to
political or religious creeds, for diversities of taste and education,
there yet remains to the truly humane, wise, and liberal soul, an
instinctive sense of justice, veneration for rectitude, love of the
beautiful and the true, which keeps alive their veneration and quickens
their higher sympathies despite the venom of faction and the blindness
of prejudice; and thus causes the elemental in character to maintain its
lawful sway whatever may be the inferences of partisan logic or the
dicta of personal opinion. Goethe's invaluable rule of judging every
character and work of art by its own law is ever present to their minds,
and they find a satisfaction in the spontaneous tribute of love and
honor to real genius and superior worth, all the more grateful because
there is not entire sympathy of sentiment and creed; their homage and
faith are as disinterested as they are sincere.

An eminent English novelist has indicated with genial emphasis, in one
of his essays, how much more wonderful as a psychological phenomenon is
the clairvoyance of imagination than that ascribed to mesmerism: since,
by the former, writers of genius describe with verisimilitude, and
sometimes with a moral accuracy such as we can scarcely believe to
originate in the creative mind alone, all the traits and phases of a
scene, an event, or a character, the details of which are lost in dim
tradition or evaded by authentic history. Shakspeare is cited as the
memorable example of this intellectual prescience. There is, however,
another species of foresight and insight whereby the logic of events is
anticipated, and great principles embraced before the multitude are
prepared for their adoption; reformers and statesmen are thus in advance
of their age, and through high ethical judgment and the inspiration of
rectitude, see above the clouds of selfishness and beyond the limits of
egotism, into the eternal truth of things. It was this wisdom, sustained
by, if not born of, integrity and disinterestedness, that distinguished
the highest class of our Revolutionary and Constitutional statesmen,
culminating in Washington, and in no one of his contemporaries more
manifest than in John Jay. We have alluded to the comprehensive and
sagacious scope of his various state papers and judicial decisions,
based invariably upon the absolute principles of equity; and the same
traits are as obvious in his correspondence and occasional writings: but
recently there was found among his papers a charge to the grand jury at
Richmond, Virginia, in which are expressed the most authentic principles
of international drawn from natural law, at a period and in a country
where the former had not been codified or even vaguely understood; and
so practical as to be of direct application to the exigencies of the
present hour. At the root of these convictions was a profound religious
faith. No one of the early American statesmen, for instance, has left on
record a more clear and just statement of his views of slavery;--that
foul blot on the escutcheon of the republic was ever before the eyes and
conscience of Jay; he sought not to evade, but to make apparent its
inevitable present shame and future consequences, and argued for a
prospective abolition clause in the Constitution. The events of the last
three years are a terrible and true response to his warnings. 'Till
America,' he wrote, 'comes into this measure (emancipation) her prayers
to heaven will be impious. I believe God governs the world, and I
believe it is a maxim in His as in our courts, that those who ask for
equity ought to do it.' He set the example in the manumission of a boy
then his legal property, and was the president of the first anti-slavery
society, bequeathing the cause to his descendants, who have faithfully
acquitted themselves of the once contemned but now honored trust, for
three generations; for his son succeeded him in the office, his grandson
has been and is its strenuous advocate, and his great-grandson now
confronts the slaveholding rebels in the Army of the Potomac. His
intelligent and patriotic fellow citizens realized and recognized the
faith and probity whence arose his moral courage and his clear mental
vision, 'His life,' says Sullivan, 'was governed by the dictates of an
enlightened Christian conscience.' One of his last letters was in reply
to the congratulation of the corporation of New York that he lived to
witness the fiftieth anniversary of our national independence, and an
invitation to join in its commemoration; too feeble, from advanced age,
to meet their wishes in this respect, in gratefully declining he thus
bore testimony to his life-long convictions: 'The most essential means
of securing the continuance of our civil and religious liberties is
always to remember with reverence and gratitude the source from which
they flow?' We can readily appreciate the literal truth of Verplanck's
observation, when death canonized such a character: 'A halo of
veneration seemed to encircle him, as one belonging to another world,
though lingering among us: the tidings of his death were received with
solemn awe.'

Jay cherished a firm belief in Providence, confirmed by his long life of
varied experience and thoughtful observation. Proverbially courteous and
urbane, he was, at the same time, inflexible in the withdrawal of all
confidence when once deceived or disappointed in character. Clear and
strong in his religious convictions, he was none the less free from
intolerance; he enjoyed communion with a Quaker neighbor as well as
correspondence with clerical friends of different persuasions, though
himself a stanch Episcopalian.

