{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_12097/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_12097","id":"gutenberg_12097","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12097","summary":null,"tags":["American periodicals","Category: History - American","Category: History - Modern (1750+)","Category: Journalism/Media/Writing","Category: Journals","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Politics","The Atlantic Monthly"],"text":"THE\n\nATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\nA MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.\n\nVOL. IX.--APRIL, 1862.--NO. LIV.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER TO A YOUNG CONTRIBUTOR.\n\n\nMy dear young gentleman or young lady,--for many are the Cecil Dreemes\nof literature who superscribe their offered manuscripts with very\nmasculine names in very feminine handwriting,--it seems wrong not to\nmeet your accumulated and urgent epistles with one comprehensive reply,\nthus condensing many private letters into a printed one. And so large a\nproportion of \"Atlantic\" readers either might, would, could, or should\nbe \"Atlantic\" contributors also, that this epistle will be sure of\nperusal, though Mrs. Stowe remain uncut and the Autocrat go for an hour\nwithout readers.\n\nFar from me be the wild expectation that every author will not\nhabitually measure the merits of a periodical by its appreciation of\nhis or her last manuscript. I should as soon ask a young lady not to\nestimate the management of a ball by her own private luck in respect\nto partners. But it is worth while at least to point out that in the\ntreatment of every contribution the real interests of editor and writer\nare absolutely the same, and any antagonism is merely traditional, like\nthe supposed hostility between France and England, or between England\nand Slavery. No editor can ever afford the rejection of a good thing,\nand no author the publication of a bad one. The only difficulty lies in\ndrawing the line. Were all offered manuscripts unequivocally good or\nbad, there would be no great trouble; it is the vast range of mediocrity\nwhich perplexes: the majority are too bad for blessing and too good for\nbanning; so that no conceivable reason can be given for either fate,\nsave that upon the destiny of any single one may hang that of a hundred\nothers just like it. But whatever be the standard fixed, it is equally\nfor the interest of all concerned that it be enforced without flinching.\n\nNor is there the slightest foundation for the supposed editorial\nprejudice against new or obscure contributors. On the contrary, every\neditor is always hungering and thirsting after novelties. To take the\nlead in bringing forward a new genius is as fascinating a privilege as\nthat of the physician who boasted to Sir Henry Halford of having been\nthe first man to discover the Asiatic cholera and to communicate it to\nthe public. It is only stern necessity which compels the magazine to\nfall back so constantly on the regular old staff of contributors, whose\naverage product has been gauged already; just as every country-lyceum\nattempts annually to arrange an entirely new list of lecturers, and ends\nwith no bolder experiment than to substitute Chapin and Beecher in place\nof last year's Beecher and Chapin.\n\nOf course no editor is infallible, and the best magazine contains an\noccasional poor article. Do not blame the unfortunate conductor. He\nknows it as well as you do,--after the deed is done. The newspapers\nkindly pass it over, still preparing their accustomed opiate of sweet\npraises, so much for each contributor, so much for the magazine\ncollectively,--like a hostess with her tea-making, a spoonful for each\nperson and one for the pot. But I can tell you that there is an official\nperson who meditates and groans, meanwhile, in the night-watches, to\nthink that in some atrocious moment of good-nature or sleepiness he left\nthe door open and let that ungainly intruder in. Do you expect him to\nacknowledge the blunder, when you tax him with it? Never,--he feels it\ntoo keenly. He rather stands up stoutly for the surpassing merits of the\nmisshapen thing, as a mother for her deformed child; and as the mother\nis nevertheless inwardly imploring that there may never be such another\nborn to her, so be sure that it is not by reminding the editor of this\ncalamity that you can allure him into risking a repetition of it.\n\nAn editor thus shows himself to be but human; and it is well enough to\nremember this fact, when you approach him. He is not a gloomy despot,\nno Nemesis or Rhadamanthus, but a bland and virtuous man, exceedingly\nanxious to secure plenty of good subscribers and contributors, and very\nready to perform any acts of kindness not inconsistent with this\ngrand design. Draw near him, therefore, with soft approaches and mild\npersuasions. Do not treat him like an enemy, and insist on reading your\nwhole manuscript aloud to him, with appropriate gestures. His time has\nsome value, if yours has not; and he has therefore educated his eye till\nit has become microscopic, like a naturalist's, and can classify nine\nout of ten specimens by one glance at a scale or a feather. Fancy an\nambitious echinoderm claiming a private interview with Agassiz, to\ndemonstrate by verbal arguments that he is a mollusk! Besides, do\nyou expect to administer the thing orally to each of the two hundred\nthousand, more or less, who turn the leaves of the \"Atlantic\"? You are\nwriting for the average eye, and must submit to its verdict. \"Do not\ntrouble yourself about the light on your statue; it is the light of the\npublic square which must test its value.\"\n\nDo not despise any honest propitiation, however small, in dealing with\nyour editor. Look to the physical aspect of your manuscript, and prepare\nyour page so neatly that it shall allure instead of repelling. Use good\npens, black ink, nice white paper and plenty of it. Do not emulate\n\"paper-sparing Pope,\" whose chaotic manuscript of the \"Iliad,\" written\nchiefly on the backs of old letters, still remains in the British\nMuseum. If your document be slovenly, the presumption is that its\nliterary execution is the same, Pope to the contrary notwithstanding.\nAn editor's eye becomes carnal, and is easily attracted by a comely\noutside. If you really wish to obtain his good-will for your production,\ndo not first tax his time for deciphering it, any more than in visiting\na millionnaire to solicit a loan you would begin by asking him to pay\nfor the hire of the carriage which takes you to his door.\n\nOn the same principle, send your composition in such a shape that it\nshall not need the slightest literary revision before printing. Many a\nbright production dies discarded which might have been made thoroughly\npresentable by a single day's labor of a competent scholar, in shaping,\nsmoothing, dovetailing, and retrenching. The revision seems so slight\nan affair that the aspirant cannot conceive why there should be so much\nfuss about it.\n\n  \"The piece, you think, is incorrect; why, take it;\n  I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it.\"\n\nBut to discharge that friendly office no universal genius is salaried;\nand for intellect in the rough there is no market.\n\nRules for style, as for manners, must be chiefly negative: a positively\ngood style indicates certain natural powers in the individual, but an\nunexceptionable style is merely a matter of culture and good models. Dr.\nChanning established in New England a standard of style which really\nattained almost the perfection of the pure and the colorless, and the\ndisciplinary value of such a literary influence, in a raw and crude\nnation, has been very great; but the defect of this standard is that it\nends in utterly renouncing all the great traditions of literature, and\nignoring the magnificent mystery of words. Human language may be polite\nand powerless in itself, uplifted with difficulty into expression by the\nhigh thoughts it utters, or it may in itself become so saturated with\nwarm life and delicious association that every sentence shall palpitate\nand thrill with the mere fascination of the syllables. The statue is\nnot more surely included in the block of marble than is all conceivable\nsplendor of utterance in \"Worcester's Unabridged.\" And as Ruskin says of\npainting that it is in the perfection and precision of the instantaneous\nline that the claim to immortality is made, so it is easy to see that a\nphrase may outweigh a library. Keats heads the catalogue of things real\nwith \"sun, moon, and passages of Shakspeare\"; and Keats himself has\nleft behind him winged wonders of expression which are not surpassed by\nShakspeare, or by any one else who ever dared touch the English tongue.\nThere may be phrases which shall be palaces to dwell in, treasure-houses\nto explore; a single word may be a window from which one may perceive\nall the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. Oftentimes a word\nshall speak what accumulated volumes have labored in vain to utter:\nthere may be years of crowded passion in a word, and half a life in a\nsentence.\n\nSuch being the majesty of the art you seek to practise, you can at least\ntake time and deliberation before dishonoring it. Disabuse yourself\nespecially of the belief that any grace or flow of style can come from\nwriting rapidly. Haste can make you slipshod, but it can never make\nyou graceful. With what dismay one reads of the wonderful fellows in\nfashionable novels, who can easily dash off a brilliant essay in a\nsingle night! When I think how slowly my poor thoughts come in, how\ntardily they connect themselves, what a delicious prolonged perplexity\nit is to cut and contrive a decent clothing of words for them, as a\nlittle girl does for her doll,--nay, how many new outfits a single\nsentence sometimes costs before it is presentable, till it seems at\nlast, like our army on the Potomac, as if it never could be thoroughly\nclothed,--I certainly should never dare to venture into print, but for\nthe confirmed suspicion that the greatest writers have done even so. I\ncan hardly believe that there is any autograph in the world so precious\nor instructive as that scrap of paper, still preserved at Ferrara, on\nwhich Ariosto wrote in sixteen different revisions one of his most\nfamous stanzas. Do you know, my dear neophyte, how Balzac used to\ncompose? As a specimen of the labor that sometimes goes to make an\neffective style, the process is worth recording. When Balzac had a new\nwork in view, he first spent weeks in studying from real life for it,\nhaunting the streets of Paris by day and night, note-book in hand. His\nmaterials gained, he shut himself up till the book was written, perhaps\ntwo months, absolutely excluding everybody but his publisher. He emerged\npale and thin, with the complete manuscript in his hand,--not only\nwritten, but almost rewritten, so thoroughly was the original copy\naltered, interlined, and rearranged. This strange production, almost\nillegible, was sent to the unfortunate printers; with infinite\ndifficulty a proof-sheet was obtained, which, being sent to the author,\nwas presently returned in almost as hopeless a chaos of corrections as\nthe manuscript first submitted. Whole sentences were erased, others\ntransposed, everything modified. A second and a third followed, alike\ntorn to pieces by the ravenous pen of Balzac. The despairing printers\nlabored by turns, only the picked men of the office being equal to the\ntask, and they relieving each other at hourly intervals, as beyond\nthat time no one could endure the fatigue. At last, by the fourth\nproof-sheet, the author too was wearied out, though not contented. \"I\nwork ten hours out of the twenty-four,\" said he, \"over the elaboration\nof my unhappy style, and I am never satisfied, myself, when all is\ndone.\"\n\nDo not complain that this scrupulousness is probably wasted, after all,\nand that nobody knows. The public knows. People criticize higher than\nthey attain. When the Athenian audience hissed a public speaker for a\nmispronunciation, it did not follow that any one of the malcontents\ncould pronounce as well as the orator. In our own lyceum-audiences there\nmay not be a man who does not yield to his own private eccentricities of\ndialect, but see if they do not appreciate elegant English from Phillips\nor Everett! Men talk of writing down to the public taste who have never\nyet written up to that standard. \"There never yet was a good tongue,\"\nsaid old Fuller, \"that wanted ears to hear it.\" If one were expecting to\nbe judged by a few scholars only, one might hope somehow to cajole them;\nbut it is this vast, unimpassioned, unconscious tribunal, this average\njudgment of intelligent minds, which is truly formidable,--something\nmore undying than senates and more omnipotent than courts, something\nwhich rapidly cancels all transitory reputations, and at last becomes\nthe organ of eternal justice and infallibly awards posthumous fame.\n\nThe first demand made by the public upon every composition is, of\ncourse, that it should be attractive. In addressing a miscellaneous\naudience, whether through eye or ear, it is certain that no man living\nhas a right to be tedious. Every editor is therefore compelled to insist\nthat his contributors should make themselves agreeable, whatever else\nthey may do. To be agreeable, it is not necessary to be amusing; an\nessay may be thoroughly delightful without a single witticism, while a\nmonotone of jokes soon grows tedious. Charge your style with life,\nand the public will not ask for conundrums. But the profounder your\ndiscourse, the greater must necessarily be the effort to refresh and\ndiversify. I have observed, in addressing audiences of children in\nschools and elsewhere, that there is no fact so grave, no thought so\nabstract, but you can make it very interesting to the small people, if\nyou will only put in plenty of detail and illustration; and I have not\nobserved that in this respect grown men are so very different. If,\ntherefore, in writing, you find it your mission to be abstruse, fight to\nrender your statement clear and attractive, as if your life depended on\nit: your literary life does depend on it, and, if you fail, relapses\ninto a dead language, and becomes, like that of Coleridge, only a\n_Biographia Literaria_. Labor, therefore, not in thought alone, but in\nutterance; clothe and reclothe your grand conception twenty times, until\nyou find some phrase that with its grandeur shall be lucid also. It is\nthis unwearied literary patience that has enabled Emerson not merely to\nintroduce, but even to popularize, thoughts of such a quality as never\nreached the popular mind before. And when such a writer, thus laborious\nto do his utmost for his disciples, becomes after all incomprehensible,\nwe can try to believe that it is only that inevitable obscurity of vast\nthought which Coleridge said was a compliment to the reader.\n\nIn learning to write availably, a newspaper-office is a capital\npreparatory school. Nothing is so good to teach the use of materials,\nand to compel to pungency of style. Being always at close quarters with\nhis readers, a journalist must shorten and sharpen his sentences, or he\nis doomed. Yet this mental alertness is bought at a severe price; such\nliving from hand to mouth cheapens the whole mode of intellectual\nexistence, and it would seem that no successful journalist could ever\nget the newspaper out of his blood, or achieve any high literary\nsuccess.\n\nFor purposes of illustration and elucidation, and even for amplitude of\nvocabulary, wealth of accumulated materials is essential; and whether\nthis wealth be won by reading or by experience makes no great\ndifference. Coleridge attended Davy's chemical lectures to acquire new\nmetaphors, and it is of no consequence whether one comes to literature\nfrom a library, a machine-shop, or a forecastle, provided he has learned\nto work with thoroughness the soil he knows. After all is said and done,\nhowever, books remain the chief quarries. Johnson declared, putting the\nthing perhaps too mechanically, \"The greater part of an author's time is\nspent in reading in order to write; a man will turn over half a library\nto make one book.\" Addison collected three folios of materials before\npublishing the first number of the \"Spectator.\" Remember, however, that\ncopious preparation has its perils also, in the crude display to which\nit tempts. The object of high culture is not to exhibit culture, but\nits results. You do not put guano on your garden that your garden may\nblossom guano. Indeed, even for the proper subordination of one's own\nthoughts the same self-control is needed; and there is no severer test\nof literary training than in the power to prune out one's most cherished\nsentence, when it grows obvious that the sacrifice will help the\nsymmetry or vigor of the whole.\n\nBe noble both in the affluence and the economy of your diction; spare\nno wealth that you can put in, and tolerate no superfluity that can be\nstruck out. Remember the Lacedemonian who was fined for saying that in\nthree words which might as well have been expressed in two. Do not throw\na dozen vague epithets at a thing, in the hope that some one of them\nwill fit; but study each phrase so carefully that the most ingenious\ncritic cannot alter it without spoiling the whole passage for everybody\nbut himself. For the same reason do not take refuge, as was the\npractice a few years since, in German combinations, heart-utterances,\nsoul-sentiments, and hyphenized phrases generally; but roll your thought\ninto one good English word. There is no fault which seems so hopeless as\ncommonplaceness, but it is really easier to elevate the commonplace\nthan to reduce the turgid. How few men in all the pride of culture can\nemulate the easy grace of a bright woman's letter!\n\nHave faith enough in your own individuality to keep it resolutely down\nfor a year or two. A man has not much intellectual capital who cannot\ntreat himself to a brief interval of modesty. Premature individualism\ncommonly ends either in a reaction against the original whims, or in a\nmannerism which perpetuates them. For mannerism no one is great enough,\nbecause, though in the hands of a strong man it imprisons us in novel\nfascination, yet we soon grow weary, and then hate our prison forever.\nHow sparkling was Reade's crisp brilliancy in \"Peg Woffington\"!--but\ninto what disagreeable affectations it has since degenerated! Carlyle\nwas a boon to the human race, amid the lameness into which English style\nwas declining; but who is not tired of him and his catchwords now? He\nwas the Jenner of our modern style, inoculating and saving us all by his\nquaint frank Germanism, then dying of his own disease. Now the age has\noutgrown him, and is approaching a mode of writing which unites the\nsmoothness of the eighteenth century with the vital vigor of the\nseventeenth, so that Sir Thomas Browne and Andrew Marvell seem quite as\nnear to us as Pope or Addison,--a style penetrated with the best spirit\nof Carlyle, without a trace of Carlylism.\n\nBe neither too lax nor too precise in your use of language: the one\nfault ends in stiffness, the other in slang. Some one told the Emperor\nTiberius that he might give citizenship to men, but not to words. To be\nsure, Louis XIV. in childhood, wishing for a carriage, called for _mon\ncarrosse_, and made the former feminine a masculine to all future\nFrenchmen. But do not undertake to exercise these prerogatives of\nroyalty until you are quite sure of being crowned. The only thing I\nremember of our college text-book of Rhetoric is one admirable verse of\ncaution which it quoted:--\n\n  \"In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold,\n  Alike fantastic, if too new or old;\n  Be not the first by whom the new are tried,\n  Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.\"\n\nEspecially do not indulge any fantastic preference for either Latin or\nAnglo-Saxon, the two great wings on which our magnificent English soars\nand sings; we can spare neither. The combination gives an affluence of\nsynonymes and a delicacy of discrimination such as no unmixed idiom can\nshow.\n\nWhile you utterly shun slang, whether native-or foreign-born,--(at\npresent, by the way, our popular writers use far less slang than the\nEnglish,)--yet do not shrink from Americanisms, so they be good ones.\nAmerican literature is now thoroughly out of leading-strings; and the\nnation which supplied the first appreciative audience for Carlyle,\nTennyson, and the Brownings, can certainly trust its own literary\ninstincts to create the new words it needs. To be sure, the inelegancies\nwith which we are chiefly reproached are not distinctively American:\nBurke uses \"pretty considerable\"; Miss Burney says, \"I trembled a\nfew\"; the English Bible says \"reckon,\" Locke has \"guess,\" and Southey\n\"realize,\" in the exact senses in which one sometimes hears them used\ncolloquially here. Nevertheless such improprieties are of course to be\navoided; but whatever good Americanisms exist, let us hold to them by\nall means. The diction of Emerson alone is a sufficient proof, by its\nunequalled range and precision, that no people in the world ever had\naccess to a vocabulary so rich and copious as we are acquiring. To\nthe previous traditions and associations of the English tongue we add\nresources of contemporary life such as England cannot rival. Political\nfreedom makes every man an individual; a vast industrial activity makes\nevery man an inventor, not merely of labor-saving machines, but of\nlabor-saving words; universal schooling popularizes all thought and\nsharpens the edge of all language. We unconsciously demand of our\nwriters the same dash and the same accuracy which we demand in\nrailroading or dry-goods-jobbing. The mixture of nationalities is\nconstantly coining and exchanging new felicities of dialect: Ireland,\nScotland, Germany, Africa are present everywhere with their various\ncontributions of wit and shrewdness, thought and geniality; in New York\nand elsewhere one finds whole thoroughfares of France, Italy, Spain,\nPortugal; on our Western railways there are placards printed in Swedish;\neven China is creeping in. The colonies of England are too far and too\nprovincial to have had much reflex influence on her literature, but\nhow our phraseology is already amplified by our relations with\nSpanish-America! The life-blood of Mexico flowed into our newspapers\nwhile the war was in progress; and the gold of California glitters in\nour primer: Many foreign cities may show a greater variety of mere\nnational costumes, but the representative value of our immigrant tribes\nis far greater from the very fact that they merge their mental costume\nin ours. Thus the American writer finds himself among his phrases like\nan American sea-captain amid his crew: a medley of all nations, waiting\nfor the strong organizing New-England mind to mould them into a unit of\nforce.\n\nThere are certain minor matters, subsidiary to elegance, if not\nelegancies, and therefore worth attention. Do not habitually prop your\nsentences on crutches, such as Italics and exclamation-points, but make\nthem stand without aid; if they cannot emphasize themselves, these\ndevices are commonly but a confession of helplessness. Do not leave\nloose ends as you go on, straggling things, to be caught up and dragged\nalong uneasily in foot-notes, but work them all in neatly, as Biddy at\nher bread-pan gradually kneads in all the outlying bits of dough, till\nshe has one round and comely mass.\n\nReduce yourself to short allowance of parentheses and dashes; if you\nemploy them merely from clumsiness, they will lose all their proper\npower in your hands. Economize quotation-marks also, clear that dust\nfrom your pages, assume your readers to be acquainted with the current\njokes and the stock epithets: all persons like the compliment of having\nit presumed that they know something, and prefer to discover the wit or\nbeauty of your allusion without a guide-board.\n\nThe same principle applies to learned citations and the results of\nstudy. Knead these thoroughly in, supplying the maximum of desired\ninformation with a minimum of visible schoolmaster. It requires no\npedantic mention of Euclid to indicate a mathematical mind, but only the\nhabitual use of clear terms and close connections. To employ in argument\nthe forms of Whately's Logic would render it probable that you are\njuvenile and certain that you are tedious; wreathe the chain with roses.\nThe more you have studied foreign languages, the more you will be\ndisposed to keep Ollendorff in the background: the proper result of such\nacquirements is visible in a finer ear for words; so that Goethe said,\nthe man who had studied but one language could not know that one. But\nspare the raw material; deal as cautiously in Latin as did General\nJackson when Jack Downing was out of the way; and avoid French as some\nfashionable novelists avoid English.\n\nThus far, these are elementary and rather technical suggestions, fitted\nfor the very opening of your literary career. Supposing you fairly in\nprint, there are needed some further counsels.\n\nDo not waste a minute, not a second, in trying to demonstrate to others\nthe merit of your own performance. If your work does not vindicate\nitself, you cannot vindicate it, but you can labor steadily on to\nsomething which needs no advocate but itself. It was said of Haydon,\nthe English artist, that, if he had taken half the pains to paint great\npictures that he took to persuade the public he had painted them, his\nfame would have been secure. Similar was the career of poor Horne, who\nwrote the farthing epic of \"Orion\" with one grand line in it, and a\nprose work without any, on \"The False Medium excluding Men of Genius\nfrom the Public.\" He spent years in ineffectually trying to repeal the\nexclusion in his own case, and has since manfully gone to the grazing\nregions in Australia, hoping there at least to find the sheep and the\ngoats better discriminated. Do not emulate these tragedies. Remember how\nmany great writers have created the taste by which they were enjoyed,\nand do not be in a hurry. Toughen yourself a little, and perform\nsomething better. Inscribe above your desk the words of Rivarol, \"Genius\nis only great patience.\" It takes less time to build an avenue of\nshingle palaces than to hide away unseen, block by block, the vast\nfoundation-stones of an observatory. Most by-gone literary fames have\nbeen very short-lived in America, because they have lasted no longer\nthan they deserved. Happening the other day to recur to a list of\nCambridge lyceum-lecturers in my boyish days, I find with dismay that\nthe only name now popularly remembered is that of Emerson: death,\noblivion, or a professorship has closed over all the rest, while the\nwhole standard of American literature has been vastly raised meanwhile,\nand no doubt partly through their labors. To this day, some of our most\ngifted writers are being dwarfed by the unkind friendliness of too early\npraise. It was Keats, the most precocious of all great poets, the stock\nvictim of critical assassination,--though the charge does him utter\ninjustice,--who declared that \"nothing is finer for purposes of\nproduction than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.\"\n\nYet do not be made conceited by obscurity, any more than by notoriety.\nMany fine geniuses have been long neglected; but what would become\nof us, if all the neglected were to turn out geniuses? It is unsafe\nreasoning from either extreme. You are not necessarily writing like\nHolmes because your reputation for talent began in college, nor like\nHawthorne because you have been before the public ten years without an\nadmirer. Above all, do not seek to encourage yourself by dwelling on\nthe defects of your rivals: strength comes only from what is above you.\nNorthcote, the painter, said, that, in observing an inferior picture,\nhe always felt his spirits droop, with the suspicion that perhaps he\ndeceived himself and his own paintings were no better; but the works of\nthe mighty masters always gave him renewed strength, in the hope that\nperhaps his own had in their smaller way something of the same divine\nquality.\n\nDo not complacently imagine, because your first literary attempt proved\ngood and successful, that your second will doubtless improve upon it.\nThe very contrary sometimes happens. A man dreams for years over\none projected composition, all his reading converges to it, all his\nexperience stands related to it, it is the net result of his existence\nup to a certain time, it is the cistern into which he pours his\naccumulated life. Emboldened by success, he mistakes the cistern for a\nfountain, and instantly taps his brain again. The second production,\nas compared with the first, costs but half the pains and attains but\na quarter part of the merit; a little more of fluency and facility\nperhaps,--but the vigor, the wealth, the originality, the head of water,\nin short, are wanting. One would think that almost any intelligent man\nmight write one good thing in a lifetime, by reserving himself long\nenough: it is the effort after quantity which proves destructive. The\ngreatest man has passed his zenith, when he once begins to cheapen\nhis style of work and sink into a book-maker: after that, though the\nnewspapers may never hint at it, nor his admirers own it, the decline of\nhis career is begun.\n\nYet the author is not alone to blame for this, but also the world which\nfirst tempts and then reproves him. Goethe says, that, if a person once\ndoes a good thing, society forms a league to prevent his doing another.\nHis seclusion is gone, and therefore his unconsciousness and his\nleisure; luxuries tempt him from his frugality, and soon he must toil\nfor luxuries; then, because he has done one thing well, he is urged\nto squander himself and do a thousand things badly. In this country\nespecially, if one can learn languages, he must go to Congress; if he\ncan argue a case, he must become agent of a factory: out of this comes\na variety of training which is very valuable, but a wise man must\nhave strength to call in his resources before middle-life, prune off\ndivergent activities, and concentrate himself on the main work, be it\nwhat it may. It is shameful to see the indeterminate lives of many of\nour gifted men, unable to resist the temptations of a busy land, and so\nlosing themselves in an aimless and miscellaneous career.\n\nYet it is unjust and unworthy in Marsh to disfigure his fine work on the\nEnglish language by traducing all who now write that tongue. \"None seek\nthe audience, fit, though few, which contented the ambition of Milton,\nand all writers for the press now measure their glory by their gains,\"\nand so indefinitely onward,--which is simply cant. Does Sylvanus Cobb,\nJr., who honestly earns his annual five thousand dollars from the \"New\nYork Ledger,\" take rank as head of American literature by virtue of his\nsalary? Because the profits of true literature are rising,--trivial as\nthey still are beside those of commerce or the professions,--its merits\ndo not necessarily decrease, but the contrary is more likely to happen;\nfor in this pursuit, as in all others, cheap work is usually poor work.\nNone but gentlemen of fortune can enjoy the bliss of writing for nothing\nand paying their own printer. Nor does the practice of compensation by\nthe page work the injury that has often been ignorantly predicted. No\ncontributor need hope to cover two pages of a periodical with what might\nbe adequately said in one, unless he assumes his editor to be as foolish\nas himself. The Spartans exiled Ctesiphon for bragging that he could\nspeak the whole day on any subject selected; and a modern magazine is of\nlittle value, unless it has a Spartan at its head.\n\nStrive always to remember--though it does not seem intended that we\nshould quite bring it home to ourselves--that \"To-Day is a king in\ndisguise,\" and that this American literature of ours will be just as\nclassic a thing, if we do our part, as any which the past has treasured.\nThere is a mirage over all literary associations. Keats and Lamb seem to\nour young people to be existences as remote and legendary as Homer, yet\nit is not an old man's life since Keats was an awkward boy at the\ndoor of Hazlitt's lecture-room, and Lamb was introducing Talfourd to\nWordsworth as his own only admirer. In reading Spence's \"Anecdotes,\"\nPope and Addison appear no farther off; and wherever I open Bacon's\n\"Essays,\" I am sure to end at last with that one magical sentence,\nannihilating centuries, \"When I was a child, and Queen Elizabeth was in\nthe flower of her years.\"\n\nAnd this imperceptible transformation of the commonplace present into\nthe storied past applies equally to the pursuits of war and to the\nserenest works of peace. Be not misled by the excitements of the moment\ninto overrating the charms of military life. In this chaos of uniforms,\nwe seem to be approaching times such as existed in England after\nWaterloo, when the splenetic Byron declared that the only distinction\nwas to be a little undistinguished. No doubt, war brings out grand\nand unexpected qualities, and there is a perennial fascination in the\nElizabethan Raleighs and Sidneys, alike heroes of pen and sword. But the\nfact is patent, that there is scarcely any art whose rudiments are\nso easy to acquire as the military; the manuals of tactics have\nno difficulties comparable to those of the ordinary professional\ntext-books; and any one who can drill a boat's crew or a ball-club can\nlearn in a very few weeks to drill a company or even a regiment. Given\nin addition the power to command, to organize, and to execute,--high\nqualities, though not rare in this community,--and you have a man\nneeding but time and experience to make a general. More than this can be\nacquired only by an exclusive absorption in this one art; as Napoleon\nsaid, that, to have good soldiers, a nation must be always at war.\n\nIf, therefore, duty and opportunity call, count it a privilege to obtain\nyour share in the new career; throw yourself into it as resolutely and\njoyously as if it were a summer-campaign in the Adirondack, but never\nfancy for a moment that you have discovered any grander or manlier life\nthan you might be leading every day at home. It is not needful here to\ndecide which is intrinsically the better thing, a column of a newspaper\nor a column of attack, Wordsworth's \"Lines on Immortality\" or\nWellington's Lines of Torres Vedras; each is noble, if nobly done,\nthough posterity seems to remember literature the longest. The writer\nis not celebrated for having been the favorite of the conqueror, but\nsometimes the conqueror only for having favored or even for having\nspurned the writer. \"When the great Sultan died, his power and glory\ndeparted from him, and nothing remained but this one fact, that he knew\nnot the worth of Ferdousi.\" There is a slight delusion in this dazzling\nglory. What a fantastic whim the young lieutenants thought it, when\nGeneral Wolfe, on the eve of battle, said of Gray's \"Elegy,\" \"Gentlemen,\nI would rather have written that poem than have taken Quebec.\" Yet,\nno doubt, it is by the memory of that remark that Wolfe will live the\nlongest,--aided by the stray line of another poet, still reminding us,\nnot needlessly, that \"Wolfe's great name's cotemporal with our own.\"\n\nOnce the poets and the sages were held to be pleasing triflers, fit for\nhours of relaxation in the lulls of war. Now the pursuits of peace are\nrecognized as the real, and war as the accidental. It interrupts\nall higher avocations, as does the cry of fire: when the fire is\nextinguished, the important affairs of life are resumed. Six years ago\nthe London \"Times\" was bewailing that all thought and culture in England\nwere suspended by the Crimean War. \"We want no more books. Give us good\nrecruits, at least five feet seven, a good model for a floating-battery,\nand a gun to take effect at five thousand yards,--and Whigs and Tories,\nHigh and Low Church, the poets, astronomers, and critics, may settle it\namong themselves.\" How remote seems that epoch now! and how remote will\nthe present soon appear! while art and science will resume their sway\nserene, beneath skies eternal. Yesterday I turned from treatises on\ngunnery and fortification to open Milton's Latin Poems, which I had\nnever read, and there, in the \"Sylvarum Liber,\" I came upon a passage\nas grand as anything in \"Paradise Lost,\"--his description of Plato's\narchetypal man, the vast ideal of the human race, eternal, incorrupt,\ncoeval with the stars, dwelling either in the sidereal spaces, or among\nthe Lethean mansions of souls unborn, or pacing the unexplored confines\nof the habitable globe. There stood the majestic image, veiled in a dead\nlanguage, yet still visible; and it was as if one of the poet's own\nsylvan groves had been suddenly cut down, and opened a view of Olympus.\nThen all these present fascinating trivialities of war and diplomacy\nebbed away, like Greece and Rome before them, and there seemed nothing\nreal in the universe but Plato's archetypal man.\n\nIndeed, it is the same with all contemporary notorieties. In all free\ngovernments, especially, it is the habit to overrate the _dramatis\npersonae_ of the hour. How empty to us are now the names of the great\npoliticians of the last generation, as Crawford and Lowndes!--yet it\nis but a few years since these men filled in the public ear as large a\nspace as Clay or Calhoun afterwards, and when they died, the race of the\ngiants was thought ended. The path to oblivion of these later idols\nis just as sure; even Webster will be to the next age but a mighty\ntradition, and all that he has left will seem no more commensurate with\nhis fame than will his statue by Powers. If anything preserves the\nstatesmen of to-day, it will be only because we are coming to a contest\nof more vital principles, which may better embalm the men. Of all gifts,\neloquence is the most short-lived. The most accomplished orator fades\nforgotten, and his laurels pass to some hoarse, inaudible Burke,\naccounted rather a bore during his lifetime, and possessed of a faculty\nof scattering, not convincing, the members of the House. \"After all,\"\nsaid the brilliant Choate, with melancholy foreboding, \"a book is the\nonly immortality.\"\n\nSo few men in any age are born with a marked gift for literary\nexpression, so few of this number have access to high culture, so few\neven of these have the personal nobleness to use their powers well,\nand this small band is finally so decimated by disease and manifold\ndisaster, that it makes one shudder to observe how little of the\nembodied intellect of any age is left behind. Literature is attar of\nroses, one distilled drop from a million blossoms. Think how Spain and\nPortugal once divided the globe between them in a treaty, when England\nwas a petty kingdom of illiterate tribes!--and now all Spain is\ncondensed for us into Cervantes, and all Portugal into the fading fame\nof the unread Camoens. The long magnificence of Italian culture has\nleft us only _I Quattro Poeti_, the Four Poets. The difference between\nShakspeare and his contemporaries is not that he is read twice, ten\ntimes, a hundred times as much as they: it is an absolute difference; he\nis read, and they are only printed.\n\nYet, if our life be immortal, this temporary distinction is of little\nmoment, and we may learn humility, without learning despair, from\nearth's evanescent glories. Who cannot bear a few disappointments, if\nthe vista be so wide that the mute inglorious Miltons of this sphere\nmay in some other sing their Paradise as Found? War or peace, fame or\nforgetfulness, can bring no real injury to one who has formed the fixed\npurpose to live nobly day by day. I fancy that in some other realm of\nexistence we may look back with some kind interest on this scene of our\nearlier life, and say to one another,--\"Do you remember yonder planet,\nwhere once we went to school?\" And whether our elective study here lay\nchiefly in the fields of action or of thought will matter little to us\nthen, when other schools shall have led us through other disciplines.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nJOHN LAMAR.\n\n\nThe guard-house was, in fact, nothing but a shed in the middle of a\nstubble-field. It had been built for a cider-press last summer; but\nsince Captain Dorr had gone into the army, his regiment had camped over\nhalf his plantation, and the shed was boarded up, with heavy wickets at\neither end, to hold whatever prisoners might fall into their hands\nfrom Floyd's forces. It was a strong point for the Federal troops, his\nfarm,--a sort of wedge in the Rebel Cheat counties of Western Virginia.\nOnly one prisoner was in the guard-house now. The sentry, a raw\nboat-hand from Illinois, gaped incessantly at him through the bars, not\nsure if the \"Secesh\" were limbed and headed like other men; but the\nNovember fog was so thick that he could discern nothing but a short,\nsquat man, in brown clothes and white hat, heavily striding to and fro.\nA negro was crouching outside, his knees cuddled in his arms to keep\nwarm: a field-hand, you could be sure from the face, a grisly patch of\nflabby black, with a dull eluding word of something, you could not tell\nwhat, in the points of eyes,--treachery or gloom. The prisoner stopped,\ncursing him about something: the only answer was a lazy rub of the\nheels.\n\n\"Got any 'baccy, Mars' John?\" he whined, in the middle of the hottest\noath.\n\nThe man stopped abruptly, turning his pockets inside out.\n\n\"That's all, Ben,\" he said, kindly enough. \"Now begone, you black\ndevil!\"\n\n\"Dem's um, Mars'! Goin' 'mediate,\"--catching the tobacco, and lolling\ndown full length as his master turned off again.\n\nDave Hall, the sentry, stared reflectively, and sat down.\n\n\"Ben? Who air you next?\"--nursing his musket across his knees,\nbaby-fashion.\n\nBen measured him with one eye, polished the quid in his greasy hand, and\nlooked at it.\n\n\"Pris'ner o' war,\" he mumbled, finally,--contemptuously; for Dave's\ntrousers were in rags like his own, and his chilblained toes stuck\nthrough the shoe-tops. Cheap white trash, clearly.\n\n\"Yer master's some at swearin'. Heow many, neow, hes he like you, down\nto Georgy?\"\n\nThe boatman's bony face was gathering a woful pity. He had enlisted to\nfree the Uncle Toms, and carry God's vengeance to the Legrees. Here they\nwere, a pair of them.\n\nBen squinted another critical survey of the \"miss'able Linkinite.\"\n\n\"How many wells hev _yer_ poisoned since yer set out?\" he muttered.\n\nThe sentry stopped.\n\n\"How many 'longin' to de Lamars? 'Bout as many as der's dam' Yankees in\nRichmond 'baccy-houses!\"\n\nSomething in Dave's shrewd, whitish eye warned him off.\n\n\"Ki yi! yer white nigger, yer!\" he chuckled, shuffling down the stubble.\n\nDave clicked his musket,--then, choking down an oath into a grim\nMethodist psalm, resumed his walk, looking askance at the coarse-moulded\nface of the prisoner peering through the bars, and the diamond studs in\nhis shirt,--bought with human blood, doubtless. The man was the black\ncurse of slavery itself in the flesh, in his thought somehow, and he\nhated him accordingly. Our men of the Northwest have enough brawny\nCovenanter muscle in their religion to make them good haters for\nopinion's sake.\n\nLamar, the prisoner, watched him with a lazy drollery in his sluggish\nblack eyes. It died out into sternness, as he looked beyond the sentry.\nHe had seen this Cheat country before; this very plantation was his\ngrandfather's a year ago, when he had come up from Georgia here, and\nloitered out the summer months with his Virginia cousins, hunting. That\nwas a pleasant summer! Something in the remembrance of it flashed into\nhis eyes, dewy, genial; the man's leather-covered face reddened like a\nchild's. Only a year ago,--and now----The plantation was Charley Dorr's\nnow, who had married Ruth. This very shed he and Dorr had planned last\nspring, and now Charley held him a prisoner in it. The very thought of\nCharley Dorr warmed his heart. Why, he could thank God there were such\nmen. True grit, every inch of his little body! There, last summer, how\nhe had avoided Ruth until the day when he (Lamar) was going away!--then\nhe told him he meant to try and win her. \"She cared most for you\nalways,\" Lamar had said, bitterly; \"why have you waited so long?\" \"You\nloved her first, John, you know.\" That was like a man! He remembered\nthat even that day, when his pain was breathless and sharp, the words\nmade him know that Dorr was fit to be her husband.\n\nDorr was his friend. The word meant much to John Lamar. He thought less\nmeanly of himself, when he remembered it. Charley's prisoner! An odd\nchance! Better that than to have met in battle. He thrust back the\nthought, the sweat oozing out on his face,--something within him\nmuttering, \"For Liberty! I would have killed him, so help me God!\"\n\nHe had brought despatches to General Lee, that he might see Charley, and\nthe old place, and--Ruth again; there was a gnawing hunger in his heart\nto see them. Fool! what was he to them? The man's face grew slowly\npale, as that of a savage or an animal does, when the wound is deep and\ninward.\n\nThe November day was dead, sunless: since morning the sky had had only\nenough life in it to sweat out a few muddy drops, that froze as they\nfell: the cold numbed his mouth as he breathed it. This stubbly slope\nwas where he and his grandfather had headed the deer: it was covered\nwith hundreds of dirty, yellow tents now. Around there were hills like\nuncouth monsters, swathed in ice, holding up the soggy sky; shivering\npine-forests; unmeaning, dreary flats; and the Cheat, coiled about the\nfrozen sinews of the hills, limp and cold, like a cord tying a dead\nman's jaws. Whatever outlook of joy or worship this region had borne on\nits face in time gone, it turned to him to-day nothing but stagnation,\na great death. He wondered idly, looking at it, (for the old Huguenot\nbrain of the man was full of morbid fancies,) if it were winter alone\nthat had deadened color and pulse out of these full-blooded hills, or if\nthey could know the colder horror crossing their threshold, and forgot\nto praise God as it came.\n\nOver that farthest ridge the house had stood. The guard (he had been\ntaken by a band of Snake-hunters, back in the hills) had brought him\npast it. It was a heap of charred rafters. \"Burned in the night,\" they\nsaid, \"when the old Colonel was alone.\" They were very willing to\nshow him this, as it was done by his own party, the Secession\n\"Bush-whackers\"; took him to the wood-pile to show him where his\ngrandfather had been murdered, (there was a red mark,) and buried, his\nold hands above the ground. \"Colonel said 't was a job fur us to pay up;\nso we went to the village an' hed a scrimmage,\"--pointing to gaps in\nthe hedges where the dead Bush-whackers yet lay unburied. He looked at\nthem, and at the besotted faces about him, coolly.\n\nSnake-hunters and Bush-whackers, he knew, both armies used in Virginia\nas tools for rapine and murder: the sooner the Devil called home his\nown, the better. And yet, it was not God's fault, surely, that there\nwere such tools in the North, any more than that in the South Ben\nwas--Ben. Something was rotten in freer States than Denmark, he thought.\n\nOne of the men went into the hedge, and brought out a child's golden\nringlet as a trophy. Lamar glanced in, and saw the small face in its\nwoollen hood, dimpled yet, though dead for days. He remembered it. Jessy\nBirt, the ferryman's little girl. She used to come up to the house every\nday for milk. He wondered for which flag _she_ died. Ruth was teaching\nher to write. _Ruth!_ Some old pain hurt him just then, nearer than even\nthe blood of the old man or the girl crying to God from the ground. The\nsergeant mistook the look. \"They'll be buried,\" he said, gruffly. \"Ye\nbrought it on yerselves.\" And so led him to the Federal camp.\n\nThe afternoon grew colder, as he stood looking out of the guard-house.\nSnow began to whiten through the gray. He thrust out his arm through the\nwicket, his face kindling with childish pleasure, as he looked closer at\nthe fairy stars and crowns on his shaggy sleeve. If Floy were here! She\nnever had seen snow. When the flakes had melted off, he took a case out\nof his pocket to look at Floy. His sister,--a little girl who had no\nmother, nor father, nor lover, but Lamar. The man among his brother\nofficers in Richmond was coarse, arrogant, of dogged courage, keen\npalate at the table, as keen eye on the turf. Sickly little Floy, down\nat home, knew the way to something below all this: just as they of the\nRommany blood see below the muddy boulders of the streets the enchanted\nland of Boabdil bare beneath. Lamar polished the ivory painting with his\nbreath, remembering that he had drunk nothing for days. A child's face,\nof about twelve, delicate,--a breath of fever or cold would shatter such\nweak beauty; big, dark eyes, (her mother was pure Castilian,) out of\nwhich her little life looked irresolute into the world, uncertain what\nto do there. The painter, with an unapt fancy, had clustered about the\nSouthern face the Southern emblem, buds of the magnolia, unstained, as\nyet, as pearl. It angered Lamar, remembering how the creamy whiteness of\nthe full-blown flower exhaled passion of which the crimsonest rose knew\nnothing,--a content, ecstasy, in animal life. Would Floy----Well, God\nhelp them both! they needed help. Three hundred souls was a heavy weight\nfor those thin little hands to hold sway over,--to lead to hell or\nheaven. Up North they could have worked for her, and gained only her\nmoney. So Lamar reasoned, like a Georgian: scribbling a letter to\n\"My Baby\" on the wrapper of a newspaper,--drawing the shapes of the\nsnowflakes,--telling her he had reached their grandfather's plantation,\nbut \"have not seen our Cousin Ruth yet, of whom you may remember I have\ntold you, Floy. When you grow up, I should like you to be just such a\nwoman; so remember, my darling, if I\"----He scratched the last words\nout: why should he hint to her that he could die? Holding his life loose\nin his hand, though, had brought things closer to him lately,--God and\ndeath, this war, the meaning of it all. But he would keep his brawny\nbody between these terrible realities and Floy, yet awhile. \"I want\nyou,\" he wrote, \"to leave the plantation, and go with your old maumer to\nthe village. It will be safer there.\" He was sure the letter would reach\nher. He had a plan to escape to-night, and he could put it into a post\ninside the lines. Ben was to get a small hand-saw that would open the\nwicket; the guards were not hard to elude. Glancing up, he saw the negro\nstretched by a camp-fire, listening to the gaunt boatman, who was off\nduty. Preaching Abolitionism, doubtless: he could hear Ben's derisive\nshouts of laughter. \"And so, good bye, Baby Florence!\" he scrawled. \"I\nwish I could send you some of this snow, to show you what the floor of\nheaven is like.\"\n\nWhile the snow fell faster--without, he stopped writing, and began idly\ndrawing a map of Georgia on the tan-bark with a stick. Here the Federal\ntroops could effect a landing: he knew the defences at that point. If\nthey did? He thought of these Snake-hunters who had found in the war a\npeculiar road for themselves downward with no gallows to stumble over,\nfancied he saw them skulking through the fields at Cedar Creek, closing\naround the house, and behind them a mass of black faces and bloody\nbayonets. Floy alone, and he here,--like a rat in a trap! \"God keep my\nlittle girl!\" he wrote, unsteadily. \"God bless you, Floy!\" He gasped for\nbreath, as if he had been writing with his heart's blood. Folding up the\npaper, he hid it inside his shirt and began his dogged walk, calculating\nthe chances of escape. Once out of this shed, he could baffle a\nblood-hound, he knew the hills so well.\n\nHis head bent down, he did not see a man who stood looking at him over\nthe wicket. Captain Dorr. A puny little man, with thin yellow hair, and\nwomanish face: but not the less the hero of his men,--they having found\nout, somehow, that muscle was not the solidest thing to travel on in\nwar-times. Our regiments of \"roughs\" were not altogether crowned with\nlaurel at Manassas! So the men built more on the old Greatheart soul\nin the man's blue eyes: one of those souls born and bred pure, sent to\nteach, that can find breath only in the free North. His hearty \"Hillo!\"\nstartled Lamar.\n\n\"How are you, old fellow?\" he said, unlocking the gate and coming in.\n\nLamar threw off his wretched thoughts, glad to do it. What need to\nborrow trouble? He liked a laugh,--had a lazy, jolly humor of his own.\nDorr had finished drill, and come up, as he did every day, to freshen\nhimself with an hour's talk to this warm, blundering fellow. In this\ndismal war-work, (though his whole soul was in that, too,) it was\nlike putting your hands to a big blaze. Dorr had no near relations;\nLamar--they had played marbles together--stood to him where a younger\nbrother might have stood. Yet, as they talked, he could not help his\nkeen eye seeing him just as he was.\n\nPoor John! he thought: the same uncouth-looking effort of humanity that\nhe had been at Yale. No wonder the Northern boys jeered him, with his\nsloth-ways, his mouthed English, torpid eyes, and brain shut up in that\nworst of mud-moulds,--belief in caste. Even now, going up and down the\ntan-bark, his step was dead, sodden, like that of a man in whose life\nGod had not yet wakened the full live soul. It was wakening, though,\nDorr thought. Some pain or passion was bringing the man in him out of\nthe flesh, vigilant, alert, aspirant. A different man from Dorr.