Underlying a singularly contained demeanor and aptitude for calm and
serious investigations, there was a vein of pleasant humor which
enhanced the charm of his intimate companionship; bold, independent, and
tenacious in opinion, when once formed, he was perfectly modest in
personal bearing and intercourse; his mind was more logical than severe
in temper, more vigorous than versatile, judicial in taste and tone,
with more precision than eagerness; and his temperament united the
gravity of a cultivated and thoughtful with the vivacity and amenity of
a harmonious and cheerful nature. Like Washington and Morris, he was
fond of agricultural pursuits; and like them, his example as a statesman
seems to acquire new force and beauty from the long and contented
retirement from official life that evinced the plenitude of his own
resources, and evidenced how much more a sense of public duty than
political ambition had been the motive power of his civic career. It is
this which distinguishes the first-class representative men of our
country from the mere politicians; we feel that their essential
individuality of character and genius was superior to the accidents of
position; that their intrinsic worth and real dignity required no
addition from fame or fortune--that they are nobler than their offices,
superior to their popularity, above their external relation to the
parties and functions illustrated by their talents, and made memorable
by their integrity.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] 'Life and Letters of Washington Irving,' by Pierre M. Irving. New
York: G. P. Putnam.

[14] Elements of International Law. By Henry Wheaton. Edited by W.B.
Laurens. Boston: Little, Brown & Co.

[15] The Federalist. Edited by H. B. Dawson. New York: C. Scribner.

[16] 'Caxtoniana.'




A SIGH.


  How can I live, my love, so far from thee,
    Since far from thee my spirit droops and dies?
  Who is there left, my love, for me to see,
    Since beauty is concentrate in thine eyes?
    My only life is sending thee my sighs,
  Which, as sweet birds fly home from deserts lone,
    Fly swift to thee as each swift moment flies,
  Uprising from the current of my moan.
  But closed is still thy heart of cruel stone,
    And my poor sighs drop murdered at thy feet,
  For which, while I in grief do sigh and groan,
    New hosts arise to meet a death so sweet,
  Ah! love, give scorn; for if love thou shouldst give,
  How could I love thee in thy sight, and live?




THE ANTIQUITY OF MAN.

A PHILOSOPHIC DEBATE.


_A._ I would like to hear your opinions regarding the antiquity of our
race: geologists are daily becoming bolder and more unhesitating in
their assertions on the subject; and we are fast drifting toward
conclusions that seem to startle the religious world, and threaten to
upset our confidence in that Book which we have been accustomed to
regard with profoundest reverence.

_B._ Never, sir, never: the hand of true science can never rise as the
antagonist of revelation: revelation, rightly understood, must ever find
in science a brother, a protector, a friend.

_A._ How would you maintain your position, if the geologists should
arrive at a final conclusion on the subject, and declare positively that
men existed in the world twenty or thirty thousand years ago?

_B._ They have arrived at such a conclusion already; that is to say,
they have, in a stratum which cannot be less than twenty thousand years
old, unearthed some skeletons of a mammal resembling man. But let these
skeletons resemble ours ever so closely, I, for one, am not prepared to
concede that these creatures, when they existed, were men in the sense
that we are. Revelation declares quite explicitly that the present race
is not more than six thousand years old.

_A._ What theory, then, must we adopt respecting these human-shaped
fossils? Why do you deny that they were men like us?

_B._ Tell me what a human being is, and I will answer your query.

_A._ The definition would be a somewhat prolix one.

_B._ It will be sufficient for our purpose that you admit two points
regarding the existing race.

_A._ The first?

_B._ That man _has_ a body.

_A._ Good. The second?

_B._ That man _is_ a soul, a spiritual being.

_A._ Good.

_B._ Well, then; answer me this: Were the men whose remains are now
being discovered, of a spiritual nature, and endowed with minds? Might
they not rather have been mere mammals, shaped indeed in the same
external mould as that in which the Creator intended, when the time
should come, to form his masterpiece; but not as yet tenanted by that
divine nature which would have entitled him to rank with the race
existing now?