\n\nIn fact, Lamar was just beginning to think for himself, and of course\nhis thoughts were defiant, intolerant. He did not comprehend how his\ncompanion could give his heresies such quiet welcome, and pronounce\nsentence of death on them so coolly. Because Dorr had gone farther up\nthe mountain, had he the right to make him follow in the same steps?\nThe right,--that was it. By brute force, too? Human freedom, eh?\nConsequently, their talks were stormy enough. To-day, however, they were\non trivial matters.\n\n\"I've brought the General's order for your release at last, John. It\nconfines you to this district, however.\"\n\nLamar shook his head.\n\n\"No parole for me! My stake outside is too heavy for me to remain a\nprisoner on anything but compulsion. I mean to escape, if I can. Floy\nhas nobody but me, you know, Charley.\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence.\n\n\"I wish,\" said Dorr, half to himself, \"the child was with her cousin\nRuth. If she could make her a woman like herself!\"\n\n\"You are kind,\" Lamar forced out, thinking of what might have been a\nyear ago.\n\nDorr had forgotten. He had just kissed little Ruth at the door-step,\ncoming away: thinking, as he walked up to camp, how her clear thought,\nnarrow as it was, was making his own higher, more just; wondering if\nthe tears on her face last night, when she got up from her knees after\nprayer, might not help as much in the great cause of truth as the life\nhe was ready to give. He was so used to his little wife now, that he\ncould look to no hour of his past life, nor of the future coming ages\nof event and work, where she was not present,--very flesh of his flesh,\nheart of his heart. A gulf lay between them and the rest of the world.\nIt was hardly probable he could see her as a woman towards whom another\nman looked across the gulf, dumb, hopeless, defrauded of his right.\n\n\"She sent you some flowers, by the way, John,--the last in the\nyard,--and bade me be sure and bring you down with me. Your own colors,\nyou see?--to put you in mind of home,\"--pointing to the crimson asters\nflaked with snow.\n\nThe man smiled faintly: the smell of the flowers choked him: he laid\nthem aside. God knows he was trying to wring out this bitter old\nthought: he could not look in Dorr's frank eyes while it was there.\nHe must escape to-night: he never would come near them again, in this\nworld, or beyond death,--never! He thought of that like a man going to\ndrag through eternity with half his soul gone. Very well: there was man\nenough left in him to work honestly and bravely, and to thank God for\nthat good pure love he yet had. He turned to Dorr with a flushed face,\nand began talking of Floy in hearty earnest,--glancing at Ben coming up\nthe hill, thinking that escape depended on him.\n\n\"I ordered your man up,\" said Captain Dorr. \"Some canting Abolitionist\nhad him open-mouthed down there.\"\n\nThe negro came in, and stood in the corner, listening while they talked.\nA gigantic fellow, with a gladiator's muscles. Stronger than that Yankee\ncaptain, he thought,--than either of them: better breathed,--drawing the\nair into his brawny chest. \"A man and a brother.\" Did the fool think he\ndidn't know that before? He had a contempt for Dave and his like. Lamar\nwould have told you Dave's words were true, but despised the man as a\ncrude, unlicked bigot. Ben did the same, with no words for the idea. The\nnegro instinct in him recognized gentle blood by any of its signs,--the\ntransparent animal life, the reticent eye, the mastered voice: he\nhad better men than Lamar at home to learn it from. It is a trait of\nserfdom, the keen eye to measure the inherent rights of a man to be\nmaster. A negro or a Catholic Irishman does not need \"Sartor Resartus\"\nto help him to see through any clothes. Ben leaned, half-asleep, against\nthe wall, some old thoughts creeping out of their hiding-places through\nthe torpor, like rats to the sunshine: the boatman's slang had been hot\nand true enough to rouse them in his brain.\n\n\"So, Ben,\" said his master, as he passed once, \"your friend has been\npersuading you to exchange the cotton-fields at Cedar Creek for New-York\nalleys, eh?\"\n\n\"Ki!\" laughed Ben, \"white darkey. Mind ole dad, Mars' John, as took off\nin der swamp? Um asked dat Linkinite ef him saw dad up Norf. Guess him's\nfree now. Ki! ole dad!\"\n\n\"The swamp was the place for him,\" said Lamar. \"I remember.\"\n\n\"Dunno,\" said the negro, surlily: \"him's dad, af'er all: tink him's free\nnow,\"--and mumbled down into a monotonous drone about\n\n  \"Oh yo, bredern, is yer gwine ober Jordern?\"\n\nHalf-asleep, they thought,--but with dull questionings at work in his\nbrain, some queer notions about freedom, of that unknown North, mostly\nmixed with his remembrance of his father, a vicious old negro, that in\nPennsylvania would have worked out his salvation in the under cell of\nthe penitentiary, but in Georgia, whipped into heroism, had betaken\nhimself into the swamp, and never returned. Tradition among the Lamar\nslaves said he had got off to Ohio, of which they had as clear an idea\nas most of us have of heaven. At any rate, old Kite became a mystery, to\nbe mentioned with awe at fish-bakes and barbecues. He was this uncouth\nwretch's father,--do you understand? The flabby-faced boy, flogged in\nthe cotton-field for whining after his dad, or hiding away part of his\nflitch and molasses for months in hopes the old man would come back, was\nrather a comical object, you would have thought. Very different his,\nfrom the feeling with which you left your mother's grave,--though as yet\nwe have not invented names for the emotions of those people. We'll grant\nthat it hurt Ben a little, however. Even the young polypus, when it is\ntorn from the old one, bleeds a drop or two, they say. As he grew up,\nthe great North glimmered through his thought, a sort of big field,--a\nparadise of no work, no flogging, and white bread every day, where the\nold man sat and ate his fill.\n\nThe second point in Ben's history was that he fell in love. Just as\nyou did,--with the difference, of course: though the hot sun, or the\nperpetual foot upon his breast, does not make our black Prometheus less\nfierce in his agony of hope or jealousy than you, I am afraid. It was\nNan, a pale mulatto house-servant, that the field-hand took into his\ndull, lonesome heart to make life of, with true-love defiance of caste.\nI think Nan liked him very truly. She was lame and sickly, and if Ben\nwas black and a picker, and stayed in the quarters, he was strong, like\na master to her in some ways: the only thing she could call hers in the\nworld was the love the clumsy boy gave her. White women feel in that\nway sometimes, and it makes them very tender to men not their equals.\nHowever, old Mrs. Lamar, before she died, gave her house-servants their\nfree papers, and Nan was among them. So she set off, with all the finery\nlittle Floy could give her: went up into that great, dim North. She\nnever came again.\n\nThe North swallowed up all Ben knew or felt outside of his hot, hated\nwork, his dread of a lashing on Saturday night. All the pleasure left\nhim was 'possum and hominy for Sunday's dinner. It did not content him.\nThe spasmodic religion of the field-negro does not teach endurance. So\nit came, that the slow tide of discontent ebbing in everybody's heart\ntowards some unreached sea set in his ignorant brooding towards that\nvague country which the only two who cared for him had found. If he\nforgot it through the dogged, sultry days, he remembered it when the\noverseer scourged the dull tiger-look into his eyes, or when, husking\ncorn with the others at night, the smothered negro-soul, into which\ntheir masters dared not look, broke out in their wild, melancholy songs.\nAimless, unappealing, yet no prayer goes up to God more keen in its\npathos. You find, perhaps, in Beethoven's seventh symphony the secrets\nof your heart made manifest, and suddenly think of a Somewhere to come,\nwhere your hope waits for you with late fulfilment. Do not laugh at Ben,\nthen, if he dully told in his song the story of all he had lost, or gave\nto his heaven a local habitation and a name.\n\nFrom the place where he stood now, as his master and Dorr walked up and\ndown, he could see the purplish haze beyond which the sentry had told\nhim lay the North. The North! Just beyond the ridge. There was a pain\nin his head, looking at it; his nerves grew cold and rigid, as yours do\nwhen something wrings your heart sharply: for there are nerves in these\nblack carcasses, thicker, more quickly stung to madness than yours. Yet\nif any savage longing, smouldering for years, was heating to madness now\nin his brain, there was no sign of it in his face. Vapid, with sordid\ncontent, the huge jaws munching tobacco slowly, only now and then the\nbeady eye shot a sharp glance after Dorr. The sentry had told him the\nNorthern army had come to set the slaves free; he watched the Federal\nofficer keenly.\n\n\"What ails you, Ben?\" said his master. \"Thinking over your friend's\nsermon?\"\n\nBen's stolid laugh was ready.\n\n\"Done forgot dat, Mars'. Wouldn't go, nohow. Since Mars' sold dat cussed\nJoe, gorry good times 't home. Dam' Abolitioner say we ums all goin'\nNorf,\"--with a stealthy glance at Dorr.\n\n\"That's more than your philanthropy bargains for, Charley,\" laughed\nLamar.\n\nThe men stopped; the negro skulked nearer, his whole senses sharpened\ninto hearing. Dorr's clear face was clouded.\n\n\"This slave question must be kept out of the war. It puts a false face\non it.\"\n\n\"I thought one face was what it needed,\" said Lamar. \"You have too many\nslogans. Strong government, tariff, Sumter, a bit of bunting, eleven\ndollars a month. It ought to be a vital truth that would give soul and\n_vim_ to a body with the differing members of your army. You, with your\nideal theory, and Billy Wilson with his 'Blood and Baltimore!' Try human\nfreedom. That's high and sharp and broad.\"\n\nBen drew a step closer.\n\n\"You are shrewd, Lamar. I am to go below all constitutions or expediency\nor existing rights, and tell Ben here that he is free? When once the\nGovernment accepts that doctrine, you, as a Rebel, must be let alone.\"\n\nThe slave was hid back in the shade.\n\n\"Dorr,\" said Lamar, \"you know I'm a groping, ignorant fellow, but it\nseems to me that prating of constitutions and existing rights is surface\ntalk; there is a broad common-sense underneath, by whose laws the world\nis governed, which your statesmen don't touch often. You in the North,\nin your dream of what shall be, shut your eyes to what is. You want a\nrepublic where every man's voice shall be heard in the council, and the\nmajority shall rule. Granting that the free population are educated to a\nfitness for this,--(God forbid I should grant it with the Snake-hunters\nbefore my eyes!)--look here!\"\n\nHe turned round, and drew the slave out into the light: he crouched\ndown, gaping vacantly at them.\n\n\"There is Ben. What, in God's name, will you do with him? Keep him a\nslave, and chatter about self-government? Pah! The country is paying in\nblood for the lie, to-day. Educate him for freedom, by putting a musket\nin his hands? We have this mass of heathendom drifted on our shores by\nyour will as well as mine. Try to bring them to a level with the whites\nby a wrench, and you'll waken out of your dream to a sharp reality. Your\nNorthern philosophy ought to be old enough to teach you that spasms in\nthe body-politic shake off no atom of disease,--that reform, to be\nenduring, must be patient, gradual, inflexible as the Great Reformer.\n'The mills of God,' the old proverb says, 'grind surely.' But, Dorr,\nthey grind exceeding slow!\"\n\nDorr watched Lamar with an amused smile. It pleased him to see his brain\nwaking up, eager, vehement. As for Ben, crouching there, if they talked\nof him like a clod, heedless that his face deepened in stupor, that his\neyes had caught a strange, gloomy treachery,--we all do the same, you\nknow.\n\n\"What is your remedy, Lamar? You have no belief in the right of\nSecession, I know,\" said Dorr.\n\n\"It's a bad instrument for a good end. Let the white Georgian come out\nof his sloth, and the black will rise with him. Jefferson Davis may not\nintend it, but God does. When we have our Lowell, our New York, when we\nare a self-sustaining people instead of lazy land-princes, Ben here will\nhave climbed the second of the great steps of Humanity. Do you laugh at\nus?\" said Lamar, with a quiet self-reliance. \"Charley, it needs only\nwork and ambition to cut the brute away from my face, and it will leave\ntraits very like your own. Ben's father was a Guinea fetich-worshipper;\nwhen we stand where New England does, Ben's son will be ready for his\nfreedom.\"\n\n\"And while you theorize,\" laughed Dorr, \"I hold you a prisoner, John,\nand Ben knows it is his right to be free. He will not wait for the\ngrinding of the mill, I fancy.\"\n\nLamar did not smile. It was womanish in the man, when the life of great\nnations hung in doubt before them, to go back so constantly to little\nFloy sitting in the lap of her old black maumer. But he did it,--with\nthe quick thought that to-night he must escape, that death lay in delay.\n\nWhile Dorr talked, Lamar glanced significantly at Ben. The negro was not\nslow to understand,--with a broad grin, touching his pocket, from which\nprojected the dull end of a hand-saw. I wonder what sudden pain made the\nnegro rise just then, and come close to his master, touching him with a\nstrange affection and remorse in his tired face, as though he had done\nhim some deadly wrong.\n\n\"What is it, old fellow?\" said Lamar, in his boyish way. \"Homesick, eh?\nThere's a little girl in Georgia that will be glad to see you and your\nmaster, and take precious good care of us when she gets us safe again.\nThat's true, Ben!\" laying his hand kindly on the man's shoulder, while\nhis eyes went wandering off to the hills lying South.\n\n\"Yes, Mars',\" said Ben, in a low voice, suddenly bringing a\nblacking-brush, and beginning to polish his master's shoes,--thinking,\nwhile he did it, of how often Mars' John had interfered with the\noverseers to save him from a flogging,--(Lamar, in his lazy way,\nwas kind to his slaves,)--thinking of little Mist' Floy with an odd\ntenderness and awe, as a gorilla might of a white dove: trying to think\nthus,--the simple, kindly nature of the negro struggling madly with\nsomething beneath, new and horrible. He understood enough of the talk of\nthe white men to know that there was no help for him,--none. Always a\nslave. Neither you nor I can ever know what those words meant to him.\nThe pale purple mist where the North lay was never to be passed. His\ndull eyes turned to it constantly,--with a strange look, such as the\nlost women might have turned to the door, when Jesus shut it: they\nforever outside. There was a way to help himself? The stubby black\nfingers holding the brush grew cold and clammy,--noting withal, the poor\nwretch in his slavish way, that his master's clothes were finer than the\nNorthern captain's, his hands whiter, and proud that it was so,--holding\nLamar's foot daintily, trying to see himself in the shoe, smoothing down\nthe trousers with a boorish, affectionate touch,--with the same fierce\nwhisper in his ear, Would the shoes ever be cleaned again? would the\nfoot move to-morrow?\n\nIt grew late. Lamar's supper was brought up from Captain Dorr's, and\nplaced on the bench. He poured out a goblet of water.\n\n\"Come, Charley, let's drink. To Liberty! It is a war-cry for Satan or\nMichael.\"\n\nThey drank, laughing, while Ben stood watching. Dorr turned to go, but\nLamar called him back,--stood resting his hand on his shoulder: he never\nthought to see him again, you know.\n\n\"Look at Ruth, yonder,\" said Dorr, his face lighting. \"She is coming to\nmeet us. She thought you would be with me.\"\n\nLamar looked gravely down at the low field-house and the figure at the\ngate. He thought he could see the small face and earnest eyes, though it\nwas far off, and night was closing.\n\n\"She is waiting for you, Charley. Go down. Good night, old chum!\"\n\nIf it cost any effort to say it, Dorr saw nothing of it.\n\n\"Good night, Lamar! I'll see you in the morning.\"\n\nHe lingered. His old comrade looked strangely alone and desolate.\n\n\"John!\"\n\n\"What is it, Dorr?\"\n\n\"If I could tell the Colonel you would take the oath? For Floy's sake.\"\n\nThe man's rough face reddened.\n\n\"You should know me better. Good bye.\"\n\n\"Well, well, you are mad. Have you no message for Ruth?\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence.\n\n\"Tell her I say, God bless her!\"\n\nDorr stopped and looked keenly in his face,--then, coming back, shook\nhands again, in a different way from before, speaking in a lower\nvoice,--\n\n\"God help us all, John! Good night!\"--and went slowly down the hill.\n\nIt was nearly night, and bitter cold. Lamar stood where the snow drifted\nin on him, looking out through the horizon-less gray.\n\n\"Come out o' dem cold, Mars' John,\" whined Ben, pulling at his coat.\n\nAs the night gathered, the negro was haunted with a terrified wish to be\nkind to his master. Something told him that the time was short. Here and\nthere through the far night some tent-fire glowed in a cone of ruddy\nhaze, through which the thick-falling snow shivered like flakes of\nlight. Lamar watched only the square block of shadow where Dorr's house\nstood. The door opened at last, and a broad, cheerful gleam shot out\nred darts across the white waste without; then he saw two figures go\nin together. They paused a moment; he put his head against the bars,\nstraining his eyes, and saw that the woman turned, shading her eyes\nwith her hand, and looked up to the side of the mountain where the\nguard-house lay,--with a kindly look, perhaps, for the prisoner out in\nthe cold. A kind look: that was all. The door shut on them. Forever: so,\ngood night, Ruth!\n\nHe stool there for an hour or two, leaning his head against the muddy\nplanks, smoking. Perhaps, in his coarse fashion, he took the trouble of\nhis manhood back to the same God he used to pray to long ago. When he\nturned at last, and spoke, it was with a quiet, strong voice, like one\nwho would fight through life in a manly way. There was a grating sound\nat the back of the shed: it was Ben, sawing through the wicket, the\nguard having lounged off to supper. Lamar watched him, noticing that the\nnegro was unusually silent. The plank splintered, and hung loose.\n\n\"Done gone, Mars' John, now,\"--leaving it, and beginning to replenish\nthe fire.\n\n\"That's right, Ben. We'll start in the morning. That sentry at two\no'clock sleeps regularly.\"\n\nBen chuckled, heaping up the sticks.\n\n\"Go on down to the camp, as usual. At two, Ben, remember! We will be\nfree to-night, old boy!\"\n\nThe black face looked up from the clogging smoke with a curious stare.\n\n\"Ki! we'll be free to-night, Mars'!\"--gulping his breath.\n\nSoon after, the sentry unlocked the gate, and he shambled off out into\nthe night. Lamar, left alone, went closer to the fire, and worked busily\nat some papers he drew from his pocket: maps and schedules. He intended\nto write until two o'clock; but the blaze dying down, he wrapped his\nblanket about him, and lay down on the heaped straw, going on sleepily,\nin his brain, with his calculations.\n\nThe negro, in the shadow of the shed, watched him. A vague fear beset\nhim,--of the vast, white cold,--the glowering mountains,--of himself;\nhe clung to the familiar face, like a man drifting out into an unknown\nsea, clutching some relic of the shore. When Lamar fell asleep, he\nwandered uncertainly towards the tents. The world had grown new,\nstrange; was he Ben, picking cotton in the swamp-edge?--plunging his\nfingers with a shudder in the icy drifts. Down in the glowing torpor of\nthe Santilla flats, where the Lamar plantations lay, Ben had slept off\nas maddening hunger for life and freedom as this of to-day; but here,\nwith the winter air stinging every nerve to life, with the perpetual\nmystery of the mountains terrifying his bestial nature down, the\nstrength of the man stood up: groping, blind, malignant, it may be; but\nwhose fault was that? He was half-frozen: the physical pain sharpened\nthe keen doubt conquering his thought. He sat down in the crusted snow,\nlooking vacantly about him, a man, at last,--but wakening, like a\nnew-born soul, into a world of unutterable solitude. Wakened dully,\nslowly; sitting there far into the night, pondering stupidly on his old\nlife; crushing down and out the old parasite affection for his master,\nthe old fears, the old weight threatening to press out his thin life;\nthe muddy blood heating, firing with the same heroic dream that bade\nTell and Garibaldi lift up their hands to God, and cry aloud that they\nwere men and free: the same,--God-given, burning in the imbruted veins\nof a Guinea slave. To what end? May God be merciful to America while\nshe answers the question! He sat, rubbing his cracked, bleeding feet,\nglancing stealthily at the southern hills. Beyond them lay all that was\npast; in an hour he would follow Lamar back to--what? He lifted his\nhands up to the sky, in his silly way sobbing hot tears. \"Gor-a'mighty,\nMars' Lord, I'se tired,\" was all the prayer he made. The pale purple\nmist was gone from the North; the ridge behind which love, freedom\nwaited, struck black across the sky, a wall of iron. He looked at it\ndrearily. Utterly alone: he had always been alone. He got up at last,\nwith a sigh.\n\n\"It's a big world,\"--with a bitter chuckle,--\"but der's no room in it\nfur poor Ben.\"\n\nHe dragged himself through the snow to a light in a tent where a\nvoice in a wild drone, like that he had heard at negro camp-meetings,\nattracted him. He did not go in: stood at the tent-door, listening. Two\nor three of the guard stood around, leaning on their muskets; in the\nvivid fire-light rose the gaunt figure of the Illinois boatman, swaying\nto and fro as he preached. For the men were honest, God-fearing souls,\nmembers of the same church, and Dave, in all integrity of purpose, read\naloud to them,--the cry of Jeremiah against the foul splendors of the\ndoomed city,--waving, as he spoke, his bony arm to the South. The shrill\nvoice was that of a man wrestling with his Maker. The negro's fired\nbrain caught the terrible meaning of the words,--found speech in it:\nthe wide, dark night, the solemn silence of the men, were only fitting\naudience.\n\nThe man caught sight of the slave, and, laying down his book, began one\nof those strange exhortations in the manner of his sect. Slow at first,\nfull of unutterable pity. There was room for pity. Pointing to the human\nbrute crouching there, made once in the image of God,--the saddest\nwreck on His green foot-stool: to the great stealthy body, the\nrevengeful jaws, the foreboding eyes. Soul, brains,--a man, wifeless,\nhomeless, nationless, hawked, flung from trader to trader for a handful\nof dirty shinplasters. \"Lord God of hosts,\" cried the man, lifting up\nhis trembling hands, \"lay not this sin to our charge!\" There was a scar\non Ben's back where the lash had buried itself: it stung now in the\ncold. He pulled his clothes tighter, that they should not see it; the\nscar and the words burned into his heart: the childish nature of the man\nwas gone; the vague darkness in it took a shape and name. The boatman\nhad been praying for him; the low words seemed to shake the night:--\n\n\"Hear the prayer of Thy servant, and his supplications! Is not this what\nThou hast chosen: to loose the bands, to undo the heavy burdens, and let\nthe oppressed go free? O Lord, hear! O Lord, hearken and do! Defer not\nfor Thine own sake, O my God!\"\n\n\"What shall I do?\" said the slave, standing up.\n\nThe boatman paced slowly to and fro, his voice chording in its dull\nmonotone with the smothered savage muttering in the negro's brain.\n\n\"The day of the Lord cometh; it is nigh at hand. Who can abide it? What\nsaith the prophet Jeremiah? 'Take up a burden against the South. Cry\naloud, spare not. Woe unto Babylon, for the day of her vengeance is\ncome, the day of her visitation! Call together the archers against\nBabylon; camp against it round about; let none thereof escape.\nRecompense her: as she hath done unto my people, be it done unto her.\nA sword is upon Babylon: it shall break in pieces the shepherd and his\nflock, the man and the woman, the young man and the maid. I will render\nunto her the evil she hath done in my sight, saith the Lord.'\"\n\nIt was the voice of God: the scar burned fiercer; the slave came forward\nboldly,--\n\n\"Mars'er, what shall I do?\"\n\n\"Give the poor devil a musket,\" said one of the men. \"Let him come with\nus, and strike a blow for freedom.\"\n\nHe took a knife from his belt, and threw it to him, then sauntered off\nto his tent.\n\n\"A blow for freedom?\" mumbled Ben, taking it up.\n\n\"Let us sing to the praise of God,\" said the boatman, \"the sixty-eighth\npsalm,\" lining it out while they sang,--the scattered men joining,\npartly to keep themselves awake. In old times David's harp charmed away\nthe demon from a human heart. It roused one now, never to be laid again.\nA dull, droning chant, telling how the God of Vengeance rode upon the\nwind, swift to loose the fetters of the chained, to make desert the\nrebellious land; with a chorus, or refrain, in which Ben's wild,\nmelancholy cry sounded like the wail of an avenging spirit:--\n\n  \"That in the blood of enemies\n    Thy foot imbrued may be:\n  And of thy dogs dipped in the same\n    The tongues thou mayest see.\"\n\nThe meaning of that was plain; he sang it lower and more steadily each\ntime, his body swaying in cadence, the glitter in his eye more steely.\n\nLamar, asleep in his prison, was wakened by the far-off plaintive song:\nhe roused himself, leaning on one elbow, listening with a half-smile. It\nwas Naomi they sang, he thought,--an old-fashioned Methodist air that\nFloy had caught from the negroes, and used to sing to him sometimes.\nEvery night, down at home, she would come to his parlor-door to say\ngood-night: he thought he could see the little figure now in its white\nnightgown, and hear the bare feet pattering on the matting. When he was\nalone, she would come in, and sit on his lap awhile, and kneel down\nbefore she went away, her head on his knee, to say her prayers, as she\ncalled it. Only God knew how many times he had remained alone after\nhearing those prayers, saved from nights of drunken debauch. He thought\nhe felt Floy's pure little hand on his forehead now, as if she were\nsaying her usual \"Good night, Bud.\" He lay down to sleep again, with a\ngenial smile on his face, listening to the hymn.\n\n\"It's the same God,\" he said,--\"Floy's and theirs.\"\n\nOutside, as he slept, a dark figure watched him. The song of the men\nceased. Midnight, white and silent, covered the earth. He could hear\nonly the slow breathing of the sleeper. Ben's black face grew ashy pale,\nbut he did not tremble, as he crept, cat-like, up to the wicket, his\nblubber lips apart, the white teeth clenched.\n\n\"It's for Freedom, Mars' Lord!\" he gasped, looking up to the sky, as if\nhe expected an answer. \"Gor-a'mighty, it's for Freedom!\" And went in.\n\nA belated bird swooped through the cold moonlight into the valley, and\nvanished in the far mountain-cliffs with a low, fearing cry, as though\nit had passed through Hades.\n\nThey had broken down the wicket: he saw them lay the heavy body on the\nlumber outside, the black figures hurrying over the snow. He laughed\nlow, savagely, watching them. Free now! The best of them despised him;\nthe years past of cruelty and oppression turned back, fused in a slow,\ndeadly current of revenge and hate, against the race that had trodden\nhim down. He felt the iron muscles of his fingers, looked close at the\nglittering knife he held, chuckling at the strange smell it bore. Would\nthe Illinois boatman blame him, if it maddened him? And if Ben took the\nfancy to put it to his throat, what right has he to complain? Has not he\nalso been a dweller in Babylon? He hesitated a moment in the cleft of\nthe hill, choosing his way, exultantly. He did not watch the North now;\nthe quiet old dream of content was gone; his thick blood throbbed and\nsurged with passions of which you and I know nothing: he had a lost life\nto avenge. His native air, torrid, heavy with latent impurity, drew him\nback: a fitter breath than this cold snow for the animal in his body,\nthe demon in his soul, to triumph and wallow in. He panted, thinking of\nthe saffron hues of the Santilla flats, of the white, stately dwellings,\nthe men that went in and out from them, quiet, dominant,--feeling the\nedge of his knife. It was his turn to be master now! He ploughed his way\ndoggedly through the snow,--panting, as he went,--a hotter glow in his\ngloomy eyes. It was his turn for pleasure now: he would have his fill!\nTheir wine and their gardens and----He did not need to choose a wife\nfrom his own color now. He stopped, thinking of little Floy, with her\ncurls and great listening eyes, watching at the door for her brother.\nHe had watched her climb up into his arms and kiss his cheek. She never\nwould do that again! He laughed aloud, shrilly. By God! she should keep\nthe kiss for other lips! Why should he not say it?\n\nUp on the hill the night-air throbbed colder and holier. The guards\nstood about in the snow, silent, troubled. This was not like a death in\nbattle: it put them in mind of home, somehow. All that the dying man\nsaid was, \"Water,\" now and then. He had been sleeping, when struck,\nand never had thoroughly wakened from his dream. Captain Poole, of the\nSnake-hunters, had wrapped him in his own blanket, finding nothing more\ncould be done. He went off to have the Colonel summoned now, muttering\nthat it was \"a damned shame.\" They put snow to Lamar's lips constantly,\nbeing hot and parched; a woman, Dorr's wife, was crouching on the ground\nbeside him, chafing his hands, keeping down her sobs for fear they would\ndisturb him. He opened his eyes at last, and knew Dorr, who held his\nhead.\n\n\"Unfasten my coat, Charley. What makes it so close here?\"\n\nDorr could not speak.\n\n\"Shall I lift you up, Captain Lamar?\" asked Dave Hall, who stood leaning\non his rifle.\n\nHe spoke in a subdued tone, Babylon being far off for the moment. Lamar\ndozed again before he could answer.\n\n\"Don't try to move him,--it is too late,\" said Dorr, sharply.\n\nThe moonlight steeped mountain and sky in a fresh whiteness. Lamar's\nface, paling every moment, hardening, looked in it like some solemn work\nof an untaught sculptor. There was a breathless silence. Ruth, kneeling\nbeside him, felt his hand grow slowly colder than the snow. He moaned,\nhis voice going fast,--\n\n\"At two, Ben, old fellow! We'll be free to-night!\"\n\nDave, stooping to wrap the blanket, felt his hand wet: he wiped it with\na shudder.\n\n\"As he hath done unto My people, be it done unto him!\" he muttered, but\nthe words did not comfort him.\n\nLamar moved, half-smiling.\n\n\"That's right, Floy. What is it she says? 'Now I lay me down'----I\nforget. Good night. Kiss me, Floy.\"\n\nHe waited,--looked up uneasily. Dorr looked at his wife: she stooped,\nand kissed his lips. Charley smoothed back the hair from the damp face\nwith as tender a touch as a woman's. Was he dead? The white moonlight\nwas not more still than the calm face.\n\nSuddenly the night-air was shattered by a wild, revengeful laugh from\nthe hill. The departing soul rushed back, at the sound, to life, full\nconsciousness. Lamar started from their hold,--sat up.\n\n\"It was Ben,\" he said, slowly.\n\nIn that dying flash of comprehension, it may be, the wrongs of the white\nman and the black stood clearer to his eyes than ours: the two lives\ntrampled down. The stern face of the boatman bent over him: he was\ntrying to stanch the flowing blood. Lamar looked at him: Hall saw no\nbitterness in the look,--a quiet, sad question rather, before which his\nsoul lay bare. He felt the cold hand touch his shoulder, saw the pale\nlips move.\n\n\"Was this well done?\" they said.\n\nBefore Lamar's eyes the rounded arch of gray receded, faded into dark;\nthe negro's fierce laugh filled his ear: some woful thought at the sound\nwrung his soul, as it halted at the gate. It caught at the simple faith\nhis mother taught him.\n\n\"Yea,\" he said aloud, \"though I walk through the valley of the shadow of\ndeath, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me.\"\n\nDorr gently drew down the uplifted hand. He was dead.\n\n\"It was a manly soul,\" said the Northern captain, his voice choking, as\nhe straightened the limp hair.\n\n\"He trusted in God? A strange delusion!\" muttered the boatman.\n\nYet he did not like that they should leave him alone with Lamar, as\nthey did, going down for help. He paced to and fro, his rifle on his\nshoulder, arming his heart with strength to accomplish the vengeance\nof the Lord against Babylon. Yet he could not forget the murdered man\nsitting there in the calm moonlight, the dead face turned towards the\nNorth,--the dead face, whereon little Floy's tears should never fall.\nThe grave, unmoving eyes seemed to the boatman to turn to him with the\nsame awful question. \"Was this well done?\" they said. He thought in\neternity they would rise before him, sad, unanswered. The earth, he\nfancied, lay whiter, colder,--the heaven farther off; the war, which had\nbecome a daily business, stood suddenly before him in all its terrible\nmeaning. God, he thought, had met in judgment with His people. Yet he\nuttered no cry of vengeance against the doomed city. With the dead face\nbefore him, he bent his eyes to the ground, humble, uncertain,--speaking\nout of the ignorance of his own weak, human soul.\n\n\"The day of the Lord is nigh,\" he said; \"it is at hand; and who can\nabide it?\"\n\n\n\n\nMOUNTAIN PICTURES.\n\n\nII.\n\nMONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET.\n\n\n  I would I were a painter, for the sake\n    Of a sweet picture, and of her who led,\n    A fitting guide, with light, but reverent tread,\n  Into that mountain mystery! First a lake\n    Tinted with sunset; next the wavy lines\n      Of far receding hills; and yet more far,\n    Monadnock lifting from his night of pines\n      His rosy forehead to the evening star.\n  Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachuset laid\n  His head against the West, whose warm light made\n      His aureole; and o'er him, sharp and clear,\n  Like a shaft of lightning in mid launching stayed,\n    A single level cloud-line, shone upon\n    By the fierce glances of the sunken sun,\n      Menaced the darkness with its golden spear!\n\n  So twilight deepened round us. Still and black\n  The great woods climbed the mountain at our back;\n  And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day\n  On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay,\n    The brown old farm-house like a bird's nest hung.\n  With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred:\n  The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard,\n  The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well,\n  The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell;\n  Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate\n  Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight\n    Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung,\n      The welcome sound of supper-call to hear;\n      And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,\n    The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.\n  Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we took,\n    Praising the farmer's home. He only spake,\n    Looking into the sunset o'er the lake,\n      Like one to whom the far-off is most near:\n  \"Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look;\n    I love it for my good old mother's sake,\n      Who lived and died here in the peace of God!\"\n    The lesson of his words we pondered o'er,\n  As silently we turned the eastern flank\n  Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest sank,\n  Doubling the night along our rugged road:\n  We felt that man was more than his abode,--\n    The inward life than Nature's raiment more;\n  And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill,\n    The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim\n  Before the saintly soul, whose human will\n      Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod,\n  Making her homely toil and household ways\n  An earthly echo of the song of praise\n    Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim!\n\n\n\n\nINDIVIDUALITY.\n\n\nAt a certain depth, as has already been intimated in our literature,\nall bosoms communicate, all hearts are one. Hector and Ajax, in Homer's\ngreat picture, stand face to face, each with advanced foot, with\nlevelled spear, and turgid sinew, eager to kill, while on either side\nten thousand slaughterous wishes poise themselves in hot breasts,\nwaiting to fly with the flying weapons; yet, though the combatants\nseem to surrender themselves wholly to this action, there is in each a\nprofound element that is no party to these hostilities. It is the pure\nnature of man. Ajax is not all Greek, nor is Hector wholly Trojan: both\nare also men; and to the extent of their mutual participation in this\npure and perpetual element of Manhood, they are more than friends,\nmore than relatives,--they are of identical spirit. For there is an\nimperishable nature of Man, ever and everywhere the same, of which each\nparticular man is a testimony and representation. As the solid earth\nunderruns the \"dissociating sea\"--_Oceano dissociabili_--and joins in\none all sundered lands, so does this nature dip beneath the dividing\nparts of our being, and make of all men one simple and inseparable\nhumanity. In love, in friendship, in true conversation, in all happiness\nof communion between men, it is this unchangeable substratum or\nsubstance of man's being that is efficient and supreme: out of\ndivers bosoms, Same calls, and replies to Same with a great joy\nof self-recognition. It is only in virtue of this nature that men\nunderstand, appreciate, admire, trust each other,--that books of the\nearliest times remain true in the latest,--that society is possible; and\nhe in whom the virtue of it dwells divinely is admitted to the secret\nconfidence of all bosoms, lives in all times, and converses with each\nsoul and age in its own vernacular. Socrates looked beyond the gates of\ndeath for happy communion with Homer and all the great; but already we\ninterchange words with these, whenever we are so sweetly prospered as to\nbecome, in some good degree, identical with the absolute nature of man.\n\nNot only, moreover, is this immortal substance of man's being common and\nsocial, but it is so great and venerable that no one can match it\nwith an equal report. All the epithets by which we would extol it\nare disgraced by it, as the most brilliant artificial lights become\nblackness when placed between the eye and the noonday sun. It is older,\nit is earlier in existence than the earliest star that shone in heaven;\nand it will outlive the fixed stars that now in heaven seem fixed\nforever. There is nothing in the created universe of which it was not\nthe prophecy in its primal conception; there is nothing of which it is\nnot the interpretation and ultimatum in its final form. The laws which\nrule the world as forces are, in it, thoughts and liberties. All the\ngrand imaginations of men, all the glorified shapes, the Olympian gods,\ncherubic and seraphic forms, are but symbols and adumbrations of what it\ncontains. As the sun, having set, still leaves its golden impress on the\nclouds, so does the absolute nature of man throw up and paint, as it\nwere, on the sky testimonies of its power, remaining itself unseen.\nOnly, therefore, is one a poet, as he can cause particular traits and\nevents, without violation of their special character, or concealment\nof their peculiar interest, to bear the deep, sweet, and infinite\nsuggestion of this. All princeliness and imperial worth, all that is\nregal, beautiful, pure in men, comes from this nature; and the words\nby which we express reverence, admiration, love, borrow from it their\nentire force: since reverence, admiration, love, and all other grand\nsentiments, are but modes or forms of _noble unification_ between men,\nand are therefore shown to spring from that spiritual unity of which\npersons are exponents; while, on the other hand, all evil epithets\nsuggest division and separation. Of this nature all titles of honor, all\nsymbols that command homage and obedience on earth, are pensioners. How\ncould the claims of kings survive successions of Stuarts and Georges,\nbut for a royalty in each peasant's bosom that pleads for its poor image\non the throne?\n\nIn the high sense, no man is great save he that is a large continent of\nthis absolute humanity. The common nature of man it is; yet those are\never, and in the happiest sense, uncommon men, in whom it is liberally\npresent.\n\nBut every man, besides the nature which constitutes him man, has, so to\nspeak, another nature, which constitutes him a particular individual. He\nis not only like all others of his kind, but, at the same time, unlike\nall others. By physical and mental feature he is distinguished,\ninsulated; he is endowed with a quality so purely in contrast with the\ncommon nature of man, that in virtue of it he can be singled out from\nhundreds of millions, from all the myriads of his race. So far, now, as\none is representative of absolute humanity, he is a Person; so far\nas, by an element peculiar to himself, he is contrasted with absolute\nhumanity, he is an Individual. And having duly chanted our _Credo_\nconcerning man's pure and public nature, let us now inquire respecting\nthis dividing element of Individuality,--which, with all the force it\nhas, strives to cut off communication, to destroy unity, and to make of\nhumanity a chaos or dust of biped atoms.\n\nNot for a moment must we make this surface nature of equal estimation\nwith the other. It is secondary, _very_ secondary, to the pure substance\nof man. The Person first in order of importance; the Individual next,--\n\n  \"Proximus huic, longo sed proximus intervallo,\"--\n\n  \"next with an exceeding wide remove.\"\n\nTake from Epaminondas or Luther all that makes him man, and the\nrest will not be worth selling to the Jews. Individuality is an\naccompaniment, an accessory, a red line on the map, a fence about the\nfield, a copyright on the book. It is like the particular flavors of\nfruits,--of no account but in relation to their saccharine, acid, and\nother staple elements. It must therefore keep its place, or become\nan impertinence. If it grow forward, officious, and begin to push in\nbetween the pure nature and its divine ends, at once it is a meddling\nPeter, for whom there is no due greeting but \"Get thee behind me,\nSatan.\" If the fruit have a special flavor of such ambitious pungency\nthat the sweets and acids cannot appear through it, be sure that to come\nat this fruit no young Wilhelm Meister will purloin keys. If one be so\nmuch an Individual that he wellnigh ceases to be a Man, we shall not\nadmire him. It is the same in mental as in physical feature. Let there,\nby all means, be slight divergence from the common type; but by all\nmeans let it be no more than a slight divergence. Too much is monstrous:\neven a very slight excess is what we call _ugliness_. Gladly I perceive\nin my neighbor's face, voice, gait, manner, a certain charm of\npeculiarity; but if in any the peculiarity be so great as to suggest\na doubt whether he be not some other creature than man, may he not be\nneighbor of mine!\n\nA little of this surface nature suffices; yet that little cannot be\nspared. Its first office is to guard frontiers. We must not lie quite\nopen to the inspection or invasion of others: yet, were there no medium\nof unlikeness interposed between one and another, privacy would be\nimpossible, and one's own bosom would not be sacred to himself. But\nNature has secured us against these profanations; and as we have locks\nto our doors, curtains to our windows, and, upon occasion, a passport\nsystem on our borders, so has she cast around each spirit this veil to\nguard it from intruding eyes, this barrier to keep away the feet of\nstrangers. Homer represents the divinities as coming invisibly to\nadmonish their favored heroes; but Nature was beforehand with the poet,\nand every one of us is, in like manner, a celestial nature walking\nconcealed. Who sees _you_, when you walk the street? Who would walk the\nstreet, did be not feel himself fortressed in a privacy that no foreign\neyes can enter? But for this, no cities would be built. Society,\ntherefore, would be impossible, save for this element, which seems to\nhinder society. Each of us, wrapt in his opaque individuality, like\nApollo or Athene in a blue mist, remains hidden, if he will; and\ntherefore do men dare to come together.\n\nBut this superficial element, while securing privacy to the pure nature,\nalso aids it to expression. It emphasizes the outlines of Personality by\ngentle contrast. It is like the shadow in the landscape, without which\nall the sunbeams of heaven could not reveal with precision a single\nobject. Assured lovers resort to happy banter and light oppositions, to\ngive themselves a sweeter sense of unity of heart. The child, with a\ncunning which only Nature has taught, will sometimes put a little honey\nof refusal into its kisses before giving them; the maiden adds to her\nvirgin blooms the further attraction of virgin coyness and reserve; the\ncivilizing dinner-table would lose all its dignity in losing its delays;\nand so everywhere, delicate denial, withholding reserve have an inverse\nforce, and add a charm of emphasis to gift, assent, attraction, and\nsympathy. How is the word Immortality emphasized to our hearts by the\nperpetual spectacle of death! The joy and suggestion of it could,\nindeed, never visit us, had not this momentary loud denial been uttered\nin our ears. Such, therefore, as have learned to interpret these\noppositions in Nature, hear in the jarring note of Death only a jubilant\nproclamation of life eternal; while all are thus taught the longing for\nimmortality, though only by their fear of the contrary. And so is the\npure universal nature of man affirmed by these provocations of contrast\nand insulation on the surface. We feel the personality far more, and far\nmore sweetly, for its being thus divided from our own. From behind this\nveil the pure nature comes to us with a kind of surprise, as out of\nanother heaven. The joy of truth and delight of beauty are born anew for\nus from each pair of chanting lips and beholding eyes; and each new soul\nthat comes promises another gift of the universe. Whoever, in any time\nor under any sky, sees the worth and wonder of existence, sees it for\nme; whatever language he speak, whatever star he inhabit, we shall\none day meet, and through the confession of his heart all my ancient\npossessions will become a new gain; he shall make for me a natal day of\ncreation, showing the producing breath, as it goes forth from the lips\nof God, and spreads into the blue purity of sky, or rounds into the\nluminance of suns; the hills and their pines, the vales and their\nblooms, and heroic men and beauteous women, all that I have loved or\nreverenced, shall come again, appearing and trooping out of skies never\nvisible before. Because of these dividing lines between souls, each new\nsoul is to all the others a possible factor of heaven.\n\nSuch uses does individuality subserve. Yet it is capable of these\nministries only as it does indeed _minister_. All its uses are lost with\nthe loss of its humility and subordinance. It is the porter at the\ngate, furthering the access of lawful, and forbidding the intrusion of\nunlawful visitors to the mansion; who becomes worse than useless, if in\nsurly excess of zeal he bar the gate against all, or if in the excess of\nself-importance he receive for himself what is meant for his master,\nand turn visitors aside into the porter's lodge. Beautiful is virgin\nreserve, and true it is that delicate half-denial reinforces attraction;\nyet the maiden who carries only _No_ upon her tongue, and only refusal\nin her ways, shall never wake before dawn on the day of espousal, nor\nblush beneath her bridal veil, like Morning behind her clouds. This\nsurface element, we must remember, is not income and resource, but\nan item of needful, and, so far as needful, graceful and economical\nexpenditure. Excess of it is wasteful, by causing Life to pay for\nthat which he does not need, by increase of social fiction, and by\nobstruction of social flow with the fructifications which this brings,\nnot to be spared by any mortal. Nay, by extreme excess, it may so cut\noff and sequester a man, that no word or aspect of another soul can\nreach him; he shall see in mankind only himself, he shall hear in the\nvoices of others only his own echoes. Many and many a man is there, so\nhoused in his individuality, that it goes, like an impenetrable wall,\nover eye and ear; and even in the tramp of the centuries he can find\nhint of nothing save the sound of his own feet. It is a frequent\ntragedy,--but profound as frequent.\n\nOne great task, indeed _the_ great task of good-breeding is,\naccordingly, to induce in this element a delicacy, a translucency,\nwhich, without robbing any action or sentiment of the hue it imparts,\nshall still allow the pure human quality perfectly and perpetually to\nshine through. The world has always been charmed with fine manners; and\nwhy should it not? For what are fine manners but this: to carry your\nsoul on your lip, in your eye, in the palm of your hand, and yet to\nstand not naked, but clothed upon by your individual quality,--visible,\nyet inscrutable,--given to the hearts of others, yet contained in your\nown bosom,--nobly and humanly open, yet duly reticent and secured from\ninvasion? _Polished_ manners often disappoint us; _good_ manners never.\n\nThe former may be taken on by indigent souls: the latter imply a noble\nand opulent nature. And wait you not for death, according to the counsel\nof Solon, to be named happy, if you are permitted fellowship with a man\nof rich mind, whose individual savor you always finely perceive,\nand never more than finely,--who yields you the perpetual sense of\ncommunity, and never of confusion, with your own spirit. The happiness\nis all the greater, if the fellowship be accorded by a mind eminently\nsuperior to one's own; for he, while yet more removed, comes yet nearer,\nseeming to be that which our own soul may become in some future life,\nand so yielding us the sense of our own being more deeply and powerfully\nthan it is given by the consciousness in our own bosom. And going\nforward to the supreme point of this felicity, we may note that the\nworshipper, in the ecstasy of his adoration, feels the Highest to be\nalso Nearest,--more remote than the borders of space and fringes of\nheaven,--more intimate with his own being than the air he breathes or\nthe thought be thinks; and of this double sense is the rapture of his\nadoration, and the joy indeed of every angel, born.\n\nDivineness appertains to the absolute nature of man; piquancy and charm\nto that which serves and modifies this. Infinitude and immortality are\nof the one; the strictest finiteness belongs to the other. In the first\nyou can never be too deep and rich; in the second never too delicate and\nmeasured. Yet you will easily find a man in whom the latter so abounds\nas not only to shut him out from others, but to absorb all the vital\nresource generated in his own bosom, leaving to the pure personality\nnothing. The finite nature fares sumptuously every day; the other is a\nheavenly Lazarus sitting at the gate.\n\nOf such individuals there are many classes; and the majority of\neccentric men constitute one class. If a man have very peculiar ways, we\nreadily attribute to him a certain depth and force, and think that the\npolished citizen wants character in comparison. Probably it is not so.\nSingularity may be as shallow as the shallowest conformity. There are\nnumbers of such from whom if you deduct the eccentricity, it is like\nsubtracting red from vermilion or six from half a dozen. They are\ngrimaces of humanity,--no more. In particular, I make occasion to say,\nthat those oddities, whose chief characteristic it is to slink away from\nthe habitations of men, and claim companionship with musk-rats, are,\ndespite Mr. Thoreau's pleasant patronage of them, no whit more manly or\nprofound than the average citizen, who loves streets and parlors, and\ndoes not endure estrangement from the Post-Office. Mice lurk in holes\nand corners; could the cat speak, she would say that they have a genius\n_only_ for lurking in holes. Bees and ants are, to say the least, quite\nas witty as beetles, proverbially blind; yet they build insect cities,\nand are as invincibly social and city-loving as Socrates himself.