_A._ Such questions it is hardly the province of geology to solve. But
it may fairly be asked, What right have we to suppose that beings ever
existed who were men only in shape, but who were destitute of the
spiritual nature? Does the Bible allow us any margin on which to base
such a belief? Do the sacred writers mention the creation of two human
races, one endowed with merely an animal nature, the other possessing a
spiritual nature?

_B._ Scripture does so in passages which I shall point out presently.
But first, concede to me this one point, admitted by many theologians
already, that in the first and second chapters of Scripture, the term
'day' has an ambiguous meaning--that the days were vast geological eras.

_A._ Granted.

_B._ The first human creation spoken of by Moses is that mentioned in
Gen. i. 27, where, immediately after recording the creation of the
inferior animals, it is said that 'God created man in his own image,'
etc. Thus the visible and external creation has received its top and
climax: the animals have found a master. After that, we are told that
'the evening and the morning were the sixth day.' Then the second
chapter is opened, and the seventh day is described as forming a vast
interval of rest.

_A._ All true.

_B._ Now look at the seventh verse of this second chapter. The words
are: 'And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and
breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and he became a living
soul.' Now I regard this passage as referring to a creation quite
distinct from that of the first chapter.

_A._ Theologians have been in the habit of considering the two passages
as descriptive of the same act.

_B._ I am aware of it. But by what right have they done so? Everywhere
else in Genesis we find events recorded in chronological order, and
there is no reason why the historian should in this instance commit the
irregularity of passing from the end of the seventh day to the beginning
of the sixth: it is certainly much more likely that in the story of the
second chapter and seventh verse he has passed on to an event which
transpired at the close of the seventh day, or, still more probably, on
the _first_ day of a new series. And if it were so, we would thus have,
in the time of this second and spiritual creation, a beautiful symbol of
a more recent first-day's-work, when manifestation was made of a life
far nobler than Adam's.

_A._ Your parallel is not without beauty, and, therefore, not without
weight; but I cannot see enough of difference between the two accounts
to warrant the hypothesis that the first refers to an unspiritual man,
the second to a spiritual. The first account says that 'man was made in
God's image.' The second says of the man which it describes, that 'God
breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and he became a living
soul.'

_B._ We must not attach too much importance to the term 'God's image.'
The sacred writer might make use of such an expression merely to show
the excellency of the image or form of the body of this first human
race, whose frame, relatively to the inferior animals, was, _par
excellence_, God's image. And on the whole, the difference between the
two accounts is very wide and very important. The first passage does not
stand connected with the history of the present race at all: the second
does. In the former passage the creation of a _race_ is described, but
the _individual_ is not even named: in the latter we are not merely told
of a race, we are introduced to an individual. His name is given, and he
is connected with the existing race of mankind by a continuous history.
In speaking of the difference between the two passages, it were well to
consider that, till of late, there has been no reason to suspect their
real significancy, _i. e._, to suppose that they spoke of two creations
and two races. But now that the proofs of a pre-Adamite race are fast
accumulating upon us, it were well to inquire whether God's revelation
has not anticipated the story which the strange hieroglyphics of his
finger are now unfolding. The philologist and the geologist are each
deciphering the same story in two different books, that are equally
divine. It remains to be seen which will be the first to read correctly.

_A._ The account in the second chapter certainly speaks explicitly
enough of the creation of the soul or spirit.

_B._ Yes; and observe this: that the seventh day, a mighty geological
era, has elapsed between the two creations--a period long enough for the
first race to pass entirely away, leaving behind them as their only
memorials a few skeletons, to be dug up here and there in the nineteenth
century of the Christian era. When the last specimen of the anterior
race had been long dead, God created the new man, 'breathed into his
nostrils the breath of life,' and gave him a mind and a name to
distinguish him from the former race that had borne the same image.

_A._ Of course we cannot expect geologists to discriminate between the
two races, seeing they differed only by the latter having a spiritual
nature, while the former had not.

_B._ Of course not.

_A._ Perhaps, then, there is, after all not so much absurdity as has
been supposed in the oriental traditions of pre-Adamite kings.

_B._ It need not surprise us that there should, among primitive nations,
exist some traditionary vestiges of the first race: and such traditions
were probably derived from some very reliable source. But be that as it
may, I am not afraid to trust the settlement of the entire question to
the arbitration of time.




WHO KNOWS?