\n\nAside, however, from special eccentricity, there are men, like the Earl\nof Essex, Bacon's _soi-disant_ friend, who possess a certain emphatic\nand imposing individuality, which, while commonly assumed to indicate\ncharacter and force, is really but the _succedaneum_ for these. They\nare like oysters, with extreme stress of shell, and only a blind, soft,\nacephalous body within. These are commonly great men so long as little\nmen will serve; and are something less than little ever after. As an\ninstance of this, I should select the late chief magistrate of this\nnation. His whole ability lay in putting a most imposing countenance\nupon commonplaces. He made a mere _air_ seem solid as rock. Owing to\nthis possibility of presenting all force on the outside, and so creating\na false impression of resource, all great social emergencies are\nfollowed by a speedy breaking down of men to whom was generally\nattributed an able spirit; while others of less outward mark, and for\nthis reason hitherto unnoticed, come forward, and prove to be indeed the\nlarge vessels of manhood accorded to that generation.\n\nOur tendency to assume individual mark as the measure of personality\nis flattered by many of the books we read. It is, of course, easier to\ndepict character, when it is accompanied by some striking individual\nhue; and therefore in romances and novels this is conferred upon all the\nforcible characters, merely to favor the author's hand: as microscopists\nfeed minute creatures with colored food to make their circulations\nvisible. It is only the great master who can represent a powerful\npersonality in the purest state, that is, with the maximum of character\nand the minimum of individual distinction; while small artists, with a\nfeeble hold upon character, habitually resort to extreme quaintnesses\nand singularities of circumstance, in order to confer upon their weak\nportraitures some vigor of outline. It takes a Giotto to draw readily\na nearly perfect O; but a nearly perfect triangle any one can draw.\nShakspeare is able to delineate a Gentleman,--one, that is, who, while\nnobly and profoundly a man, is so delicately individualized, that the\nimpression of him, however vigorous and commanding, cannot be harsh:\nShakspeare is equal to this task, but even so very able a painter as\nFielding is not. His Squire Western and Parson Adams are exquisite, his\nAllworthy is vapid: deny him strong pigments of individualism, and he is\nunable to portray strong character. Scott, among British novelists, is,\nperhaps, in this respect most Shakspearian, though the Colonel Esmond of\nThackeray is not to be forgotten; but even Scott's Dandie Dinmonts, or\ngentlemen in the rough, sparkle better than his polished diamonds.\nYet in this respect the Waverley Novels are singularly and admirably\nhealthful, comparing to infinite advantage with the rank and file of\nnovels, wherein the \"characters\" are but bundles of quaintnesses, and\nthe action is impossible.\n\nWritten history has somewhat of the same infirmity with fictitious\nliterature, though not always by the fault of the historian. Far too\nlittle can it tell us respecting those of whom we desire to know much;\nwhile, on the other hand, it is often extremely liberal of information\nconcerning those of whom we desire to know nothing. The greatest of men\napproach a pure personality, a pure representation of man's imperishable\nnature; individual peculiarity they far less abound in; and what they do\npossess is held in transparent solution by their manhood, as a certain\namount of vapor is always held by the air. The higher its temperature,\nthe more moisture can the atmosphere thus absorb, exhibiting it not as\ncloud, but only as immortal azure of sky: and so the greater intensity\nthere is of the pure quality of man, the more of individual peculiarity\ncan it master and transform into a simple heavenliness of beauty, of\nwhich the world finds few words to say. Men, in general, have, perhaps,\nno more genius than novelists in general,--though it seems a hard speech\nto make,--and while profoundly _impressed_ by any manifestation of the\npure genius of man, can _observe_ and _relate_ only peculiarities and\nexceptional traits. Incongruities are noted; congruities are only felt.\nIf a two-headed calf be born, the newspapers hasten to tell of it; but\nbrave boys and beautiful girls by thousands grow to fulness of stature\nwithout mention. We know so little of Homer and Shakspeare partly\nbecause they were Homer and Shakspeare. Smaller men might afford more\nplentiful materials for biography, because their action and character\nwould be more clouded with individualism. The biography of a supreme\npoet is the history of his kind. He transmits himself by pure vital\nimpression. His remembrance is committed, not to any separable faculty,\nbut to a memory identical with the total being of men. If you would\nlearn his story, listen to the sprites that ride on crimson steeds along\nthe arterial highways, singing of man's destiny as they go.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GERMAN BURNS.\n\n\nThe extreme southwestern corner of Germany is an irregular right-angle,\nformed by the course of the Rhine. Within this angle and an\nhypothenuse drawn from the Lake of Constance to Carlsruhe lies a wild\nmountain-region--a lateral offshoot from the central chain which\nextends through Europe from west to east--known to all readers of\nrobber-romances as the Black Forest. It is a cold, undulating upland,\nintersected with deep valleys which descend to the plains of the Rhine\nand the Danube, and covered with great tracts of fir-forest. Here and\nthere a peak rises high above the general level, the Feldberg attaining\na height of five thousand feet. The aspect of this region is stern and\ngloomy: the fir-woods appear darker than elsewhere; the frequent little\nlakes are as inky in hue as the pools of the High Alps; and the meadows\nof living emerald give but a partial brightness to the scenery. Here,\nhowever, the solitary traveller may adventure without fear. Robbers and\nrobber-castles have long since passed away, and the people, rough and\nuncouth as they may at first seem, are as kindly-hearted as they are\nhonest. Among them was born--and in their incomprehensible dialect\nwrote--Hebel, the German Burns.\n\nWe dislike the practice of using the name of one author as the\ncharacteristic designation of another. It is, at best, the sign of an\nimperfect fame, implying rather the imitation of a scholar than the\nindependent position of a master. We can, nevertheless, in no other way\nindicate in advance the place which the subject of our sketch occupies\nin the literature of Germany. A contemporary of Burns, and ignorant of\nthe English language, there is no evidence that he had ever even heard\nof the former; but Burns, being the first truly great poet who succeeded\nin making classic a local dialect, thereby constituted himself an\nillustrious standard, by which his successors in the same path must be\nmeasured. Thus, Bellman and B\u00e9ranger have been inappropriately invested\nwith his mantle, from the one fact of their being song-writers of a\ndemocratic stamp. The Gascon, Jasmin, better deserves the title; and\nLongfellow, in translating his \"Blind Girl of Cast\u00e8l-Cuill\u00e8,\" says,--\n\n  \"Only the lowland tongue of Scotland might\n  Rehearse this little tragedy aright\":--\n\na conviction which we have frequently shared, in translating our German\nauthor.\n\nIt is a matter of surprise to us, that, while Jasmin's poems have gone\nfar beyond the bounds of France, the name of John Peter Hebel--who\npossesses more legitimate claims to the peculiar distinction which\nBurns achieved--is not only unknown outside of Germany, but not\neven familiarly known to the Germans themselves. The most probable\nexplanation is, that the Alemannic dialect, in which he wrote, is spoken\nonly by the inhabitants of the Black Forest and a portion of Suabia,\nand cannot be understood, without a glossary, by the great body of the\nNorth-Germans. The same cause would operate, with greater force, in\npreventing a translation into foreign languages. It is, in fact, only\nwithin the last twenty years that the Germans have become acquainted\nwith Burns,--chiefly through the admirable translations of the poet\nFreiligrath.\n\nTo Hebel belongs the merit of having bent one of the harshest of German\ndialects to the uses of poetry. We doubt whether the lyre of Apollo was\never fashioned from a wood of rougher grain. Broad, crabbed, guttural,\nand unpleasant to the ear which is not thoroughly accustomed to its\nsound, the Alemannic _patois_ was, in truth, a most unpromising\nmaterial. The stranger, even though he were a good German scholar, would\nnever suspect the racy humor, the _na\u00efve_, childlike fancy, and the pure\nhuman tenderness of expression which a little culture has brought to\nbloom on such a soil. The contractions, elisions, and corruptions which\nGerman words undergo, with the multitude of terms in common use derived\nfrom the Gothic, Greek, Latin, and Italian, give it almost the character\nof a different language. It was Hebel's mother-tongue, and his poetic\nfaculty always returned to its use with a fresh delight which insured\nsuccess. His _German_ poems are inferior in all respects.\n\nLet us first glance at the poet's life,--a life uneventful, perhaps, yet\ninteresting from the course of its development. He was born in Basle,\nin May, 1760, in the house of Major Iselin, where both his father and\nmother were at service. The former, a weaver by trade, afterwards became\na soldier, and accompanied the Major to Flanders, France, and Corsica.\nHe had picked up a good deal of stray knowledge on his campaigns, and\nhad a strong natural taste for poetry. The qualities of the son were\ninherited from him rather than from the mother, of whom we know nothing\nmore than that she was a steady, industrious person. The parents lived\nduring the winter in the little village of Hausen, in the Black Forest,\nbut with the approach of spring returned to Basle for their summer\nservice in Major Iselin's house.\n\nThe boy was but a year old when his father died, and the discipline of\nsuch a restless spirit as he exhibited in early childhood seems to have\nbeen a task almost beyond the poor widow's powers. An incorrigible\nspirit of mischief possessed him. He was an arrant scape-grace,\nplundering cupboards, gardens, and orchards, lifting the gates of\nmill-races by night, and playing a thousand other practical and not\nalways innocent jokes. Neither counsel nor punishment availed, and\nthe entire weight of his good qualities, as a counterbalance, barely\nsufficed to prevent him from losing the patrons whom his bright,\neager, inquisitive mind attracted. Something of this was undoubtedly\ncongenital, and there are indications that the strong natural impulse,\nheld in check only by a powerful will and a watchful conscience, was the\ntorment of his life. In his later years, when he filled the posts of\nEcclesiastical Counsellor and Professor in the Gymnasium at Carlsruhe,\nthe phrenologist Gall, in a scientific _s\u00e9ance_, made an examination of\nhis head. \"A most remarkable development of\"----, said Gall, abruptly\nbreaking off, nor could he be induced to complete the sentence.\nHebel, however, frankly exclaimed,--\"You certainly mean the thievish\npropensity. I know I have it by nature, for I continually feel its\nsuggestions.\" What a picture is presented by this confession! A pure,\nhonest, and honorable life, won by a battle with evil desires, which,\ncommencing with birth, ceased their assaults only at the brink of the\ngrave! A daily struggle, and a daily victory!\n\nHebel lost his mother in his thirteenth year, but was fortunate in\npossessing generous patrons, who contributed enough to the slender means\nhe inherited to enable him to enter the Gymnasium at Carlsruhe. Leaving\nthis institution with the reputation of a good classical scholar, he\nentered the University of Erlangen as a student of theology. Here his\njovial, reckless temperament, finding a congenial atmosphere, so got the\nupperhand that he barely succeeded in passing the necessary examination,\nin 1780. At the end of two years, during which time he supported himself\nas a private tutor, he was ordained, and received a meagre situation\nas teacher in the Academy at L\u00f6rrach, with a salary of one hundred and\nforty dollars a year! Laboring patiently in this humble position for\neight years, he was at last rewarded by being transferred to the\nGymnasium at Carlsruhe, with the rank of Sub-Deacon. Hither, the\nMarkgraf Frederick of Baden, attracted by the warmth, simplicity, and\ngenial humor of the man, came habitually to listen to his sermons. He\nfound himself, without seeking it, in the path of promotion, and his\nlife thenceforth was a series of sure and moderate successes. His\nexpectations, indeed, were so humble that they were always exceeded by\nhis rewards. When Baden became a Grand Duchy, with a constitutional form\nof government, it required much persuasion to induce him to accept\nthe rank of Prelate, with a seat in the Upper House. His friends were\ndisappointed, that, with his readiness and fluent power of speech,\nhe took so little part in the legislative proceedings. To one who\nreproached him for this timidity he naively wrote,--\"Oh, you have a\nright to talk: you are the son of Pastor N. in X. Before you were twelve\nyears old, you heard yourself called _Mr._ Gottlieb; and when you went\nwith your father down the street, and the judge or a notary met you,\nthey took off their hats, you waiting for your father to return the\ngreeting, before you even lifted your cap. But I, as you well know,\ngrew up as the son of a poor widow in Hausen; and when I accompanied my\nmother to Schopfheim or Basle, and we happened to meet a notary, she\ncommanded, 'Peter, jerk your cap off, there's a gentleman!'--but when\nthe judge or the counsellor appeared, she called out to me, when they\nwere twenty paces off, 'Peter, stand still where you are, and off with\nyour cap quick, the Lord Judge is comin'!' Now you can easily\nimagine how I feel, when I recall those times,--and I recall them\noften,--sitting in the Chamber among Barons, Counsellors of State,\nMinisters, and Generals, with Counts and Princes of the reigning House\nbefore me.\" Hebel may have felt that rank is but the guinea-stamp, but\nhe never would have dared to speak it out with the defiant independence\nof Burns. Socially, however, he was thoroughly democratic in his tastes;\nand his chief objection to accepting the dignity of Prelate was the fear\nthat it might restrict his intercourse with humbler friends.\n\nHis ambition appears to have been mainly confined to his theological\nlabors, and he never could have dreamed that his after-fame was to rest\nupon a few poems in a rough mountain-dialect, written to beguile his\nintense longing for the wild scenery of his early home. After his\ntransfer to Carlsruhe, he remained several years absent from the Black\nForest; and the pictures of its dark hills, its secluded valleys, and\ntheir rude, warm-hearted, and unsophisticated inhabitants, became more\nand more fresh and lively in his memory. Distance and absence turned the\nquaint dialect to music, and out of this mild home-sickness grew the\nAlemannic poems. A healthy oyster never produces a pearl.\n\nThese poems, written in the years 1801 and 1802, were at first\ncirculated in manuscript among the author's friends. He resisted the\nproposal to collect and publish them, until the prospect of pecuniary\nadvantage decided him to issue an anonymous edition. The success of\nthe experiment was so positive that in the course of five years four\neditions appeared,--a great deal for those days. Not only among his\nnative Alemanni, and in Baden and W\u00fcrtemberg, where the dialect was\nmore easily understood, but from all parts of Germany, from poets and\nscholars, came messages of praise and appreciation. Jean Paul (Richter)\nwas one of Hebel's first and warmest admirers. \"Our Alemannic poet,\" he\nwrote, \"has life and feeling for everything,--the open heart, the open\narms of love; and every star and every flower are human in his sight....\nIn other, better words,--the evening-glow of a lovely, peaceful soul\nslumbers upon all the hills he bids arise; for the flowers of poetry he\nsubstitutes the flower-goddess Poetry herself; he sets to his lips the\nSwiss Alp-horn of youthful longing and joy, while pointing with the\nother hand to the sunset-gleam of the lofty glaciers, and dissolved\nin prayer, as the sound of the chapel-bells is flung down from the\nmountains.\"\n\nContrast this somewhat confused rhapsody with the clear, precise, yet\ngenial words wherewith Goethe welcomed the new poet. He instantly\nseized, weighed in the fine balance of his ordered mind, and valued with\nnice discrimination, those qualities of Hebel's genius which had but\nstirred the splendid chaos of Richter with an emotion of vague delight.\n\"The author of these poems,\" says he, in the Jena \"Literaturzeitung,\"\n(1804,) \"is about to achieve a place of his own on the German Parnassus.\nHis talent manifests itself in two opposite directions. On the one hand,\nhe observes with a fresh, cheerful glance those objects of Nature which\nexpress their life in positive existence, in growth and in motion,\n(objects which we are accustomed to call _lifeless_,) and thereby\napproaches the field of descriptive poetry; yet he succeeds, by his\nhappy personifications, in lifting his pictures to a loftier plane of\nArt. On the other hand, he inclines to the didactic and the allegorical;\nbut here, also, the same power of personification comes to his aid, and\nas, in the one case, he finds a soul for his bodies, so, in the other,\nhe finds a body for his souls. As the ancient poets, and others who have\nbeen developed through a plastic sentiment for Art, introduce\nloftier spirits, related to the gods,--such as nymphs, dryads, and\nhamadryads,--in the place of rocks, fountains, and trees: so the author\ntransforms these objects into peasants, and countrifies [_verbauert_]\nthe universe in the most _na\u00efve_, quaint, and genial manner, until the\nlandscape, in which we nevertheless always recognize the human figure,\nseems to become one with man in the cheerful enchantment exercised upon\nour fancy.\"\n\nThis is entirely correct, as a poetic characterization. Hebel, however,\npossesses the additional merit--no slight one, either--of giving\nfaithful expression to the thoughts, emotions, and passions of the\nsimple people among whom his childhood was passed. The hearty native\nkindness, the tenderness, hidden under a rough exterior, the lively,\ndroll, unformed fancy, the timidity and the boldness of love, the\ntendency to yield to temptation, and the unfeigned piety of the\ninhabitants of the Black Forest, are all reproduced in his poems. To say\nthat they teach, more or less directly, a wholesome morality, is but\nindifferent praise; for morality is the cheap veneering wherewith\nwould-be poets attempt to conceal the lack of the true faculty. We\nprefer to let our readers judge for themselves concerning this feature\nof Hebel's poetry.\n\nThe Alemannic dialect, we have said, is at first harsh to the ear.\nIt requires, indeed, not a little practice, to perceive its especial\nbeauties; since these consist in certain quaint, playful inflections and\nelisions, which, like the speech of children, have a fresh, natural,\nsimple charm of their own. The changes of pronunciation, in German\nwords, are curious. _K_ becomes a light guttural _ch_, and a great\nnumber of monosyllabic words--especially those ending in _ut_ and\n_\u00fch_--receive a peculiar twist from the introduction of _e_ or _ei_:\nas _gut, fr\u00fch_, which become _guet, fr\u00fceih_. This seems to be a\ncharacteristic feature of the South-German dialects, though in none is\nit so pronounced as in the Alemannic. The change of _ist_ into _isch,\nhast_ into _hesch, ich_ into _i, dich_ into _de_, etc., is much more\nwidely spread, among the peasantry, and is readily learned, even by the\nforeign reader. But a good German scholar would be somewhat puzzled by\nthe consolidation of several abbreviated words into a single one, which\noccurs in almost every Alemannic sentence: for instance, in _woni_ he\nwould have some difficulty in recognizing _wo ich; s\u00e1gene_ does not\nsuggest _sage ihnen_, nor _uffeme, auf einem_.\n\nThese singularities of the dialect render the translation of Hebel's\npoems into a foreign language a work of great difficulty. In the absence\nof any English dialect which possesses corresponding features, the\npeculiar quaintness and raciness which they confer must inevitably be\nlost. Fresh, wild, and lovely as the Schwarzwald heather, they are\nequally apt to die in transplanting. How much they lose by being\nconverted into classical German was so evident to us (fancy, \"Scots who\nhave with Wallace bled\"!) that we at first shrank from the experiment of\nreproducing them in a language still farther removed from the original.\nCertainly, classical English would not answer; the individual soul of\nthe poems could never be recognized in such a garb. The tongue of Burns\ncan be spoken only by a born Scot; and our Yankee, which is rather a\ngrotesque English than a dialect, is unfortunately so associated\nwith the coarse and the farcical--Lowell's little poem of \"'Zekel's\nCourtship\" being the single exception--that it seems hardly adapted to\nthe simple and tender fancies of Hebel. Like the comedian whose one\nserious attempt at tragic acting was greeted with roars of laughter, as\nan admirable burlesque, the reader might, in such a case, persist in\nseeing fun where sentiment was intended.\n\nIn this dilemma, it occurred to us that the common, rude form of the\nEnglish language, as it is spoken by the uneducated everywhere, without\nreference to provincial idioms, might possibly be the best medium.\nIt offers, at least, the advantage of simplicity, of a directness\nof expression which overlooks grammatical rules, of natural pathos,\neven,--and therefore, so far as these traits go, may reproduce them\nwithout detracting seriously from the original. Those other qualities of\nthe poems which spring from the character of the people of whom and\nfor whom they were written must depend, for their recognition, on the\nsympathetic insight of the reader. We can only promise him the utmost\nfidelity in the translation, having taken no other liberty than the\nsubstitution of common idiomatic phrases, peculiar to our language,\nfor corresponding phrases in the other. The original metre, in every\ninstance, has been strictly adhered to.\n\nThe poems, only fifty-nine in number, consist principally of short songs\nor pastorals, and narratives. The latter are written in hexameter, but\nby no means classic in form. It is a rough, irregular metre, in which\nthe trochees preponderate over the dactyls: many of the lines, in fact,\nwould not bear a critical scansion. We have not scrupled to imitate this\nirregularity, as not inconsistent with the plain, ungrammatical speech\nof the characters introduced, and the homely air of even the most\nimaginative passages. The opening poem is a charmingly wayward idyl,\ncalled \"The Meadow,\" (_Die Wiese_,) the name of a mountain-stream,\nwhich, rising in the Feldberg, the highest peak of the Black Forest,\nflows past Hausen, Hebel's early home, on its way to the Rhine. An\nextract from it will illustrate what Jean Paul calls the \"hazardous\nboldness\" of Hebel's personifications:--\n\n  Beautiful \"Meadow,\" daughter o' Feldberg, I\n    welcome and greet you.\n  Listen: I'm goin' to sing a song, and all in\n    y'r honor,\n  Makin' a music beside ye, follerin' wherever\n    you wander.\n  Born unbeknown in the rocky, hidden heart\n    o' the mountain,\n  Suckled o' clouds and fogs, and weaned by\n    the waters o' heaven,\n  There you slep' like a babblin' baby, a-kep'\n    in the bed-room,\n  Secret, and tenderly cared-for: and eye o'\n    man never saw you,--\n  Never peeked through a key-hole and saw\n    my little girl sleepin'\n  Sound in her chamber o' crystal, rocked in\n    her cradle o' silver.\n  Neither an ear o' man ever listened to hear\n    her a-breathin',\n  No, nor her voice all alone to herself\n    a-laughin' or cryin'.\n  Only the close little spirits that know every\n    passage and entrance,\n  In and out dodgin', they brought ye up and\n    teached ye to toddle,\n  Gev' you a cheerful natur', and larnt you\n    how to be useful:\n  Yes, and their words didn't go into one ear\n    and out at the t'other.\n  Stand on your slippery feet as soon as may\n    be, and use 'em,\n  That you do, as you slyly creep from your\n    chamber o' crystal\n  Out o' doors, barefoot, and squint up to\n    heaven, mischievously smilin'.\n  Oh, but you're pretty, my darlin', y'r eyes\n    have a beautiful sparkle!\n  Isn't it nice, out o' doors? you didn't guess\n    't was so pleasant?\n  Listen, the leaves is rustlin', and listen, the\n    birdies a-singin'!\n  \"Yes,\" says you, \"but I'm goin' furder, and\n    can't stay to hear 'm:\n  Pleasant, truly, 's my way, and more so the\n    furder I travel.\"\n\n  Only see how spry my little one is at her\n    jumpin'!\n  \"Ketch me!\" she shouts, in her fun,--\"if\n    you want me, foller and ketch me!\"\n  Every minute she turns and jumps in another\n    direction.\n\n  There, you'll fall from the bank! You see,\n       she's done it: I said so.\n  Didn't I say it? And now she wobbles\n       furder and furder,\n  Creepin' along on all-fours, then off on her\n       legs she's a-toddlin',--\n  Slips in the bushes,--\"Hunt me!\"--and\n       there, on a sudden, she peeks out.\n  Wait, I'm a-comin'! Back o' the trees I\n       hear her a-callin':\n  \"Guess where I am!\"--she's whims of her\n       own, a plenty, and keeps 'em.\n  But, as you go, you're growin' han'somer,\n       bigger, and stronger.\n  Where the breath o' y'r breathin' falls, the\n       meadows is greener,\n  Fresher o' color, right and left, and the\n       weeds and the grasses\n  Sprout up as juicy as _can_ be, and posies o'\n       loveliest colors\n  Blossom as brightly as wink, and bees come\n       and suck 'em.\n  Water-wagtails come tiltin',--and, look!\n       there's the geese o' the village!\n  All are a-comin' to see you, and all want to\n       give you a welcome;\n  Yes, and you're kind o' heart, and you\n       prattle to all of 'em kindly;\n  \"Come, you well-behaved creeturs, eat and\n       drink what I bring you,--\n  I must be off and away: God bless you,\n       well-behaved creeturs!\"[A]\n\n[Footnote A: As the reader of German may be curious to see a specimen\nof the original, we give this last passage, which contains, in a brief\ncompass, many distinctive features of the Alemannic dialect:--\n\n  \"Nei so lucg me doch, wie cha mi Meiddeli springe!\n  'Chunnsch mi \u00fcber,' seits und lacht, 'und witt\n       mi, se hol mi!'\n  All' wil en andere Weg, und alliwil anderi\n       Spr\u00fcngli!\n  Fall mer nit sel Reiuli ab!--Do hemmer's, i sags io--\n  Hani's denn nit gseit? Doch gauckelet's witers\n       und witers,\n  Groblet uf alle Vieren, und stellt si wieder uf\n       d' Beinli,\n  Schlieft in d' H\u00fcrst--iez such mer's eisl--d\u00f6rt\n       g\u00fcggelet's use,\n  Wart, i chumm! Druf r\u00fcefts mer wieder hinter\n       de B\u00e4ume:\n  'Roth wo bin i iez!'--und het si urige Phatest.\n  Aber wie de gosch, wirsch sichtli gr\u00f6sser und\n       sch\u00f6ner.\n  Wo di liebligen Othern weiht, so f\u00e4rbt si der Rase\n  Gr\u00fcener rechts und links, es st\u00f6hn in saftige\n       Triebe\n  Gras und Chr\u00fcter uf, es st\u00f6hn in frischere Gstalte\n  Farbigi Bl\u00fcemli do, und d' Immli ch\u00f6mmen und\n       suge.\n  'S Wasserstelzli chunnt, und lueg doch,'s Wuli\n       vo Todtnau!\n  Alles will di bschauen, und Alles will di bigr\u00fcsse,\n  Und di fr\u00fcndlig Herz git alle fr\u00fcndligi Rede:\n  'Ch\u00f6mmet ihr ordlige Thierli, do hender, esset\n       und trinket!\n  Witers goht mi Weg, Gsegott, ihr ordlige Thierli!'\"\n]\n\nThe poet follows the stream through her whole course, never dropping the\nfigure, which is adapted, with infinite adroitness, and with the play\nof a fancy as wayward and unrestrained as her own waters, to all her\nchanging aspects. Beside the Catholic chapel of Fair-Beeches she pauses\nto listen to the mass; but farther down the valley becomes an apostate,\nand attends the Lutheran service in the Husemer church. Stronger and\nstatelier grown, she trips along with the step of a maiden conscious of\nher own beauty, and the poet clothes her in the costume of an Alemannic\nbride, with a green kirtle of a hundred folds, and a stomacher of Milan\ngauze, \"like a loose cloud on a morning sky in spring-time.\" Thus\nequipped, she wanders at will over the broader meadows, around the feet\nof vineyard-hills, visits villages and churches, or stops to gossip with\nthe lusty young millers. But the woman's destiny is before her; she\ncannot escape it; and the time is drawing near when her wild, singing,\npastoral being shall be absorbed in that of the strong male stream, the\nbright-eyed son of the Alps, who has come so far to woo and win her.\n\n  Daughter o' Feldberg, half-and-half I've got\n       a suspicion\n  How as you've virtues and faults enough now\n       to choose ye a husband.\n  Castin' y'r eyes down, are you? Pickin' and\n       plattin' y'r ribbons?\n  Don't be so foolish, wench!--She thinks I\n       know nothin' about it,\n  How she's already engaged, and each is\n       a-waitin' for t'other.\n  Don't I know him, my darlin', the lusty\n       young fellow, y'r sweetheart?\n\n  Over powerful rocks, and through the hedges\n       and thickets,\n  Right away from the snowy Swiss mountains\n       he plunges at Rheineck\n  Down to the lake, and straight ahead swims\n       through it to Constance,\n  Sayin': \"'T's no use o' talkin', I'll have\n       the gal I'm engaged to!\"\n\n\n  But, as he reaches Stein, he goes a little more slowly,\n  Leavin' the lake where he's decently washed his feet and his body.\n  Diessenhofen don't please him,--no, nor the convent beside it.\n  For'ard he goes to Schaffhausen, onto the rocks at the corner;\n  There he says: \"It's no use o' talkin', I'll git to my sweetheart:\n  Body and life I'll stake, cravat and embroidered suspenders.\"\n  Woop! but he jumps! And now he talks to hisself, goin' furder,\n  Giddy, belike, in his head, but pushes for'ard to Rheinau,\n  Eglisau, and Kaiserstuhl, and Zurzach, and Waldshut,--\n  All are behind him, passin' one village after another\n  Down to Grenzach, and out on the broad and beautiful bottoms\n  Nigh unto Basle; and there he must stop and look after his license.\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Look! isn't that y'r bridegroom a-comin' down yonder to meet you?--\n  Yes, it's him, it's him, I hear't, for his voice is so jolly!\n  Yes, it's him, it's him,--with his eyes as blue as the heavens,\n  With his Swiss knee-breeches o' green, and suspenders o' velvet,\n  With his shirt o' the color o' pearl, and buttons o' crystal,\n  With his powerful loins, and his sturdy back and his shoulders,\n  Grand in his gait, commandin', beautiful, free in his motions,\n  Proud as a Basle Councilman,--yes, it's the big boy o' Gothard![B]\n\n[Footnote B: The Rhine.]\n\nThe daring with which Hebel _countrifies_ (or, rather, _farmerizes_, to\ntranslate Goethe's--word more literally) the spirit of natural objects,\ncarrying his personifications to that point where the imaginative\nborders on the grotesque, is perhaps his strongest characteristic. His\npoetic faculty, putting on its Alemannic costume, seems to abdicate all\nambition of moving in a higher sphere of society, but within the bounds\nit has chosen allows itself the utmost range of capricious enjoyment.\nIn another pastoral, called \"The Oatmeal Porridge,\" he takes the grain\nwhich the peasant has sown, makes it a sentient creature, and carries it\nthrough the processes of germination, growth, and bloom, without once\ndropping the figure or introducing an incongruous epithet. It is not\nonly a child, but a child of the Black Forest, uttering its hopes, its\nanxieties, and its joys in the familiar dialect. The beetle, in\nhis eyes, becomes a gross, hard-headed boor, carrying his sacks of\nblossom-meal, and drinking his mug of XX morning-dew; the stork parades\nabout to show his red stockings; the spider is at once machinist and\ncivil engineer; and even the sun, moon, and morning-star are not secure\nfrom the poet's familiarities. In his pastoral of \"The Field-Watchmen,\"\nhe ventures to say,--\n\n  Mister Schoolmaster Moon, with y'r forehead wrinkled with teachin',\n  With y'r face full o' larnin', a plaster stuck on y'r cheek-bone,\n  Say, do y'r children mind ye, and larn their psalm and their texes?\n\nWe much fear that this over-quaintness of fancy, to which the Alemannic\ndialect gives such a racy flavor, and which belongs, in a lesser\ndegree, to the minds of the people who speak that dialect, cannot be\nsuccessfully clothed in an English dress. Let us try, therefore, a\nlittle poem, the sentiment whereof is of universal application:--\n\n  THE CONTENTED FARMER.\n\n  I guess I'll take my pouch, and fill\n  My pipe just once,--yes, that I will!\n  Turn out my plough and home'ards go:\n  _Buck_ thinks, enough's been done, I know.\n\n  Why, when the Emperor's council's done,\n  And he can hunt, and have his fun,\n  He stops, I guess, at any tree,\n  And fills his pipe as well as me.\n\n  But smokin' does him little good:\n  He can't have all things as he would.\n  His crown's a precious weight, at that:\n  It isn't like my old straw hat.\n\n  He gits a deal o' tin, no doubt,\n  But all the more he pays it out;\n  And everywheres they beg and cry\n  Heaps more than he can satisfy.\n\n  And when, to see that nothin' 's wrong,\n  He plagues hisself the whole day long,\n  And thinks, \"I guess I've fixed it now,\"\n  Nobody thanks him, anyhow.\n\n  And so, when in his bloody clo'es\n  The Gineral out o' battle goes,\n  He takes his pouch, too, I'll agree,\n  And fills his pipe as well as me.\n\n  But in the wild and dreadfle fight,\n  His pipe don't taste ezackly right:\n  He's galloped here and galloped there,\n  And things a'n't pleasant, anywhere.\n\n  And sich a cursin': \"Thunder!\" \"Hell!\"\n  And \"Devil!\" (worse nor I can tell:)\n  His grannydiers in blood lay down,\n  And yonder smokes a burnin' town.\n\n  And when, a-travellin' to the Fairs,\n  The merchant goes with all his wares,\n  He takes a pouch o' th' best, I guess,\n  And fills and smokes his pipe, no less.\n\n  Poor devil, 't isn't good for you!\n  With all y'r gold, you've trouble, too.\n  Twice two is four, if stocks'll rise:\n  I see the figgers in your eyes.\n\n  It's hurry, worry, tare and tret;\n  Ye ha'n't enough, the more ye get,--\n  And couldn't use it, if ye had:\n  No wonder that y'r pipe tastes bad!\n\n  But good, thank God! and wholesome's mine:\n  The bottom-wheat is growin' fine,\n  And God, o' mornin's, sends the dew,\n  And sends his breath o' blessin', too.\n\n  And, home, there's Nancy bustlin' round:\n  The supper's ready, I'll be bound,\n  And youngsters waitin'. Lord! I vow\n  I dunno which is smartest, now.\n\n  My pipe tastes good; the reason's plain:\n  (I guess I'll fill it once again:)\n  With cheerful heart, and jolly mood,\n  And goin' home, all things is good.\n\nHebel's narrative poems abound with the wayward pranks of a fancy which\nseems a little too restive to be entirely controlled by his artistic\nsense; but they possess much dramatic truth and power. He delights in\nthe supernatural element, but approaches it from the gentler human side.\nIn \"The Carbuncle,\" only, we find something of that weird, uncanny\natmosphere which casts its glamour around the \"Tam O'Shanter\" of Burns.\nA more satisfactory illustration of his peculiar qualities is \"The\nGhost's Visit on the Feldberg,\"--a story told by a loafer of Basle to a\ngroup of beer-drinkers in the tavern at Todtnau, a little village at\nthe foot of the mountain. This is, perhaps, the most popular of Hebel's\npoems, and we therefore translate it entire. The superstition that a\nchild born on Sunday has the power of seeing spirits is universal among\nthe German peasantry.\n\n  THE GHOST'S VISIT ON THE FELDBERG.\n\n  Hark ye, fellows o' Todtnau, if ever I told\n       you the Scythe-Ghost[C]\n  Was a spirit of Evil, I've now got a different\n       story.\n  Out of the town am I,--yes, that I'll honestly\n       own to,--\n  Related to merchants, at seven tables free to\n       take pot-luck.\n  But I'm a Sunday's child; and wherever the ghosts\n       at the cross-roads\n  Stand in the air, in vaults, and cellars, and\n       out-o'-way places,--\n  Guardin' hidden money with eyes like fiery\n       sauce-pans,\n  Washin' with bitter tears the spot where\n       somebody's murdered,\n  Shovellin' the dirt, and scratchin' it over\n       with nails all so bloody,--\n  Clear as day I can see, when it lightens.\n       Ugh! how they whimper!\n  Also, whenever with beautiful blue eyes the\n       heavenly angels,\n  Deep in the night, in silent, sleepin'\n       villages wander,\n  Peekin' in at the windows, and talkin'\n       together so pleasant,\n  Smilin' one at the t'other, and settin'\n       outside o' the house-doors,\n  So that the pious folks shall take no harm\n       while they're sleepin':\n  Then ag'in, when in couples or threes they\n       walk in the grave-yard,\n  Talkin' in this like: \"There a faithful\n       mother is layin';\n  And here's a man that was poor, but took no\n       advantage o' no one:\n  Take your rest, for you're tired,--we'll waken\n       ye up when the time comes!\"\n  Clearly I see by the light o' the stars, and I\n       hear them a-talkin'.\n  Many I know by their names, and speak to,\n       whenever I meet 'em,\n  Give 'em the time o' day, and ask 'em, and\n       answer their questions.\n  \"How do ye do?\" \"How's y'r watch?\"\n       \"Praise God, it's tolerable, thank you!\"\n  Believe it, or not! Well, once on a time my\n       cousin, he sent me\n  Over to Todtnau, on business with all sorts o'\n       troublesome people,\n  Where you've coffee to drink, and biscuit\n       they give you to soak in 't.\n  \"Don't you stop on the road, nor gabble\n       whatever comes foremost,\"\n  Hooted my cousin at startin', \"nor don't you\n       let go o' your snuff-box,\n  Leavin' it round in the tavern, as gentlemen\n       do, for the next time.\"\n  Up and away I went, and all that my cousin\n       he'd ordered\n  Fairly and squarely I fixed. At the sign o'\n       the Eagle in Todtnau\n  Set for a while; then, sure o' my way, tramped\n       off ag'in, home'ards,\n  Nigh by the village, I reckoned,--but found\n       myself climbin' the Feldberg,\n  Lured by the birdies, and down by the brooks\n       the beautiful posies:\n  That's a weakness o' mine,--I ran like a fool\n       after such things.\n  Now it was dusk, and the birdies hushed up,\n       settin' still on the branches.\n  Hither and yonder a starlie stuck its head\n       through the darkness,\n  Peekin' out, as oncertain whether the sun was\n       in bed yet,--\n  Whether it mightn't come, and called to the\n       other ones: \"Come now!\"\n  Then I knowed I was lost, and laid myself\n       down,--I was weary:\n  There, you know, there's a hut, and I found\n       an armful o' straw in 't.\n  \"Here's a go!\" I thinks to myself, \"and I\n       wish I was safely\n  Cuddled in bed to home,--or 't was midnight,\n       and some little spirit\n  Somewhere popped out, as o' nights when it's\n       twelve they're accustomed,\n  Passin' the time with me, friendly, till winds\n       that blow early o' mornin's\n  Blow out the heavenly lights, and I see the\n       way back to the village.\"\n  Now, as thinkin' in this like, I felt all over my\n       watch-face,--\n  Dark as pitch all around,--and felt with my\n       finger the hour-hand,\n  Found it was nigh onto 'leven, and hauled my\n       pipe from my pocket,\n  Thinkin': \"Maybe a bit of a smoke'll keep\n       me from snoozin'\":\n  Thunder! all of a sudden beside me was two\n       of 'em talkin',\n  Like as they'd business together! You'd\n       better believe that I listened.\n  \"Say, a'n't I late a-comin'? Because there\n       was, over in Mambach,\n  Dyin', a girl with pains in the bones and terrible\n       fever:\n  Now, but she's easy! I held to her mouth the\n       drink o' departure,\n  So that the sufferin' ceased, and softly lowered\n       the eyelids,\n  Sayin': 'Sleep, and in peace,--I'll waken\n       thee up when the time comes!'\n  Do me the favor, brother: fetch in the basin o'\n       silver\n  Water, ever so little: my scythe, as you see,\n       must be whetted.\"\n  \"Whetted?\" says I to myself, \"and a spirit?\"\n       and peeked from the window.\n  Lo and behold, there sat a youngster with\n       wings that was golden;\n  White was his mantle, white, and his girdle\n       the color o' roses,\n  Fair and lovely to see, and beside him two\n       lights all a-burnin'.\n  \"All the good spirits,\" says I, \"Mr. Angel,\n       God have you in keepin'!\"\n  \"Praise their Master, the Lord,\" said the angel;\n       \"God thank you, as I do!\"\n  \"Take no offence, Mr. Ghost, and by y'r good\n       leave and permission,\n  Tell me, what have you got for to mow?\"\n       \"Why, the scythe!\" was his answer.\n  \"Yes,\" says I, \"for I see it; and that is my\n       question exackly,\n  What you're goin' to do with the scythe.\"\n       \"Why, to mow!\" was his answer.\n  Then I ventur'd to say: \"And that is my question\n       exackly,\n  What you're goin' to mow, supposin' you're\n       willin' to tell me.\"\n  \"Grass! And what is your business so late up\n       here in the night-time?\"\n  \"Nothin' special,\" I answered; \"I'm burnin'\n       a little tobacco.\n  Lost my way, or most likely I'd be at the\n       Eagle, in Todtnau.\n  But to come to the subject, supposin' it isn't\n       a secret,\n  Tell me, what do you make o' the grass?\"\n       And he answered me: \"Fodder!\"\n  \"Don't understand it,\" says I; \"for the Lord\n       has no cows up in heaven.\"\n  \"Not precisely a cow,\" he remarked, \"but\n       heifers and asses.\n  Seest, up yonder, the star?\" and he pointed\n       one out with his finger.\n  \"There's the ass o' the Christmas-Child, and\n       Fridolin's heifers,[D]\n  Breathin' the starry air, and waitin' for grass\n       that I bring 'em:\n  Grass doesn't grow there,--nothin' grows but\n       the heavenly raisins,\n  Milk and honey a-runnin' in rivers, plenty as\n       water:\n  But they're particular cattle,--grass they\n       must have every mornin',\n  Mouthfuls o' hay, and drink from earthly\n       fountains they're used to.\n  So for them I'm a-whettin' my scythe, and\n       soon must be mowin':\n  Wouldn't it be worth while, if politely you'd\n       offer to help me?\"\n  So the angel he talked, and this way I answered\n       the angel:\n  \"Hark ye, this it is, just: and I'll go wi' the\n       greatest o' pleasure.\n  Folks from the town know nothin' about it:\n       we write and we cipher,\n  Reckon up money,--that we can do!--and\n       measure and weigh out,\n  Unload, and on-load, and eat and drink without\n       any trouble.\n  All that we want for the belly, in kitchen,\n       pantry, and cellar,\n  Comes in lots through every gate, in baskets\n       and boxes,\n  Runs in every street, and cries at every\n       corner:\n  'Buy my cherries!' and 'Buy my butter!'\n       and 'Look at my salad!'\n  'Buy my onions!' and 'Here's your carrots!'\n       and 'Spinage and parsley!'\n  'Lucifer matches! Lucifer matches!' 'Cabbage\n       and turnips!'\n  'Here's your umbrellas!' 'Caraway-seed and\n       juniper-berries!\n  Cheap for cash, and all to be traded for sugar\n       and coffee!'\n  Say, Mr. Angel, didst ever drink coffee?\n       how do you like it?\"\n  \"Stop with y'r nonsense!\" then he said, but\n       he couldn't help laughin';\n  \"No, we drink but the heavenly air, and eat\n       nothin' but raisins,\n  Four on a day o' the week, and afterwards five\n       on a Sunday.\n  Come, if you want to go with me, now, for\n       I'm off to my mowin',\n  Back o' Todtnau, there on the grassy holt by\n       the highway.\"\n  \"Yes, Mr. Angel, that will I truly, seein'\n       you're willin':\n  Seems to me that it's cooler: give me y'r\n       scythe for to carry:\n  Here's a pipe and a pouch,--you're welcome\n       to smoke, if you want to.\"\n  While I was talkin', \"Poohoo!\" cried the\n       angel. A fiery man stood,\n  Quicker than lightnin', beside me. \"Light us\n       the way to the village!\"\n  Said he. And truly before us marched, a-burnin',\n       the Poohoo,\n  Over stock and rock, through the bushes, a\n       travellin' torch-light.\n  \"Handy, isn't it?\" laughin', the angel said.\n      --\"What are ye doin'?\n  Why do you nick at y'r flint? You can light\n       y'r pipe at the Poohoo.\n  Use him whenever you like: but it seems to\n       me you're a-frightened,--\n  You, and a Sunday's-child, as you are: do you\n       think he will bite you?\"\n  \"No, he ha'n't bit me; but this you'll allow\n       me to say, Mr. Angel,--\n  Half-and-half I mistrust him: besides, my tobacco's\n       a-burnin'.\n  That's a weakness o' mine,--I'm afeard o'\n       them fiery creeturs:\n  Give me seventy angels, instead o' this big\n       burnin' devil!\"\n  \"Really, it's dreadfle,\" the angel says he,\n       \"that men is so silly,\n  Fearful o' ghosts and spectres, and skeery\n       without any reason.\n  Two of 'em only is dangerous, two of 'em hurtful\n       to mankind:\n  One of 'em's known by the name o' Delusion,\n       and Worry the t'other.\n  Him, Delusion, 's a dweller in wine: from\n       cans and decanters\n  Up to the head he rises, and turns your sense\n       to confusion.\n  This is the ghost that leads you astray in forest\n       and highway:\n  Undermost, uppermost, hither and yon the\n       ground is a-rollin',\n  Bridges bendin', and mountains movin', and\n       everything double.\n  Hark ye, keep out of his way!\" \"Aha!\"\n       I says to the angel,\n  \"There you prick me, but not to the blood: I\n       see what you're after.\n  Sober am I, as a judge. To be sure, I emptied\n       my tankard\n  Once, at the Eagle,--_once_,--and the landlord\n       'll tell you the same thing,\n  S'posin' you doubt me. And now, pray, tell\n       me who is the t'other?\"\n  \"Who is the t'other? Don't know without\n       askin'?\" answered the angel.\n  \"He's a terrible ghost: the Lord forbid you\n       should meet him!\n  When you waken early, at four or five in the\n       mornin',\n  There he stands a-waitin' with burnin eyes\n       at y'r bed-side,\n  Gives you the time o' day with blazin switches\n       and pinchers:\n  Even prayin' don't help, nor helps all your\n       _Ave Marias!_\n  When you begin 'em, he takes your jaws and\n       claps 'em together;\n  Look to heaven, he comes and blinds y'r eyes\n       with his ashes;\n  Be you hungry, and eat, he pizons y'r soup\n       with his wormwood;\n  Take you a drink o' nights, he squeezes gall\n       in the tankard;\n  Run like a stag, he follows as close on y'r trail\n       as a blood-hound;\n  Creep like a shadow, be whispers: 'Good! we\n       had best take it easy';\n  Kneels at y'r side in the church, and sets at\n       y'r side in the tavern.\n  Go wherever you will, there's ghosts a-hoverin'\n       round you.\n  Shut your eyes in y'r bed, they mutter:\n       'There 's no need o' hurry;\n  By-and-by you can sleep, but listen! we've\n       somethin' to tell you:\n  Have you forgot how you stoled? and how\n       you cheated the orphans?\n  Secretly sinned?'--and this, and t'other;\n       and when they have finished,\n  Say it over ag'in, and you get little good o'\n       your slumber.\"\n  So the angel he talked, and, like iron under\n       the hammer,\n  Sparked and spirited the Poohoo. \"Surely,\"\n       I says to the angel,\n  \"Born on a Sunday was I, and friendly with\n       many a preacher,\n  Yet the Father protect me from these!\" Says\n       he to me, smilin':\n  \"Keep y'r conscience pure; it is better than\n       crossin' and blessin'.\n  Here we must part, for y'r way turns off and\n       down to the village.\n  Take the Poohoo along, but mind! put him\n       out, in the meadow,\n  Lest he should run in the village, settin' fire\n       to the stables.\n  God be with you and keep you!\" And then\n       says I: \"Mr. Angel,\n  God, the Father, protect you! Be sure, when\n       you come to the city,\n  Christmas evenin', call, and I'll hold it an\n       honor to see you:\n  Raisins I'll have at your service, and hippocras,\n       if you like it.\n  Chilly 's the air, o' evenin's, especially down\n       by the river.\"\n  Day was breakin' by this, and right there was\n       Todtnau before me!\n  Past, and onward to Basle I wandered, i' the\n       shade and the coolness.\n  When into Mambach I came, they bore a dead\n       girl to the grave-yard,\n  After the Holy Cross, and the faded banner o'\n       Heaven,\n  With the funeral garlands upon her, with sobbin'\n       and weepin'.\n  Ah, but she 'd heard what he said! he'll\n       waken her up when the time comes.\n  Afterwards, Tuesday it was, I got safely back\n       to my cousin;\n  But it turned out as he said,--I'd somewhere\n       forgotten my snuff-box!\n\n[Footnote C: _Dengle-Geist_, literally, \"Whetting-Spirit.\" The exact\nmeaning of _dengeln_ is to sharpen a scythe by hammering the edge of the\nblade, which was practised before whetstones came in use.]\n\n[Footnote D: According to an old legend, Fridolin (a favorite saint with\nthe Catholic population of the Black Forest) harnessed two young heifers\nto a mighty fir-tree, and hauled it into the Rhine near S\u00e4ckingen,\nthereby damming the river and forcing it to take a new course, on the\nother side of the town.]\n\nIn this poem the hero of the story unconsciously describes himself by\nhis manner of telling it,--a reflective action of the dramatic faculty,\nwhich Browning, among living poets, possesses in a marked degree. The\n\"moral\" is so skilfully inwoven into the substance of the narrative as\nto conceal the appearance of design, and the reader has swallowed the\npill before its sugar-coating of fancy has dissolved in his mouth. There\nare few of Hebel's poems which were not written for the purpose of\ninculcating some wholesome lesson, but in none does this object\nprominently appear. Even where it is not merely implied, but directly\nexpressed, he contrives to give it the air of having been accidentally\nsuggested by the theme. In the following, which is the most pointedly\ndidactic of all his productions, the characteristic fancy still betrays\nitself:--\n\n  THE GUIDE-POST.\n\n  D' ye know the road to th' bar'l o' flour?\n    At break o' day let down the bars,\n  And plough y'r wheat-field, hour by hour,\n    Till sundown,--yes, till shine o' stars.\n\n  You peg away, the livelong day,\n    Nor loaf about, nor gape around;\n  And that's the road to the thrashin'-floor,\n    And into the kitchen, I'll be bound!\n\n  D' ye know the road where dollars lays?\n    Follow the red cents, here and there:\n  For if a man leaves them, I guess,\n    He won't find dollars anywhere.\n\n  D' ye know the road to Sunday's rest?\n    Jist don't o' week-days be afeard;\n  In field and workshop do y'r best,\n    And Sunday comes itself, I've heerd.\n  On Saturdays it's not fur off,\n     And brings a basketful o' cheer,--\n  A roast, and lots o' garden-stuff,\n     And, like as not, a jug o' beer!\n\n  D' ye know the road to poverty?\n     Turn in at any tavern-sign:\n  Turn in,--it's temptin' as can be:\n     There's bran'-new cards and liquor fine.\n\n  In the last tavern there's a sack,\n     And, when the cash y'r pocket quits,\n  Jist hang the wallet on y'r back,--\n     You vagabond! see how it fits!\n\n  D' ye know what road to honor leads,\n     And good old age?--a lovely sight!\n  By way o' temperance, honest deeds,\n     And tryin' to do y'r dooty right.\n\n  And when the road forks, ary side,\n     And you're in doubt which one it is,\n  Stand still, and let y'r conscience guide:\n     Thank God, it can't lead much amiss!\n\n  And now, the road to church-yard gate\n     You needn't ask! Go anywhere!\n  For, whether roundabout or straight,\n     All roads, at last, 'll bring you there.\n\n  Go, fearin' God, but lovin' more!--\n     I've tried to be an honest guide,--\n  You'll find the grave has got a door,\n     And somethin' for you t'other side.\n\nWe could linger much longer over our simple, brave old poet, were we\nsure of the ability of the reader approximately to distinguish his\nfeatures through the veil of translation. In turning the leaves of the\nsmoky book, with its coarse paper and rude type,--which suggests to us,\nby-the-by, the fact that Hebel was accustomed to hang a book, which he\nwished especially to enjoy, in the chimney, for a few days,--we are\ntempted by \"The Market-Women in Town,\" by \"The Mother on Christmas-Eve,\"\n\"The Morning-Star,\" and the charming fairy-story of \"Riedliger's\nDaughter,\" but must be content to close our specimens, for the present,\nwith a song of love,--\"_Hans und Verene_,\"--under the equivalent title\nof\n\n  JACK AND MAGGIE.\n\n  There's only one I'm after,\n     And she's the one, I vow!\n  If she was here, and standin' by,\n  She is a gal so neat and spry,\n        So neat and spry,\n     I'd be in glory now!\n\n  It's so,--I'm hankerin' for her,\n     And want to have her, too.\n  Her temper's always gay, and bright,\n  Her face like posies red and white,\n        Both red and white,\n     And eyes like posies blue.\n\n  And when I see her comin',\n     My face gits red at once;\n  My heart feels chokin'-like, and weak,\n  And drops o' sweat run down my cheek,\n        Yes, down my cheek,--\n     Confound me for a dunce!\n\n  She spoke so kind, last Tuesday,\n     When at the well we met:\n  \"Jack, give a lift! What ails you? Say!\n  I see that somethin' 's wrong to-day:\n        What's wrong to-day?\"\n     No, that I can't forget!\n\n  I know I'd ought to tell her,\n     And wish I'd told her then;\n  And if I wasn't poor and low,\n  And sayin' it didn't choke me so,\n        (It chokes me so,)\n     I'd find a chance again.\n\n  Well, up and off I'm goin':\n     She's in the field below:\n  I'll try and let her know my mind;\n  And if her answer isn't kind,\n        If 't isn't kind,\n     I'll jine the ranks, and go!\n\n  I'm but a poor young fellow,\n     Yes, poor enough, no doubt:\n  But ha'n't, thank God, done nothin' wrong,\n  And be a man as stout and strong,\n        As stout and strong,\n     As any roundabout.\n\n  What's rustlin' in the bushes?\n     I see a movin' stalk:\n  The leaves is openin': there's a dress!\n  O Lord, forbid it! but I guess--\n        I guess--I guess\n     Somebody's heard me talk!\n\n  \"Ha! here I am! you've got me!\n     So keep me, if you can!\n  I've guessed it ever since last Fall,\n  And Tuesday morn I saw it all,\n        _I_ saw it all!\n     Speak out, then, like a man!\n\n  \"Though rich you a'n't in money,\n     Nor rich in goods to sell,\n  An honest heart is more than gold,\n  And hands you've got for field and fold,\n         For house and fold,\n      And--Jack--I love you well!\"\n\n  \"O Maggie, say it over!\n     O Maggie, is it so?\n  I couldn't longer bear the doubt:\n  'Twas hell,--but now you've drawed me out,\n       You've drawed me out!\n    And will I? _Won't_ I, though!\"\n\nThe later years of Hebel's life quietly passed away in the circle of his\nfriends at Carlsruhe. After the peculiar mood which called forth the\nAlemannic poems had passed away, he seems to have felt no further\ntemptation to pursue his literary success. His labors, thenceforth, were\nchiefly confined to the preparation of a Biblical History, for schools,\nand the editing of the \"Rhenish House-Friend,\" an illustrated calendar\nfor the people, to which he gave a character somewhat similar to that of\nFranklin's \"Poor Richard.\" His short, pithy narratives, each with its\ninevitable, though unobtrusive moral, are models of style. The calendar\nbecame so popular, under his management, that forty thousand copies were\nannually printed. He finally discontinued his connection with it, in\n1819, in consequence of an interference with his articles on the part of\nthe censor.\n\nIn society Hebel was a universal favorite. Possessing, in his personal\nappearance, no less than in his intellect, a marked individuality, he\ncarried a fresh, vital, inspiring element into every company which he\nvisited. His cheerfulness was inexhaustible, his wit keen and lambent\nwithout being acrid, his speech clear, fluent, and genial, and his fund\nof anecdote commensurate with his remarkable narrative power. He was\nexceedingly frank, joyous, and unconstrained in his demeanor; fond of\nthe pipe and the beer-glass; and as one of his maxims was, \"Not to close\nany door through which Fortune might enter,\" he not only occasionally\nbought a lottery-ticket, but was sometimes to be seen, during the\nseason, at the roulette-tables of Baden-Baden. One of his friends\ndeclares, however, that he never obtruded \"the clergyman\" at\ninappropriate times!\n\nIn person he was of medium height, with a body of massive Teutonic\nbuild, a large, broad head, inclined a little towards one shoulder, the\neyes small, brown, and mischievously sparkling, the hair short, crisp,\nand brown, the nose aquiline, and the mouth compressed, with the\ncommencement of a smile stamped in the corners. He was careless in\nhis gait, and negligent in his dress. Warm-hearted and tender, and\nespecially attracted towards women and children, the cause of his\ncelibacy always remained a mystery to his friends.\n\nThe manner of his death, finally, illustrated the genuine humanity of\nhis nature. In September, 1826, although an invalid at the time, he made\na journey to Mannheim for the sake of procuring a mitigation of the\nsentence of a condemned poacher, whose case appealed strongly to his\nsympathy. His exertions on behalf of the poor man so aggravated his\ndisease that he was soon beyond medical aid. Only his corpse, crowned\nwith laurel, returned to Carlsruhe. Nine years afterwards a monument was\nerected to his memory in the park attached to the Ducal palace. Nor have\nthe inhabitants of the Black Forest failed in worthy commemoration of\ntheir poet's name. A prominent peak among the mountains which inclose\nthe valley of his favorite \"Meadow\" has been solemnly christened\n\"Hebel's Mount\"; and a flower of the Forest--the _Anthericum_ of\nLinnaeus--now figures in German botanies as the _Hebelia Alemannica_.\n\n\n\nTHE FORESTER.\n\n  Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch\n    At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb,\n  Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch\n    Till the white-winged reapers come.--Henry Vaughan\n\n\nI had never thought of knowing a man so thoroughly of the country as\nthis friend of mine, and so purely a son of Nature. Perhaps he has\nthe profoundest passion for it of any one living; and had the human\nsentiment been as tender from the first, and as pervading, we might have\nhad pastorals of which Virgil and Theocritus would have envied him the\nauthorship, had they chanced to be his contemporaries. As it is, he has\ncome nearer the antique spirit than any of our native poets, and touched\nthe fields and groves and streams of his native town with a classic\ninterest that shall not fade. Some of his verses are suffused with an\nelegiac tenderness, as if the woods and fields bewailed the absence\nof their forester, and murmured their griefs meanwhile to one\nanother,--responsive like idyls. Living in close companionship with\nNature, his Muse breathes the spirit and voice of poetry; his excellence\nlying herein: for when the heart is once divorced from the senses and\nall sympathy with common things, then poetry has fled, and the love that\nsings.\n\nThe most welcome of companions, this plain countryman. One shall not\nmeet with thoughts invigorating like his often; coming so scented of\nmountain and field breezes and rippling springs, so like a luxuriant\nclod from under forest-leaves, moist and mossy with earth-spirits. His\npresence is tonic, like ice-water in dog-days to the parched citizen\npent in chambers and under brazen ceilings. Welcome as the gurgle of\nbrooks, the dripping of pitchers,--then drink and be cool! He seems one\nwith things, of Nature's essence and core, knit of strong timbers, most\nlike a wood and its inhabitants. There are in him sod and shade, woods\nand waters manifold, the mould and mist of earth and sky. Self-poised\nand sagacious as any denizen of the elements, he has the key to every\nanimal's brain, every plant, every shrub; and were an Indian to flower\nforth, and reveal the secrets hidden in his cranium, it would not be\nmore surprising than the speech of our Sylvanus. He must belong to the\nHomeric age,--is older than pastures and gardens, as if he were of the\nrace of heroes, and one with the elements. He, of all men, seems to be\nthe native New-Englander, as much so as the oak, the granite ledge, our\nbest sample of an indigenous American, untouched by the Old Country,\nunless he came down from Thor, the Northman; as yet unfathered by any,\nand a nondescript in the books of natural history.\n\nA peripatetic philosopher, and out of doors for the best parts of his\ndays and nights, he has manifold weather and seasons in him, and the\nmanners of an animal of probity and virtues unstained. Of our moralists\nhe seems the wholesomest; and the best republican citizen in the\nworld,--always at home, and minding his own affairs. Perhaps a little\nover-confident sometimes, and stiffly individual, dropping society clean\nout of his theories, while standing friendly in his strict sense of\nfriendship, there is in him an integrity and sense of justice that make\npossible and actual the virtues of Sparta and the Stoics, and all the\nmore welcome to us in these times of shuffling and of pusillanimity.\nPlutarch would have made him immortal in his pages, had he lived before\nhis day. Nor have we any so modern as be,--his own and ours; too purely\nso to be appreciated at once. A scholar by birthright, and an author,\nhis fame has not yet travelled far from the banks of the rivers he has\ndescribed in his books; but I hazard only the truth in affirming of his\nprose, that in substance and sense it surpasses that of any naturalist\nof his time, and that he is sure of a reading in the future. There are\nfairer fishes in his pages than any now swimming in our streams, and\nsome sleep of his on the banks of the Merrimack by moonlight that Egypt\nnever rivalled; a morning of which Memnon might have envied the music,\nand a greyhound that was meant for Adonis; some frogs, too, better than\nany of Aristophanes. Perhaps we have had no eyes like his since Pliny's\ntime. His senses seem double, giving him access to secrets not easily\nread by other men: his sagacity resembling that of the beaver and the\nbee, the dog and the deer; an instinct for seeing and judging, as by\nsome other or seventh sense, dealing with objects as if they were\nshooting forth from his own mind mythologically, thus completing Nature\nall round to his senses, and a creation of his at the moment. I am sure\nhe knows the animals, one by one, and everything else knowable in our\ntown, and has named them rightly as Adam did in Paradise, if he be\nnot that ancestor himself. His works are pieces of exquisite sense,\ncelebrations of Nature's virginity, exemplified by rare learning and\noriginal observations. Persistently independent and manly, he criticizes\nmen and times largely, urging and defending his opinions with the spirit\nand pertinacity befitting a descendant of him of the Hammer. A head\nof mixed genealogy like his, Franco-Norman crossed by Scottish and\nNew-England descent, may be forgiven a few characteristic peculiarities\nand trenchant traits of thinking, amidst his great common sense and\nfidelity to the core of natural things. Seldom has a head circumscribed\nso much of the sense of Cosmos as this footed intelligence,--nothing\nless than all out-of-doors sufficing his genius and scopes, and, day by\nday, through all weeks and seasons, the year round.\n\nIf one would find the wealth of wit there is in this plain man, the\ninformation, the sagacity, the poetry, the piety, let him take a walk\nwith him, say of a winter's afternoon, to the Blue Water, or anywhere\nabout the outskirts of his village-residence. Pagan as he shall\noutwardly appear, yet he soon shall be seen to be the hearty worshipper\nof whatsoever is sound and wholesome in Nature,--a piece of russet\nprobity and sound sense that she delights to own and honor. His talk\nshall be suggestive, subtile, and sincere, under as many masks and\nmimicries as the shows he passes, and as significant,--Nature choosing\nto speak through her chosen mouth-piece,--cynically, perhaps, sometimes,\nand searching into the marrows of men and times he chances to speak of,\nto his discomfort mostly, and avoidance. Nature, poetry, life,--not\npolitics, not strict science, not society as it is,--are his preferred\nthemes: the new Pantheon, probably, before he gets far, to the naming of\nthe gods some coming Angelo, some Pliny, is to paint and describe. The\nworld is holy, the things seen symbolizing the Unseen, and worthy of\nworship so, the Zoroastrian rites most becoming a nature so fine as ours\nin this thin newness, this worship being so sensible, so promotive of\npossible pieties,--calling us out of doors and under the firmament,\nwhere health and wholesomeness are finely insinuated into our\nsouls,--not as idolaters, but as idealists, the seekers of the Unseen\nthrough images of the Invisible.\n\nI think his religion of the most primitive type, and inclusive of all\nnatural creatures and things, even to \"the sparrow that falls to the\nground,\"--though never by shot of his,--and, for whatsoever is manly\nin man, his worship may compare with that of the priests and heroes\nof pagan times. Nor is he false to these traits under any\nguise,--worshipping at unbloody altars, a favorite of the Unseen,\nWisest, and Best. Certainly he is better poised and more nearly\nself-reliant than other men.\n\nPerhaps he deals best with matter, properly, though very adroitly with\nmind, with persons, as he knows them best, and sees them from Nature's\ncircle, wherein he dwells habitually. I should say he inspired the\nsentiment of love, if, indeed, the sentiment he awakens did not seem to\npartake of a yet purer sentiment, were that possible,--but nameless from\nits excellency. Friendly he is, and holds his friends by bearings as\nstrict in their tenderness and consideration as are the laws of his\nthinking,--as prompt and kindly equitable,--neighborly always, and as\napt for occasions as he is strenuous against meddling with others in\nthings not his.\n\nI know of nothing more creditable to his greatness than the thoughtful\nregard, approaching to reverence, by which he has held for many years\nsome of the best persons of his time, living at a distance, and wont\nto make their annual pilgrimage, usually on foot, to the master,--a\ndevotion very rare in these times of personal indifference, if not of\nconfessed unbelief in persons and ideas.\n\nHe has been less of a housekeeper than most, has harvested more wind and\nstorm, sun and sky; abroad night and day with his leash of keen scents,\nbounding any game stirring, and running it down, for certain, to be\nspread on the dresser of his page, and served as a feast to the sound\nintelligences, before he has done with it. We have been accustomed to\nconsider him the salt of things so long that they must lose their savor\nwithout his to season them. And when he goes hence, then Pan is dead,\nand Nature ailing throughout.\n\nHis friend sings him thus, with the advantages of his Walden to show him\nin Nature:--\n\n  \"It is not far beyond the Village church,\n  After we pass the wood that skirts the road,\n  A Lake,--the blue-eyed Walden, that doth smile\n  Most tenderly upon its neighbor Pines;\n  And they, as if to recompense this love,\n  In double beauty spread their branches forth.\n  This Lake has tranquil loveliness and breadth,\n  And, of late years, has added to its charms;\n  For one attracted to its pleasant edge\n  Has built himself a little Hermitage,\n  Where with much piety he passes life.\n\n  \"More fitting place I cannot fancy now,\n  For such a man to let the line run off\n  The mortal reel,--such patience hath the Lake,\n  Such gratitude and cheer is in the Pines.\n  But more than either lake or forest's depths\n  This man has in himself: a tranquil man,\n  With sunny sides where well the fruit is ripe,\n  Good front and resolute bearing to this life,\n  And some serener virtues, which control\n  This rich exterior prudence,--virtues high,\n  That in the principles of Things are set,\n  Great by their nature, and consigned to him,\n  Who, like a faithful Merchant, does account\n  To God for what he spends, and in what way.\n  Thrice happy art thou, Walden, in thyself!\n  Such purity is in thy limpid springs,--\n  In those green shores which do reflect in thee,\n  And in this man who dwells upon thy edge,\n  A holy man within a Hermitage.\n  May all good showers fall gently into thee,\n  May thy surrounding forests long be spared,\n  And may the Dweller on thy tranquil marge\n  There lead a life of deep tranquillity,\n  Pure as thy Waters, handsome as thy Shores,\n  And with those virtues which are like the Stars!\"\n\n\n\n\nMETHODS OF STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY.\n\n\nVII.\n\n\nI come now to an obscure part of my subject, very difficult to present\nin a popular form, and yet so important in the scientific investigations\nof our day that I cannot omit it entirely. I allude to what are called\nby naturalists Collateral Series or Parallel Types. These are by\nno means difficult to trace, because they are connected by seeming\nresemblances, which, though very likely to mislead and perplex the\nobserver, yet naturally suggest the association of such groups. Let me\nintroduce the subject with the statement of some facts.\n\nThere are in Australia numerous Mammalia, occupying the same relation\nand answering the same purposes as the Mammalia of other countries. Some\nof them are domesticated by the natives, and serve them with meat, milk,\nwool, as our domesticated animals serve us. Representatives of almost\nall types, Wolves, Foxes, Sloths, Bears, Weasels, Martens, Squirrels,\nRats, etc., are found there; and yet, though all these animals resemble\nours so closely that the English settlers have called many of them by\nthe same names, there are no genuine Wolves, Foxes, Sloths, Bears,\nWeasels, Martens, Squirrels, or Rats in Australia. The Australian\nMammalia are peculiar to the region where they are found, and are all\nlinked together by two remarkable structural features which distinguish\nthem from all other Mammalia and unite them under one head as the\nso-called Marsupials. They bring forth their young in an imperfect\ncondition, and transfer them to a pouch, where they remain attached to\nthe teats of the mother till their development is as far advanced as\nthat of other Mammalia at the time of their birth; and they are further\ncharacterized by an absence of that combination of transverse fibres\nforming the large bridge which unites the two hemispheres of the brain\nin all the other members of their class. Here, then, is a series of\nanimals parallel with ours, separated from them by anatomical features,\nbut so united with them by form and external features that many among\nthem have been at first associated together.\n\nThis is what Cuvier has called subordination of characters,\ndistinguishing between characters that control the organization and\nthose that are not essentially connected with it. The skill of the\nnaturalist consists in detecting the difference between the two, so\nthat he may not take the more superficial features as the basis of his\nclassification, instead of those important ones which, though often less\neasily recognized, are more deeply rooted in the organization. It is a\ndifference of the same nature as that between affinity and analogy, to\nwhich I have alluded before, when speaking of the ingrafting of certain\nfeatures of one type upon animals of another type, thus producing a\nsuperficial resemblance, not truly characteristic. In the Reptiles, for\ninstance, there are two groups,--those devoid of scales, with naked\nskin, laying numerous eggs, but hatching their young in an imperfect\nstate, and the Scaly Reptiles, which lay comparatively few eggs, but\nwhose young, when hatched, are completely developed, and undergo no\nsubsequent metamorphosis. Yet, notwithstanding this difference in\nessential features of structure, and in the mode of reproduction and\ndevelopment, there is such an external resemblance between certain\nanimals belonging to the two groups that they were associated together\neven by so eminent a naturalist as Linnaeus. Compare, for instance, the\nSerpents among the Scaly Reptiles with the Caecilians among the Naked\nReptiles. They have the same elongated form, and are both destitute\nof limbs; the head in both is on a level with the body, without any\ncontraction behind it, such as marks the neck in the higher Reptiles,\nand moves only by the action of the back-bone; they are singularly alike\nin their external features, but the young of the Serpent are hatched in\na mature condition, while the young of the type to which the Caecilians\nbelong undergo a succession of metamorphoses before attaining to a\nresemblance to the parent. Or compare the Lizard and the Salamander, in\nwhich the likeness is perhaps even more striking; for any inexperienced\nobserver would mistake one for the other. Both are superior to the\nSerpents and Caecilians, for in them the head moves freely on the neck\nand they creep on short imperfect legs. But the Lizard is clothed with\nscales, while the body of the Salamander is naked, and the young of\nthe former is complete when hatched, while the Tadpole born from the\nSalamander has a life of its own to live, with certain changes to pass\nthrough before it assumes its mature condition; during the early part of\nits life it is even destitute of legs, and has gills like the Fishes.\nAbove the Lizards and Salamanders, highest in the class of Reptiles,\nstand two other collateral types,--the Turtles at the head of the Scaly\nReptiles, the Toads and Frogs at the Lead of the Naked Reptiles. The\nexternal likeness between these two groups is perhaps less striking than\nbetween those mentioned above, on account of the large shield of the\nTurtle. But there are Turtles with a soft covering, and there are some\nToads with a hard shield over the head and neck at least, and both\ngroups are alike distinguished by the shortness and breadth of the body\nand by the greater development of the limbs as compared with the lower\nReptiles. But here again there is the same essential difference in the\nmode of development of their young as distinguishes all the rest. The\ntwo series may thus be contrasted:--\n\n_Naked Reptiles_. Toads and Frogs, Salamanders, Caecilians.\n\n_Scaly Reptiles._ Turtles, Lizards, Serpents.\n\nSuch corresponding groups or parallel types, united only by external\nresemblance, and distinguished from each other by essential elements of\nstructure, exist among all animals, though they are less striking among\nBirds on account of the uniformity of that class. Yet even there we may\ntrace such analogies,--as between the Palmate or Aquatic Birds, for\ninstance, and the Birds of Prey, or between the Frigate Bird and the\nKites. Among Fishes such analogies are very common, often suggesting a\ncomparison even with land animals, though on account of the scales and\nspines of the former the likeness may not be easily traced. But the\ncommon names used by the fishermen often indicate these resemblances,\n--as, for instance, Sea-Vulture, Sea-Eagle, Cat-Fish, Flying-Fish,\nSea-Porcupine, Sea-Cow, Sea-Horse, and the like. In the branch of\nMollusks, also, the same superficial analogies are found. In the lowest\nclass of this division of the Animal Kingdom there is a group so similar\nto the Polyps, that, until recently, they have been associated with\nthem,--the Bryozoa. They are very small animals, allied to the Clams by\nthe plan of their structure, but they have a resemblance to the Polyps\non account of a radiating wreath of feelers around the upper part of\ntheir body: yet, when examined closely, this wreath is found to be\nincomplete; it does not, form a circle, but leaves an open space between\nthe two ends, where they approach each other, so that it has a horseshoe\noutline, and partakes of the bilateral symmetry characteristic of its\ntype and on which its own structure is based. These series have not yet\nbeen very carefully traced, and young naturalists should turn their\nattention to them, and be prepared to draw the nicest distinction\nbetween analogies and true affinities among animals.\n\n\nVIII.\n\n\nAfter this digression, let us proceed to a careful examination of the\nnatural groups of animals called Families by naturalists,--a subject\nalready briefly alluded to in a previous chapter. Families are natural\nassemblages of animals of less extent than Orders, but, like Orders,\nClasses, and Branches, founded upon certain categories of structure,\nwhich are as distinct for this kind of group as for all the other\ndivisions in the classification of the Animal Kingdom.\n\nThat we may understand the true meaning of these divisions, we must not\nbe misled by the name given by naturalists to this kind of group. Here,\nas in so many other instances, a word already familiar, and that had\nbecome, as it were, identified with the special sense in which it\nhad been used, has been adopted by science and has received a new\nsignification. When naturalists speak of Families among animals, they do\nnot allude to the progeny of a known stock, as we designate, in common\nparlance, the children or the descendants of known parents by the word\nfamily; they understand by Families natural groups of different kinds\nof animals, having no genetic relations so far as we know, but agreeing\nwith one another closely enough to leave the impression of a more\nor less remote common parentage. The difficulty here consists in\ndetermining the natural limits of such groups, and in tracing the\ncharacteristic features by which they may be defined; for individual\ninvestigators differ greatly as to the degree of resemblance existing\nbetween the members of many Families, and there is no kind of\ngroup which presents greater diversity of circumscription in the\nclassifications of animals proposed by different naturalists than these\nso-called Families.\n\nIt should be remembered, however, that, unless a sound criterion be\napplied to the limitation of Families, they, like all other groups\nintroduced into zo\u00f6logical systems, must forever remain arbitrary\ndivisions, as they have been hitherto. A retrospective glance at the\nprogress of our science during the past century, in this connection,\nmay perhaps help us to solve the difficulty. Linnaeus, in his System\nof Nature, does not admit Families; he has only four kinds of\ngroups,--Classes, Orders, Genera, and Species. It was among plants that\nnaturalists first perceived those general traits of resemblance which\nexist everywhere among the members of natural families, and added this\nkind of group to the framework of their system. In France, particularly,\nthis method was pursued with success; and the improvements thus\nintroduced by the French botanists were so great, and rendered their\nclassification so superior to that of Linnaeus, that the botanical\nsystems in which Families were introduced were called natural systems,\nin contradistinction especially to the botanical classification of\nLinnaeus, which was founded upon the organs of reproduction, and which\nreceived thenceforth the name of the sexual system of plants. The same\nmethod so successfully used by botanists was soon introduced\ninto Zo\u00f6logy by the French naturalists of the beginning of this\ncentury,--Lamarck, Latreille, and Cuvier. But, to this day, the\nlimitation of Families among animals has not yet reached the precision\nwhich it has among plants, and I see no other reason for the difference\nthan the absence of a leading principle to guide us in Zo\u00f6logy.\n\nFamilies, as they exist in Nature, are based upon peculiarities of form\nas related to structure; but though a very large number of them have\nbeen named and recorded, very few are characterized with anything like\nscientific accuracy. It has been a very simple matter to establish such\ngroups according to the superficial method that has been pursued, for\nthe fact that they are determined by external outline renders the\nrecognition of them easy and in many instances almost instinctive; but\nit is very difficult to characterize them, or, in other words, to trace\nthe connection between form and structure. Indeed, many naturalists do\nnot admit that Families are based upon form; and it was in trying to\naccount for the facility with which they detect these groups, while they\nfind it so difficult to characterize them, that I perceived that they\nare always associated with peculiarities of form. Naturalists have\nestablished Families simply by bringing together a number of animals\nresembling each other more or less closely, and, taking usually the name\nof the Genus to which the best known among them belongs, they have given\nit a patronymic termination to designate the Family, and allowed the\nmatter to rest there, sometimes without even attempting any description\ncorresponding to those by which Genus and Species are commonly defined.\n\nFor instance, from _Canis_, the Dog, _Canidae_ has been formed, to\ndesignate the whole Family of Dogs, Wolves, Foxes, etc. Nothing can be\nmore superficial than such a mode of classification; and if these\ngroups actually exist in Nature, they must be based, like all the other\ndivisions, upon some combination of structural characters peculiar to\nthem. We have seen that Branches are founded upon the general plan of\nstructure, Classes on the mode of executing the plan, Orders upon the\ngreater or less complication of a given mode of execution, and we shall\nfind that form, as _determined by structure_, characterizes Families. I\nwould call attention to this qualification of my definition; since, of\ncourse, when speaking of form in this connection, I do not mean those\nsuperficial resemblances in external features already alluded to in\nmy remarks upon Parallel or Collateral Types. I speak now of form as\ncontrolled by structural elements; and unless we analyze Families in\nthis way, the mere distinguishing and naming them does not advance our\nscience at all. Compare, for instance, the Dogs, the Seals, and the\nBears. These are all members of one Order,--that of the Carnivorous\nMammalia. Their dentition is peculiar and alike in all, (cutting teeth,\ncanine teeth, and grinders,) adapted for tearing and chewing their\nfood; and their internal structure bears a definite relation to their\ndentition. But look at these animals with reference to form. The Dog is\ncomparatively slender, with legs adapted for running and hunting his\nprey; the Bear is heavier, with shorter limbs; while the Seal has a\ncontinuous uniform outline adapted for swimming. They form separate\nFamilies, and are easily recognized as such by the difference in their\nexternal outline; but what is the anatomical difference which produces\nthe peculiarity of form in each, by which they have been thus\ndistinguished? It lies in the structure of the limbs, and especially in\nthat of the wrist and fingers. In the Seal the limbs are short, and the\nwrists are on one continuous line with them, so that it has no power of\nbending the wrist or the fingers, and the limbs, therefore, act like\nflappers or oars. The Bear has a well-developed paw with a flexible\nwrist, but it steps on the whole sole of the foot, from the wrist to the\ntip of the toe, giving it the heavy tread so characteristic of all the\nBears. The Dogs, on the contrary, walk on tip-toe, and their step,\nthough firm, is light, while the greater slenderness and flexibility of\ntheir legs add to their nimbleness and swiftness. By a more extensive\ninvestigation of the anatomical structure of the limbs in their\nconnection with the whole body, it could easily be shown that the\npeculiarity of form in these animals is essentially determined by, or at\nleast stands in the closest relation to, the peculiar structure of the\nwrist and fingers.\n\nTake the Family of Owls as distinguished from the Falcons, Kites, etc.\nHere the difference of form is in the position of the eyes. In the\nOwl, the sides of the head are prominent and the eye-socket is brought\nforward. In the Falcons and Kites, on the contrary, the sides of the\nhead are flattened and the eyes are set back. The difference in the\nappearance of the birds is evident to the most superficial observer; but\nto call the one Strigidae and the other Falconidae tells us nothing of\nthe anatomical peculiarities on which this difference is founded.\n\nThese few examples, selected purposely among closely allied and\nuniversally known animals, may be sufficient to show, that, beyond the\ngeneral complication of the structure which characterizes the Orders,\nthere is a more limited element in the organization of animals, bearing\nchiefly upon their form, which, if it have any general application as\na principle of classification, may well be considered as essentially\ncharacteristic of the Families. There are certainly closely allied\nnatural groups of animals, belonging to the same Order, but including\nmany Genera, which differ from each other chiefly in their form, while\nthat form is determined by peculiarities of structure which do not\ninfluence the general structural complication upon which Orders are\nbased, or relate to the minor details of structure on which Genera are\nfounded. I am therefore convinced that form is the criterion by which\nFamilies may be determined. The great facility with which animals may\nbe combined together in natural groups of this kind without any special\ninvestigation of their structure, a superficial method of classification\nin which zo\u00f6logists have lately indulged to a most unjustifiable degree,\nconvinces me that it is the similarity of form which has unconsciously\nled such shallow investigators to correct results, since upon close\nexamination it is found that a large number of the Families so\ndetermined, and to which no characters at all are assigned, nevertheless\nbear the severest criticism founded upon anatomical investigation.\n\nThe questions proposed to themselves by all students who would\ncharacterize Families should be these: What are, throughout the\nAnimal Kingdom, the peculiar patterns of form by which Families are\ndistinguished? and on what structural features are these patterns based?\nOnly the most patient investigations can give us the answer, and it will\nbe very long before we can write out the formulae of these patterns with\nmathematical precision, as I believe we shall be able to do in a more\nadvanced stage of our science. But while the work is in progress, it\nought to be remembered that a mere general similarity of outline is not\nyet in itself evidence of identity of form or pattern, and that, while\nseemingly very different forms may be derived from the same formula, the\nmost similar forms may belong to entirely different systems, when their\nderivation is properly traced. Our great mathematician, in a lecture\ndelivered at the Lowell Institute last winter, showed that in his\nscience, also, similarity of outline does not always indicate identity\nof character. Compare the different circles,--the perfect circle, in\nwhich every point of the periphery is at the same distance from the\ncentre, with an ellipse in which the variation from the true circle is\nso slight as to be almost imperceptible to the eye; yet the latter, like\nall ellipses, has its two _foci_ by which it differs from a circle,\nand to refer it to the family of circles instead of the family of\nellipses would be overlooking its true character on account of its\nexternal appearance; and yet ellipses may be so elongated, that, far\nfrom resembling a circle, they make the impression of parallel lines\nlinked at their extremities. Or we may have an elastic curve in which\nthe appearance of a circle is produced by the meeting of the two ends;\nnevertheless it belongs to the family of elastic curves, in which may\neven be included a line actually straight, and is formed by a process\nentirely different from that which produces the circle or the ellipse.\n\nBut it is sometimes exceedingly difficult to find the relation between\nstructure and form in Families, and I remember a case which I had taken\nas a test of the accuracy of the views I entertained upon this subject,\nand which perplexed and baffled me for years. It was that of our\nfresh-water Mussels, the Family of Unios. There is a great variety of\noutline among them,--some being oblong and very slender, others broad\nwith seemingly square outlines, others having a nearly triangular form,\nwhile others again are almost circular; and I could not detect among\nthem all any feature of form that was connected with any essential\nelement of their structure. At last, however, I found this\ntest-character, and since that time I have had no doubt left in my mind\nthat form, determined by structure, is the true criterion of Families.\nIn the Unios it consists of the rounded outline of the anterior end of\nthe body reflected in a more or less open curve of the shell, bending\nmore abruptly along the lower side with an inflection followed by a\nbulging, corresponding to the most prominent part of the gills, to which\nalone, in a large number of American Species of this Family, the eggs\nare transferred, giving to this part of the shell a prominence which it\nhas not in any of the European Species. At the posterior end of the body\nthis curve then bends upwards and backwards again, the outline meeting\nthe side occupied by the hinge and ligament, which, when very short, may\ndetermine a triangular form of the whole shell, or, when equal to the\nlower side and connected with a great height of the body, gives it a\nquadrangular form, or, if the height is reduced, produces an elongated\nform, or, finally, a rounded form, if the passage from one side to the\nother is gradual. A comparison of the position of the internal organs of\ndifferent Species of Unios with the outlines of their shells will leave\nno doubt that their form is determined by the structure of the animal.\n\nA few other and more familiar examples may complete this discussion.\nAmong Climbing Birds, for instance, which are held together as a\nmore comprehensive group by the structure of their feet and by other\nanatomical features, there are two Families so widely different in\ntheir form that they may well serve as examples of this principle. The\nWoodpeckers (_Picidae_) and the Parrots (_Psittacidae_), once considered\nas two Genera only, have both been subdivided, in consequence of a more\nintimate knowledge of their generic characters, into a large number of\nGenera; but all the Genera of Woodpeckers and all the Genera of the\nParrots are still held together by their form as Families, corresponding\nas such to the two old Genera of _Picus_ and _Psittacus_. They are now\nknown as the Families of Woodpeckers and Parrots; and though each group\nincludes a number of Genera combined upon a variety of details in the\nfinish of special parts of the structure, such as the number of toes,\nthe peculiarities of the bill, etc., it is impossible to overlook the\npeculiar form which is characteristic of each. No one who is familiar\nwith the outline of the Parrot will fail to recognize any member of\nthat Family by a general form which is equally common to the diminutive\nNonpareil, the gorgeous Ara, and the high-crested Cockatoo. Neither will\nany one, who has ever observed the small head, the straight bill, the\nflat back, and stiff tail of the Woodpecker, hesitate to identify the\nfamily form in any of the numerous Genera into which this group is now\ndivided. The family characters are even more invariable than the generic\nones; for there are Woodpeckers which, instead of the four toes, two\nturning forward and two backward, which form an essential generic\ncharacter, have three toes only, while the family form is always\nmaintained, whatever variations there may be in the characters of the\nmore limited groups it includes.\n\nThe Turtles and Terrapins form another good illustration of family\ncharacters. They constitute together a natural Order, but are\ndistinguished from each other as two Families very distinct in general\nform and outline. Among Fishes I may mention the Family of Pickerels,\nwith their flat, long snout, and slender, almost cylindrical body, as\ncontrasted with the plump, compressed body and tapering tail of the\nTrout Family. Or compare, among Insects, the Hawk-Moths with the Diurnal\nButterfly, or with the so-called Miller,--or, among Crustacea, the\ncommon Crab with the Sea-Spider, or the Lobsters with the Shrimps,--or,\namong Worms, the Leeches with the Earth-Worms,--or, among Mollusks,\nthe Squids with the Cuttle-Fishes, or the Snails with the Slugs, or the\nPeriwinkles with the Limpets and Conchs, or the Clam with the so-called\nVenus, or the Oyster with the Mother-of-Pearl shell,--everywhere,\nthroughout the Animal Kingdom, difference of form points at difference\nof Families.\n\nThere is a chapter in the Natural History of Animals that has hardly\nbeen touched upon as yet, and that will be especially interesting with\nreference to Families. The voices of animals have a family character not\nto be mistaken. All the Canidae bark and howl: the Fox, the Wolf, the\nDog have the same kind of utterance, though on a somewhat different\npitch. All the Bears growl, from the White Bear of the Arctic snows to\nthe small Black Bear of the Andes. All the Cats _miau_, from our quiet\nfireside companion to the Lions and Tigers and Panthers of the forest\nand jungle. This last may seem a strange assertion; but to any one who\nhas listened critically to their sounds and analyzed their voices,\nthe roar of the Lion is but a gigantic _miau_, bearing about the same\nproportion to that of a Cat as its stately and majestic form does to the\nsmaller, softer, more peaceful aspect of the Cat. Yet, notwithstanding\nthe difference in their size, who can look at the Lion, whether in his\nmore sleepy mood as he lies curled up in the corner of his cage, or in\nhis fiercer moments of hunger or of rage, without being reminded of a\nCat? And this is not merely the resemblance of one carnivorous animal to\nanother; for no one was ever reminded of a Dog or Wolf by a Lion. Again,\nall the Horses and Donkeys neigh; for the bray of the Donkey is only a\nharsher neigh, pitched on a different key, it is true, but a sound of\nthe same character,--as the Donkey himself is but a clumsy and dwarfish\nHorse. All the Cows low, from the Buffalo roaming the prairie, the\nMusk-Ox of the Arctic ice-fields, or the Jack of Asia, to the Cattle\nfeeding in our pastures. Among the Birds, this similarity of voice in\nFamilies is still more marked. We need only recall the harsh and noisy\nParrots, so similar in their peculiar utterance. Or take as an example\nthe web-footed Family,--do not all the Geese and the innumerable host\nof Ducks quack? Does not every member of the Crow Family caw, whether it\nbe the Jackdaw, the Jay, the Magpie, the Rook in some green rookery of\nthe Old World, or the Crow of our woods, with its long, melancholy caw\nthat seems to make the silence and solitude deeper? Compare all the\nsweet warblers of the Songster Family,--the Nightingales, the Thrushes,\nthe Mocking-Birds, the Robins; they differ in the greater or less\nperfection of their note, but the same kind of voice runs through the\nwhole group. These affinities of the vocal systems among animals form a\nsubject well worthy of the deepest study, not only as another character\nby which to classify the Animal Kingdom correctly, but as bearing\nindirectly also on the question of the origin of animals. Can we suppose\nthat characteristics like these have been communicated from one animal\nto another? When we find that all the members of one zoological Family,\nhowever widely scattered over the surface of the earth, inhabiting\ndifferent continents and even different hemispheres, speak with one\nvoice, must we not believe that they have originated in the places where\nthey now occur with all their distinctive peculiarities? Who taught the\nAmerican Thrush to sing like his European relative? He surely did not\nlearn it from his cousin over the waters. Those who would have us\nbelieve that all animals have originated from common centres and single\npairs, and have been distributed from such common centres over the\nworld, will find it difficult to explain the tenacity of such characters\nand their recurrence and repetition under circumstances that seem to\npreclude the possibility of any communication, on any other supposition\nthan that of their creation in the different regions where they are now\nfound. We have much yet to learn in this kind of investigation, with\nreference not only to Families among animals, but to nationalities among\nmen also. I trust that the nature of languages will teach us as much\nabout the origin of the races as the vocal systems of the animals may\none day teach us about the origin of the different groups of animals.\nAt all events, similarity of vocal utterance among animals is not\nindicative of identity of Species; I doubt, therefore, whether\nsimilarity of speech proves community of origin among men.\n\nThe similarity of motion in Families is another subject well worth the\nconsideration of the naturalist: the soaring of the Birds of Prey,--the\nheavy flapping of the wings in the Gallinaceous Birds,--the floating of\nthe Swallows, with their short cuts and angular turns,--the hopping\nof the Sparrows,--the deliberate walk of the Hens and the strut of the\nCocks,--the waddle of the Ducks and Geese,--the slow, heavy creeping\nof the Land-Turtle,--the graceful flight of the Sea-Turtle under the\nwater,--the leaping and swimming of the Frog,--the swift run of the\nLizard, like a flash of green or red light in the sunshine,--the\nlateral undulation of the Serpent,--the dart of the Pickerel,--the\nleap of the Trout,--the rush of the Hawk-Moth through the air,--the\nfluttering flight of the Butterfly,--the quivering poise of the\nHumming-Bird,--the arrow-like shooting of the Squid through the water,\n--the slow crawling of the Snail on the land,--the sideway movement\nof the Sand-Crab,--the backward walk of the Crawfish,--the almost\nimperceptible gliding of the Sea-Anemone over the rock,--the graceful,\nrapid motion of the Pleurobrachia, with its endless change of curve and\nspiral. In short, every Family of animals has its characteristic action\nand its peculiar voice; and yet so little is this endless variety\nof rhythm and cadence both of motion and sound in the organic world\nunderstood, that we lack words to express one-half its richness and\nbeauty.\n\n\nIX.\n\n\nThe well-known meaning of the words _generic_ and _specific_ may serve,\nin the absence of a more precise definition, to express the relative\nimportance of those groups of animals called Genera and Species in our\nscientific systems. The Genus is the more comprehensive of the two kinds\nof groups, while the Species is the most precisely defined, or at least\nthe most easily recognized, of all the divisions of the Animal Kingdom.\nBut neither the term Genus nor Species has always been taken in the same\nsense. Genus especially has varied in its acceptation, from the time\nwhen Aristotle applied it indiscriminately to any kind of comprehensive\ngroup, from the Classes down to what we commonly call Genera, till the\npresent day. But we have already seen, that, instead of calling all the\nvarious kinds of more comprehensive divisions by the name of Genera,\nmodern science has applied special names to each of them, and we have\nnow Families, Orders, Classes, and Branches above Genera proper. If\nthe foregoing discussion upon the nature of these groups is based upon\ntrustworthy principles, we must admit that they are all founded upon\ndistinct categories of characters,--the primary divisions, or the\nBranches, on plan of structure, the Classes upon the manner of its\nexecution, the Orders upon the greater or less complication of a given\nmode of execution, the Families upon form; and it now remains to be\nascertained whether Genera also exist in Nature, and by what kind of\ncharacteristics they may be distinguished. Taking the practice of the\nablest naturalists in discriminating Genera as a guide in our estimation\nof their true nature, we must, nevertheless, remember that even now,\nwhile their classifications of the more comprehensive groups usually\nagree, they differ greatly in their limitation of Genera, so that the\nGenera of some authors correspond to the Families of others, and vice\nversa. This undoubtedly arises from the absence of a definite standard\nfor the estimation of these divisions. But the different categories of\nstructure which form the distinctive criteria of the more comprehensive\ndivisions once established, the question is narrowed down to an inquiry\ninto the special category upon which Genera may be determined; and if\nthis can be accurately defined, no difference of opinion need interfere\nhereafter with their uniform limitation. Considering all these divisions\nof the Animal Kingdom from this point of view, it is evident that the\nmore comprehensive ones must be those which are based on the broadest\ncharacters,--Branches, as united upon plan of structure, standing of\ncourse at the head; next to these the Classes, since the general mode\nof executing the plan presents a wider category of characters than\nthe complication of structure on which Orders rest; after Orders come\nFamilies, or the patterns of form in which these greater or less\ncomplications of structure are clothed; and proceeding in the same way\nfrom more general to more special considerations, we can have no other\ncategory of structure as characteristic of Genera than the details of\nstructure by which members of the same Family may differ from each\nother, and this I consider as the only true basis on which to limit\nGenera, while it is at the same time in perfect accordance with the\npractice of the most eminent modern zoologists. It is in this way that\nCuvier has distinguished the large number of Genera he has characterized\nin his great Natural History of the Fishes, in connection with\nValenciennes. Latreille has done the same for the Crustacea and Insects;\nand Milne Edwards, with the co\u00f6peration of Haime, has recently proceeded\nupon the same principle in characterizing a great number of Genera among\nthe Corals. Many others have followed this example, but few have kept\nin view the necessity of a uniform mode of proceeding, or, if they have\ndone their researches have covered too limited a ground, to be taken\ninto consideration in a discussion of principles. It is, in fact, only\nwhen extending over a whole Class that the study of Genera acquires a\ntruly scientific importance, as it then shows in a connected manner, in\nwhat way, by what features, and to what extent a large number of animals\nare closely linked together in Nature. Considering the Animal Kingdom as\na single complete work of one Creative Intellect, consistent throughout,\nsuch keen analysis and close criticism of all its parts have the same\nkind of interest, in a higher degree, as that which attaches to other\nstudies undertaken in the spirit of careful comparative research.\nThese different categories of characters are, as it were, different\npeculiarities of style in the author, different modes of treating the\nsame material, new combinations of evidence bearing on the same general\nprinciples. The study of Genera is a department of Natural History which\nthus far has received too little attention even at the hands of our best\nzoologists, and has been treated in the most arbitrary manner; it\nshould henceforth be made a philosophical investigation into the closer\naffinities which naturally bind in minor groups all the representatives\nof a natural Family.\n\nGenera, then, are groups of a more restricted character than any of\nthose we have examined thus far. Some of them include only one Species,\nwhile others comprise hundreds; since certain definite combinations of\ncharacters may be limited to a single Species, while other combinations\nmay be repeated in many. We have striking examples of this among Birds:\nthe Ostrich stands alone in its Genus, while the number of Species among\nthe Warblers is very great. Among Mammalia the Giraffe also stands\nalone, while Mice and Squirrels include many Species. Genera are\nfounded, not, as we have seen, on general structural characters, but on\nthe finish of special parts, as, for instance, on the dentition. The\nCats have only four grinders in the upper jaw and three in the lower,\nwhile the Hyenas have one more above and below, and the Dogs and Wolves\nhave two more above and two more below. In the last, some of the teeth\nhave also flat surfaces for crushing the food, adapted especially to\ntheir habits, since they live on vegetable as well as animal substances.\nThe formation of the claws is another generic feature. There is a\ncurious example with reference to this in the Cheetah, which is again\na Genus containing only one Species. It belongs to the Cat Family,\nbut differs from ordinary Lions and Tigers in having its claws so\nconstructed that it cannot draw them back under the paws, though in\nevery other respect they are like the claws of all the Cats. But while\nit has the Cat-like claw, its paws are like those of the Dog, and this\nsingular combination of features is in direct relation to its habits,\nfor it does not lie in wait and spring upon its prey like the Cat, but\nhunts it like the Dog.\n\nWhile Genera themselves are, like Families, easily distinguished, the\ncharacters on which they are founded, like those of Families, are\ndifficult to trace. There are often features belonging to these groups\nwhich attract the attention and suggest their association, though they\nare not those which may be truly considered generic characters. It is\neasy to distinguish the Genus Fox, for instance, by its bushy tail, and\nyet that is no true generic character; the collar of feathers round the\nneck of the Vultures leads us at once to separate them from the Eagles,\nbut it is not the collar that truly marks the Genus, but rather the\npeculiar structure of the feathers which form it. No Bird has a more\nstriking plumage than the Peacock, but it is not the appearance merely\nof its crest and spreading fan that constitutes a Genus, but the\npeculiar structure of the feathers. Thousands of examples might be\nquoted to show how easily Genera may be singled out, named, and entered\nin our systems, without being duly characterized, and it is much to be\nlamented that there is no possibility of checking the loose work of this\nkind with which the annals of our science are daily flooded.