  Who knows but the hope that we bury to-day
    May be the seed of success to-morrow?
  We could not weep o'er the coffined clay
    If a lovelier life it should never borrow.
  Did we know that the worm had conquered all,
    That Death had forever secured his plunder,
  Not a sigh would escape, not a tear would fall,
    For the human heart must burst asunder.
  Death mimics life, and life feigns death:
  What parts them but a fleeting breath?

  Who knows but the love that in silence broods,
    Slinking away to some lonely corner,
  May yet, in the change of times and moods,
    Sit proudly throned in the heart of the scorner?
  I have seen a haughty soul destroy
    The glittering prize that once it bled for;
  I have seen the sad heart leap for joy,
    And smiling grant what it vainly plead for:
  True tears the flashing eye may wet,
  The lip that curled may quiver yet.

  Who knows but the dream that mocks our sleep
    With visions that end in a sorrowful waking,
  Leaving just enough of brightness to keep
    Our souls from despair and our hearts from breaking,
  May come in the heat of the midday glare,
    Or the afternoon with its gorgeous splendor,
  Palpable, real, but not less fair,
    With airs as soft and touch as tender?
  Morn breaks on the longest night of sorrow,
  And there is more than one to-morrow.




LITERARY NOTICES.


     LINNET'S TRIAL. A Tale. By S. M., Author of 'Twice Lost.' Second
     Edition. Loring, publisher, 319 Washington street, Boston. 1864.

A moral and interesting novel. There is a fascinating freshness and
originality about it, pervaded by genial humor and strong common sense,
and an utter absence of all common and clap-trap sensational expedients.
The plot is simple, but well conceived; the characters consistent and
clear cut, the incidental remarks tolerant and full of spirit. We know
no more true and delightful character-painting than that of Rose. Her
shyness, exclusiveness, pettishness, and ignorance are delicious in the
rosy girl of sixteen. Her friendship with Linnet, a woman of imaginative
and impassioned stamp, is natural in conception, and skilfully rendered.
Linnet is expansive and sympathetic, her sweet and all-pervading
influence is the true charm of the book. The woman of beauty and genius
ripens into the perfect wife, strengthening weak hands and reviving
courage in weary, doubting hearts. 'Linnet is like an alabaster vase,
only seen to perfection when lighted up from within.'

We heartily recommend 'Linnet' to all readers of fiction, who like to
study character through its rainbow sheen.


     PHANTOM FLOWERS. A Treatise on the Art of Producing Skeleton
     Leaves. Boston: J. E. Tilton & Co. 1864.

A complete treatise on this beautiful art, in which typography and
illustrations are alike perfect. The directions given are ample and
accurate. The contents are: Chap. 1. Anatomy of a Leaf; Green and Dried
Leaves. 2. Preparing the Leaves and Flowers. 3. Bleaching the Leaves and
Seed Vessels. 4. Arranging the Bouquets. 5. Illustrated List of Plants
for Skeletonizing. 6. Seed Vessels. 7. The Wonders and Uses Of a Leaf.
8. Leaf Printing. 9, Commercial Value of the Art; Preservation of
Flowers. We have accurate cuts of the skeletonized leaves of the
American Swamp Magnolia, Silver Poplar, Aspen Poplar, Tulip Poplar,
Norway Maple, Linden and Weeping Willow, European Sycamore, English Ash,
Everlasting Pea, Elm, Deutzia, Beech, Hickory, Chestnut, Dwarf Pear,
Sassafras, Althea, Rose, Fringe Tree, Dutchman's Pipe, Ivy and Holly,
with proper times of gathering and individual processes of manipulation
for securing success with each. 'Fanciful though expressive,' says our
author, 'is the appellation of 'Phantom' or 'Spiritual' Flowers; it was
given to the first American specimens by those who produced them, and it
has since become so general as to be everywhere understood and accepted
as their most appropriate name. Referring to the process by which these
flowers are prepared, a Christian friend beautifully used them as
emblems of the Resurrection, and as illustrating the ideas--'Sown a
natural body, raised a spiritual body,' and, 'This corruptible must put
on incorruption, and this mortal immortality.''

All who practise this beautiful and _lucrative_ art with any hope of
success, should purchase 'Phantom Flowers,' the result of _five years'_
industrious and intelligent effort.


     POEMS: With Translations from the German of Geibel and Others. By
     _Lucy Hamilton Hooper_. Philadelphia: Frederick Leypoldt.