\n\nIt would, of course, be quite inappropriate to present here any\ngeneral revision of these groups; but I may present a few instances to\nillustrate the principle of their classification, and to show on what\ncharacters they are properly based. Among Reptiles, we find, for\ninstance, that the Genera of our fresh-water Turtles differ from each\nother in the cut of their bill, in the arrangement of their scales,\nin the form of their claws, etc. Among Fishes, the different Genera\nincluded under the Family of Perches are distinguished by the\narrangement of their teeth, by the serratures of their gill-covers, and\nof the arch to which the pectoral fins are attached, by the nature and\ncombination of the rays of their fins, by the structure of their scales,\netc. Among Insects, the various Genera of the Butterflies differ in the\ncombination of the little rods which sustain their wings, in the form\nand structure of their antennae, of their feet, of the minute scales\nwhich cover their wings, etc. Among Crustacea, the Genera of Shrimps\nvary in the form of the claws, in the structure of the parts of the\nmouth, in the articulations of their feelers, etc. Among Worms, the\ndifferent Genera of the Leech Family are combined upon the form of the\ndisks by which they attach themselves, upon the number and arrangement\nof their eyes, upon the structure of the hard parts with which the mouth\nis armed, etc. Among Cephalopods, the Family of Squids contains several\nGenera distinguished by the structure of the solid shield within the\nskin of the back, by the form and connection of their fins, by the\nstructure of the suckers with which their arms are provided, by the\nform of their beak, etc. In every Class, we find throughout the Animal\nKingdom that there is no sound basis for the discrimination of Genera\nexcept the details of their structure; but in order to define them\naccurately an extensive comparison of them is indispensable, and in\ncharacterizing them only such features should be enumerated as are truly\ngeneric; whereas in the present superficial method of describing them,\nfeatures are frequently introduced which belong not only to the whole\nFamily, but even to the whole Class which includes them.\n\n\nX.\n\n\nThere remains but one more division of the Animal Kingdom for our\nconsideration, the most limited of all in its circumscription,--that\nof Species. It is with the study of this kind of group that naturalists\ngenerally begin their investigations. I believe, however, that the study\nof Species as the basis of a scientific education is a great mistake.\nIt leads us to overrate the value of Species, and to believe that they\nexist in Nature in some different sense from other groups; as if there\nwere something more real and tangible in Species than in Genera,\nFamilies, Orders, Classes, or Branches. The truth is, that to study a\nvast number of Species without tracing the principles that combine\nthem under more comprehensive groups is only to burden the mind with\ndisconnected facts, and more may be learned by a faithful and careful\ncomparison of a few Species than by a more cursory examination of a\ngreater number. When one considers the immense number of Species already\nknown, naturalists might well despair of becoming acquainted with them\nall, were they not constructed on a few fundamental patterns, so that\nthe study of one Species teaches us a great deal for all the rest. De\nCandolle, who was at the same time a great botanist and a great teacher,\ntold me once that he could undertake to illustrate the fundamental\nprinciples of his science with the aid of a dozen plants judiciously\nselected, and that it was his unvarying practice to induce students to\nmake a thorough study of a few minor groups of plants, in all their\nrelations to one another, rather than to attempt to gain a superficial\nacquaintance with a large number of species. The powerful influence he\nhas had upon the progress of Botany vouches for the correctness of his\nviews. Indeed, every profound scholar knows that sound learning can be\nattained only by this method, and the study of Nature makes no exception\nto the rule. I would therefore advise every student to select a few\nrepresentatives from all the Classes, and to study these not only with\nreference to their specific characters, but as members also of a Genus,\nof a Family, of an Order, of a Class, and of a Branch. He will soon\nconvince himself that Species have no more definite and real existence\nin Nature than all the other divisions of the Animal Kingdom, and that\nevery animal is the representative of its Branch, Class, Order, Family,\nand Genus as much as of its Species, Specific characters are only\nthose determining size, proportion, color, habits, and relations to\nsurrounding circumstances and external objects. How superficial, then,\nmust be any one's knowledge of an animal who studies it only with\nrelation to its specific characters! He will know nothing of the finish\nof special parts of the body,--nothing of the relations between its\nform and its structure,--nothing of the relative complication of its\norganization as compared with other allied animals,--nothing of the\ngeneral mode of execution,--nothing of the plan expressed in that mode\nof execution. Yet, with the exception of the ordinal characters, which,\nsince they imply relative superiority and inferiority, require, of\ncourse, a number of specimens for comparison, his one animal would tell\nhim all this as well as the specific characters.\n\nAll the more comprehensive groups, equally with Species, have a\npositive, permanent, specific principle, maintained generation after\ngeneration with all its essential characteristics. Individuals are\nthe transient representatives of all these organic principles, which\ncertainly have an independent, immaterial existence, since they outlive\nthe individuals that embody them, and are no less real after the\ngeneration that has represented them for a time has passed away than\nthey were before.\n\nFrom a comparison of a number of well-known Species belonging to a\nnatural Genus, it is not difficult to ascertain what are essentially\nspecific characters. There is hardly among Mammalia a more natural Genus\nthan that which includes the Rabbits and Hares, or that to which the\nRats and Mice are referred. Let us see how the different Species differ\nfrom one another. Though we give two names in the vernacular to\nthe Genus Hare, both Hares and Rabbits agree in all the structural\npeculiarities which constitute a Genus; but the different Species are\ndistinguished by their absolute size when full-grown,--by the nature and\ncolor of their fur,--by the size and form of the ear,--by the relative\nlength of their legs and tail,--by the more or less slender build of\ntheir whole body,--by their habits, some living in open grounds,\nothers among the bushes, others in swamps, others burrowing under the\nearth,--by the number of young they bring forth,--by their different\nseasons of breeding,--and by still minor differences, such as the\npermanent color of the hair throughout the year in some, while in others\nit turns white in winter. The Rats and Mice differ in a similar way:\nthere being large and small Species,--some gray, some brown, others\nrust-colored,--some with soft, others with coarse hair; they differ also\nin the length of the tail, and in having it more or less covered with\nhair,--in the cut of the ears, and their size,--in the length of\ntheir limbs, which are slender and long in some, short and thick in\nothers,--in their various ways of living,--in the different substances\non which they feed,--and also in their distribution over the surface\nof the earth, whether circumscribed within certain limited areas\nor scattered over a wider range. What is now the nature of these\ndifferences by which we distinguish Species? They are totally distinct\nfrom any of the categories on which Genera, Families, Orders, Classes,\nor Branches are founded, and may readily be reduced to a few heads. They\nare differences in the proportion of the parts and in the absolute size\nof the whole animal, in the color and general ornamentation of the\nsurface of the body, and in the relations of the individuals to one\nanother and to the world around. A farther analysis of other Genera\nwould show us that among Birds, Reptiles, Fishes, and, in fact,\nthroughout the Animal Kingdom, Species of well-defined natural Genera\ndiffer in the same way. We are therefore justified in saying that the\ncategory of characters on which Species are based implies no structural\ndifferences, but presents the same structure combined under certain\nminor differences of size, proportion, and habits. All the specific\ncharacters stand in direct reference to the generic structure, the\nfamily form, the ordinal complication of structure, the mode of\nexecution of the Class, and the plan of structure of the Branch, all of\nwhich are embodied in the frame of each individual in each Species, even\nthough all these individuals are constantly dying away and reproducing\nothers; so that the specific characters have no more permanency in the\nindividuals than those which characterize the Genus, the Family, the\nOrder, the Class, and the Branch. I believe, therefore, that naturalists\nhave been entirely wrong in considering the more comprehensive groups\nto be theoretical and in a measure arbitrary, an attempt, that is, of\ncertain men to classify the Animal Kingdom according to their individual\nviews, while they have ascribed to Species, as contrasted with the other\ndivisions, a more positive existence in Nature. No further argument\nis needed to show that it is not only the Species that lives in the\nindividual, but that every individual, though belonging to a distinct\nSpecies, is built upon a precise and definite plan which characterizes\nits Branch,--that that plan is executed in each individual in a\nparticular way which characterizes its Class,--that every individual\nwith its kindred occupies a definite position in a series of structural\ncomplications which characterizes its Order,--that in every individual\nall these structural features are combined under a definite pattern of\nform which characterizes its Family,--that every individual exhibits\nstructural details in the finish of its parts which characterize its\nGenus,--and finally that every individual presents certain peculiarities\nin the proportion of its parts, in its color, in its size, in its\nrelations to its fellow-beings and surrounding things, which constitute\nits specific characters; and all this is repeated in the same kind of\ncombination, generation after generation, while the individuals die.\nIf we accept these propositions, which seem to me self-evident, it is\nimpossible to avoid the conclusion that Species do not exist in Nature\nin any other sense than the more comprehensive groups of the zoological\nsystems.\n\nThere is one question respecting Species that gives rise to very earnest\ndiscussions in our day, not only among naturalists, but among all\nthinking people. How far are they permanent, and how far mutable? With\nreference to the permanence of Species, there is much to be learned from\nthe geological phenomena that belong to our own period, and that bear\nwitness to the invariability of types during hundreds of thousands of\nyears at least. I hope to present a part of this evidence in a future\narticle upon Coral Reefs, but in the mean time I cannot leave this\nsubject without touching upon a point of which great use has been made\nin recent discussions. I refer to the variability of Species as shown in\ndomestication.\n\nThe domesticated animals with their numerous breeds are constantly\nadduced as evidence of the changes which animals may undergo, and as\nfurnishing hints respecting the way in which the diversity now observed\namong animals has already been produced. It is my conviction that such\ninferences are in no way sustained by the facts of the case, and that,\nhowever striking the differences may be between the breeds of our\ndomesticated animals, as compared with the wild Species of the same\nGenus, they are of a peculiar character entirely distinct from those\nthat prevail among the latter, and are altogether incident to the\ncircumstances under which they occur. By this I do not mean the natural\naction of physical conditions, but the more or less intelligent\ndirection of the circumstances under which they live. The inference\ndrawn from the varieties introduced among animals in a state of\ndomestication, with reference to the origin of Species, is usually this:\nthat what the farmer does on a small scale Nature may do on a large one.\nIt is true that man has been able to produce certain changes in the\nanimals under his care, and that these changes have resulted in a\nvariety of breeds. But in doing this, he has, in my estimation, in no\nway altered the character of the Species, but has only developed its\npliability to the will of man, that is, to a power similar in its\nnature and mode of action to that power to which animals owe their very\nexistence. The influence of man upon Animals is, in other words, the\naction of mind upon them; and yet the ordinary mode of arguing upon\nthis subject is, that, because the intelligence of man has been able to\nproduce certain varieties in domesticated animals, therefore physical\ncauses have produced all the diversities among wild ones. Surely, the\nsounder logic would be to infer, that, because our finite intelligence\ncan cause the original pattern to vary by some slight shades of\ndifference, therefore an infinite intelligence must have established\nall the boundless diversity of which our boasted varieties are but the\nfaintest echo. It is the most intelligent farmer that has the greatest\nsuccess in improving his breeds; and if the animals he has so fostered\nare left to themselves without that intelligent care, they return\nto their normal condition. So with plants: the shrewd, observing,\nthoughtful gardener will obtain many varieties from his flowers; but\nthose varieties will fade out, if left to themselves. There is, as it\nwere, a certain degree of pliability and docility in the organization\nboth of animals and plants, which may be developed by the fostering care\nof man, and within which he can exercise a certain influence; but the\nvariations which he thus produces are of a peculiar kind, and do not\ncorrespond to the differences of the wild Species. Let us take some\nexamples to illustrate this assertion.\n\nEvery Species of wild Bull differs from the others in its size; but\nall the individuals correspond to the average standard of size\ncharacteristic of their respective Species, and show none of those\nextreme differences of size so remarkable among our domesticated\nCattle. Every Species of wild Bull has its peculiar color, and all the\nindividuals of one Species share in it: not so with our domesticated\nCattle, among which every individual may differ in color from every\nother. All the individuals of the same Species of wild Bull agree in the\nproportion of their parts, in the mode of growth of the hair, in its\nquality, whether fine or soft: not so with our domesticated Cattle,\namong which we find in the same Species overgrown and dwarfish\nindividuals, those with long and short legs, with slender and stout\nbuild of the body, with horns or without, as well as the greatest\nvariety in the mode of twisting the horns,--in short, the widest\nextremes of development which the degree of pliability in that Species\nwill allow.\n\nA curious instance of the power of man, not only in developing the\npliability of an animal's organization, but in adapting it to suit his\nown caprices, is that of the Golden Carp, so frequently seen in bowls\nand tanks as the ornament of drawing-rooms and gardens. Not only an\ninfinite variety of spotted, striped, variegated colors has been\nproduced in these Fishes, but, especially among the Chinese, so famous\nfor their morbid love of whatever is distorted and warped from its\nnatural shape and appearance, all sorts of changes have been brought\nabout in this single Species. A book of Chinese paintings showing the\nGolden Carp in its varieties represents some as short and stout,\nothers long and slender,--some with the ventral side swollen, others\nhunch-backed,--some with the mouth greatly enlarged, while in others\nthe caudal fin, which in the normal condition of the Species is placed\nvertically at the end of the tail and is forked like those of other\nFishes, has become crested and arched, or is double, or crooked, or has\nswerved in some other way from its original pattern. But in all these\nvariations there is nothing which recalls the characteristic specific\ndifferences among the representatives of the Carp Family, which in their\nwild state are very monotonous in their appearance all the world over.\n\nWere it appropriate to accumulate evidence here upon this subject, I\ncould bring forward many more examples quite as striking as those above\nmentioned. The various breeds of our domesticated Horses present the\nsame kind of irregularities, and do not differ from each other in the\nsame way as the wild Species differ from one another. Or take the Genus\nDog: the differences between its wild Species do not correspond in the\nleast with the differences observed among the domesticated ones. Compare\nthe differences between the various kinds of Jackals and Wolves with\nthose that exist between the Bull-Dog and Greyhound, for instance, or\nbetween the St. Charles and the Terrier, or between the Esquimaux and\nthe Newfoundland Dog. I need hardly add that what is true of the Horses,\nthe Cattle, the Dogs, is true also of the Donkey, the Goat, the Sheep,\nthe Pig, the Cat, the Rabbit, the different kinds of barn-yard fowl,--in\nshort, of all those animals that are in domesticity the chosen\ncompanions of man.\n\nIn fact, all the variability among domesticated Species is due to the\nfostering care, or, in its more extravagant freaks, to the fancies of\nman, and it has never been observed in the wild Species, where, on\nthe contrary, everything shows the closest adherence to the distinct,\nwell-defined, and invariable limits of the Species. It surely does\nnot follow, that, because the Chinese can, under abnormal conditions,\nproduce a variety of fantastic shapes in the Golden Carp, therefore\nwater, or the physical conditions established in the water, can create a\nFish, any more than it follows, that, because they can dwarf a tree, or\nalter its aspect by stunting its growth in one direction and forcing it\nin another, therefore the earth, or the physical conditions connected\nwith their growth, can create a Pine, an Oak, a Birch, or a Maple.\nI confess that in all the arguments derived from the phenomena of\ndomestication, to prove that all animals owe their origin and diversity\nto the natural action of the conditions under which they live, the\nconclusion does not seem to me to follow logically from the premises.\nAnd the fact that the domesticated animals of all races of men, equally\nwith the white race, vary among themselves in the same way and differ\nin the same way from the wild Species, makes it still more evident that\ndomesticated varieties do not explain the origin of Species, except, as\nI have said, by showing that the intelligent will of man can produce\neffects which physical causes have never been known to produce, and that\nwe must therefore look to some cause outside of Nature, corresponding in\nkind, though so different in degree, to the intelligence of man, for\nall the phenomena connected with the existence of animals in their wild\nstate. So far from attributing these original differences among animals\nto natural influences, it would seem, that, while a certain freedom of\ndevelopment is left, within the limits of which man can exercise his\nintelligence and his ingenuity, not even this superficial influence is\nallowed to physical conditions unaided by some guiding power, since in\ntheir normal state the wild Species remain, so far as we have been able\nto discover, entirely unchanged,--maintained, it is true, in their\nintegrity by the circumstances that were established for their support\nby the power that created both, but never altered by them. Nature holds\ninviolable the stamp that God has set upon his creatures; and if man\nis able to influence their organization in some slight degree, it is\nbecause the Creator has given to his relations with the animals he has\nintended for his companions the same plasticity which he has allowed to\nevery other side of his life, in virtue of which he may in some sort\nmould and shape it to his own ends, and be held responsible also for its\nresults.\n\nThe common sense of a civilized community has already pointed out the\ntrue distinction in applying another word to the discrimination of the\ndifferent kinds of domesticated animals. They are called Breeds, and\nBreeds among animals are the work of man;--Species were created by God.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE STRASBURG CLOCK.\n\n\n  Many and many a year ago,--\n  To say how many I scarcely dare,--\n  Three of us stood in Strasburg streets,\n  In the wide and open square,\n  Where, quaint and old and touched with the gold\n  Of a summer morn, at stroke of noon\n  The tongue of the great Cathedral tolled,\n  And into the church with the crowd we strolled\n  To see their wonder, the famous Clock.\n  Well, my love, there are clocks a many,\n  As big as a house, as small as a penny;\n  And clocks there be with voices as queer\n  As any that torture human ear,--\n  Clocks that grunt, and clocks that growl,\n  That wheeze like a pump, and hoot like an owl,\n  From the coffin shape with its brooding face\n  That stands on the stair, (you know the place,)\n  Saying, \"Click, cluck,\" like an ancient hen,\n  A-gathering the minutes home again,\n  To the kitchen knave with its wooden stutter,\n  Doing equal work with double splutter,\n  Yelping, \"Click, clack,\" with a vulgar jerk,\n  As much as to say, \"Just see me work!\"\n\n  But of all the clocks that tell Time's bead-roll,\n  There are none like this in the old Cathedral;\n  Never a one so bids you stand\n  While it deals the minutes with even hand:\n  For clocks, like men, are better and worse,\n  And some you dote on, and some you curse;\n  And clock and man may have such a way\n  Of telling the truth that you can't say nay.\n\n  So in we went and stood in the crowd\n  To hear the old clock as it crooned aloud,\n  With sound and symbol, the only tongue\n  The maker taught it while yet 't was young.\n  And we saw Saint Peter clasp his hands,\n  And the cock crow hoarsely to all the lands,\n  And the Twelve Apostles come and go,\n  And the solemn Christ pass sadly and slow;\n  And strange that iron-legged procession,\n  And odd to us the whole impression,\n  As the crowd beneath, in silence pressing,\n  Bent to that cold mechanic blessing.\n\n  But I alone thought far in my soul\n  What a touch of genius was in the whole,\n  And felt how graceful had been the thought\n  Which for the signs of the months had sought,\n  Sweetest of symbols, Christ's chosen train;\n  And much I pondered, if he whose brain\n  Had builded this clock with labor and pain\n  Did only think, twelve months there are,\n  And the Bible twelve will fit to a hair;\n  Or did he say, with a heart in tune,\n  Well-loved John is the sign of June,\n  And changeful Peter hath April hours,\n  And Paul the stately, October bowers,\n  And sweet, or faithful, or bold, or strong,\n  Unto each one shall a month belong.\n\n  But beside the thought that under it lurks,\n  Pray, do you think clocks are saved by their works?\n\n\n\n\nARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.\n\n\nTo win such love as Arthur Hugh Clough won in life, to leave so dear a\nmemory as he has left, is a happiness that falls to few men. In America,\nas in England, his death is mourned by friends whose affection is better\nthan fame, and who in losing him have met with an irreparable loss.\nOutside the circle of his friends his reputation had no large extent;\nbut though his writings are but little known by the great public of\nreaders, they are prized by all those of thoughtful and poetic temper\nto whose hands they have come, as among the most precious and original\nproductions of the time. To those who knew him personally his poems had\na special worth and charm, as the sincere expression of a character of\nthe purest stamp, of rare truthfulness and simplicity, not less tender\nthan strong, and of a genius thoroughly individual in its form, and full\nof the promise of a large career. He was by Nature endowed with subtile\nand profound powers of thought, with feeling at once delicate and\nintense, with lively and generous sympathies, and with conscientiousness\nso acute as to pervade and control his whole intellectual disposition.\nLoving, seeking, and holding fast to the truth, he despised all\nfalseness and affectation. With his serious and earnest thinking was\njoined the play of a genial humor and the brightness of poetic fancy.\nLiberal in sentiment, absolutely free from dogmatism and pride of\nintellect, of a questioning temper, but of reverent spirit, faithful in\nthe performance not only of the larger duties, but also of the lesser\ncharities and the familiar courtesies of life, he has left a memory of\nsingular consistency, purity, and dignity. He lived to conscience, not\nfor show, and few men carry through life so white a soul.\n\nA notice of Mr. Clough understood to be written by one who knew him well\ngives the outline of his life.\n\n\"Arthur Hugh Clough was educated at Rugby, to which school he went\nvery young, soon after Dr. Arnold had been elected head-master. He\ndistinguished himself at once by gaining the only scholarship which\nexisted at that time, and which was open to the whole school under the\nage of fourteen. Before he was sixteen he was at the head of the fifth\nform, and, as that was the earliest age at which boys were then admitted\ninto the sixth, had to wait for a year before coming under the personal\ntuition of the headmaster. He came in the next (school) generation to\nStanley and Vaughan, and gained a reputation, if possible, even greater\nthan theirs. At the yearly speeches, in the last year of his residence,\nwhen the prizes are given away in the presence of the school and the\nfriends who gather on such occasions, Arnold took the almost unexampled\ncourse of addressing him, (when he and two fags went up to carry off his\nload of splendidly bound books,) and congratulating him on having\ngained every honor which Rugby could bestow, and having also already\ndistinguished himself and done the highest credit to his school at the\nUniversity. He had just gained a scholarship at Balliol, then, as now,\nthe blue ribbon of undergraduates.\n\n\"At school, although before all things a student, he had thoroughly\nentered into the life of the place, and before he left had gained\nsupreme influence with the boys. He was the leading contributor to the\n'Rugby Magazine'; and though a weakness in his ankles prevented him from\ntaking a prominent part in the games of the place, was known as the\nbest goal-keeper on record, a reputation which no boy could have gained\nwithout promptness and courage. He was also one of the best swimmers in\nthe school, his weakness of ankle being no drawback here, and in his\nlast half passed the crucial test of that day, by swimming from Swift's\n(the bathing-place of the sixth) to the mill on the Leicester road, and\nback again, between callings over.\n\n\"He went to reside at Oxford when the whole University was in a ferment.\nThe struggle of Alma Mater to humble or cast out the most remarkable\nof her sons was at its height. Ward had not yet been arraigned for his\nopinions, and was a fellow and tutor of Balliol, and Newman was in\nresidence at Oriel, and incumbent of St. Mary's.\n\n\"Clough's was a mind which, under any circumstances, would have thrown\nitself into the deepest speculative thought of its time. He seems soon\nto have passed through the mere ecclesiastical debatings to the deep\nquestions which lay below them. There was one lesson--probably one\nonly--which he had never been able to learn from his great master,\nnamely, to acknowledge that there are problems which intellectually are\nnot to be solved by man, and before these to sit down quietly. Whether\nit were from the harass of thought on such matters which interfered with\nhis regular work, or from one of those strange miscarriages in the most\nperfect of examining machines, which every now and then deprive the best\nmen of the highest honors, to the surprise of every one Clough missed\nhis first class. But he completely retrieved this academical mishap\nshortly afterwards by gaining an Oriel fellowship. In his new college,\nthe college of Pusey, Newman, Keble, Marriott, Wilberforce, presided\nover by Dr. Hawkins, and in which the influence of Whately, Davidson,\nand Arnold had scarcely yet died out, he found himself in the very\ncentre and eye of the battle. His own convictions were by this time\nleading him far away from both sides in the Oxford contest; he, however,\naccepted a tutorship at the college, and all who had the privilege of\nattending them will long remember his lectures on logic and ethics.\nHis fault (besides a shy and reserved manner) was that he was much too\nlong-suffering to youthful philosophic coxcombry, and would rather\nencourage it by his gentle 'Ah! you think so?' or, 'Yes, but might not\nsuch and such be the case?'\"\n\nClough was at Oxford in 1847,--the year of the terrible Irish famine,\nand with others of the most earnest men at the University he took part\nin an association which had for its object \"Retrenchment for the sake\nof the Irish.\" Such a society was little likely to be popular with the\ncomfortable dignitaries or the luxurious youth of the University. Many\nobjections, frivolous or serious as the case might be, were raised\nagainst so subversive a notion as that of the self-sacrifice of the rich\nfor the sake of the poor. Disregarding all personal considerations,\nClough printed a pamphlet entitled, \"A Consideration of Objections\nagainst the Retrenchment Association,\" in which he met the careless or\nselfish arguments of those who set themselves against the efforts of\nthe society. It was a characteristic performance. His heart was deeply\nstirred by the harsh contrast between the miseries of the Irish poor and\nthe wasteful extravagance of living prevalent at Oxford. He wrote with\nvehement indignation against the selfish pleas of the indifferent and\nthe thoughtless possessors of wealth, wasters of the goods given them as\na trust for others. His words were chiefly addressed to the young men\nat the University,--and they were not without effect. Such views of the\nrights and duties of property as he put forward, of the claims of labor,\nand of the responsibilities of the aristocracy, had not been often heard\nat Oxford. He was called a Socialist and a Radical, but it mattered\nlittle to him by what name he was known to those whose consciences were\nnot touched by his appeal. \"Will you say,\" he writes toward the end of\nthis pamphlet, \"this is all rhetoric and declamation? There is, I dare\nsay, something too much in that kind. What with criticizing style and\ncorrecting exercises, we college tutors perhaps may be likely, in the\nheat of composition, to lose sight of realities, and pass into the limbo\nof the factitious,--especially when the thing must be done at odd times,\nin any case, and, if at all, quickly. But if I have been obliged to\nwrite hurriedly, believe me, I have obliged myself to think not hastily.\nAnd believe me, too, though I have desired to succeed in putting vividly\nand forcibly that which vividly and forcibly I felt and saw, still the\ngraces and splendors of composition were thoughts far less present to my\nmind than Irish poor men's miseries, English poor men's hardships, and\nyour unthinking indifference. Shocking enough the first and the second,\nalmost more shocking the third.\"\n\nIt was about this time that the most widely known of his works, \"The\nBothie of Toper-na-Fuosich, a Long-Vacation Pastoral,\" was written. It\nwas published in 1848, and though it at once secured a circle of warm\nadmirers, and the edition was very soon exhausted, it \"is assuredly\ndeserving of a far higher popularity than it has ever attained.\" The\npoem was reprinted in America, at Cambridge, in 1849, and it may be\nsafely asserted that its merit was more deeply felt and more generously\nacknowledged by American than by English readers. The fact that its\nessential form and local coloring were purely and genuinely English, and\nthus gratified the curiosity felt in this country concerning the social\nhabits and ways of life in the mother-land, while on the other hand its\nspirit was in sympathy with the most liberal and progressive thought\nof the age, may sufficiently account for its popularity here. But\nthe lovers of poetry found delight in it, apart from these\ncharacteristics,--in its fresh descriptions of Nature, its healthy\nmanliness of tone, its scholarly construction, its lively humor, its\nlarge thought quickened and deepened by the penetrating imagination of\nthe poet.\n\n\"Any one who has read it will acknowledge that a tutorship at Oriel was\nnot the place for the author. The intense love of freedom, the deep and\nhearty sympathy with the foremost thought of the time, the humorous\ndealing with old formulas and conventionalisms grown meaningless, which\nbreathe in every line of the 'Bothie,' show this clearly enough. He\nwould tell in after-life, with much enjoyment, how the dons of the\nUniversity, who, hearing that he had something in the press, and knowing\nthat his theological views were not wholly sound, were looking for a\npublication on the Articles, were astounded by the appearance of that\nfresh and frolicsome poem. Oxford (at least the Oriel common room)\nand he were becoming more estranged daily. How keenly he felt the\nestrangement, not from Oxford, but from old friends, about this time,\ncan be read only in his own words.\" It is in such poems as the \"Qua\nCursum Ventus,\" or the sonnet beginning, \"Well, well,--Heaven bless you\nall from day to day!\" that it is to be read. These, with a few other\nfugitive pieces, were printed, in company with verses by a friend, as\none part of a small volume entitled, \"Ambarvalia,\" which never attained\nany general circulation, although containing some poems which will take\ntheir place among the best of English poetry of this generation.\n\n  \"_Qua Cursum Ventus_.\n\n  \"As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay\n     With canvas drooping, side by side,\n  Two towers of sail at dawn of day,\n     Are scarce long leagues apart descried:\n\n  \"When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,\n     And all the darkling hours they plied,\n  Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas\n     By each was cleaving side by side:\n\n  \"E'en so----But why the tale reveal\n     Of those whom, year by year unchanged,\n  Brief absence joined anew to feel,\n     Astounded, soul from soul estranged?\n\n  \"At dead of night their sails were filled,\n     And onward each rejoicing steered:\n  Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,\n     Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!\n\n  \"To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,\n     Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,\n  Through winds and tides one compass guides:\n     To that, and your own selves, be true!\n\n  \"But, O blithe breeze! and O great seas!\n     Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,\n  On your wide plain they join again,\n     Together lead them home at last!\n\n  \"One port, methought, alike they sought,\n     One purpose hold where'er they fare:\n  O bounding breeze! O rushing seas!\n     At last, at last, unite them there!\"\n\n\"In 1848-49 the revolutionary crisis came on Europe, and Clough's\nsympathies drew him with great earnestness into the struggles which were\ngoing on. He was in Paris directly after the barricades, and in Rome\nduring the siege, where he gained the friendship of Saffi and other\nleading Italian patriots.\" A part of his experiences and his thoughts\nwhile at Rome are interwoven with the story in his \"Amours de Voyage,\" a\npoem which exhibits in extraordinary measure the subtilty and delicacy\nof his powers, and the fulness of his sympathy with the intellectual\nconditions of the time. It was first published in the \"Atlantic Monthly\"\nfor 1858, and was at once established in the admiration of readers\ncapable of appreciating its rare and refined excellence. The spirit\nof the poem is thoroughly characteristic of its author, and the\nspeculative, analytic turn of his mind is represented in many passages\nof the letters of the imaginary hero. Had he been writing in his own\nname, he could not have uttered his inmost conviction more distinctly,\nor have given the clue to his intellectual life more openly than in the\nfollowing verses:--\n\n  \"I will look straight out, see things, not try to\n          evade them:\n  Fact shall be Fact for me; and the Truth the\n          Truth as ever,\n  Flexible, changeable, vague, and multiform\n          and doubtful.\"\n\nOr, again,--\n\n  \"Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards,\n          opens all locks,\n  Is not _I will_, but _I must_. I must,--I must,\n         --and I do it.\"\n\nAnd still again,--\n\n  \"But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and\n          larger existence,\n  Think you that man could consent to be\n          circumscribed here into action?\n  But for assurance within of a limitless ocean\n          divine, o'er\n  Whose great tranquil depths unconscious\n          the wind-tost surface\n  Breaks into ripples of trouble that come and\n          change and endure not,--\n  But that in this, of a truth, we have our\n          being, and know it,\n  Think you we men could submit to live and\n          move as we do here?\"\n\n\"To keep on doing right,--not to speculate only, but to act, not to\nthink only, but to live,\"--was, it has been said, characteristic of the\nleading men at Oxford during this period. \"It was not so much a part of\ntheir teaching as a doctrine woven into their being.\" And while they\nthus exercised a moral not less than an intellectual influence over\ntheir contemporaries and their pupils, they themselves, according to\ntheir various tempers and circumstances, were led on into new paths of\ninquiry or of life. Some of them fell into the common temptations of\nan English University career, and lost the freshness of energy and the\nhonesty of conviction which first inspired them; others, holding their\nplaces in the established order of things, were able by happy faculties\nof character to retain also the vigor and simplicity of their early\npurposes; while others again, among whom was Clough, finding the\nrestraints of the University incompatible with independence, gave up\ntheir positions at Oxford to seek other places in which they could more\nfreely search for the truth and express their own convictions.\n\nIt was not long after his return from Italy that he became Professor of\nEnglish Language and Literature at University College, London. He filled\nthis place, which was not in all respects suited to him, until 1852.\nAfter resigning it, he took various projects into consideration, and\nat length determined to come to America with the intention of settling\nhere, if circumstances should prove favorable. In November, 1852,\nhe arrived in Boston. He at once established himself at Cambridge,\nproposing to give instruction to young men preparing for college, or to\ntake on in more advanced studies those who had completed the collegiate\ncourse. He speedily won the friendship of those whose friendship\nwas best worth having in Boston and its neighborhood. His thorough\nscholarship, the result of the best English training, and his intrinsic\nqualities caused his society to be sought and prized by the most\ncultivated and thoughtful men. He had nothing of insular narrowness, and\nnone of the hereditary prejudices which too often interfere with the\ncapacity of English travellers or residents among us to sympathize with\nand justly understand habits of life and of thought so different from\nthose to which they have been accustomed. His liberal sentiments and his\nindependence of thought harmonized with the new social conditions in\nwhich he found himself, and with the essential spirit of American life.\nThe intellectual freedom and animation of this country were congenial\nto his disposition. From the beginning he took a large share in the\ninterests of his new friends. He contributed several remarkable articles\nto the pages of the \"North American Review\" and of \"Putnam's Magazine,\"\nand he undertook a work which was to occupy his scanty leisure for\nseveral years, the revision of the so-called Dryden's Translation of\nPlutarch's Lives. Although the work was undertaken simply as a revision,\nit turned out to involve little less labor than a complete new\ntranslation, and it was so accomplished that henceforth it must remain\nthe standard version of this most popular of the ancient authors.\n\nBut all that made the presence of such a man a great gain to his new\nfriends made his absence felt by his old ones as a great loss. In July,\n1853, he received the announcement that a place had been obtained for\nhim by their efforts in the Education Department of the Privy Council,\nand he was so strenuously urged to return to England, that, although\nunwilling to give up the prospect of a final settlement in America,\nhe felt that it was best to go home for a time. Some months after his\nreturn he was married to the granddaughter of the late Mr. William\nSmith, M.P. for Norwich. He established himself in a house in London,\nand settled down to the hard routine-work of his office. In a private\nletter written not long after his return, he said,--\"As for myself, whom\nyou ask about, there is nothing to tell about me. I live on contentedly\nenough, but feel rather unwilling to be re-Englished, after once\nattaining that higher transatlantic development. However, _il faut s'y\nsoumettre_, I presume,--though I fear I am embarked in the foundering\nship. I hope to Heaven you'll get rid of slavery, and then I shouldn't\nfear but you would really 'go ahead' in the long run. As for us and our\ninveterate feudalism, it is not hopeful.\"\n\nIn another letter about this time, he wrote,--\"I like America all the\nbetter for the comparison with England on my return. Certainly I think\nyou are more right than I was willing to admit, about the position of\nthe poorer classes here. Such is my first reimpression. However, it\nwill wear off soon enough, I dare say; so you must make the most of my\nadmissions.\"\n\nAgain, a little later, he wrote,--\"I do truly hope that you will get the\nNorth erelong thoroughly united against any further encroachments. I\ndon't by any means feel that the slave-system is an intolerable crime,\nnor do I think that our system here is so much better; but it is clear\nto me that the only safe ground to go upon is that of your Northern\nStates. I suppose the rich-and-poor difficulties must be creeping in at\nNew York, but one would fain hope that European analogies will not be\nquite accepted even there.\"\n\nHis letters were reflections of himself,--full of thought, fancy, and\npleasant humor, as well as of affectionateness and true feeling. Their\ncharacter is hardly to be given in extracts, but a few passages may\nserve to illustrate some of these qualities.\n\n\"Ambrose Philips, the Roman Catholic, who set up the new St. Bernard\nMonastery at Charnwood Forest, has taken to spirit-rappings. He avers,\n_inter alia_, that a Buddhist spirit in misery held communication with\nhim through the table, and entreated his confessor, Father Lorraine, to\nsay three masses for him. Pray, convey this to T---- for his warning.\nFor, moreover, it remains uncertain whether Father Lorraine did say the\nmasses; so that perhaps T----'s deceased co-religionist is still in the\nwrong place.\"\n\nSome time after his return, he wrote,--\"Really, I may say I am only\njust beginning to recover my spirits after returning from the young and\nhopeful and humane republic, to this cruel, unbelieving, inveterate old\nmonarchy. There are deeper waters of ancient knowledge and experience\nabout one here, and one is saved from the temptation of flying off into\nspace; but I think you have, beyond all question, the happiest country\ngoing. Still, the political talk of America, as one hears it here, is\nnot always true to the best intentions of the country, is it?\"\n\nWriting on a July day from his office in Whitehall, he says, after\nspeaking of the heat of the weather,--\"Time has often been compared to\na river: if the Thames at London represent the stream of traditional\nwisdom, the comparison will indeed be of an ill odor; the accumulated\nwisdom of the past will be proved upon analogy to be as it were the\ncollected sewage of the centuries; and the great problem, how to get rid\nof it.\"\n\nIn March, 1854, he wrote,--\"People talk a good deal about that book of\nWhewell's on the Plurality of Worlds. I recommend Fields to pirate it.\nHave you seen it? It is to show that Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, etc., are\nall pretty certainly uninhabitable,--being (Jupiter, Saturn, etc., to\nwit) strange washy limbos of places, where at the best only mollusks\n(or, in the case of Venus, salamanders) could exist. Hence we conclude\nwe are the only rational creatures, which is highly satisfactory, and,\nwhat is more, quite Scriptural. Owen, on the other hand, I believe,\nand other scientific people, declare it a most presumptuous essay,--\nconclusions audacious, and reasoning fallacious, though the facts are\nallowed; and in that opinion I, on the ground that there are more things\nin heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the inductive philosophy,\nincline to concur.\"\n\nOf his work he wrote,--\"Well, I go on in the office, _operose nihil\nagenda_, very _operose_, and very _nihil_ too. For lack of news, I send\nyou a specimen of my labors.\"--\"We are here going on much as usual,\n--occupied with nothing else but commerce and the money-market. I do not\nthink any one is thinking audibly of anything else.\"--\"I have read with\nmore pleasure than anything else that I have read lately Kane's Arctic\nExplorations, i.e., his second voyage, which is certainly a wonderful\nstory. The whole narrative is, I think, very characteristic of the\ndifferences between the English and the American-English habits of\ncommand and obedience.\"\n\nIn the autumn of 1857, after speaking of some of the features of the\nSepoy revolt, he said,--\"I don't believe Christianity can spread far in\nAsia, unless it will allow men more than one wife,--which isn't likely\nyet out of Utah. But I believe the old Brahmin 'Touch not and taste not,\nand I am holier than thou, because I don't touch and taste,' may be got\nrid of. As for Mahometanism, it is a crystallized monotheism, out of\nwhich no vegetation can come. I doubt its being good even for the\nCentral negro.\"\n\nMarch, 1859. \"Excuse this letter all about my own concerns. I am pretty\nbusy, and have time for little else: such is our fate after forty. My\nfigure 40 stands nearly three months behind me on the roadway, unwept,\nunhonored, and unsung, an _octavum lustrum_ bound up and laid on the\nshelf. 'So-and-so is dead,' said a friend to Lord Melbourne of some\nauthor. 'Dear me, how glad I am! Now I can bind him up.'\"\n\nIt was not until 1859 that the translation of Plutarch, begun six years\nbefore, was completed and published. It had involved much wearisome\nstudy, and gave proof of patient, exact, and elegant scholarship.\nClough's life in the Council-Office was exceedingly laborious, and\nfor several years his work was increased by services rendered to Miss\nNightingale, a near relative of his wife. He employed \"many hours, both\nbefore and after his professional duties were over, to aid her in those\nreforms of the military administration to which she has devoted the\nremaining energies of her overtasked life.\" For this work he was the\nbetter fitted from having acted, during a period of relief from his\nregular employment, as Secretary to a Military Commission appointed by\nGovernment shortly after the Crimean War to examine and report upon the\nmilitary systems of some of the chief Continental nations. But at length\nhis health gave way under the strain of continuous overwork. He had for\na long time been delicate, and early in 1861 he was obliged to give\nup work, and was ordered to travel abroad. He went to Greece and\nConstantinople, and enjoyed greatly the charms of scenery and of\nassociation which he was so well fitted to appreciate. But the release\nfrom work had come too late. He returned to England in July, his health\nbut little improved. In a letter written at that time he spoke of Lord\nCampbell's death, which had just occurred. \"Lord Campbell's death is\nrather the characteristic death of the English political man. In the\nCabinet, on the Bench, and at a dinner-party, busy, animated, and full\nof effort to-day, and in the early morning a vessel has burst. It is a\nwonder they last so long.\" But of himself he says, in words of striking\ncontrast,--\"My nervous energy is pretty nearly spent for to-day, so I\nmust come to a stop. I have leave till November, and by that time I hope\nI shall be strong again for another good spell of work.\" After a happy\nthree weeks in England, he went abroad again, and spent some time\nwith his friends the Tennysons in Auvergne and among the Pyrenees. In\nSeptember he was joined by his wife in Paris, and thence went with her\nthrough Switzerland to Italy. He had scarcely reached Florence before\nhe became alarmingly ill with symptoms of a low malaria fever. His\nexhausted constitution never rallied against its attack. He sank\ngradually away, and died on the 13th of November. \"I have leave till\nNovember, and by that time I hope I shall be strong again for another\ngood spell of work.\" That hope is accomplished;--\n\n  \"For sure in the wide heaven there is room\n  For love, and pity, and for helpful deeds.\"\n\nHe was buried in the little Protestant cemetery at Florence, a fit\nresting-place for a poet, the Protestant Santa Croce, where the tall\ncypresses rise over the graves, and the beautiful hills keep guard\naround.\n\n\"Every one who knew Clough even slightly,\" says one of his oldest\nfriends, \"received the strongest impression of the unusual breadth\nand massiveness of his mind. Singularly simple and genial, he was\nunfortunately cast upon a self-questioning age, which led him to worry\nhimself with constantly testing the veracity of his own emotions. He has\ndelineated in four lines the impression which his habitual reluctance to\nconverse on the deeper themes of life made upon those of his friends who\nwere attracted by his frank simplicity. In one of his shorter poems he\nwrites,--\n\n  'I said, My heart is all too soft;\n  He who would climb and soar aloft\n  Must needs keep ever at his side\n  The tonic of a wholesome pride.'\n\nThat expresses the man in a very remarkable manner. He had a kind of\nproud simplicity about him singularly attractive, and often singularly\ndisappointing to those who longed to know him well. He had a fear, which\nmany would think morbid, of leaning much on the approbation of the\nworld. And there is one remarkable passage in his poems in which he\nintimates that men who live on the good opinion of others might even be\nbenefited by a crime which would rob them of that evil stimulant:--\n\n  'Why, so is good no longer good, but crime\n  Our truest, best advantage, since it lifts us\n  Out of the stifling gas of men's opinion\n  Into the vital atmosphere of Truth,\n  Where He again is visible, though in anger.'\n\n\"So eager was his craving for reality and perfect sincerity, so morbid\nhis dislike even for the unreal conventional forms of life, that a mind\nquite unique in simplicity and truthfulness represents _itself_ in his\npoems as\n\n  'Seeking in vain, in all my store,\n  One feeling based on truth.'\n\n\"Indeed, he wanted to reach some guaranty for simplicity deeper than\nsimplicity itself. We remember his principal criticism on America,\nafter returning from his residence in Massachusetts, was, that the\nNew-Englanders were much simpler than the English, and that this was\nthe great charm of New-England society. His own habits were of the same\nkind, sometimes almost austere in their simplicity. Luxury he disliked,\nand sometimes his friends thought him even ascetic.\n\n\"This almost morbid craving for a firm base on the absolute realities\nof life was very wearing in a mind so self-conscious as Clough's, and\ntended to paralyze the expression of a certainly great genius. He heads\nsome of his poems with a line from Wordsworth's great ode, which depicts\nperfectly the expression often written in the deep furrows which\nsometimes crossed and crowded his massive forehead:--\n\n  'Blank misgivings of a creature moving about\n       in worlds not realized.'\n\n\"Nor did Clough's great powers ever realize themselves to his\ncontemporaries by any outward sign at all commensurate with the profound\nimpression which they produced in actual life. But if his powers did\nnot, there was much in his character that did produce its full effect\nupon all who knew him. He never looked, even in time of severe trial, to\nhis own interest or advancement. He never flinched from the worldly loss\nwhich his deepest convictions brought on him. Even when clouds were\nthick over his own head, and the ground beneath his feet seemed\ncrumbling away, he could still bear witness to an eternal light behind\nthe cloud, and tell others that there is solid ground to be reached in\nthe end by the weary feet of all who will wait to be strong. Let him\nspeak his own farewell:--\n\n  'Say not the struggle nought availeth,\n     The labor and the wounds are vain,\n  The enemy faints not nor faileth,\n     And as things have been things remain.\n\n  'Though hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;\n     It may be, in yon smoke concealed,\n  Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,\n     And but for you possess the field.\n\n  'For though the tired wave, idly breaking,\n     Seems here no tedious inch to gain,\n  Far back, through creek and inlet making,\n     Came, silent flooding in, the main.\n\n  'And not through eastern windows only,\n     When daylight comes, comes in the light;\n  In front the sun climbs slow,--how slowly!\n     But westward--look! the land is bright.'\"\n\n\n\n\nWHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THEM?\n\n\nWe have many precedents upon the part of the \"Guardian of Civilization,\"\nwhich may or may not guide us. Not to return to that age \"whereunto the\nmemory of man runneth not to the contrary,\" \"the day of King Richard our\ngrandfather,\" and to the Wars of the Roses, we will begin with the happy\noccasion of the Restoration of King Charles of merry and disreputable\nfame. Since he came back to his kingdoms on sufferance and as a\nconvenient compromise between anarchy and despotism, he could hardly\nafford the luxury of wholesale proscription. What the returning\nRoyalists could, they did. It was obviously unsafe, as well as\nungrateful, to hang General Monk in presence of his army, many of whom\nhad followed the \"Son of the Man\" from Worcester Fight in hot pursuit,\nand had hunted him from thicket to thicket of Boscobel Wood. But to dig\nup the dead Cromwell and Ireton, to suspend them upon the gallows, to\nmark out John Milton, old and blind, for poverty and contempt, was both\nsafe and pleasant. And civilization was guarded accordingly. One little\nbit of comfort, however, was permitted. Scotland had been the Virginia\nof his day, and Charles had the satisfaction of hearing that the Whigs,\nwho had betrayed and sold his father, and who had (a far worse offence)\nmade himself listen to three-hours' sermons, were chased like wild\nbeasts among the hills, after the defeat of Bothwell Brigg. But what\nCharles could not do was permitted to his brother. After the rebellion\nof Monmouth was put down, the West of England was turned to mourning.\nFrom the princely bastard who sued in agony and vain humiliation, to the\nclown of Devon forced into the rebel ranks,--from the peer who plotted,\nto the venerable and Christian woman whose sole crime was sheltering the\nhouseless and starving fugitive, there was given to the vanquished no\nmercy but the mercy of Jeffreys, no tenderness but the tenderness of\nKirk.\n\nBut the House of Stuart was not always to represent the side of victory.\nThirty years after the Rout of Sedgemoor, the son of James, whose name\nwas clouded by rumor with the same stain of spuriousness as that of his\nunfortunate cousin, was proclaimed by the Earl of Mar. The Jacobites\nwere forced to drink to the dregs the cup of bitterness they had so\ngladly administered to others. Over Temple Bar and London Bridge the\nheads of the defeated rebels bore witness to the guardianship of\ncivilization as understood in the eighteenth century.\n\nAnother thirty years brings us to the landing of Moidart, the rising\nof the clans, the fall of Edinburgh and Carlisle, the \"Bull's Run\" at\nPrestonpans, and the panic of London. If we are anxious to guard our\ncivilization according to Hanoverian precedents, there is one name\ncommonly given to the Commander-in-chief at Culloden which Congress\nshould add to the titles it is preparing against McClellan's successful\nadvance. The \"Butcher Cumberland\" not only hounded on his troops with\nthe tempting price of thirty thousand pounds for the Pretender _dead or\nalive_, but every adherent of the luckless Jefferson Davis of that day\nwas in peril of life and wholesale confiscation. The House of Hanover\nnot only broke the backbone of the Rebellion, but mangled without mercy\nits remains.\n\nWe come now, in another thirty years, to the next struggle of England\nwith a portion of her people. It is impossible, as well as unfair,\nto say what might have been done with \"Mr. Washington, the Virginia\ncolonel,\" and Mr. Franklin, the Philadelphia printer, had they not been\nable to determine their own destiny. We can only surmise, by referring\nto two well-known localities in New York, the \"Old Sugar-House\" and the\n\"Jersey Prison-Ship,\" how paternally George III was disposed then to\nresume his rights. And without disposition to press historic parallels,\nwe cannot but compare Arnold and Tryon's raid along the south shore of\nConnecticut with a certain sail recently made up the Tennessee River to\nthe foot of the Muscle Shoals by the command of a modern Connecticut\nofficer.\n\nBut as we were spared the necessity of testing the royal clemency to the\nsubmitted Provinces of North America, we had better pass on twenty years\nto the era of the Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland. In\nthis country the Irishman need not \"fear to speak of '98,\" and in this\ncountry he still treasures the memory of the whippings and pitch-caps of\nMajor Beresford's riding-house, and other pleasant souvenirs of the way\nin which, sixty years ago, loyalty dealt with rebellion. There is no\ninherent proneness to treason in the Hibernian nature, as Corcoran and\nthe Sixty-Ninth can bear witness; nor is Pat so fond of a riot that he\ncannot with fair play be a--well, a good citizen. Yet at home he has\nbeen so \"civilized\" by his British guardian as to be in a chronic state\nof discontent and fretfulness.\n\nWe must, however, hasten to our latest precedent,--England in India.\nThe Sepoy Rebellion had some features in common with our own. It was\ninaugurated by premeditated military treachery. It seized upon a large\nquantity of Government munitions of war. It only asked \"to be let\nalone.\" It found the Government wholly unprepared. But it was the\nuprising of a conquered people. The rebels were in circumstances, as in\ncomplexion, much nearer akin to that portion of our Southern citizens\nwhich has _not_ rebelled, and which has lost no opportunity of seeking\nour lines \"to take the oath of allegiance\" or any other little favor\nwhich could be found there. We do not defend their atrocities, although\na plea in mitigation might be put in, that these \"were wisely planned to\nbreak the spell which British domination had woven over the native mind\nof India,\" and that they were part of that decided and desperate policy\nwhich was designed to forever bar the way of reconstruction. But toward\nthe recaptured rebels there was used a course for which the only\nprecedent, so far as we know, was furnished by that highly civilized\nguardian, the Dey of Algiers. These prisoners of war were in cold blood\ntied to the muzzles of cannon and blown into fragments. The illustrated\npapers of that most Christian land which is overcome with the barbarity\nof sinking old hulks in a channel through which privateers were wont to\nescape our blockade furnished effective engravings \"by our own artist\"\nof the scene. Wholesale plunder and devastation of the chief city of the\nrevolt followed. The rebellion was put down, and put down, we may say,\nwithout any unnecessary tenderness, any womanish weakness for the\nrebels.\n\nWe have thus established what we believe is called by theologians a\n_catena_ of precedents, coming down from the days of the Commonwealth to\nour own time. It covers about the whole period of New England history.\nAnd we next propose to ask the question, how far it may be desirable to\nbe bound by such indisputable authority.\n\nIs it too late to reopen the question, and to retry the issue between\nsovereign and rebel, less with respect to ancient and immemorial usage,\nand more according to eternal principle? We answer, No. The same power\nthat enables us to master this rebellion will give us original and final\njurisdiction over it.\n\nBut one principle asserts itself out of the uniform coarse of history.\nThe restoration of the lawful authority over rebels does not restore\nthem to their old _status_. They are at the pleasure of the conquering\npower. Rights of citizenship, having been abjured, do not return\nwith the same coercion which demands duties of citizenship. Thus, to\nillustrate on an individual scale, every wrong-doer is _ipso facto_ a\nrebel. He forfeits, according to due course of law, a measure of his\nprivileges, while constrained to the same responsibility of obedience.\nHis property is not exempt from taxes because he is in prison, but his\nright of voting is gone; he cannot bear arms, but he must keep the\npeace, he must labor compulsorily, and attend such worship as the State\nprovides. In short, he becomes a ward of the State, while not ceasing to\nbe a member. His inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of\nhappiness were inalienable only so long as he remained obedient and true\nto the sovereign. Now this is equally true on the large scale as on the\nsmall. The only difficulty is to apply it to broad masses of men and to\nStates.\n\nIt may not be expedient to try South Carolina collectively, but we\ncontend that the application of the principle gives us the right.\nCorporate bodies have again and again been punished by suspension of\nfranchise, while held to allegiance and duties.\n\nThe simple question for us is, What will it be best to do? The South\nmay save us the trouble of deciding for the present a part of the many\nquestions that occur. We may put down the Confederate Government, and\ntake military occupation. We cannot compel the Southerners to hold\nelections and resume their share in the Government. It can go on without\nthem. The same force which reopens the Mississippi can collect taxes or\nexact forfeitures along its banks. If Charleston is sullen, the National\nGovernment, having restored its flag to Moultrie and Sumter, can take\nits own time in the matter of clearing out the channel and rebuilding\nthe light-houses. If a secluded neighborhood does not receive a\nGovernment postmaster, but is disposed to welcome him with tarry hands\nto a feathery bed, it can be left without the mails. The rebel we can\ncompel to return to his duties; if necessary, we can leave him to get\nback his rights as he best may.\n\nBut we are the representatives of a great political discovery. The\nAmerican Union is founded on a fact unknown to the Old World. That fact\nis the direct ratio of the prosperity of the parts to the prosperity of\nthe whole. It is the principle upon which in every community our life\nis built. We cannot, therefore, afford to have any part of the land\nlanguishing and suffering. We are fighting, not for conquest, for we\nmean to abjure our power the moment we safely can,--not for vengeance,\nfor those with whom we fight are our brethren. We are compelled by a\nnecessity, partly geographical and partly social, into restoring a Union\npolitically which never for a day has actually ceased.\n\nLet us advert to one fact very patent and significant. We have heard\nof nearly all our successes through Rebel sources. Even where it made\nagainst them, they could not help telling us (we do not say the _truth_,\nfor that is rather strong, but) the _news_. Never did two nations at war\nknow one-tenth part as much of each other's affairs. Like husband and\nwife, the two parts of the country cannot keep secrets from one another,\nlet them try ever so hard. And the end of all will be that we shall know\nand respect one another a great deal better for our sharp encounter.\n\nBut this necessity of union demands of the Government, imperatively\ndemands, that it take whatever step is necessary to its own\npreservation. It is as with a ship at sea,--all must pull together, or\nsomebody must go overboard. There can be no such order of things as an\n_agreed state of mutiny_,--forecastle seceding from cabin, and steerage\nindependent of both.\n\nNot only is rebellion to be put down, therefore, but to be kept from\ncoming up again. It is obvious to every one, not thoroughly blinded by\nparty, how it did come up. The Gulf States were coaxed out, the Border\nStates were bullied or conjured out. A few leading men, who had made\nthe science of political management their own, got the control of the\npopular mind. One great secret of their success was their constant\nassumption that what was to be done had been done already. It is the\nvery art of the veteran seducer, who ever persuades his victim that\nreturn is impossible, in order that he may actually make it so. North\nCarolina, as one expressively said, \"found herself out of the Union she\nhardly knew how.\" Virginia was dragged out. Tennessee was forced out.\nMissouri was declared out. Kentucky was all but out. Maryland hung in\nthe crisis of life and death under the guns of Fort McHenry. In South\nCarolina alone can it be said that any fair expression of the popular\nwill was on the Secession side. The Rebellion was the work of a\ngoverning class, all whose ideas and hopes were the aggrandizement of\ntheir own order. Terrorism opened the way, reckless lying made the game\nsure. If any one is inclined to doubt this, let him look at the sway\nwhich Robespierre and his few associates exercised in Paris. Some\nseventy executions delivered that great city from its nightmare agony of\nmonths. A dozen resolute, united men, with arms and without scruples,\ncould seize almost any New England village for a time, provided they\nknew just what they wanted to do. Decision and energy are master-keys to\nalmost most all doors not fortified by Hobbs's patent locks. A party of\ntipsy Americans one night stormed a Parisian guard-house, disarmed the\nsentry, and sent the guard flying in desperate fear, thinking that a\ngeneral _\u00e9mente_ was in progress. Now one issue of the Rebellion must\nbe to put down, not only this governing class, but also the system from\nwhich it springs. We have no such class at the North. We can have no\nsuch class. The very collision of interests, the rivalries of trade, the\nthousand-and-one social relations, all neutralize each other, are checks\nand counterchecks, which, like the particles in a vessel of water,\nalways tend toward the level of an equilibrium. Two men meet in their\nlodge as Odd-Fellows, but they are opponents on \"town-meeting day.\" Two\npartners in business are, one the most bitter of Calvinists, and the\nother the most progressive of Universalists. Dr. A. and the Rev. Mr. B.\npull asunder the men whom 'Change unites. But with the Southerner of the\ngoverning class it is not so. One sympathy, more potent than any other\ncan be, leagues them all. All are masters of the Helot race upon which\ntheir success and station are built. It is a living relation, the most\npowerful and vital which can bind men together, that sense of authority\nborne by the few over the many.\n\nThe Norman barons after the Conquest, the Spanish conquerors in Mexico\nand Peru, the Englishmen of the days of Clive and Hastings in India, are\nall examples of that thorough concentration of strength which must arise\nin the conflicts of races. Republics have fallen through their standing\narmies. The proprietary class at the South was the most dangerous of\nstanding armies, for it was disciplined to the use of power night and\nday. The overthrow of the Rebellion will to a great degree ruin this\nclass. But since it is one not founded on birth or culture, but simply\non white blood and circumstance, (for no Secessionist is so fierce as\nyour converted Northerner,) it cannot fall like the Norman nobility in\nthe Wars of the Roses, or waste by operation of climate like the\nmasters of Mexico and Hindostan. It renews itself whenever it touches\nslave-soil. That gives it life. We contend that Government must for its\nown preservation go to the root of the matter. And we cannot see that\nthere is any Constitutional difficulty. There are probably not ten\nslave-proprietors in the South whom it has not the right to arrest, try,\nand hang, for high-treason. Of course, every one can see the practical\ndifficulty, as well as the manifest folly, of doing this. But if it has\nthat right toward these individuals, it certainly may say, by Act of\nCongress, if we choose, that it will not waive it except upon conditions\nwhich shall secure it from any further trouble. It seems to us fully\nwithin our power. And we will use an illustration that may help to show\nwhat we mean. President Lincoln has no right to require of any citizen\nof the United States that he take the temperance-pledge. But suppose a\nmurderer who has taken life in a fit of drunkenness applies for pardon\nto the Executive. The Executive, Governor or President, as the case may\nbe, may surely then impose that condition before commuting the sentence\nor releasing the prisoner. Now the Nation stands toward the Rebels in a\nlike attitude. It may be good policy to take them back as fast as they\nsubmit, it may be Christian magnanimity to make the way as easy as\npossible for their return, but they have no right to come back to\nanything but a prison and hard labor for life. Many of them have trebly\nforfeited their lives,--as traitors, as deserters from the naval and\nmilitary service, and as paroled prisoners who have broken their parole.\nAnd therefore we say, since we cannot deal with all the individuals,\nwe must deal with the masses, and that in their corporate capacity. If\nSouth Carolina is a sovereign State, is in the Union as a feudal chief\nin his king's court, with power to carry from York to Lancaster and from\nLancaster to York his subject vassals, then South Carolina has dared the\nhazard of rebellion, and her political head is forfeit.\n\nIt is next to be asked, what these conditions are to be. And that is\nnot to be answered in a breath. That they can have but one result,\nemancipation, is a foregone conclusion; but the mode of reaching it is\nnot so easily determined. A cotton-loaded ship took fire at sea. It\nwould have been easy to pump in water enough to drown the fire. But the\ncaptain said, \"No,\" for that would swell the bales to such an extent\nas to open every seam and start every timber. So with, the ship now\ncarrying King Cotton: you may indeed quench the fire, but you may\npossibly turn the ship inside out into the bargain.\n\nBut something we have a right to insist on. We have it, over and above\nthe Constitutional right shown just now, upon the broad principle of\nnecessity. Slavery has proved itself a nuisance. Just as we say to the\nowner of a bone-boiling establishment, \"You poison the air; we cannot\nlive here; you must go farther off,\"--and if a fever break out which can\nbe clearly traced to that source, we say it emphatically: so now Slavery\nhaving proved itself pestilential, we say, \"March!\"\n\nWe are not disposed, _\u00e0 la_ Staten Island, to burn down our\nyellow-feverish neighbor's house. We will give everybody time to pack\nup. We will make up a little purse for any specially hard case which the\nremoval may show. But stay and be plague-stricken we will no longer; nor\nare we disposed to spend our whole income in burning sulphur, saltpetre,\nand charcoal to keep out infection. And certainly, when by neglect to\npay ground-rent, or other illegality, the owner of our nuisance has\n_forfeited_ his right to stay, no mortal can blame us for taking the\nstrictest and most decisive steps known to the law to remove him.\n\n\n\n\nAGNES OF SORRENTO.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nTHE SAINT'S REST.\n\n\nAgnes entered the city of Rome in a trance of enthusiastic emotion,\nalmost such as one might imagine in a soul entering the heavenly\nJerusalem above. To her exalted ideas she was approaching not only the\nground hallowed by the blood of apostles and martyrs, not merely the\ntombs of the faithful, but the visible \"general assembly and church of\nthe first-born which are written in heaven.\" Here reigned the appointed\nrepresentative of Jesus,--and she imagined a benignant image of a prince\nclothed with honor and splendor, who was yet the righter of all wrongs,\nthe redresser of all injuries, the friend and succorer of the poor and\nneedy; and she was firm in a secret purpose to go to this great and\nbenignant father, and on her knees entreat him to forgive the sins of\nher lover, and remove the excommunication that threatened at every\nmoment his eternal salvation. For she trembled to think of it,--a sudden\naccident, a thrust of a dagger, a fall from his horse might put him\nforever beyond the pale of repentance,--he might die unforgiven, and\nsink to eternal pain.\n\nIf any should wonder that a Christian soul could preserve within itself\nan image so ignorantly fair, in such an age, when the worldliness and\ncorruption in the Papal chair were obtruded by a thousand incidental\nmanifestations, and were alluded to in all the calculations of simple\ncommon people, who looked at facts with a mere view to the guidance of\ntheir daily conduct, it is necessary to remember the nature of Agnes's\nreligious training, and the absolute renunciation of all individual\nreasoning which from infancy had been laid down before her as the first\nand indispensable prerequisite of spiritual progress. To believe,--to\nbelieve utterly and blindly,--not only without evidence, but against\nevidence,--to reject the testimony even of her senses, when set against\nthe simple affirmation of her superiors,--had been the beginning,\nmiddle, and end of her religious instruction. When a doubt assailed her\nmind on any point, she had been taught to retire within herself and\nrepeat a prayer; and in this way her mental eye had formed the habit\nof closing to anything that might shake her faith as quickly as the\nphysical eye closes at a threatened blow. Then, as she was of a poetic\nand ideal nature, entirely differing from the mass of those with whom\nshe associated, she had formed that habit of abstraction and mental\nreverie which prevented her hearing or perceiving the true sense of a\ngreat deal that went on around her. The conversations that commonly\nwere carried on in her presence had for her so little interest that\nshe scarcely heard them. The world in which she moved was a glorified\nworld,--wherein, to be sure, the forms of every-day life appeared,\nbut appeared as different from what they were in reality as the old\nmouldering daylight view of Rome is from the warm translucent glory of\nits evening transfiguration.\n\nSo in her quiet, silent heart she nursed this beautiful hope of finding\nin Rome the earthly image of her Saviour's home above, of finding in the\nhead of the Church the real image of her Redeemer,--the friend to whom\nthe poorest and lowliest may pour out their souls with as much freedom\nas the highest and noblest. The spiritual directors who had formed the\nmind of Agnes in her early days had been persons in the same manner\ntaught to move in an ideal world of faith. The Mother Theresa had never\nseen the realities of life, and supposed the Church on earth to be all\nthat the fondest visions of human longing could paint it. The hard,\nenergetic, prose experience of old Jocunda, and the downright way with\nwhich she sometimes spoke of things as a trooper's wife must have seen\nthem, were repressed and hushed, down, as the imperfect faith of a\nhalf-reclaimed worldling,--they could not be allowed to awaken her\nfrom the sweetness of so blissful a dream. In like manner, when Lorenzo\nSforza became Father Francesco, he strove with earnest prayer to bury\nhis gift of individual reason in the same grave with his family name\nand worldly experience. As to all that transpired in the real world, he\nwrapped himself in a mantle of imperturbable silence; the intrigues of\npopes and cardinals, once well known to him, sank away as a forbidden\ndream; and by some metaphysical process of imaginative devotion he\nenthroned God in the place of the dominant powers, and taught himself to\nreceive all that came from them in uninquiring submission, as proceeding\nfrom unerring wisdom. Though he had begun his spiritual life under the\nimpulse of Savonarola, yet so perfect had been his isolation from all\ntidings of what transpired in the external world that the conflict which\nwas going on between that distinguished man and the Papal hierarchy\nnever reached his ear. He sought and aimed as much as possible to make\nhis soul like the soul of one dead, which adores and worships in ideal\nspace, and forgets forever the scenes and relations of earth; and he\nhad so long contemplated Rome under the celestial aspects of his faith,\nthat, though the shock of his first confession there had been painful,\nstill it was insufficient to shake his faith. It had been God's will, he\nthought, that where he looked for aid he should meet only confusion,\nand he bowed to the inscrutable will, and blindly adored the mysterious\nrevelation. If such could be the submission and the faith of a strong\nand experienced man, who can wonder at the enthusiastic illusions of an\ninnocent, trustful child?\n\nAgnes and her grandmother entered the city of Rome just as the twilight\nhad faded into night; and though Agnes, full of faith and enthusiasm,\nwas longing to begin immediately the ecstatic vision of shrines and holy\nplaces, old Elsie commanded her not to think of anything further that\nnight. They proceeded, therefore, with several other pilgrims who had\nentered the city, to a church specially set apart for their reception,\nconnected with which were large dormitories and a religious order whose\nbusiness was to receive and wait upon them, and to see that all their\nwants were supplied. This religious foundation is one of the oldest in\nRome; and it is esteemed a work of especial merit and sanctity among the\ncitizens to associate themselves temporarily in these labors in Holy\nWeek. Even princes and princesses come, humble and lowly, mingling with\nthose of common degree, and all, calling each other brother and sister,\nvie in kind attentions to these guests of the Church.\n\nWhen Agnes and Elsie arrived, several of these volunteer assistants were\nin waiting. Agnes was remarked among all the rest of the company for her\npeculiar beauty and the rapt enthusiastic expression of her face.\n\nAlmost immediately on their entrance into the reception-hall connected\nwith the church, they seemed to attract the attention of a tall lady\ndressed in deep mourning, and accompanied by a female servant, with whom\nshe was conversing on those terms of intimacy which showed confidential\nrelations between the two.\n\n\"See!\" she said, \"my Mona, what a heavenly face is there!--that sweet\nchild has certainly the light of grace shining through her. My heart\nwarms to her.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said the old servant, looking across, \"and well it\nmay,--dear lamb come so far! But, Holy Virgin, how my head swims! How\nstrange!--that child reminds me of some one. My Lady, perhaps, may think\nof some one whom she looks like.\"\n\n\"Mona, you say true. I have the same strange impression that I have seen\na face like hers, but who or where I cannot say.\"\n\n\"What would my Lady say, if I said it was our dear Prince?--God rest his\nsoul!\"\n\n\"Mona, it _is_ so,--yes,\" added the lady, looking more intently,--\"how\nsingular!--the very traits of our house in a peasant-girl! She is of\nSorrento, I judge, by her costume,--what a pretty one it is! That old\nwoman is her mother, perhaps. I must choose her for my care,--and, Mona,\nyou shall wait on her mother.\"\n\nSo saying, the Princess Paulina crossed the hall, and, bending affably\nover Agnes, took her hand and kissed her, saying,--\n\n\"Welcome, my dear little sister, to the house of our Father!\"\n\nAgnes looked up with strange, wondering eyes into the face that was bent\nto hers. It was sallow and sunken, with deep lines of ill-health and\nsorrow, but the features were noble, and must once have been, beautiful;\nthe whole action, voice, and manner were dignified and impressive.\nInstinctively she felt that the lady was of superior birth and breeding\nto any with whom she had been in the habit of associating.\n\n\"Come with me,\" said the lady; \"and this--your mother\"--she added.\n\n\"She is my grandmother,\" said Agnes.\n\n\"Well, then, your grandmother, sweet child, shall be attended by my good\nsister Mona here.\"\n\nThe Princess Paulina drew the hand of Agnes through her arm, and, laying\nher hand affectionately on it, looked down and smiled tenderly on her.\n\n\"Are you very tired, my dear?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! no!\" said Agnes,--\"I am so happy, so blessed to be here!\"\n\n\"You have travelled a long way?\"\n\n\"Yes, from Sorrento; but I am used to walking,--I did not feel it to be\nlong,--my heart kept me up,--I wanted to come home so much.\"\n\n\"Home?\" said the Princess.\n\n\"Yes, to my soul's home,--the house of our dear Father the Pope.\"\n\nThe Princess started, and looked incredulously down for a moment; then\nnoticing the confiding, whole-hearted air of the child, she sighed and\nwas silent.\n\n\"Come with me above,\" she said, \"and let me attend a little to your\ncomfort.\"\n\n\"How good you are, dear lady!\" said Agnes.\n\n\"I am not good, my child,--I am only your unworthy sister in Christ\";\nand as the lady spoke, she opened the door into a room where were a\nnumber of other female pilgrims seated around the wall, each attended by\na person whose peculiar care she seemed to be.\n\nAt the feet of each was a vessel of water, and when the seats were all\nfull, a cardinal in robes of office entered, and began reading prayers.\nEach lady present, kneeling at the feet of her chosen pilgrim, divested\nthem carefully of their worn and travel-soiled shoes and stockings, and\nproceeded to wash them. It was not a mere rose-water ceremony, but a\ngood hearty washing of feet that for the most part had great need of the\nablution. While this service was going on, the cardinal read from the\nGospel how a Greater than they all had washed the feet of His disciples,\nand said, \"If I, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye also\nought to wash one another's feet.\" Then all repeated in concert the\nLord's Prayer, while each humbly kissed the feet she had washed, and\nproceeded to replace the worn and travel-soiled shoes and stockings with\nnew and strong ones, the gift of Christian love. Each lady then led her\ncharge into a room where tables were spread with a plain and wholesome\nrepast of all such articles of food as the season of Lent allowed. Each\nplaced her _prot\u00e9g\u00e9e_ at table, and carefully attended to all her wants\nat the supper, and afterwards dormitories were opened for their repose.\n\nThe Princess Paulina performed all these offices for Agnes with a tender\nearnestness which won upon her heart. The young girl thought herself\nindeed in that blessed society of which she had dreamed, where the\nhigh-born and the rich become through Christ's love the servants of the\npoor and lowly,--and through all the services she sat in a sort of dream\nof rapture. How lovely this reception into the Holy City! how sweet thus\nto be taken to the arms of the great Christian family, bound together in\nthe charity which is the bond of perfectness!\n\n\"Please tell me, dear lady,\" said Agnes, after supper, \"who is that holy\nman that prayed with us?\"\n\n\"Oh, he--he is the Cardinal Capello,\" said the Princess.\n\n\"I should like to have spoken with him,\" said Agnes.\n\n\"Why, my child?\"\n\n\"I wanted to ask him when and how I could get speech with our dear\nFather the Pope,--for there is somewhat on my mind that I would lay\nbefore him.\"\n\n\"My poor little sister,\" said the Princess, much perplexed, \"you do not\nunderstand things. What you speak of is impossible. The Pope is a great\nking.\"\n\n\"I know he is,\" said Agnes,--\"and so is our Lord Jesus,--but every soul\nmay come to him.\"\n\n\"I cannot explain to you now,\" said the Princess,--\"there is not time\nto-night. But I shall see you again. I will send for you to come to my\nhouse, and there talk with you about many things which you need to know.\nMeanwhile, promise me, dear child, not to try to do anything of the kind\nyou spoke of until I have talked with you.\"\n\n\"Well, I will not,\" said Agnes, with a glance of docile affection,\nkissing the hand of the Princess.\n\nThe action was so pretty,--the great, soft, dark eyes looked so\nfawn-like and confiding in their innocent tenderness, that the lady\nseemed much moved.\n\n\"Our dear Mother bless thee, child!\" she said, laying her hand on her\nhead, and stooping to kiss her forehead.\n\nShe left her at the door of the dormitory.\n\nThe Princess and her attendant went out of the church-door, where her\nlitter stood in waiting. The two took their seats in silence, and\nsilently pursued their way through the streets of the old dimly-lighted\ncity and out of one of its principal gates to the wide Campagna beyond.\nThe villa of the Princess was situated on an eminence at some distance\nfrom the city, and the night-ride to it was solemn and solitary. They\npassed along the old Appian Way over pavements that had rumbled under\nthe chariot-wheels of the emperors and nobles of a by-gone age, while\nalong their way, glooming up against the clear of the sky, were vast\nshadowy piles,--the tombs of the dead of other days. All mouldering and\nlonely, shaggy and fringed with bushes and streaming wild vines through\nwhich the night-wind sighed and rustled, they might seem to be pervaded\nby the restless spirits of the dead; and as the lady passed them, she\nshivered, and, crossing herself, repeated an inward prayer against\nwandering demons that walk in desolate places.\n\nTimid and solitary, the high-born lady shrank and cowered within herself\nwith a distressing feeling of loneliness. A childless widow in delicate\nhealth, whose paternal family had been for the most part cruelly robbed,\nexiled, or destroyed by the reigning Pope and his family, she felt her\nown situation a most unprotected and precarious one, since the least\njealousy or misunderstanding might bring upon her, too, the ill-will\nof the Borgias, which had proved so fatal to the rest of her race. No\ncomfort in life remained to her but her religion, to whose practice she\nclung as to her all; but even in this her life was embittered by facts\nto which, with the best disposition in the world, she could not shut her\neyes. Her own family had been too near the seat of power not to see all\nthe base intrigues by which that sacred and solemn position of Head of\nthe Christian Church had been traded for as a marketable commodity. The\npride, the indecency, the cruelty of those who now reigned in the name\nof Christ came over her mind in contrast with the picture painted by\nthe artless, trusting faith of the peasant-girl with whom she had just\nparted. Her mind had been too thoroughly drilled in the non-reflective\npractice of her faith to dare to put forth any act of reasoning upon\nfacts so visible and so tremendous,--she rather trembled at herself for\nseeing what she saw and for knowing what she knew, and feared somehow\nthat this very knowledge might endanger her salvation; and so she rode\nhomeward cowering and praying like a frightened child.\n\n\"Does my Lady feel ill?\" said the old servant, anxiously.\n\n\"No, Mona, no,--not in body.\"\n\n\"And what is on my Lady's mind now?\"\n\n\"Oh, Mona, it is only what is always there. To-morrow is Palm Sunday,\nand how can I go to see the murderers and robbers of our house in holy\nplaces? Oh, Mona, what can Christians do, when such men handle holy\nthings? It was a comfort to wash the feet of those poor simple pilgrims,\nwho tread in the steps of the saints of old; but how I felt when that\npoor child spoke of wanting to see the Pope!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mona, \"it's like sending the lamb to get spiritual counsel\nof the wolf.\"\n\n\"See what sweet belief the poor infant has! Should not the head of the\nChristian Church be such as she thinks? Ah, in the old days, when the\nChurch here in Rome was poor and persecuted, there were popes who were\nloving fathers and not haughty princes.\"\n\n\"My dear Lady,\" said the servant, \"pray, consider, the very stones have\nears. We don't know what day we may be turned out, neck and heels, to\nmake room for some of their creatures.\"\n\n\"Well, Mona,\" said the lady, with some spirit, \"I'm sure I haven't said\nany more than you have.\"\n\n\"Holy Mother! and so you haven't, but somehow things look more dangerous\nwhen other people say them.--A pretty child that was, as you say; but\nthat old thing, her grandmother, is a sharp piece. She is a Roman,\nand lived here in her early days. She says the little one was born\nhereabouts; but she shuts up her mouth like a vice, when one would get\nmore out of her.\"\n\n\"Mona, I shall not go out to-morrow; but you go to the services, and\nfind the girl and her grandmother, and bring them out to me. I want to\ncounsel the child.\"\n\n\"You may be sure,\" said Mona, \"that her grandmother knows the ins and\nouts of Rome as well as any of us, for all she has learned to screw up\nher lips so tight\"\n\n\"At any rate, bring her to me, because she interests me.\"\n\n\"Well, well, it shall be so,\" said Mona.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nPALM SUNDAY.\n\n\nThe morning after her arrival in Rome, Agnes was awakened from sleep\nby a solemn dropping of bell-tones which seemed to fill the whole air,\nintermingled dimly at intervals with long-drawn plaintive sounds of\nchanting. She had slept profoundly, overwearied with her pilgrimage, and\nsoothed by that deep lulling sense of quiet which comes over one, when,\nafter long and weary toils, some auspicious goal is at length reached.\nShe had come to Rome, and been received with open arms into the\nhousehold of the saints, and seen even those of highest degree imitating\nthe simplicity of the Lord in serving the poor. Surely, this was indeed\nthe house of God and the gate of heaven; and so the bell-tones and\nchants, mingling with her dreams, seemed naturally enough angel-harpings\nand distant echoes of the perpetual adoration of the blessed. She rose\nand dressed herself with a tremulous joy. She felt full of hope that\nsomehow--in what way she could not say--this auspicious beginning\nwould end in a full fruition of all her wishes, an answer to all her\nprayers.\n\n\"Well, child,\" said old Elsie, \"you must have slept well; you look fresh\nas a lark.\"\n\n\"The air of this holy place revives me,\" said Agnes, with enthusiasm.\n\n\"I wish I could say as much,\" said Elsie. \"My bones ache yet with the\ntramp, and I suppose nothing will do but we must go out now to all the\nholy places, up and down and hither and yon, to everything that goes on.\nI saw enough of it all years ago when I lived here.\"\n\n\"Dear grandmother, if you are tired, why should you not rest? I can go\nforth alone in this holy city. No harm can possibly befall me here. I\ncan join any of the pilgrims who are going to the holy places where I\nlong to worship.\"\n\n\"A likely story!\" said Elsie. \"I know more about old Rome than you do,\nand I tell you, child, that you do not stir out a step without me; so if\nyou must go, I must go too,--and like enough it's for my soul's health.\nI suppose it is,\" she added, after a reflective pause.\n\n\"How beautiful it was that we were welcomed so last night!\" said\nAgnes,--\"that dear lady was so kind to me!\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, and well she might be!\" said Elsie, nodding her head. \"But\nthere's no truth in the kindness of the nobles to us, child. They don't\ndo it because they love us, but because they expect to buy heaven by\nwashing our feet and giving us what little they can clip and snip off\nfrom their abundance.\"\n\n\"Oh, grandmother,\" said Agnes, \"how can you say so? Certainly, if any\none ever spoke and looked lovingly, it was that dear lady.\"\n\n\"Yes, and she rolls away in her carriage, well content, and leaves you\nwith a pair of new shoes and stockings,--you, as worthy of a carriage\nand a palace as she.\"\n\n\"No, grandmamma; she said she should send for me to talk more with her.\"\n\n\"_She_ said she should send for you?\" said Elsie. \"Well, well, that is\nstrange, to be sure!--that is wonderful!\" she added, reflectively. \"But\ncome, child, we must hasten through our breakfast and prayers, and go to\nsee the Pope, and all the great birds with fine feathers that fly after\nhim.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed!\" said Agnes, joyfully. \"Oh, grandmamma, what a blessed\nsight it will be!\"\n\n\"Yes, child, and a fine sight enough he makes with his great canopy and\nhis plumes and his servants and his trumpeters;--there isn't a king in\nChristendom that goes so proudly as he.\"\n\n\"No other king is worthy of it,\" said Agnes. \"The Lord reigns in him.\"\n\n\"Much you know about it!\" said Elsie, between her teeth, as they started\nout.\n\nThe streets of Rome through which they walked were damp and cellar-like,\nfilthy and ill-paved; but Agnes neither saw nor felt anything of\ninconvenience in this: had they been floored, like those of the New\nJerusalem, with translucent gold, her faith could not have been more\nfervent.\n\nRome is at all times a forest of quaint costumes, a pantomime of\nshifting scenic effects of religious ceremonies. Nothing there, however\nsingular, strikes the eye as out-of-the-way or unexpected, since no\none knows precisely to what religious order it may belong, or what\nindividual vow or purpose it may represent. Neither Agnes nor Elsie,\ntherefore, was surprised, when they passed through the door-way to the\nstreet, at the apparition of a man covered from head to foot in a long\nrobe of white serge, with a high-peaked cap of the same material drawn\ncompletely down over his head and face. Two round holes cut in this\nghostly head-gear revealed simply two black glittering eyes, which shone\nwith that singular elfish effect which belongs to the human eye when\nremoved from its appropriate and natural accessories. As they passed\nout, the figure rattled a box on which was painted an image of\ndespairing souls raising imploring hands from very red tongues of flame,\nby which it was understood at once that he sought aid for souls in\nPurgatory. Agnes and her grandmother each dropped therein a small coin\nand went on their way; but the figure followed them at a little distance\nbehind, keeping carefully within sight of them.\n\nBy means of energetic pushing and striving, Elsie contrived to secure\nfor herself and her grandchild stations in the piazza in front of the\nchurch, in the very front rank, where the procession was to pass. A\nmotley assemblage it was, this crowd, comprising every variety of\ncostume of rank and station and ecclesiastical profession,--cowls\nand hoods of Franciscan and Dominican,--picturesque headdresses of\npeasant-women of different districts,--plumes and ruffs of more\naspiring gentility,--mixed with every quaint phase of foreign costume\nbelonging to the strangers from different parts of the earth;--for,\nlike the old Jewish Passover, this celebration of Holy Week had its\nassemblage of Parthians, Medes, Elamites, dwellers in Mesopotamia,\nCretes, and Arabians, all blending in one common memorial.\n\nAmid the strange variety of persons among whom they were crowded, Elsie\nremarked the stranger in the white sack, who had followed them, and who\nhad stationed himself behind them,--but it did not occur to her that his\npresence there was other than merely accidental.\n\nAnd now came sweeping up the grand procession, brilliant with scarlet\nand gold, waving with plumes, sparkling with gems,--it seemed as if\nearth had been ransacked and human invention taxed to express the\nultimatum of all that could dazzle and bewilder,--and, with a rustle\nlike that of ripe grain before a swaying wind, all the multitude went\ndown on their knees as the cortege passed. Agnes knelt, too, with\nclasped hands, adoring the sacred vision enshrined in her soul; and as\nshe knelt with upraised eyes, her cheeks flushed with enthusiasm, her\nbeauty attracted the attention of more than one in the procession.\n\n\"There is the model which our master has been looking for,\" said a young\nand handsome man in a rich dress of black velvet, who, by his costume,\nappeared to hold the rank of first chamberlain in the Papal suite.\n\nThe young man to whom he spoke gave a bold glance at Agnes and\nanswered,--\n\n\"Pretty little rogue, how well she does the saint!\"\n\n\"One can see, that, with judicious arrangement, she might make a nymph\nas well as a saint,\" said the first speaker.\n\n\"A Daphne, for example,\" said the other, laughing.\n\n\"And she wouldn't turn into a laurel, either,\" said the first. \"Well,\nwe must keep our eye on her.\" And as they were passing into the\nchurch-door, he beckoned to a servant in waiting and whispered\nsomething, indicating Agnes with a backward movement of his hand.\n\nThe servant, after this, kept cautiously within observing distance of\nher, as she with the crowd pressed into the church to assist at the\ndevotions.\n\nLong and dazzling were those ceremonies, when, raised on high like an\nenthroned God, Pope Alexander VI. received the homage of bended knee\nfrom the ambassadors of every Christian nation, from heads of all\necclesiastical orders, and from generals and chiefs and princes and\nnobles, who, robed and plumed and gemmed in all the brightest and\nproudest that earth could give, bowed the knee humbly and kissed his\nfoot in return for the palm-branch which he presented. Meanwhile, voices\nof invisible singers chanted the simple event which all this splendor\nwas commemorating,--how of old Jesus came into Jerusalem meek and lowly,\nriding on an ass,--how His disciples cast their garments in the way,\nand the multitude took branches of palm-trees to come forth and meet\nHim,--how He was seized, tried, condemned to a cruel death,--and\nthe crowd, with dazzled and wondering eyes following the gorgeous\nceremonial, reflected little how great was the satire of the contrast,\nhow different the coming of that meek and lowly One to suffer and to\ndie from this triumphant display of worldly-pomp and splendor in His\nprofessed representative.\n\nBut to the pure all things are pure, and Agnes thought only of the\nenthronement of all virtues, of all celestial charities and unworldly\npurities in that splendid ceremonial, and longed within herself to\napproach so near as to touch the hem of those wondrous and sacred\ngarments. It was to her enthusiastic imagination like the unclosing of\ncelestial doors, where the kings and priests of an eternal and heavenly\ntemple move to and fro in music, with the many-colored glories of\nrainbows and sunset clouds. Her whole nature was wrought upon by the\nsights and sounds of that gorgeous worship,--she seemed to burn and\nbrighten like an altar-coal, her figure appeared to dilate, her eyes\ngrew deeper and shone with a starry light, and the color of her cheeks\nflushed up with a vivid glow,--nor was she aware how often eyes were\nturned upon her, nor how murmurs of admiration followed all her\nabsorbed, unconscious movements. \"_Ecco! Eccola_!\" was often repeated\nfrom mouth to mouth around her, but she heard it not.\n\nWhen at last the ceremony was finished, the crowd rushed again out of\nthe church to see the departure of various dignitaries. There was\na perfect whirl of dazzling equipages, and glittering lackeys, and\nprancing horses, crusted with gold, flaming in scarlet and purple,\nretinues of cardinals and princes and nobles and ambassadors all in one\nsplendid confused jostle of noise and brightness.\n\nSuddenly a servant in a gorgeous scarlet livery touched Agnes on the\nshoulder, and said, in a tone of authority,--\n\n\"Young maiden, your presence is commanded.\"\n\n\"Who commands it?\" said Elsie, laying her hand on her grandchild's\nshoulder fiercely.\n\n\"Are you mad?\" whispered two or three women of the lower orders to Elsie\nat once; \"don't you know who that is? Hush, for your life!\"\n\n\"I shall go with you, Agnes,\" said Elsie, resolutely.\n\n\"No, you will not,\" said the attendant, insolently. \"This maiden is\ncommanded, and none else.\"\n\n\"He belongs to the Pope's nephew,\" whispered a voice in Elsie's ear.\n\"You had better have your tongue torn out than say another word.\"\nWhereupon, Elsie found herself actually borne backward by three or four\nstout women.\n\nAgnes looked round and smiled on her,--a smile full of innocent\ntrust,--and then, turning, followed the servant into the finest of the\nequipages, where she was lost to view.\n\nElsie was almost wild with fear and impotent rage; but a low, impressive\nvoice now spoke in her ear. It came from the white figure which had\nfollowed them in the morning.\n\n\"Listen,\" it said, \"and be quiet; don't turn your head, but hear what\nI tell you. Your child is followed by those who will save her. Go your\nways whence you came. Wait till the hour after the Ave Maria, then come\nto the Porta San Sebastiano, and all will be well.\"\n\nWhen Elsie turned to look she saw no one, but caught a distant glimpse\nof a white figure vanishing in the crowd.\n\nShe returned to her asylum, wondering and disconsolate, and the first\nperson whom she saw was old Mona.\n\n\"Well, good morrow, sister!\" she said. \"Know that I am here on a strange\nerrand. The Princess has taken such a liking to you that nothing will\ndo but we must fetch you and your little one out to her villa. I\nlooked everywhere for you in church this morning. Where have you hid\nyourselves?\"\n\n\"We were there,\" said Elsie, confused, and hesitating whether to speak\nof what had happened.\n\n\"Well, where is the little one? Get her ready; we have horses in\nwaiting. It is a good bit out of the city.\"\n\n\"Alack!\" said Elsie, \"I know not where she is.\"\n\n\"Holy Virgin!\" said Mona, \"how is this?\"\n\nElsie, moved by the necessity which makes it a relief to open the heart\nto some one, sat down on the steps of the church and poured forth the\nwhole story into the listening ear of Mona.\n\n\"Well, well, well!\" said the old servant, \"in our days, one does\nnot wonder at anything,--one never knows one day what may come the\nnext,--but this is bad enough!\"\n\n\"Do you think,\" said Elsie, \"there is any hope in that strange promise?\"\n\n\"One can but try it,\" said Mona.\n\n\"If you could but be there then,\" said Elsie, \"and take us to your\nmistress.\"\n\n\"Well, I will wait, for my mistress has taken an especial fancy to your\nlittle one, more particularly since this morning, when a holy Capuchin\ncame to our house and held a long conference with her, and after he was\ngone I found my lady almost in a faint, and she would have it that we\nshould start directly to bring her out here, and I had much ado to let\nher see that the child would do quite as well after services were over.\nI tired myself looking about for you in the crowd.\"\n\nThe two women then digressed upon various gossiping particulars, as they\nsat on the old mossy, grass-grown steps, looking up over house-tops\nyellow with lichen, into the blue spring air, where flocks of white\npigeons were soaring and careering in the soft, warm sunshine.\nBrightness and warmth and flowers seemed to be the only idea natural to\nthat charming weather, and Elsie, sad-hearted and foreboding as she was,\nfelt the benign influence. Rome, which had been so fatal a place to her\npeace, yet had for her, as it has for every one, potent spells of a\nlulling and soothing power. Where is the grief or anxiety that can\nresist the enchantment of one of Rome's bright, soft, spring days?\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nTHE NIGHT-RIDE.\n\n\nThe villa of the Princess Paulina was one of those soft, idyllic\nparadises which lie like so many fairy-lands around the dreamy solitudes\nof Rome. They are so fair, so wild, so still, these villas! Nature in\nthem seems to run in such gentle sympathy with Art that one feels as if\nthey had not been so much the product of human skill as some indigenous\ngrowth of Arcadian ages. There are quaint terraces shadowed by clipped\nilex-trees whose branches make twilight even in the sultriest noon;\nthere are long-drawn paths, through wildernesses where cyclamens blossom\nin crimson clouds among crushed fragments of sculptured marble green\nwith the moss of ages, and glossy-leaved myrtles put forth their pale\nblue stars in constellations under the leafy shadows. Everywhere is the\nvoice of water, ever lulling, ever babbling, and taught by Art to run in\nmany a quaint caprice,--here to rush down marble steps slippery with\nsedgy green, there to spout up in silvery spray, and anon to spread into\na cool, waveless lake, whose mirror reflects trees and flowers far down\nin some visionary underworld. Then there are wide lawns, where the\ngrass in spring is a perfect rainbow of anemones, white, rose, crimson,\npurple, mottled, streaked, and dappled with ever varying shade of sunset\nclouds. There are soft, moist banks where purple and white violets grow\nlarge and fair, and trees all interlaced with ivy, which runs and twines\neverywhere, intermingling its dark, graceful leaves and vivid young\nshoots with the bloom and leafage of all shadowy places.