These translations are of far more than ordinary merit. From his
exceeding and tender simplicity, Geibel is very difficult to render
aright: a word too much will frequently ruin the stanza in which it may
have been introduced almost necessarily to fill up the rhythm or
consummate the rhyme; a single injudicious ornament will spoil the whole
effect of the cadenced emotions of which his poems consist. We have
tried Geibel, and the songs of Heine, and know the difficulties; we
heartily congratulate our authoress on her success. Nor are her own
poems less beautiful. Musically rhythmed, delicately worded, and purely
felt, they commend themselves to the reader. They do not soar into the
region of abstract thought; they are without pretension, mysticism, or
effort. She challenges no crown, her range is limited, but our hearts
swell and throb with the emotions she sings. A single specimen will best
elucidate our meaning:


BABY LILY.

  She was a purer, fairer bud
    Than summer's sun uncloses;
  Spring brought her with the violets;
    She left us with the roses.

  A little pillow, where the print
    Of her small head yet lingers;
  A silver coral, tarnished o'er
    With clasp of tiny fingers;

  A mound, the rose bush at the head
    Were all too long to measure;--
  And this is _all_ that Heaven has left
    Of her, our little treasure.

  O human pearl, so pale and pure!
    0 little lily blossom!
  The angels lent a little space
    To grace a mortal bosom.

  The azure heavens bend above,
    Unpitying and cruel;
  A casket all too cold and vast
    To shrine our little jewel.

  We cannot picture her to mind,
    An angel, crowned and holy;
  A fair and helpless human thing,
    Our hearts still keep her solely.

  Sleep, baby, calmly in thy nest
    Amid the fading flowers,
  The while we strive to learn the words:
    'God's will be done--not ours!'


     HISTORY OF THE ROMANS UNDER THE EMPIRE. By CHARLES MERIVALE, B. D.,
     late Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge. From the fourth
     London Edition. With a copious Analytical Index. Vol. IV. New York:
     D. Appleton & Co., 443 & 445 Broadway.

The character of this work is so high and so widely known that it is
only necessary to remind or inform our readers of the appearance of the
fourth volume to awaken their interest. Merivale succeeds in making his
subject intensely interesting. Beginning with the anticipations of a
constitutional monarchy, the indifference of the citizens on political
questions, the legislative measures to encourage marriage, the efforts
of Augustus to revive the national sentiment, this volume carries us
quite through his important reign, with all its great events and
domestic dramas. We have descriptions of the nature of life in Rome,
places of recreation, exhibitions of wild beasts and gladiators, the
schools of the rhetoricians, as well as studies of the authors, Livy,
Virgil, Horace, Propertius, Tibullus, Ovid, each reflecting in his own
way the sentiments of the Augustan age. It is a complex and important
period of history, and nobly treated by our author. Brutus and Cassius
evoke no false sympathy. The character of Augustus is closely analyzed,
and the sketch of the Roman dominion, in its political, social, and
intellectual outlines, is able and interesting.




RECEIVED.

     CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. No. CCXLIV. July, 1864. Contents: Character and
     Historical Position of Theodore Parker; The New King of Greece;
     Robert Browning; Marsh's 'Man and Nature;' Robert Lowell; Renan's
     Critical Essays; Edward Livingston; A Word on the War; Review of
     Current Literature.

     NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. No. CCIV. July, 1864. Contents: A Physical
     Theory of the Universe; The Property and Rights of Married Women;
     The Philosophy of Space and Time; The Constitution, and it Defects;
     The Navy of the United States; Our Soldiers; A National Currency;
     The Rebellion: its Causes and Consequences; Critical Notices.

     THE UNIVERSALIST QUARTERLY. July, 1864. Contents: When are the Dead
     Raised? The Contraband; Faith and Works; Charles the Bold; In
     Memoriam: a Tribute to T. Starr King; General Review; Recent
     Publications; Synopsis of the Quarterlies.

     BOSTON REVIEW. No. XXII. July, 1864. Contents: The Relations of Sin
     and Atonement to Infant Salvation; The Publication of Free
     Descriptions of Vice; The Rabbis, the Mischna, and the Talmuds, and
     their Aid in New Testament Studies; Huxley on Man's Place in
     Nature; Teachings of the Rebellion; Pascal; Short Sermons; Literary
     Notices; The Round Table.