\n\nIn our day, these lovely places have their dark shadow ever haunting\ntheir loveliness: the malaria, like an unseen demon, lies hid in their\nsweetness. And in the time we are speaking of, a curse not less deadly\npoisoned the beauties of the Princess's villa,--the malaria of fear.\n\nThe gravelled terrace in front of the villa commanded, through the\nclipped arches of the ilex-trees, the Campagna with its soft, undulating\nbands of many-colored green, and the distant city of Rome, whose bells\nwere always filling the air between with a tremulous vibration. Here,\nduring the long sunny afternoon while Elsie and Monica were crooning\ntogether on the steps of the church, the Princess Paulina walked\nrestlessly up and down, looking forth on the way towards the city for\nthe travellers whom she expected.\n\nFather Francesco had been there that morning and communicated to her\nthe dying message of the aged Capuchin, from which it appeared that the\nchild who had so much interested her was her near kinswoman. Perhaps,\nhad her house remained at the height of its power and splendor, she\nmight have rejected with scorn the idea of a kinswoman whose existence\nhad been owing to a _m\u00e9salliance_; but a member of an exiled and\ndisinherited family, deriving her only comfort from unworldly sources,\nshe regarded this event as an opportunity afforded her to make expiation\nfor one of the sins of her house. The beauty and winning graces of her\nyoung kinswoman were not without their influence in attracting a lonely\nheart deprived of the support of natural ties. The Princess longed for\nsomething to love, and the discovery of a legitimate object of family\naffection was an event in the weary monotony of her life; and therefore\nit was that the hours of the afternoon seemed long while she looked\nforth towards Rome, listening to the ceaseless chiming of its bells, and\nwondering why no one appeared along the road.\n\nThe sun went down, and all the wide plain seemed like the sea at\ntwilight, lying in rosy and lilac and purple shadowy bands, out of\nwhich rose the old city, solemn and lonely as some enchanted island of\ndream-land, with a flush of radiance behind it and a tolling of weird\nmusic filling all the air around. Now they are chanting the Ave Maria in\nhundreds of churches, and the Princess worships in distant accord, and\ntries to still the anxieties of her heart with many a prayer. Twilight\nfades and fades, the Campagna becomes a black sea, and the distant city\nlooms up like a dark rock against the glimmering sky, and the Princess\ngoes within and walks restlessly through the wide halls, stopping first\nat one open window and then at another to listen. Beneath her feet she\ntreads a cool mosaic pavement where laughing Cupids are dancing. Above,\nfrom the ceiling, Aurora and the Hours look down in many-colored clouds\nof brightness. The sound of the fountains without is so clear in the\nintense stillness that the peculiar voice of each one can be told. That\nis the swaying noise of the great jet that rises from marble shells and\nfalls into a wide basin, where silvery swans swim round and round in\nenchanted circles; and the other slenderer sound is the smaller jet that\nrains down its spray into the violet-borders deep in the shrubbery; and\nthat other, the shallow babble of the waters that go down the marble\nsteps to the lake. How dreamlike and plaintive they all sound in the\nnight stillness! The nightingale sings from the dark shadows of the\nwilderness; and the musky odors of the cyclamen come floating ever\nand anon through the casement, in that strange, cloudy way in which\nflower-scents seem to come and go in the air in the night season.\n\nAt last the Princess fancies she hears the distant tramp of horses'\nfeet, and her heart beats so that she can scarcely listen: now she hears\nit,--and now a rising wind, sweeping across the Campagna, seems to bear\nit moaning away. She goes to a door and looks out into the darkness.\nYes, she hears it now, quick and regular,--the beat of many horses' feet\ncoming in hot haste along the road. Surely the few servants whom she has\nsent cannot make all this noise! and she trembles with vague affright.\nPerhaps it is a tyrannical message, bringing imprisonment and death. She\ncalls a maid, and bids her bring lights into the reception-hall. A\nfew moments more, and there is a confused stamping of horses' feet\napproaching the house, and she hears the voices of her servants. She\nruns into the piazza, and sees dismounting a knight who carries Agnes in\nhis arms pale and fainting. Old Elsie and Monica, too, dismount, with\nthe Princess's men-servants; but, wonderful to tell, there seems besides\nthem to be a train of some hundred armed horsemen.\n\nThe timid Princess was so fluttered and bewildered that she lost all\npresence of mind, and stood in uncomprehending wonder, while Monica\npushed authoritatively into the house, and beckoned the knight to bring\nAgnes and lay her on a sofa, when she and old Elsie busied themselves\nvigorously with restoratives.\n\nThe Lady Paulina, as soon as she could collect her scattered senses,\nrecognized in Agostino the banished lord of the Sarelli family, a race\nwho had shared with her own the hatred and cruelty of the Borgia tribe;\nand he in turn had recognized a daughter of the Colonnas.\n\nHe drew her aside into a small boudoir adjoining the apartment.\n\n\"Noble lady,\" he said, \"we are companions in misfortune, and so, I\ntrust, you will pardon what seems a tumultuous intrusion on your\nprivacy. I and my men came to Rome in disguise, that we might watch over\nand protect this poor innocent, who now finds asylum with you.\"\n\n\"My Lord,\" said the Princess, \"I see in this event the wonderful working\nof the good God. I have but just learned that this young person is my\nnear kinswoman; it was only this morning that the fact was certified to\nme on the dying confession of a holy Capuchin, who privately united my\nbrother to her mother. The marriage was an indiscretion of his youth;\nbut afterwards he fell into more grievous sin in denying the holy\nsacrament, and leaving his wife to die in misery and dishonor, and\nperhaps for this fault such great judgments fell upon him. I wish to\nmake atonement in such sort as is yet possible by acting as a mother to\nthis child.\"\n\n\"The times are so troublous and uncertain,\" said Agostino, \"that she\nmust have stronger protection than that of any woman. She is of a most\nholy and religious nature, but as ignorant of sin as an angel who never\nhas seen anything out of heaven; and so the Borgias enticed her into\ntheir impure den, from which, God helping, I have saved her. I tried\nall I could to prevent her coming to Rome, and to convince her of the\nvileness that ruled here; but the poor little one could not believe me,\nand thought me a heretic only for saying what she now knows from her own\nsenses.\"\n\nThe Lady Paulina shuddered with fear.\n\n\"Is it possible that you have come into collision with the dreadful\nBorgias? What will become of us?\"\n\n\"I brought a hundred men into Rome in different disguises,\" said\nAgostino, \"and we gained over a servant in their household, through whom\nI entered and carried her off. Their men pursued us, and we had a fight\nin the streets, but for the moment we mustered more than they. Some of\nthem chased us a good distance. But it will not do for us to remain\nhere. As soon as she is revived enough, we must retreat towards one\nof our fastnesses in the mountains, whence, when rested, we shall go\nnorthward to Florence, where I have powerful friends, and she has also\nan uncle, a holy man, by whose counsels she is much guided.\"\n\n\"You must take me with you,\" said the Princess, in a tremor of anxiety.\n\n\"Not for the world would I stay, if it be known you have taken refuge\nhere. For a long time their spies have been watching about me; they\nonly wait for some occasion to seize upon my villa, as they have on the\npossessions of all my father's house. Let me flee with you. I have a\nbrother-in-law in Florence who hath often urged me to escape to him till\ntimes mend,--for, surely, God will not allow the wicked to bear rule\nforever.\"\n\n\"Willingly, noble lady, will we give you our escort,--the more so that\nthis poor child will then have a friend with her beseeming her father's\nrank. Believe me, lady, she will do no discredit to her lineage. She was\ntrained in a convent, and her soul is a flower of marvellous beauty. I\nmust declare to you here that I have wooed her honorably to be my wife,\nand she would willingly be so, had not some scruples of a religious\nvocation taken hold on her, to dispel which I look for the aid of the\nholy father, her uncle.\"\n\n\"It would be a most fit and proper thing,\" said the Princess, \"thus to\nally our houses, in hope of some good time to come which shall restore\ntheir former standing and possessions. Of course some holy man must\njudge of the obstacle interposed by her vocation; but I doubt not the\nChurch will be an indulgent mother in a case where the issue seems so\ndesirable.\"\n\n\"If I be married to her,\" said Agostino, \"I can take her out of all\nthese strifes and confusions which now agitate our Italy to the court of\nFrance, where I have an uncle high in favor with the King, and who will\nuse all his influence to compose these troubles in Italy, and bring\nabout a better day.\"\n\nWhile this conversation was going on, bountiful refreshments had been\nprovided for the whole party, and the attendants of the Princess\nreceived orders to pack all her jewels and valuable effects for a sudden\njourney.\n\nAs soon as preparations could be made, the whole party left the villa of\nthe Princess for a retreat in the Alban Mountains, where Agostino\nand his band had one of their rendezvous. Only the immediate female\nattendants of the Princess, and one or two men-servants, left with her.\nThe silver plate, and all objects of particular value, were buried in\nthe garden. This being done, the keys of the house were intrusted to a\ngray-headed servant, who with his wife had grown old in the family.\n\nIt was midnight before everything was ready for starting. The moon cast\nsilver gleams through the ilex-avenues, and caused the jet of the great\nfountain to look like a wavering pillar of cloudy brightness, when the\nPrincess led forth Agnes upon the wide veranda. Two gentle, yet spirited\nlittle animals from the Princess's stables were there awaiting them, and\nthey were lifted into their saddles by Agostino.\n\n\"Fear nothing, Madam,\" he said, observing how the hands of the Princess\ntrembled; \"a few hours will put us in perfect safety, and I shall be at\nyour side constantly.\"\n\nThen lifting Agnes to her seat, he placed the reins in her hand.\n\n\"Are you rested?\" he asked.\n\nIt was the first time since her rescue that he had spoken to Agnes. The\nwords were brief, but no expressions of endearment could convey more\nthan the manner in which they were spoken.\n\n\"Yes, my Lord,\" said Agnes, firmly, \"I am rested.\"\n\n\"You think you can bear the ride?\"\n\n\"I can bear anything, so I escape,\" she said.\n\nThe company were now all mounted, and were marshalled in regular order.\nA body of armed men rode in front; then came Agnes and the Princess,\nwith Agostino between them, while two or three troopers rode on either\nside; Elsie, Monica, and the servants of the Princess followed close\nbehind, and the rear was brought up in like manner by armed men.\n\nThe path wound first through the grounds of the villa, with its plats\nof light and shade, its solemn groves of stone-pines rising like\npalm-trees high in air above the tops of all other trees, its terraces\nand statues and fountains,--all seeming so lovely in the midnight\nstillness.\n\n\"Perhaps I am leaving all this forever,\" said the Princess.\n\n\"Let us hope for the best,\" said Agostino. \"It cannot be that God will\nsuffer the seat of the Apostles to be subjected to such ignominy\nand disgrace much longer. I am amazed that no Christian kings have\ninterfered before for the honor of Christendom. I have it from the best\nauthority that the King of Naples burst into tears when he heard of the\nelection of this wretch to be Pope. He said that it was a scandal which\nthreatened the very existence of Christianity. He has sent me secret\nmessages divers times expressive of sympathy, but he is not of himself\nstrong enough. Our hope must lie either in the King of France or the\nEmperor of Germany: perhaps both will engage. There is now a most holy\nmonk in Florence who has been stirring all hearts in a wonderful way. It\nis said that the very gifts of miracles and prophecy are revived in him,\nas among the holy Apostles, and he has been bestirring himself to have\na General Council of the Church to look into these matters. When I left\nFlorence, a short time ago, the faction opposed to him broke into the\nconvent and took him away. I myself was there.\"\n\n\"What!\" said Agnes, \"did they break into the convent of the San Marco?\nMy uncle is there.\"\n\n\"Yes, and he and I fought side by side with the mob who were rushing\nin.\"\n\n\"Uncle Antonio fight!\" said Agnes, in astonishment.\n\n\"Even women will fight, when what they love most is attacked,\" said the\nknight.\n\nHe turned to her, as he spoke, and saw in the moonlight a flash from her\neye, and an heroic expression on her face, such as he had never remarked\nbefore; but she said nothing. The veil had been rudely torn from her\neyes; she had seen with horror the defilement and impurity of what she\nhad ignorantly adored in holy places, and the revelation seemed to have\nwrought a change in her whole nature.\n\n\"Even you could fight, Agnes,\" said the knight, \"to save your religion\nfrom disgrace.\"\n\n\"No,\" said she; \"but,\" she added, with gathering firmness, \"I could die.\nI should be glad to die with and for the holy men who would save the\nhonor of the true faith. I should like to go to Florence to my uncle. If\nhe dies for his religion, I should like to die with him.\"\n\n\"Ah, live to teach it to me!\" said the knight, bending towards her, as\nif to adjust her bridle-rein, and speaking in a voice scarcely audible.\nIn a moment he was turned again towards the Princess, listening to her.\n\n\"So it seems,\" she said, \"that we shall be running into the thick of the\nconflict in Florence.\"\n\n\"Yes, but my uncle hath promised that the King of France shall\ninterfere. I have hope something may even now have been done. I hope to\neffect something myself.\"\n\nAgostino spoke with the cheerful courage of youth. Agnes glanced timidly\nup at him. How great the change in her ideas! No longer looking on him\nas a wanderer from the fold, an enemy of the Church, he seemed now in\nthe attitude of a champion of the faith, a defender of holy men and\nthings against a base usurpation. What injustice had she done him, and\nhow patiently had he borne that injustice! Had he not sought to warn\nher against the danger of venturing into that corrupt city? Those words\nwhich so much shocked her, against which she had shut her ears, were all\ntrue; she had found them so; she could doubt no longer. And yet he had\nfollowed her, and saved her at the risk of his life. Could she help\nloving one who had loved her so much, one so noble and heroic? Would\nit be a sin to love him? She pondered the dark warnings of Father\nFrancesco, and then thought of the cheerful, fervent piety of her old\nuncle. How warm, how tender, how life-giving had been his presence\nalways! how full of faith and prayer, how fruitful of heavenly words and\nthoughts had been all his ministrations!--and yet it was for him and\nwith him and his master that Agostino Sarelli was fighting, and against\nhim the usurping head of the Christian Church. Then there was another\nsubject for pondering during this night-ride. The secret of her birth\nhad been told her by the Princess, who claimed her as kinswoman. It had\nseemed to her at first like the revelations of a dream; but as she rode\nand reflected, gradually the idea shaped itself in her mind. She was, in\nbirth and blood, the equal of her lover, and henceforth her life would\nno more be in that lowly plane where it had always moved. She thought of\nthe little orange-garden at Sorrento, of the gorge with its old bridge,\nthe Convent, the sisters, with a sort of tender, wondering pain. Perhaps\nshe should see them no more. In this new situation she longed once more\nto see and talk with her old uncle, and to have him tell her what were\nher duties.\n\nTheir path soon began to be a wild clamber among the mountains, now lost\nin the shadow of groves of gray, rustling olives, whose knotted, serpent\nroots coiled round the rocks, and whose leaves silvered in the moonlight\nwhenever the wind swayed them. Whatever might be the roughness and\ndifficulties of the way, Agnes found her knight ever at her bridle-rein,\nguiding and upholding, steadying her in her saddle when the horse\nplunged down short and sudden descents, and wrapping her in his mantle\nto protect her from the chill mountain-air. When the day was just\nreddening in the sky, the whole troop made a sudden halt before a square\nstone tower which seemed to be a portion of a ruined building, and here\nsome of the men dismounting knocked at an arched door. It was soon swung\nopen by a woman with a lamp in her hand, the light of which revealed\nvery black hair and eyes, and heavy gold earrings.\n\n\"Have my directions been attended to?\" said Agostino, in a tone of\ncommand. \"Are there places made ready for these ladies to sleep?\"\n\n\"There are, my Lord,\" said the woman, obsequiously,--\"the best we could\nget ready on so short a notice.\"\n\nAgostino came up to the Princess. \"Noble Madam,\" he said, \"you will\nvalue safety before all things; doubtless the best that can be done here\nis but poor, but it will give you a few hours for repose where you may\nbe sure of being in perfect safety.\"\n\nSo saying, he assisted her and Agnes to dismount, and Elsie and Monica\nalso alighting, they followed the woman into a dark stone passage and up\nsome rude stone steps. She opened at last the door of a brick-floored\nroom, where beds appeared to have been hastily prepared. There was no\nfurniture of any sort except the beds. The walls were dusty and hung\nwith cobwebs. A smaller apartment opening into this had beds for Elsie\nand Monica.\n\nThe travellers, however, were too much exhausted with their night-ride\nto be critical, the services of disrobing and preparing for rest were\nquickly concluded, and in less than an hour all were asleep, while\nAgostino was busy concerting the means for an immediate journey to\nFlorence.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\n\"LET US ALSO GO, THAT WE MAY DIE WITH HIM.\"\n\n\nFather Antonio sat alone in his cell in the San Marco in an attitude of\ndeep dejection. The open window looked into the garden of the convent,\nfrom which steamed up the fragrance of violet, jasmine, and rose, and\nthe sunshine lay fair on all that was without. On a table beside him\nwere many loose and scattered sketches, and an unfinished page of\nthe Breviary he was executing, rich in quaint tracery of gold and\narabesques, seemed to have recently occupied his attention, for his\npalette was wet and many loose brushes lay strewed around. Upon the\ntable stood a Venetian glass with a narrow neck and a bulb clear\nand thin as a soap-bubble, containing vines and blossoms of the\npassion-flower, which he had evidently been using as models in his work.\n\nThe page he was illuminating was the prophetic Psalm which describes the\nignominy and sufferings of the Redeemer. It was surrounded by a wreathed\nborder of thorn-branches interwoven with the blossoms and tendrils of\nthe passion-flower, and the initial letters of the first two words were\nformed by a curious combination of the hammer, the nails, the spear, the\ncrown of thorns, the cross, and other instruments of the Passion; and\nclear, in red letter, gleamed out those wonderful, mysterious words,\nconsecrated by the remembrance of a more than mortal anguish,--\"My God,\nmy God, why hast thou forsaken me?\"\n\nThe artist-monk had perhaps fled to his palette to assuage the\nthrobbings of his heart, as a mourning mother flies to the cradle of her\nchild; but even there his grief appeared to have overtaken him, for the\nwork lay as if pushed from him in an access of anguish such as comes\nfrom the sudden recurrence of some overwhelming recollection. He was\nleaning forward with his face buried in his hands, sobbing convulsively.\n\nThe door opened, and a man advancing stealthily behind laid a hand\nkindly on his shoulder, saying softly, \"So, so, brother!\"\n\nFather Antonio looked up, and, dashing his hand hastily across his\neyes, grasped that of the new-comer convulsively, and saying only, \"Oh,\nBaccio! Baccio!\" hid his face again.\n\nThe eyes of the other filled with tears, as he answered gently,--\n\n\"Nay, but, my brother, you are killing yourself. They tell me that you\nhave eaten nothing for three days, and slept not for weeks; you will die\nof this grief.\"\n\n\"Would that I might! Why could not I die with him as well as Fra\nDomenico? Oh, my master! my dear master!\"\n\n\"It is indeed a most heavy day to us all,\" said Baccio della Porta,\nthe amiable and pure-minded artist better known to our times by his\nconventual name of Fra Bartolommeo. \"Never have we had among us such a\nman; and if there be any light of grace in my soul, his preaching first\nawakened it, brother. I only wait to see him enter Paradise, and then\nI take farewell of the world forever. I am going to Prato to take the\nDominican habit, and follow him as near as I may.\"\n\n\"It is well, Baccio, it is well,\" said Father Antonio; \"but you must not\nput out the light of your genius in those shadows,--you must still paint\nfor the glory of God.\"\n\n\"I have no heart for painting now,\" said Baccio, dejectedly. \"He was my\ninspiration, he taught me the holier way, and he is gone.\"\n\nAt this moment the conference of the two was interrupted by a knocking\nat the door, and Agostino Sarelli entered, pale and disordered.\n\n\"How is this?\" he said, hastily. \"What devils' carnival is this which\nhath broken loose in Florence? Every good thing is gone into dens and\nholes, and every vile thing that can hiss and spit and sting is crawling\nabroad. What do the princes of Europe mean to let such things be?\"\n\n\"Only the old story,\" said Father Antonio,--\"_Principes convenerunt in\nunum adversus Dominum, adversus Christum ejus_.\"\n\nSo much were all three absorbed in the subject of their thoughts, that\nno kind of greeting or mark of recognition passed among them, such as is\ncommon when people meet after temporary separation. Each spoke out from\nthe fulness of his soul, as from an overflowing bitter fountain.\n\n\"Was there no one to speak for him,--no one to stand up for the pride of\nItaly,--the man of his age?\" said Agostino.\n\n\"There was one voice raised for him in the council,\" said Father\nAntonio. \"There was Agnolo Niccolini: a grave man is this Agnolo, and of\ngreat experience in public affairs, and he spoke out his mind boldly. He\ntold them flatly, that, if they looked through the present time or the\npast ages, they would not meet a man of such a high and noble order as\nthis, and that to lay at our door the blood of a man the like of whom\nmight not be born for centuries was too impious and execrable a thing to\nbe thought of. I'll warrant me, he made a rustling among them when he\nsaid that, and the Pope's commissary--old Romalino--then whispered\nand frowned; but Agnolo is a stiff old fellow when he once begins a\nthing,--he never minded it, and went through with his say. It seems to\nme he said that it was not for us to quench a light like this, capable\nof giving lustre to the faith even when it had grown dim in other parts\nof the world,--and not to the faith alone, but to all the arts and\nsciences connected with it. If it were needed to put restraint on him,\nhe said, why not put him into some fortress, and give him commodious\napartments, with abundance of books, and pen, ink, and paper, where he\nwould write books to the honor of God and the exaltation of the holy\nfaith? He told them that this might be a good to the world, whereas\nconsigning him to death without use of any kind would bring on our\nrepublic perpetual dishonor.\"\n\n\"Well said for him!\" said Baccio, with warmth; \"but I'll warrant me, he\nmight as well have preached to the north wind in March, his enemies are\nin such a fury.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Antonio, \"it is just as it was of old: the chief\npriests and Scribes and Pharisees were instant with loud voices,\nrequiring he should be put to death; and the easy Pilates, for fear of\nthe tumult, washed their hands of it.\"\n\n\"And now,\" said Agostino, \"they are putting up a great gibbet in the\nshape of a cross in the public square, where they will hang the three\nholiest and best men of Florence!\"\n\n\"I came through there this morning,\" said Baccio, \"and there were young\nmen and boys shouting, and howling, and singing indecent songs, and\nputting up indecent pictures, such as those he used to preach against.\nIt is just as you say. All things vile have crept out of their lair, and\ntriumph that the man who made them afraid is put down; and every house\nis full of the most horrible lies about him,--things that they said he\nconfessed.\"\n\n\"Confessed!\" said Father Antonio,--\"was it not enough that they tore\nand tortured him seven times, but they must garble and twist the very\nwords that he said in his agony? The process they have published is\nfoully falsified,--stuffed full of improbable lies; for I myself have\nread the first draught of all he did say, just as Signor Ceccone took it\ndown as they were torturing him. I had it from Jacopo Manelli, canon of\nour Duomo here, and he got it from Ceccone's wife herself. They not only\ncan torture and slay him, but they torture and slay his memory with\nlies.\"\n\n\"Would I were in God's place for one day!\" said Agostino, speaking\nthrough his clenched teeth. \"May I be forgiven for saying so.\"\n\n\"We are hot and hasty,\" said Father Antonio, \"ever ready to call down\nfire from heaven,--but, after all, 'the Lord reigneth, let the earth\nrejoice.' 'Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness.' Our\ndear father is sustained in spirit and full of love. Even when they\nlet him go from the torture, he fell on his knees, praying for his\ntormentors.\"\n\n\"Good God! this passes me!\" said Agostino, striking his hands together.\n\"Oh, wherefore hath a strong man arms and hands, and a sword, if he\nmust stand still and see such things done? If I had only my hundred\nmountaineers here, I would make one charge for him to-morrow. If I could\nonly _do_ something!\" he added, striding impetuously up and down the\ncell and clenching his fists. \"What! hath nobody petitioned to stay this\nthing?\"\n\n\"Nobody for him,\" said Father Antonio. \"There was talk in the city\nyesterday that Fra Domenico was to be pardoned; in fact, Romalino was\nquite inclined to do it, but Battista Albert talked violently against\nit, and so Romalino said, 'Well, a monk more or less isn't much matter,'\nand then he put his name down for death with the rest. The order was\nsigned by both commissaries of the Pope, and one was Fr\u00e0 Turiano, the\ngeneral of our order, a mild man, full of charity, but unable to stand\nagainst the Pope.\"\n\n\"Mild men are nuisances in such places\", said Agostino, hastily; \"our\ntimes want something of another sort.\"\n\n\"There be many who have fallen away from him even in our house here,\"\nsaid Father Antonio,--\"as it was with our blessed Lord, whose disciples\nforsook him and fled. It seems to be the only thought with some how they\nshall make their peace with the Pope.\"\n\n\"And so the thing will be hurried through to-morrow,\" said Agostino,\n\"and when it's done and over, I'll warrant me there will be found kings\nand emperors to say they meant to have saved him. It's a vile, evil\nworld, this of ours; an honorable man longs to see the end of it. But,\"\nhe added, coming up and speaking to Father Antonio, \"I have a private\nmessage for you.\"\n\n\"I am gone this moment,\" said Baccio, rising with ready courtesy; \"but\nkeep up heart, brother.\"\n\nSo saying, the good-hearted artist left the cell, and Agostino said,--\n\n\"I bring tidings to you of your kindred. Your niece and sister are here\nin Florence, and would see you. You will find them at the house of one\nGherardo Rosselli, a rich citizen of noble blood.\"\n\n\"Why are they there?\" said the monk, lost in amazement.\n\nYou must know, then, that a most singular discovery hath been made\nby your niece at Rome. The sister of her father, being a lady of the\nprincely blood of Colonna, hath been assured of her birth by the\nconfession of the priest that married him; and being driven from Rome by\nfear of the Borgias, they came hither under my escort, and wait to see\nyou. So, if you will come with me now, I will guide you to them.\"\n\n\"Even so,\" said Father Antonio.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nMARTYRDOM.\n\n\nIn a shadowy chamber of a room overlooking the grand square of Florence\nmight be seen, on the next morning, some of the principal personages of\nour story. Father Antonio, Baccio della Porta, Agostino Sarelli, the\nPrincess Paulina, Agnes, with her grandmother, and mixed crowd of\ncitizens and ecclesiastics who all spoke in hushed and tremulous voices,\nas men do in the chamber of mourners at a funeral. The great, mysterious\nbell of the Campanile was swinging with dismal, heart-shaking toll, like\na mighty voice from the spirit-world; and it was answered by the\ntolling of all the bells in the city, making such wavering clangors and\nvibrating circles in the air over Florence that it might seem as if it\nwere full of warring spirits wrestling for mastery.\n\nToll! toll! toll! O great bell of the fair Campanile! for this day the\nnoblest of the wonderful men of Florence is to offered up. Toll! for an\nera is going out,--the era of her artists, her statesmen, her poets, and\nher scholars. Toll! for an era is coming in,--the era of her disgrace\nand subjugation and misfortune!\n\nThe stepping of the vast crowd in the square was like the patter of a\ngreat storm, and the hum of voices rose up like the murmur of the ocean;\nbut in the chamber all was so still that one could have heard the\ndropping of a pin.\n\nUnder the balcony of this room were seated in pomp and state the Papal\ncommissioners, radiant in gold and scarlet respectability; and Pilate\nand Herod, on terms of the most excellent friendship, were ready to act\nover again the part they had acted fourteen hundred years by before. Now\nhas arrived the moment when the three followers of the Man of Calvary\nare to be degraded from the fellowship of His visible Church.\n\nFather Antonio, Agostino, and Baccio stood forth in the balcony, and,\ndrawing in their breath, looked down, as the three men of the hour, pale\nand haggard with imprisonment and torture, were brought up amid the\nhoots and obscene jests of the populace. Savonarola first was led before\nthe tribunal, and there, with circumstantial minuteness, endued with\nall his priestly vestments, which again, with separate ceremonies of\nreprobation and ignominy, were taken from him. He stood through it all\nserene as stood his Master when stripped of His garments on Calvary.\nThere is a momentary hush of voices and drawing in of breaths in the\ngreat crowd. The Papal legate takes him by the hand and pronounces the\nwords, \"Jerome Savonarola, I separate thee from the Church Militant and\nthe Church Triumphant.\"\n\nHe is going to speak.\n\n\"What says he?\" said Agostino, leaning over the balcony.\n\nSolemnly and clear that impressive voice which so often had thrilled the\ncrowds in that very square made answer,--\n\n\"From the Church Militant you _may_ divide me; but from the Church\nTriumphant, _no,--that_ is above your power!\"--and a light flashed out\nin his face as if a smile from Christ had shone down upon him.\n\n\"Amen!\" said Father Antonio; \"he hath witnessed a good confession,\"--and\nturning, he went in, and, burying his face in his hands, remained in\nprayer.\n\n\"When like ceremonies had been passed through with the others, the three\nmartyrs were delivered to the secular executioner, and, amid the scoffs\nand jeers of the brutal crowd, turned their faces to the gibbet.\n\n\"Brothers, let us sing the Te Deum,\" said Savonarola.\n\n\"Do not so infuriate the mob,\" said the executioner,--\"for harm might be\ndone.\"\n\n\"At least let us repeat it together,\" said he, \"lest we forget it.\"\n\nAnd so they went forward, speaking to each other of the glorious company\nof the apostles, the goodly fellowship of the prophets, the noble army\nof martyrs, and giving thanks aloud in that great triumphal hymn of the\nChurch of all Ages.\n\nWhen the lurid fires were lighted which blazed red and fearful through\nthat crowded square, all in that silent chamber fell on their knees, and\nFather Antonio repeated prayers for departing souls.\n\nTo the last, that benignant right hand which had so often pointed the\nway of life to that faithless city was stretched out over the crowd\nin the attitude of blessing; and so loving, not hating, praying with\nexaltation, and rendering blessing for cursing, the souls of the martyrs\nascended to the great cloud of witnesses above.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nCONCLUSION.\n\n\nA few days after the death of Savonarola, Father Antonio was found one\nmorning engaged in deep converse with Agnes.\n\nThe Princess Paulina, acting for her family, desired to give her hand to\nthe Prince Agostino Sarelli, and the interview related to the religious\nscruples which still conflicted with the natural desires of the child.\n\n\"Tell me, my little one,\" said Father Antonio, \"frankly and truly, dost\nthou not love this man with all thy heart?\"\n\n\"Yes, my father, I do,\" said Agnes; \"but ought I not to resign this love\nfor the love of my Saviour?\"\n\n\"I see not why,\" said the monk. \"Marriage is a sacrament as well as holy\norders, and it is a most holy and venerable one, representing the divine\nmystery by which the souls of the blessed are united to the Lord. I do\nnot hold with Saint Bernard, who, in his zeal for a conventual life,\nseemed to see no other way of serving God but for all men and women to\nbecome monks and nuns. The holy order is indeed blessed to those souls\nwhose call to it is clear and evident, like mine; but if there be a\nstrong and virtuous love for a worthy object, it is a vocation unto\nmarriage, which should not be denied.\"\n\n\"So, Agnes,\" said the knight, who had stolen into the room unperceived,\nand who now boldly possessed himself of one of her hands--\"Father\nAntonio hath decided this matter,\" he added, turning to the Princess\nand Elsie, who entered, \"and everything having been made ready for\nmy journey into France, the wedding ceremony shall take place on the\nmorrow, and, for that we are in deep affliction, it shall be as private\nas may be.\"\n\nAnd so on the next morning the wedding ceremony took place, and the\nbride and groom went on their way to France, where preparations\nbefitting their rank awaited them.\n\nOld Elsie was heard to observe to Monica, that there was some sense in\nmaking pilgrimages, since this to Rome, which she had undertaken so\nunwillingly, had turned out so satisfactory.\n\nIn the reign of Julius II., the banished families who had been plundered\nby the Borgias were restored to their rights and honors at Rome; and\nthere was a princess of the house of Sarelli then at Rome, whose\nsanctity of life and manners was held to go back to the traditions of\nprimitive Christianity, so that she was renowned not less for goodness\nthan for rank and beauty.\n\nIn those days, too, Raphael, the friend of Fr\u00e0 Bartolommeo, placed in\none of the grandest halls of the Vatican, among the Apostles and Saints,\nthe image of the traduced and despised martyr whose ashes had been cast\nto the winds and waters in Florence. His memory lingered long in Italy,\nso that it was even claimed that miracles were wrought in his name and\nby his intercession. Certain it is, that the living words he spoke were\nseeds of immortal flowers which blossomed in secret dells and obscure\nshadows of his beautiful Italy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nEXODUS.\n\n\n      Hear ye not how, from all high points of Time,--\n        From peak to peak adown the mighty chain\n      That links the ages,--echoing sublime\n        A Voice Almighty,--leaps one grand refrain,\n    Wakening the generations with a shout,\n    And trumpet-call of thunder,--Come ye out!\n\n      Out from old forms and dead idolatries;\n        From fading myths and superstitious dreams;\n      From Pharisaic rituals and lies,\n        And all the bondage of the life that seems!\n    Out,--on the pilgrim path, of heroes trod,\n    Over earth's wastes, to reach forth after God!\n\n      The Lord hath bowed His heaven, and come down!\n        Now, in this latter century of time,\n      Once more His tent is pitched on Sinai's crown!\n        Once more in clouds must Faith to meet Him climb!\n  Once more His thunder crashes on our doubt\n  And fear and sin,--\"My people! come ye out!\n\n    \"From false ambitions and base luxuries;\n      From puny aims and indolent self-ends;\n    From cant of faith, and shams of liberties,\n      And mist of ill that Truth's pure daybeam bends:\n  Out, from all darkness of the Egypt-land,\n  Into My sun-blaze on the desert sand!\n\n    \"Leave ye your flesh-pots; turn from filthy greed\n      Of gain that doth the thirsting spirit mock;\n    And heaven shall drop sweet manna for your need,\n      And rain clear rivers from the unhewn rock!\n  Thus saith the Lord!\" And Moses--meek, unshod--\n  Within the cloud stands hearkening to his God!\n\n    Show us our Aaron, with his rod in flower!\n      Our Miriam, with her timbrel-soul in tune!\n    And call some Joshua, in the Spirit's power,\n      To poise our sun of strength at point of noon!\n  God of our fathers! over sand and sea,\n  Still keep our struggling footsteps close to Thee!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHEN AND NOW IN THE OLD DOMINION.\n\n\nThe history of Virginia opens with a romance. No one will be surprised\nat this, for it is a habit histories have. There is Plymouth Rock, for\nexample; it would be hard to find anything more purely romantic than\nthat. Well do we remember the sad day when a friend took us to the\nperfectly flat wharf at Plymouth, and recited Mrs. Hemans's humorous\nverse,--\n\n  \"The breaking waves dashed high,\n  On a stern and rock-bound coast.\"\n\n\"Such, then,\" we reflected, \"is History! If Plymouth Rock turns out to\nbe a myth, why may not Columbus or Santa Claus or Napoleon, or anything\nor anybody?\" Since then we have been skeptical about history even where\nit seems most probable; at times doubt whether Rip Van Winkle really\nslept twenty years without turning over; are annoyed with misgivings as\nto whether our Western pioneers Boone, Crockett, and others, _did_ keep\nbears in their stables for saddle-horses, and harness alligators as we\ndo oxen. So we doubted the story of John Smith and Pocahontas with which\nVirginia opens. In one thing we had already caught that State making a\nmythical statement: it was named by Queen Elizabeth Virginia in honor of\nher own virgin state,--which, if Cobbett is to be believed, was also a\nromance. Well, America was named after a pirate, and Sir Walter Raleigh,\nwho suggested the name of the Virgin Queen, was fond of a joke.\n\nBut notwithstanding the suspicion with which we entered upon the\ninvestigation, we are convinced that the romance of Pocahontas is true.\nAs only a portion of the story of this Indian maiden, \"the colonial\nangel,\" as she was termed by the settlers, is known, and that not\ngenerally with exactness, we will reproduce it here.\n\nIt will be remembered that Pocahontas, when about thirteen years of age,\nsaved the young English captain, John Smith, from the death which her\nfather, Powhatan, had resolved he should suffer. As the tomahawk was\nabout to descend on his head, the girl rushed forward and clasped that\nhead in her arms. The stern heart of Powhatan relented, and he consented\nthat the captive should live to make tomahawks for him and beads and\nbells for Pocahontas. Afterward Powhatan agreed that Smith should return\nto Jamestown, on condition of his sending him two guns and a grindstone.\nSoon, after this Jamestown with all its stores was destroyed by fire,\nand the colonists came near perishing from cold and hunger. Half of them\ndied; and the rest were saved only by Pocahontas, who appeared in the\nmidst of their distress, bringing bread, raccoons, and venison.\n\nJohn Smith and his companions after this explored a large portion of the\nState, and a second time came to rest at the home of Powhatan and his\nbeautiful daughter. The name of the place was Werowocomoco. His visit\nthis time fell on the eve of the coronation of Powhatan. The king,\nbeing absent when Smith came, was sent for; meanwhile Pocahontas called\ntogether a number of Indian maidens to get up a dramatic entertainment\nand ballet for the handsome young Englishman and his companions. They\nmade a fire in a level field, and Smith sat on a mat before it. A\nhideous noise and shrieking were suddenly heard in the adjoining woods.\nThe English snatched up their arms, apprehending foul play. Pocahontas\nrushed forward, and asked Smith to slay her rather than suspect her of\nperfidy; so their apprehensions were quieted. Then thirty young Indian\nmaidens issued suddenly from the wood, all naked except a cincture of\ngreen leaves, their bodies painted. Pocahontas was a complete picture of\nan Indian Diana: a quiver hung on her shoulder, and she held a bow and\narrow in her hand; she wore, also, on her head a beautiful pair of\nbuck's horns, an otter's skin at her girdle, and another on her arm. The\nother nymphs had antlers on their heads and various savage decorations.\nBursting from the forest, they circled around the fire and John Smith,\nsinging and dancing for an hour. They then disappeared into the wood as\nsuddenly as they had come forth. When they reappeared, it was to invite\nSmith to their habitations, where they danced around him again, singing,\n\"Love you not me? Love you not me?\" They then feasted him richly, and,\nlastly, with pine-knot torches lighted him to his finely decorated\napartments.\n\nCaptain John Smith was, without doubt, an imperial kind of man. His\npersonal appearance was fine, his sense and tact excellent, his manners\nboth cordial and elegant. There is no doubt, as there is no wonder, that\nthe Indian maiden felt some tender palpitations on his account. Once\nagain, when, owing to some misunderstanding, Powhatan had decreed the\ndeath of all the whites, Pocahontas spent the whole pitch-dark night\nclimbing hills and toiling through pathless thickets, to save Smith and\nhis friends by warning them of the imminent danger. Smith offered her\nmany beautiful presents on this occasion, evidently not appreciating the\nsentiment that was animating her. To this offer of presents she replied\nwith tears; and when their acceptance was urged, Smith himself relates,\nthat, \"with the teares running downe her cheeks, she said she durst not\nbe seen to have any, for, if Powhatan should know it, she were but dead;\nand so she ran away by herself, as she came.\"\n\nThere is no doubt what the Muse of History ought to do here: were she a\ndame of proper sensibilities, she would have Mr. John Smith married to\nMiss P. Powhatan as soon as a parson could be got from Jamestown. Were\nit a romance, this would be the result. As it is, we find Smith going\noff to England in two years, and living unmarried until his death; and\nPocahontas married to the Englishman John Rolfe, for reasons of state,\nwe fear,--a link of friendship between the Reds and the Whites being\nthought desirable. She was of course Christianized and baptized, as any\none may see by Chapman's picture in the Rotunda at Washington, unless\nZouave criticism has demolished it. Immediately she went with her\nhusband to England. At Brentford, where she was staying,. Captain John\nSmith went to visit her. Their meeting was significant and affecting.\n\"After a modest salutation, without uttering a word, she turned away and\nhid her face as if displeased.\". She remained thus motionless for two or\nthree hours. Who can know what struggles passed through the heart of\nthe Indian bride at this moment,--emotions doubly unutterable to this\nuntaught stranger? It seems that she had been deceived by Rolfe and his\nfriends into thinking that Smith was dead, under the conviction that she\ncould not be induced to marry him, if she thought Smith alive. After\nher long, sad silence, before mentioned, she came forward to Smith and\ntouchingly reminded him, there in the presence of her husband and a\nlarge company, of the kindness she had shown him in her own country,\nsaying, \"You did promise Powhatan what was yours should be his, and he\nthe like to you; you called him 'Father,' being in his land a stranger,\nand for the same reason so I must call you.\" After a pause, during which\nshe seemed to be under the influence of strong emotion, she said, \"I\nwill call you Father, and you shall call me Child, and so I will be\nforever and ever your countrywoman.\" Then she added, slowly and with\nemphasis, \"_They did tell us always you were dead, and I knew no other\ntill I came to Plimoth; yet Powhatan did command Uttamattomakin to seeke\nyou and know the truth, because your countrymen will lie much_.\" It was\nnot long after this interview that Pocahontas died: she never returned\nto Virginia. Her death occurred in 1617. The issue of her marriage was\none child, Thomas Rolfe; so it is through him that the First Families of\nVirginia are so invariably descended from the Indian Princess. Captain\nSmith lived until 1631, and, as we have said, never married. He was a\nnoble and true man, and Pocahontas was every way worthy to be his wife;\nand one feels very ill-natured at Rolfe and Company for the cruel\ndeception which, we must believe, was all that kept them asunder, and\ngave to the story of the lovely maiden its almost tragic close.\n\nOne can scarcely imagine a finer device for Virginia to have adopted\nthan that of the Indian maiden protecting the white man from the\ntomahawk. But, alas! with the departure of Smith the soul seems to have\nleft the Colony. The beautiful lands became a prey to the worn-out\nEnglish gentry, who spent their time cheating the simple-hearted red\nmen. These called themselves gentlemen, because they could do nothing.\nIn a classification of seventy-eight persons at Jamestown we are\ninformed that there were \"four carpenters, twelve laborers, one\nblacksmith, one bricklayer, one sailor, one barber, one mason, one\ntailor, one drummer, one chirurgeon, and fifty-four gentlemen.\" To this\nday there seems to be a large number in that vicinity who have no other\noccupation than that of being gentlemen, and it is evidently in many\ncases just as much as they can do.\n\nWhen Pocahontas died, the last link was broken between the Indian and\nthe settler. Unprovoked wars of extermination were begun to dispossess\nthese children of Nature of the very breasts of their mother, which had\nsustained them so long and so peacefully. For a century the Indian's\nname for Virginian was \"Longknife.\" The very missionaries robbed him\nwith one hand whilst baptizing him with the other. One story concerning\nthe missionaries strikes us as sufficiently characteristic of the wit\nof the Indian and the temper of the period to be preserved. There was a\nbranch of the Catawbas on the Potomac, in which river are to be found\nthe best shad in the world. The missionaries who settled among\nthis tribe taught them that it would be a good investment in their\nsoul-assurance to catch large quantities of the shad for them, the\nmissionaries. The Indians earnestly set themselves to the work; their\nreverend teachers taking the fish and sending them off secretly to\nvarious settlements in Virginia and Maryland, and making thereby\nlarge sums of money. The Indians worked on for several months without\nreceiving any compensation, and the missionaries were getting richer and\nricher,--when by some means the red men discovered the trick, and routed\nthe holy men from their neighborhood. Many years afterward the Catholics\nmade an effort to establish a mission with this same tribe. The\npriest who first addressed them took as his text, \"Ho, every one that\nthirsteth, come ye to the waters,\"--and went on in figurative style to\ndescribe the waters of life. When the sermon was ended, the Indians held\na council to consider what they had just heard, and finally sent three\nof their number to the missionaries, who said, \"White men, you speak in\nfine words of the waters of life; but before we decide on what we have\nheard, we wish to know _whether any shad swim in those waters_.\"\n\nIt is very certain that Christianity, as illustrated by the Virginians,\ndid not make a good impression on these savages. They were always\nwilling to compare their own religion with that of the whites, and\ngenerally regarded the contrast as in their favor. One of them said to\nColonel Barnett, the commissioner to run the boundary-line of lands\nceded by the Indians, \"As to religion, you go to your churches, sing\nloud, pray loud, and make great noise. The red people meet once a year\nat the feast of New Corn, extinguish all their fires and kindle up a\nnew one, the smoke of which ascends to the Great Spirit as a grateful\nincense and sacrifice. Now what better is your religion than ours?\" One\nof the chiefs, it is said, received an Episcopal divine who wished to\nindoctrinate him into the mystery of the Trinity. The Indian, who was\na \"model of deportment,\" heard his argument; and then, when he was\nthrough, began in turn to indoctrinate the divine in _his_ faith,\nspeaking of the Great Spirit, whose voice was the thunder, whose eye was\nthe sun. The clergyman interrupted him rather rudely, saying, \"But\nthat is not true,--that is all heathen trash!\" The chief turned to his\ncompanions and said gravely, \"This is the most impolite man I have ever\nmet; he has just declared that he has three gods, and now will not let\nme have one!\"\n\nThe valley of Virginia, its El Dorado in every sense, had a different\nsettlement, and by a different people. They were, for the most part,\nGermans, of the same class with those that settled in the great valleys\nof Pennsylvania, and who have made so large a portion of that State into\na rich ingrain-carpet of cultivation upon a floor of limestone. One day\nthe history of the Germans of Pennsylvania and Virginia will be written,\nand it will be full of interest and value. They were the first strong\nsinews strung in the industrial arm of the Colonies to which they came;\nand although mingled with nearly every European race, they remain to\nthis day a distinct people. A partition-wall rarely broken down has\nalways inclosed them, and to this, perhaps, is due that slowness of\nprogress which marks them. The restless ambition of _Le Grand Monarque_\nand the cruelties of Turenne converted the beautiful valley of the Rhine\ninto a smoking desert, and the wretched peasantry of the Palatinate fled\nfrom their desolated firesides to seek a more hospitable home in the\nforests of New York and Pennsylvania, and thence, somewhat later,\nfound their way into Virginia. The exodus of the Puritans has had more\ncelebrity, but was scarcely attended with more hardship and heroism. The\ngreater part of the German exiles landed in America stripped of their\nall. They came to the forests of the Susquehanna and the Shenandoah\narmed only with the woodman's axe. They were ignorant and superstitious,\nand brought with them the legends of their fatherland. The spirits\nof the Hartz Mountains and the genii of the Black Forest, which\nChristianity had not been able entirely to exorcise, were transferred to\nthe wild mountains and dark caverns of the Old Dominion, and the same\nunearthly visitants which haunted the old castles of the Rhine continued\ntheir gambols in some deserted cabin on the banks of the Sherandah (as\nthe Shenandoah was then called). Since these men left their fatherland,\na great Literature and Philosophy have breathed like a tropic upon that\nland, and the superstitions have been wrought into poetry and thought;\nbut that raw material of legend which in Germany has been woven into\nfinest tissues on the brain-looms of Wieland, Tieck, Schiller, and\nGoethe, has remained raw material in the great valley that stretches\nfrom New York to Upper Alabama. Whole communities are found which in\nmanners and customs are much the same with their ancestors who crossed\nthe ocean. The horseshoe is still nailed above the door as a protection\nagainst the troublesome spook, and the black art is still practised.\nRough in their manners, and plain in their appearance, they yet conceal\nunder this exterior a warm hospitality, and the stranger will much\nsooner be turned away from the door of the \"chivalry\" than from that of\nthe German farmer. Seated by his blazing fire, with plenty of apples and\nhard cider, the Dutchman of the Kanawha enjoys his condition with gusto,\nand is contented with the limitations of his fence. We have seen one\nwithin two miles of the great Natural Bridge who could not direct us to\nthat celebrated curiosity; his wife remarking, that \"a great many people\npassed that way to the hills, but for what she could not see: for her\npart, give her a level country.\"\n\nThe first German settler who came to Virginia was one Jacob Stover, who\nwent there from Pennsylvania, and obtained a grant of five thousand\nacres of land on the Shenandoah. Stover was very shrewd, and does not at\nall justify the character we have ascribed to his race: there is a story\nthat casts a suspicion on his proper Teutonism. The story runs, that,\non his application to the colonial governor of Virginia for a grant of\nland, he was refused, unless he could give satisfactory assurance that\nhe would have the land settled with the required number of families\nwithin a given time. Being unable to do this, he went over to England,\nand petitioned the King himself to direct the issuing of his grant; and\nin order to insure success, had given human names to every horse, cow,\nhog, and dog he owned, and which he represented as heads of families,\nready to settle the land. His Majesty, ignorant that the Williams,\nGeorges, and Susans seeking royal consideration were some squeaking\nin pig-pens, others braying in the luxuriant meadows for which they\npetitioned, issued the huge grant; and to-day there is serious reason\nto suppose that many of the wealthiest and oldest families around\nWinchester are enjoying their lands by virtue of titles given to\nancestral flocks and herds.\n\nThe condition of Virginia for the period immediately preceding the\nRevolution was one which well merits the consideration of political\nphilosophers. For many years the extent of the territory of the Old\nDominion was undecided, no lines being fixed between that State and Ohio\nand Pennsylvania. Virginia claimed a large part of both these States\nas hers; and, indeed, there seems to be in that State an hereditary\nunconsciousness of the limits of her dominion. The question of\njurisdiction superseded every other for the time, and the formal\nadministration of the law itself ceased. There is a period lasting\nthrough a whole generation in which society in the western part of the\nState went on without courts or authorities. There was no court but of\npublic opinion, no administration but of the mob. Judges were ermined\nand juries impanelled by the community when occasion demanded.\nKercheval, who grew from that vicinity and state of things, and whose\nauthority is excellent, says,--\"They had no civil, military, or\necclesiastical laws,--at least, none were enforced; yet we look in vain\nfor any period, before or since, when property, life, and morals were\nany better protected.\" A statement worth pondering by those who tell\nus that man is nought, government all. The tongue-lynchings and other\npunishments inflicted by the community upon evil-doers were adapted to\nthe reformation of the culprit or his banishment from the community. The\npunishment for idleness, lying, dishonesty, and ill-fame generally, was\nthat of \"hating the offender out,\" as they expressed it. This was about\nequivalent to the [Greek: atimia] among the Greeks. It was a public\nexpression, in various ways, of the general indignation against any\ntransgressor, and commonly resulted either in the profound repentance or\nthe voluntary exile of the person against whom it was directed: it was\ngenerally the fixing of any epithet which was proclaimed by each tongue\nwhen the sinner appeared,--_e.g.,_ Foultongue, Lawrence, Snakefang.\nThe name of Extra-Billy Smith is a quite recent case of this\n\"tongue-lynching.\" It was in these days of no laws, however, that the\npractice of duelling was imported into Virginia. With this exception,\nthe State can trace no evil results to the period when society was\nresolved into its simplest elements. Indeed, it was at this time\nthat there began to appear there signs of a sturdy and noble race of\nAmericanized Englishmen. The average size of the European Englishman was\nsurpassed. A woman was equal to an Indian. A young Virginian one day\nkilled a buffalo on the Alleghany Mountains, stretched its skin over\nribs of wood, and on the boat so made sailed the full length of the Ohio\nand Mississippi Rivers. But this development was checked by the influx\nof \"English gentry,\" who brought laws and fashions from London. The old\nbooks are full of the conflicts which these fastidious gentlemen and\nladies had with the rude pioneer customs and laws. The fine ladies found\nthat there was an old statute of the Colony which read,--\"It shall be\npermitted to none but the Council and Heads of Hundreds to wear gold\nin their clothes, or to wear silk till they make it themselves.\" What,\nthen, could Miss Softdown do with the silks and breastpins brought from\nLondon? \"Let her wear deer-skin and arrow-head,\" said the natives. But\nMiss Softdown soon had her way. Still more were these new families\nshocked, when, on ringing for some newly purchased negro domestic, the\nsaid negro came into the parlor nearly naked. Then began one of the most\nextended controversies in the history of Virginia,--the question being,\nwhether out-door negroes should wear clothes, and domestics dress like\nother people. The popular belief, in which it seems the negroes shared,\nwas, that the race would perish, if subjected to clothing the year\nround. The custom of negro men going about _in puris naturalibus_\nprevailed to a much more recent period than is generally supposed.\n\nOne by one, the barbarisms of Old Virginia were eradicated, and the\ndanger was then that effeminacy would succeed; but a better class of\nfamilies began to come from England, now that the Colony was somewhat\nprepared for them. These aimed to make Virginia repeat England: it might\nhave repeated something worse, and in the end has. About one or two old\nmansions in Maryland and Virginia the long silvery grass characteristic\nof the English park is yet found: the seed was carefully brought from\nEngland by those gentlemen who came under Raleigh's administration,\nand who regarded their residence in these Colonies as patriotic\nself-devotion. On one occasion, the writer, walking through one of\nthese fields, startled an English lark, which rose singing and soaring\nskyward. It sang a theme of the olden time. Governor Spottswood brought\nwith him, when he came, a number of these larks, and made strenuous\nefforts to domesticate them in the neighborhood of Fredericksburg,\nVirginia. He did not succeed. Now and then we have heard of one's being\nseen, companionless. It is a sad symbol of that nobler being who tried\nto domesticate himself in Virginia, the fine old English gentleman. He\nis now seen but little oftener than the silver grass and the lark which\nhe brought with him. But let no one think, whilst ridiculing those who\ncan now only hide their poor stature under the lion-skin of F-F-V-ism,\nthat the race of old Virginia gentlemen is a mythic race. Through\nthe fair slopes of Eastern Virginia we have wandered and counted the\nepitaphs of as princely men and women as ever trod this continent.\nYonder is the island, floating on the crystal Rappahannock, which,\ninstead of, as now, masking the guns which aim at Freedom's heart,\nonce bore witness to the noble Spottswood's effort to realize for the\nworking-man a Utopia in the New World. Yonder is the house, on the same\nriver, frowning now with the cannon which defend the slave-shamble, (for\nthe Richmond railroad passes on its verge,) where Washington was reared\nto love justice and honor; and over to the right its porch commands\na marble shaft on which is written, \"Here lies Mary, the Mother of\nWashington.\" A little lower is the spot where John Smith gave the right\nhand to the ambassadors of King Powhatan. In that old court-house the\nvoice of Patrick Henry thundered for Liberty and Union. Time was when\nthe brave men on whose hearts rested the destinies of the New World made\nthis the centre of activity and rule upon the continent; they lived and\nacted here as Anglo-Saxon blood should live and act, wherever it bears\nits rightful sceptre; but now one walks here as through the splendid\nruins of some buried Nineveh, and emerges to find the very sunlight sad,\nas it reveals those who garnish the sepulchres of their ancestors with\none hand, whilst with the other they stone and destroy the freedom and\ninstitutions which their fathers lived to build and died to defend.\n\nAnd this, alas! is the first black line in the sketch of Virginia as\nit now is. The true preface to the present edition of Virginia, which,\nunhappily, has been for many years stereotyped, may be found in a single\nentry of Captain John Smith's journal:--\n\n\"August, 1619. A Dutch man-of-war visited Jamestown and sold the\nsettlers twenty negroes, the first that have ever touched the soil of\nVirginia.\"\n\nThey have scarcely made it \"sacred soil.\" A little entry it is, of what\nseemed then, perhaps, an unimportant event,--but how pregnant with\nevil!\n\nThe very year in which that Dutch ship arrived with its freight of\nslaves at Jamestown, the Mayflower sailed with its freight of freemen\nfor Plymouth.\n\nLet us pause a moment and consider the prospects and opportunities which\nopened before the two bands of pilgrim. How hard and bleak were the\nshores that received the Mayflower pilgrims! Winter seemed the only\nseason of the land to which they had come; when the snow disappeared, it\nwas only to reveal a landscape of sand and rock. To have soil they must\npulverize rock. Nature said to these exiles from a rich soil, with her\nsternest voice,--\"Here is no streaming breast: sand with no gold mined:\nall the wealth you get must be mined from your own hearts and coined by\nyour own right hands!\"\n\nHow different was it in Virginia! Old John Rolfe, the husband of\nPocahontas, writing to the King in 1616, said,--\"Virginia is the same as\nit was, I meane for the goodness of the scate, and the fertilenesse of\nthe land, and will, no doubt, so continue to the worlds end,--a countrey\nas worthy of good report as can be declared by the pen of the best\nwriter; a countrey spacious and wide, capable of many hundred thousands\nof inhabitants.\" It must be borne in mind that Rolfe's idea of an\ninhabitant's needs was that he should own a county or two to begin with,\nwhich will account for his moderate estimate of the number that could be\naccommodated upon a hundred thousand square miles. He continues,--\"For\nthe soil, most fertile to plant in; for ayre, fresh and temperate,\nsomewhat hotter in summer, and not altogether so cold in winter as in\nEngland, yet so agreable is it to our constitutions that now 't is more\nrare to hear of a man's death than in England; for water, most wholesome\nand verie plentifull; and for fayre navigable rivers and good harbors,\nno countrey in Christendom, in so small a circuite, is so well stored.\"\nAny one who has passed through the State, or paid any attention to its\nresources, may go far beyond the old settler's statement. Virginia is a\nState combining, as in some divinely planned garden, every variety of\nsoil known on earth, resting under a sky that Italy alone can match,\nwith a Valley anticipating in vigor the loam of the prairies: up to that\nValley and Piedmont stretch throughout the State navigable rivers, like\nfingers of the Ocean-hand, ready to bear to all marts the produce of\nthe soil, the superb vein of gold, and the iron which, unlocked from\nmountain-barriers, could defy competition. But in her castle Virginia is\nstill, a sleeping beauty awaiting the hero whose kiss shall recall her\nto life. Comparing what free labor has done for the granite rock called\nMassachusetts, and what slave labor has done for the enchanted garden\ncalled Virginia, one would say, that, though the Dutch ship that brought\nto our shores the Norway rat was bad, and that which brought the Hessian\nfly was worse, the most fatal ship that ever cast anchor in American\nwaters was that which brought the first twenty negroes to the settlers\nof Jamestown. Like the Indian in her own aboriginal legend, on whom a\nspell was cast which kept the rain from falling on him and the sun from\nshining on him, Virginia received from that Dutch ship a curse which\nchained back the blessings which her magnificent resources would have\nrained upon her, and the sun of knowledge shining everywhere has left\nher to-day more than eighty thousand white adults who cannot read or\nwrite.\n\nIt was at an early period as manifest as now that a slave population\nimplied and rendered necessary a large poor-white population. And whilst\nthe pilgrims of Plymouth inaugurated the free-school system in their\nfirst organic law, which now renders it impossible for one sane person\nborn in their land to be unable to read and write, Virginia was boasting\nwith Lord Douglas in \"Marmion,\"\n\n  \"Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine\n  Could never pen a written line.\"\n\nSir William Berkeley, Governor of Virginia for thirty-six years,\nbeginning with 1641, wrote to the King as follows:--\"I thank God, there\nare no free schools nor printing, and I hope we shall not have these\nhundred years; for learning has brought disobedience and heresy and\nsects into the world, and printing has divulged them, and libels upon\nthe best governments. God keep us from both!\" Most fearfully has the\nprayer been answered. In Berkeley's track nearly all the succeeding ones\nwent on. Henry A. Wise boasted in Congress that no newspaper was printed\nin his district, and he soon became governor.\n\nIt gives but a poor description of the \"poor-white trash\" to say that\nthey cannot read. The very slaves cannot endure to be classed on their\nlevel. They are inconceivably wretched and degraded. For every rich\nslave-owner there are some eight or ten families of these miserable\ntenants. Both sexes are almost always drunk.\n\nThere is no better man than the Anglo-Saxon man who labors; there is no\nworse animal than the same man when bred to habits of idleness. When\nWatts wrote,\n\n  \"Satan finds some mischief still\n  For idle hands to do,\"\n\nhe wrote what is much truer of his own race than of any other. This\nlaw has been the Nemesis of the young Virginian. His descent demands\nexcitement and activity; and unless he becomes emasculated into a\nclay-eater, he obtains the excitement that his ancestors got in war, and\nthe New-Englander gets in work, in gaming, horse-racing, and all manner\nof dissipation. His life verifies the proverb, that the idle brain is\nthe Devil's workshop. He is trained to despise labor, for it puts him on\na level with his father's slaves. At the University of Virginia one may\nsee the extent of demoralization to which eight generations of idleness\ncan bring English blood. There the spree, the riot, and we might almost\nsay the duel, are normal. About five years ago we spent some time\nat Charlottesville. The evening of our arrival was the occasion of\nwitnessing some of the ways of the students. A hundred or more of them\nwith blackened or masked faces were rushing about the college yard; a\nlarge fire was burning around a stake, upon which was the effigy of a\nwoman. A gentleman connected with the University, with whom we were\nwalking, informed us that the special occasion of this affair was, that\na near relative of Mrs. Stowe's, a sister, perhaps, had that day arrived\nto visit her relative, Mrs. McGuffey. The effigy of Mrs. Stowe was\nburned for her benefit. The lady and her friends were very much alarmed,\nand left on the early train next morning, without completing their\nvisit.\n\n\"They will close up by all getting dead-drunk,\" said our friend, the\nProfessor.\n\n\"But,\" we asked, \"why does not the faculty at once interfere in this\ndisgraceful procedure?\"\n\n\"They have got us lately,\" he replied, \"where we are powerless. Whenever\nthey wish a spree, they tackle it on to the slavery question, and know\nthat their parents will pardon everything to the spirit of the South\nwhen it is burning the effigy of Mrs. Stowe or Charles Sumner, or the\nlast person who furnishes a chance for a spree. To arrest them ends only\nin casting suspicion of unsoundness on the professor who does it.\"\n\nVirginia has had, for these same causes, no religious development\nwhatever. The people spend four-and-a-half fifths of their time arguing\nabout politics and religion,--questions of the latter being chiefly as\nto the best method of being baptized, or whether sudden conversions are\nthe safest,--but they never take a step forward in either. Archbishop\nPurcell, of Cincinnati, stated to us, that, once being in Richmond,\nhe resolved to give a little religious exploration to the surrounding\ncountry. About seven miles out from the city he saw a man lying\ndown,--the Virginian's natural posture,--and approaching, he made\nvarious inquiries, and received lazy Yes and No replies. Presently he\ninquired to what churches the people in that vicinity usually went.\n\n\"Well, not much to any.\"\n\n\"What are their religious views?\"\n\n\"Well, not much of any.\"\n\n\"Well, my friend, may I inquire what are _your_ opinions on religious\nsubjects?\"\n\n\"The man, yet reclining,\" said the Archbishop, \"looked at me sleepily a\nmoment, and replied,--\n\n\"'My opinion is that them as made me will take care of me.'\"\n\nThe Archbishop came off discouraged; but we assured him that the man\nwas far ahead of many specimens we had met. We never see an opossum in\nVirginia--a fossil animal in most other places--but it seems the sign\nof the moral stratification around. There are many varieties of\nopossum in Virginia,--political and religious: Saturn, who devours his\noffspring, has not come to Virginia yet.\n\nOld formulas have, doubtless, to a great extent, lost their power there\nalso, but there is not vitality enough to create a higher form. For no\nnew church can ever be anywhere inaugurated in this world until the\nperiod has come when its chief corner-stone can be Humanity. Till then\nthe old creeds in Virginia must wander like ghosts, haunting the old\nruins which their once exquisite churches have become. Nothing can be\nmore picturesque, nothing more sad, than these old churches,--every\nbrick in them imported from Old England, every prayer from the past\nworld and its past need: the high and wide pews where the rich sat\nlifted some feet above the seats of the poor represent still the faith\nin a God who subjects the weak to the strong. These old churches, rarely\nrebuilt, are ready now to become rocks imbedding fossil creeds. In these\nold aisles one walks, and the snake glides away on the pavement, and the\nbat flutters in the high pulpit, whilst moss and ivy tenderly enshroud\nthe lonely walls; and over all is written the word DESOLATION. Symbol it\nis of the desolation which caused it, even the trampled fanes and altars\nof the human soul,--the temple of God, whose profanation the church has\nsuffered to go on unrebuked, till now both must crumble into the same\ngrave.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nAMERICAN CIVILIZATION.\n\n\nA certain degree of progress from the rudest state in which man is\nfound,--a dweller in caves, or on trees, like an ape, a cannibal, an\neater of pounded snails, worms, and offal,--a certain degree of progress\nfrom this extreme is called Civilization. It is a vague, complex name,\nof many degrees. Nobody has attempted a definition. Mr. Guizot, writing\na book on the subject, does not. It implies the evolution of a highly\norganized man, brought to supreme delicacy of sentiment, as in practical\npower, religion, liberty, sense of honor, and taste. In the hesitation\nto define what it is, we usually suggest it by negations. A nation that\nhas no clothing, no alphabet, no iron, no marriage, no arts of peace, no\nabstract thought, we call barbarous. And after many arts are invented or\nimported, as among the Turks and Moorish nations, it is often a little\ncomplaisant to call them civilized.\n\nEach nation grows after its own genius, and has a civilization of its\nown. The Chinese and Japanese, though each complete in his way, is\ndifferent from the man of Madrid or the man of New York. The term\nimports a mysterious progress. In the brutes is none; and in mankind,\nthe savage tribes do not advance. The Indians of this country have not\nlearned the white man's work; and in Africa, the negro of to-day is the\nnegro of Herodotus. But in other races the growth is not arrested; but\nthe like progress that is made by a boy, \"when he cuts his eye-teeth,\"\nas we say,--childish illusions pricing daily away, and he seeing things\nreally and comprehensively,--is made by tribes. It is the learning the\nsecret of cumulative power, of advancing on one's self. It implies a\nfacility of association, power to compare, the ceasing from fixed ideas.\nThe Indian is gloomy and distressed, when urged to depart from his\nhabits and traditions. He is overpowered by the gaze of the white, and\nhis eye sinks. The occasion of one of these starts of growth is always\nsome novelty that astounds the mind, and provokes it to dare to change.\nThus there is a Manco Capac at the beginning of each improvement, some\nsuperior foreigner importing new and wonderful arts, and teaching them.\nOf course, he must not know too much, but must have the sympathy,\nlanguage, and gods of those he would inform. But chiefly the sea-shore\nhas been the point of departure to knowledge, as to commerce. The most\nadvanced nations are always those who navigate the most. The power which\nthe sea requires in the sailor makes a man of him very fast, and the\nchange of shores and population clears his head of much nonsense of his\nwigwam.\n\nWhere shall we begin or end the list of those feats of liberty and wit,\neach of which feats made an epoch of history? Thus, the effect of\na framed or stone house is immense on the tranquillity, power, and\nrefinement of the builder. A man in a cave, or in a camp, a nomad, will\ndie with no more estate than the wolf or the horse leaves. But so simple\na labor as a house being achieved, his chief enemies are kept at bay.\nHe is safe from the teeth of wild animals, from frost, sunstroke, and\nweather; and fine faculties begin to yield their fine harvest. Invention\nand art are born, manners and social beauty and delight. 'T is wonderful\nhow soon a piano gets into a log-hut on the frontier. You would think\nthey found it under a pine-stump. With it comes a Latin grammar, and one\nof those towhead boys has written a hymn on Sunday. Now let colleges,\nnow let senates take heed! for here is one, who, opening these fine\ntastes on the basis of the pioneer's iron constitution, will gather all\ntheir laurels in his strong hands.\n\nWhen the Indian trail gets widened, graded, and bridged to a good\nroad,--there is a benefactor, there is a missionary, a pacificator, a\nwealth-bringer, a maker of markets, a vent for industry. The building\nthree or four hundred miles of road in the Scotch Highlands in 1726\nto 1749 effectually tamed the ferocious clans, and established public\norder. Another step in civility is the change from war, hunting, and\npasturage, to agriculture. Our Scandinavian forefathers have left us a\nsignificant legend to convey their sense of the importance of this step.\n\"There was once a giantess who had a daughter, and the child saw a\nhusbandman ploughing in the field. Then she ran and picked him up with\nher finger and thumb, and put him and his plough and his oxen into her\napron, and carried them to her mother, and said, 'Mother, what sort of a\nbeetle is this that I found wriggling in the sand?' But the mother said,\n'Put it away, my child; we must begone out of this land, for these\npeople will dwell in it.'\" Another success is the post-office, with\nits educating energy, augmented by cheapness, and guarded by a certain\nreligious sentiment in mankind, so that the power of a wafer or a drop\nof wax or gluten to guard a letter, as it flies over sea, over land, and\ncomes to its address as if a battalion of artillery brought it, I look\nupon as a fine metre of civilization.\n\nThe division of labor, the multiplication of the arts of peace, which is\nnothing but a large allowance to each man to choose his work according\nto his faculty, to live by his better hand, fills the State with useful\nand happy laborers,--and they, creating demand by the very temptation\nof their productions, are rapidly and surely rewarded by good sale: and\nwhat a police and ten commandments their work thus becomes! So true is\nDr. Johnson's remark, that \"men are seldom more innocently employed than\nwhen they are making money.\"\n\nThe skilful combinations of civil government, though they usually\nfollow natural leadings, as the lines of race, language, religion, and\nterritory, yet require wisdom and conduct in the rulers, and in their\nresult delight the imagination. \"We see insurmountable multitudes\nobeying, in opposition to their strongest passions, the restraints of\na power which they scarcely perceive, and the crimes of a single\nindividual marked and punished at the distance of half the earth.\"[A]\n\n[Footnote A: Dr. Thomas Brown.]\n\nRight position of woman in the State is another index. Poverty and\nindustry with a healthy mind read very easily the laws of humanity, and\nlove them: place the sexes in right relations of mutual respect, and a\nsevere morality gives that essential charm to woman which educates all\nthat is delicate, poetic, and self-sacrificing, breeds courtesy and\nlearning, conversation and wit, in her rough mate; so that I have\nthought it a sufficient definition of civilization to say, it is the\ninfluence of good women.\n\nAnother measure of culture is the diffusion of knowledge, overrunning\nall the old barriers of caste, and, by the cheap press, bringing the\nuniversity to every poor man's door in the newsboy's basket. Scraps of\nscience, of thought, of poetry are in the coarsest sheet, so that in\nevery house we hesitate to tear a newspaper until we have looked it\nthrough.\n\nThe ship, in its latest complete equipment, is an abridgment and compend\nof a nation's arts: the ship steered by compass and chart, longitude\nreckoned by lunar observation, and, when the heavens are hid, by\nchronometer; driven by steam; and in wildest sea-mountains, at vast\ndistances from home,\n\n  \"The pulses of her iron heart\n  Go beating through the storm.\"\n\nNo use can lessen the wonder of this control, by so weak a creature, of\nforces so prodigious. I remember I watched, in crossing the sea, the\nbeautiful skill whereby the engine in its constant working was made to\nproduce two hundred gallons of fresh water out of salt water, every\nhour,--thereby supplying all the ship's want.\n\nThe skill that pervades complex details; the man that maintains himself;\nthe chimney taught to burn its own smoke; the farm made to produce all\nthat is consumed on it; the very prison compelled to maintain itself\nand yield a revenue, and, better than that, made a reform school, and a\nmanufactory of honest men out of rogues, as the steamer made fresh\nwater out of salt: all these are examples of that tendency to combine\nantagonisms, and utilize evil, which is the index of high civilization.\n\nCivilization is the result of highly complex organization. In the snake,\nall the organs are sheathed: no hands, no feet, no fins, no wings. In\nbird and beast, the organs are released, and begin to play. In man, they\nare all unbound, and full of joyful action. With this unswaddling, he\nreceives the absolute illumination we call Reason, and thereby true\nliberty.\n\nClimate has much to do with this melioration. The highest civility has\nnever loved the hot zones. Wherever snow falls, there is usually civil\nfreedom. Where the banana grows, the animal system is indolent and\npampered at the cost of higher qualities: the man is grasping, sensual,\nand cruel. But this scale is by no means invariable. For high degrees of\nmoral sentiment control the unfavorable influences of climate; and some\nof our grandest examples of men and of races come from the equatorial\nregions,--as the genius of Egypt, of India, and of Arabia.\n\nThese feats are measures or traits of civility; and temperate climate is\nan important influence, though not quite indispensable, for there have\nbeen learning, philosophy, and art in Iceland, and in the tropics. But\none condition is essential to the social education of man,--namely,\nmorality. There can be no high civility without a deep morality, though\nit may not always call itself by that name, but sometimes the point\nof honor, as in the institution of chivalry; or patriotism, as in the\nSpartan and Roman republics; or the enthusiasm of some religious sect\nwhich imputes its virtue to its dogma; or the cabalism, or _esprit du\ncorps_, of a masonic or other association of friends.\n\nThe evolution of a highly destined society must be moral; it must run in\nthe grooves of the celestial wheels. It must be catholic in aims. What\nis moral? It is the respecting in action catholic or universal ends.\nHear the definition which Kant gives of moral conduct: \"Act always so\nthat the immediate motive of thy will may become a universal rule for\nall intelligent beings.\"\n\nCivilization depends on morality. Everything good in man leans on what\nis higher. This rule holds in small as in great. Thus, all our strength\nand success in the work of our hands depend on our borrowing the aid of\nthe elements. You have seen a carpenter on a ladder with a broad-axe\nchopping upward chips and slivers from a beam. How awkward! at what\ndisadvantage he works! But see him on the ground, dressing his timber\nunder him. Now, not his feeble muscles, but the force of gravity brings\ndown the axe; that is to say, the planet itself splits his stick. The\nfarmer had much ill-temper, laziness, and shirking to endure from his\nhand-sawyers, until, one day, he bethought him to put his saw-mill on\nthe edge of a waterfall; and the river never tires of turning his wheel:\nthe river is good-natured, and never hints an objection.\n\nWe had letters to send: couriers could not go fast enough, nor far\nenough; broke their wagons, foundered their horses; bad roads in spring,\nsnow-drifts in winter, heats in summer; could not get the horses out\nof a walk. But we found out that the air and earth were full of\nelectricity; and it was always going our way,--just the way we wanted to\nsend. _Would he take a message?_ Just as lief as not; had nothing\nelse to do; would carry it in no time. Only one doubt occurred, one\nstaggering objection,--he had no carpet-bag, no visible pockets, no\nhands, not so much as a mouth, to carry a letter. But, after much\nthought and many experiments, we managed to meet the conditions, and to\nfold up the letter in such invisible compact form as he could carry in\nthose invisible pockets of his, never wrought by needle and thread,--and\nit went like a charm.\n\nI admire still more than the saw-mill the skill which, on the sea-shore,\nmakes the tides drive the wheels and grind corn, and which thus engages\nthe assistance of the moon, like a hired hand, to grind, and wind, and\npump, and saw, and split stone, and roll iron.\n\nNow that is the wisdom of a man, in every instance of his labor,\nto hitch his wagon to a star, and see his chore done by the gods\nthemselves. That is the way we are strong, by borrowing the might of the\nelements. The forces of steam, gravity, galvanism, light, magnets, wind,\nfire, serve us day by day, and cost us nothing.\n\nOur astronomy is full of examples of calling in the aid of these\nmagnificent helpers. Thus, on a planet so small as ours, the want of\nan adequate base for astronomical measurements is early felt, as, for\nexample, in detecting the parallax of a star. But the astronomer, having\nby an observation fixed the place of a star, by so simple an expedient\nas waiting six months, and then repeating his observation, contrived\nto put the diameter of the earth's orbit, say two hundred millions of\nmiles, between his first observation and his second, and this line\nafforded him a respectable base for his triangle.\n\nAll our arts aim to win this vantage. We cannot bring the heavenly\npowers to us, but, if we will only choose our jobs in directions in\nwhich they travel, they will undertake them with the greatest pleasure.\nIt is a peremptory rule with them, that _they never go out of their\nroad_. We are dapper little busybodies, and run this way and that\nway superserviceably; but they swerve never from their fore-ordained\npaths,--neither the sun, nor the moon, nor a bubble of air, nor a mote\nof dust.\n\nAnd as our handiworks borrow the elements, so all our social and\npolitical action leans on principles. To accomplish anything excellent,\nthe will must work for catholic and universal ends. A puny creature\nwalled in on every side, as Donne wrote,--\n\n  ------\"unless above himself he can\n  Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!\"\n\nbut when his will leans on a principle, when he is the vehicle of ideas,\nhe borrows their omnipotence. Gibraltar may be strong, but ideas are\nimpregnable, and bestow on the hero their invincibility. \"It was a great\ninstruction,\" said a saint in Cromwell's war, \"that the best courages\nare but beams of the Almighty.\" Hitch your wagon to a star. Let us not\nfag in paltry works which serve our pot and bag alone. Let us not lie\nand steal. No god will help. We shall find all their teams going the\nother way,--Charles's Wain, Great Bear, Orion, Leo, Hercules:--every\ngod will leave us. Work rather for those interests which the divinities\nhonor and promote,--justice, love, freedom, knowledge, utility.\n\nIf we can thus ride in Olympian chariots by putting our works in the\npath of the celestial circuits, we can harness also evil agents, the\npowers of darkness, and force them to serve against their will the ends\nof wisdom and virtue. Thus, a wise Government puts fines and penalties\non pleasant vices. What a benefit would the American Government, now\nin the hour of its extreme need, render to itself, and to every city,\nvillage, and hamlet in the States, if it would tax whiskey and rum\nalmost to the point of prohibition! Was it Bonaparte who said that he\nfound vices very good patriots?--\"he got five millions from the love of\nbrandy, and he should be glad to know which of the virtues would pay him\nas much.\" Tobacco and opium have broad backs, and will cheerfully carry\nthe load of armies, if you choose to make them pay high for such joy as\nthey give and such harm as they do.\n\nThese are traits, and measures, and modes; and the true test of\ncivilization is, not the census, nor the size of cities, nor the\ncrops,--no, but the kind of man the country turns out. I see the vast\nadvantages of this country, spanning the breadth of the temperate zone.\nI see the immense material prosperity,--towns on towns, states on\nstates, and wealth piled in the massive architecture of cities,\nCalifornia quartz-mountains dumped down in New York to be re-piled\narchitecturally along-shore from Canada to Cuba, and thence westward to\nCalifornia again. But it is not New-York streets built by the confluence\nof workmen and wealth of all nations, though stretching out towards\nPhiladelphia until they touch it, and northward until they touch New\nHaven, Hartford, Springfield, Worcester, and Boston,--not these that\nmake the real estimation. But, when I look over this constellation of\ncities which animate and illustrate the land, and see how little\nthe Government has to do with their daily life, how self-helped and\nself-directed all families are,--knots of men in purely natural\nsocieties,--societies of trade, of kindred blood, of habitual\nhospitality, house and house, man acting on man by weight of opinion, of\nlonger or better-directed industry, the refining influence of women,\nthe invitation which experience and permanent causes open to youth and\nlabor,--when I see how much each virtuous and gifted person whom all men\nconsider lives affectionately with scores of excellent people who are\nnot known far from home, and perhaps with great reason reckons these\npeople his superiors in virtue, and in the symmetry and force of their\nqualities, I see what cubic values America has, and in these a better\ncertificate of civilization than great cities or enormous wealth.\n\nIn strictness, the vital refinements are the moral and intellectual\nsteps. The appearance of the Hebrew Moses, of the Indian Buddh,--in\nGreece, of the Seven Wise Masters, of the acute and upright Socrates,\nand of the Stoic Zeno,--in Judea, the advent of Jesus,--and in modern\nChristendom, of the realists Huss, Savonarola, and Luther, are causal\nfacts which carry forward races to new convictions, and elevate the rule\nof life. In the presence of these agencies, it is frivolous to insist\non the invention of printing or gunpowder, of steam-power or gas-light,\npercussion-caps and rubber-shoes, which are toys thrown off from that\nsecurity, freedom, and exhilaration which a healthy morality creates in\nsociety. These arts add a comfort and smoothness to house and\nstreet life; but a purer morality, which kindles genius, civilizes\ncivilization, casts backward all that we held sacred into the profane,\nas the flame of oil throws a shadow when shined upon by the flame of the\nBude-light. Not the less the popular measures of progress will ever be\nthe arts and the laws.\n\nBut if there be a country which cannot stand any one of these tests,--a\ncountry where knowledge cannot be diffused without perils of mob-law\nand statute-law,--where speech is not free,--where the post-office is\nviolated, mail-bags opened, and letters tampered with,--where public\ndebts and private debts outside of the State are repudiated,--where\nliberty is attacked in the primary institution of their social\nlife,--where the position of the white woman is injuriously affected by\nthe outlawry of the black woman,--where the arts, such as they have,\nare all imported, having no indigenous life,--where the laborer is not\nsecured in the earnings of his own hands,--where suffrage is not free\nor equal,--that country is, in all these respects, not civil, but\nbarbarous, and no advantages of soil, climate, or coast can resist these\nsuicidal mischiefs.\n\nMorality is essential, and all the incidents of morality,--as, justice\nto the subject, and personal liberty. Montesquieu says,--\"Countries are\nwell cultivated, not as they are fertile, but as they are free\"; and the\nremark holds not less, but more, true of the culture of men than of the\ntillage of land. And the highest proof of civility is, that the whole\npublic action of the State is directed on securing the greatest good of\nthe greatest number.\n\nOur Southern States have introduced confusion into the moral sentiments\nof their people, by reversing this rule in theory and practice, and\ndenying a man's right to his labor. The distinction and end of a soundly\nconstituted man is his labor. Use is inscribed on all his faculties. Use\nis the end to which he exists. As the tree exists for its fruit, so a\nman for his work. A fruitless plant, an idle animal, is not found in\nthe universe. They are all toiling, however secretly or slowly, in the\nprovince assigned them, and to a use in the economy of the world,--the\nhigher and more complex organizations to higher and more catholic\nservice; and man seems to play a certain part that tells on the general\nface of the planet,--as if dressing the globe for happier races of\nhis own kind, or, as we sometimes fancy, for beings of superior\norganization.\n\nBut thus use, labor of each for all, is the health and virtue of all\nbeings. ICH DIEN, _I serve_, is a truly royal motto. And it is the mark\nof nobleness to volunteer the lowest service,--the greatest spirit only\nattaining to humility. Nay, God is God because he is the servant of\nall. Well, now here comes this conspiracy of slavery,--they call it an\ninstitution, I call it a destitution,--this stealing of men and setting\nthem to work,--stealing their labor, and the thief sitting idle himself;\nand for two or three ages it has lasted, and has yielded a certain\nquantity of rice, cotton, and sugar. And standing on this doleful\nexperience, these people have endeavored to reverse the natural\nsentiments of mankind, and to pronounce labor disgraceful, and the\nwell-being of a man to consist in eating the fruit of other men's labor.\nLabor: a man coins himself into his labor,--turns his day, his strength,\nhis thought, his affection into some product which remains as the\nvisible sign of his power; and to protect that, to secure that to\nhim, to secure his past self to his future self, is the object of all\ngovernment. There is no interest in any country so imperative as that\nof labor; it covers all, and constitutions and governments exist for\nthat,--to protect and insure it to the laborer. All honest men are daily\nstriving to earn their bread by their industry. And who is this who\ntosses his empty head at this blessing in disguise, the constitution of\nhuman nature, and calls labor vile, and insults the faithful workman at\nhis daily toil? I see for such madness no hellebore,--for such calamity\nno solution but servile war, and the Africanization of the country that\npermits it.\n\nAt this moment in America the aspects of political society absorb\nattention. In every house, from Canada to the Gulf, the children ask\nthe serious father,--\"What is the news of the war to-day? and when will\nthere be better times?\" The boys have no new clothes, no gifts, no\njourneys; the girls must go without new bonnets; boys and girls find\ntheir education, this year, less liberal and complete. All the little\nhopes that heretofore made the year pleasant are deferred. The state of\nthe country fills us with anxiety and stern duties. We have attempted to\nhold together two states of civilization: a higher state, where labor\nand the tenure of land and the right of suffrage are democratical; and\na lower state, in which the old military tenure of prisoners or slaves,\nand of power and land in a few hands, makes an oligarchy: we have\nattempted to hold these two states of society under one law. But the\nrude and early state of society does not work well with the later,\nnay, works badly, and has poisoned politics, public morals, and social\nintercourse in the Republic, now for many years.\n\nThe times put this question,--Why cannot the best civilization be\nextended over the whole country, since the disorder of the less\ncivilized portion menaces the existence of the country? Is this secular\nprogress we have described, this evolution of man to the highest powers,\nonly to give him sensibility, and not to bring duties with it? Is he\nnot to make his knowledge practical? to stand and to withstand? Is not\ncivilization heroic also? Is it not for action? has it not a will?\n\"There are periods,\" said Niebuhr, \"when something much better than,\nhappiness and security of life is attainable.\" We live in a new and\nexceptional age. America is another word for Opportunity. Our whole\nhistory appears like a last effort of the Divine Providence in behalf of\nthe human race; and a literal slavish following of precedents, as by\na justice of the peace, is not for those who at this hour lead the\ndestinies of this people. The evil you contend with has taken alarming\nproportions, and you still content yourself with parrying the blows it\naims, but, as if enchanted, abstain from striking at the cause.\n\nIf the American people hesitate, it is not for want of warning or\nadvices. The telegraph has been swift enough to announce our disasters.\nThe journals have not suppressed the extent of the calamity. Neither\nwas there any want of argument or of experience. If the war brought\nany surprise to the North, it was not the fault of sentinels on the\nwatch-towers, who had furnished full details of the designs, the muster,\nand the means of the enemy. Neither was anything concealed of the theory\nor practice of slavery. To what purpose make more big books of these\nstatistics? There are already mountains of facts, if any one wants them.\nBut people do not want them. They bring their opinions into the world.\nIf they have a comatose tendency in the brain, they are pro-slavery\nwhile they live; if of a nervous sanguineous temperament, they are\nabolitionists. Then interests were never persuaded. Can you convince the\nshoe interest, or the iron interest, or the cotton interest, by reading\npassages from Milton or Montesquieu? You wish to satisfy people that\nslavery is bad economy. Why, the \"Edinburgh Review\" pounded on that\nstring, and made out its case forty years ago. A democratic statesman\nsaid to me, long since, that, if he owned the State of Kentucky, he\nwould manumit all the slaves, and be a gainer by the transaction. Is\nthis new? No, everybody knows it. As a general economy it is admitted.\nBut there is no one owner of the State, but a good many small owners.\nOne man owns land and slaves; another owns slaves only. Here is a woman\nwho has no other property,--like a lady in Charleston I knew of, who\nowned fifteen chimney-sweeps and rode in her carriage. It is clearly a\nvast inconvenience to each of these to make any change, and they are\nfretful and talkative, and all their friends are; and those less\ninterested are inert, and, from want of thought, averse to innovation.\nIt is like free trade, certainly the interest of nations, but by no\nmeans the interest of certain towns and districts, which tariff feeds\nfat; and the eager interest of the few overpowers the apathetic general\nconviction of the many. Banknotes rob the public, but are such a daily\nconvenience that we silence our scruples, and make believe they are\ngold. So imposts are the cheap and right taxation; but by the dislike of\npeople to pay out a direct tax, governments are forced to render life\ncostly by making them pay twice as much, hidden in the price of tea and\nsugar.\n\nIn this national crisis, it is not argument that we want, but that rare\ncourage which dares commit itself to a principle, believing that Nature\nis its ally, and will create the instruments it requires, and more than\nmake good any petty and injurious profit which it may disturb. There\nnever was such a combination as this of ours, and the rules to meet it\nare not set down in any history. We want men of original perception and\noriginal action, who can open their eyes wider than to a nationality,\nnamely, to considerations of benefit to the human race, can act in the\ninterest of civilization. Government must not be a parish clerk, a\njustice of the peace. It has, of necessity, in any crisis of the State,\nthe absolute powers of a Dictator. The existing Administration is\nentitled to the utmost candor. It is to be thanked for its angelic\nvirtue, compared with any executive experiences with which we have been\nfamiliar. But the times will not allow us to indulge in compliment. I\nwish I saw in the people that inspiration which, if Government would not\nobey the same, it would leave the Government behind, and create on the\nmoment the means and executors it wanted. Better the war should more\ndangerously threaten us,--should threaten fracture in what is still\nwhole, and punish us with burned capitals and slaughtered regiments, and\nso exasperate the people to energy, exasperate our nationality. There\nare Scriptures written invisibly on men's hearts, whose letters do not\ncome out until they are enraged. They can be read by war-fires, and by\neyes in the last peril.\n\nWe cannot but remember that there have been days in American history,\nwhen, if the Free States had done their duty, Slavery had been blocked\nby an immovable barrier, and our recent calamities forever precluded.\nThe Free States yielded, and every compromise was surrender, and invited\nnew demands. Here again is a new occasion which Heaven offers to sense\nand virtue. It looks as if we held the fate of the fairest possession\nof mankind in our hands, to be saved by our firmness or to be lost by\nhesitation.\n\nThe one power that has legs long enough and strong enough to cross the\nPotomac offers itself at this hour; the one strong enough to bring all\nthe civility up to the height of that which is best prays now at the\ndoor of Congress for leave to move. Emancipation is the demand of\ncivilization. That is a principle; everything else is an intrigue. This\nis a progressive policy,--puts the whole people in healthy, productive,\namiable position,--puts every man in the South in just and natural\nrelations with every man in the North, laborer with laborer.\n\nWe shall not attempt to unfold the details of the project of\nemancipation. It has been stated with great ability by several of its\nleading advocates. I will only advert to some leading points of the\nargument, at the risk of repeating the reasons of others.[B]\n\n[Footnote B: I refer mainly to a Discourse by the Rev. M.D. Conway,\ndelivered before the \"Emancipation League,\" in Boston, in January last.]\n\nThe war is welcome to the Southerner: a chivalrous sport to him, like\nhunting, and suits his semi-civilized condition. On the climbing scale\nof progress, he is just up to war, and has never appeared to such\nadvantage as in the last twelve-month. It does not suit us. We are\nadvanced some ages on the war-state,--to trade, art, and general\ncultivation. His laborer works for him at home, so that he loses no\nlabor by the war. All our soldiers are laborers; so that the South, with\nits inferior numbers, is almost on a footing in effective war-population\nwith the North. Again, as long as we fight without any affirmative step\ntaken by the Government, any word intimating forfeiture in the rebel\nStates of their old privileges under the law, they and we fight on the\nsame side, for Slavery. Again, if we conquer the enemy,--what then? We\nshall still have to keep him under, and it will cost as much to hold him\ndown as it did to get him down. Then comes the summer, and the fever\nwill drive our soldiers home; next winter, we must begin at the\nbeginning, and conquer him over again. What use, then, to take a fort,\nor a privateer, or get possession of an inlet, or to capture a regiment\nof rebels?\n\nBut one weapon we hold which is sure. Congress can, by edict, as a part\nof the military defence which it is the duty of Congress to provide,\nabolish slavery, and pay for such slaves as we ought to pay for. Then\nthe slaves near our armies will come to us: those in the interior will\nknow in a week what their rights are, and will, where opportunity\noffers, prepare to take them. Instantly, the armies that now confront\nyou must run home to protect their estates, and must stay there, and\nyour enemies will disappear.\n\nThere can be no safety until this step is taken. We fancy that the\nendless debate, emphasized by the crime and by the cannons of this war,\nhas brought the Free States to some conviction that it can never go well\nwith us whilst this mischief of Slavery remains in our politics, and\nthat by concert or by might we must put an end to it. But we have too\nmuch experience of the futility of an easy reliance on the momentary\ngood dispositions of the public. There does exist, perhaps, a popular\nwill that the Union shall not be broken,--that our trade, and therefore\nour laws, must have the whole breadth of the continent, and from Canada\nto the Gulf. But, since this is the rooted belief and will of the\npeople, so much the more are they in danger, when impatient of defeats,\nor impatient of taxes, to go with a rush for some peace, and what kind\nof peace shall at that moment be easiest attained: they will make\nconcessions for it,--will give up the slaves; and the whole torment of\nthe past half-century will come back to be endured anew.\n\nNeither do I doubt, if such a composition should take place, that the\nSoutherners will come back quietly and politely, leaving their haughty\ndictation. It will be an era of good feelings. There will be a lull\nafter so loud a storm; and, no doubt, there will be discreet men from\nthat section who will earnestly strive to inaugurate more moderate and\nfair administration of the Government, and the North will for a time\nhave its full share and more, in place and counsel. But this will not\nlast,--not for want of sincere good-will in sensible Southerners, but\nbecause Slavery will again speak through them its harsh necessity. It\ncannot live but by injustice, and it will be unjust and violent to the\nend of the world.\n\nThe power of Emancipation is this, that it alters the atomic social\nconstitution of the Southern people. Now their interest is in keeping\nout white labor; then, when they must pay wages, their interest will be\nto let it in, to get the best labor, and, if they fear their blacks, to\ninvite Irish, German, and American laborers. Thus, whilst Slavery makes\nand keeps disunion, Emancipation removes the whole objection to union.\nEmancipation at one stroke elevates the poor white of the South, and\nidentifies his interest with that of the Northern laborer.\n\nNow, in the name of all that is simple and generous, why should not\nthis great right be done? Why should not America be capable of a second\nstroke for the well-being of the human race, as eighty or ninety years\nago she was for the first? an affirmative step in the interests of human\ncivility, urged on her, too, not by any romance of sentiment, but by\nher own extreme perils? It is very certain that the statesman who shall\nbreak through the cobwebs of doubt, fear, and petty cavil that lie\nin the way, will be greeted by the unanimous thanks of mankind. Men\nreconcile themselves very fast to a bold and good measure, when once it\nis taken, though they condemned it in advance. A week before the two\ncaptive commissioners were surrendered to England, every one thought it\ncould not be done: it would divide the North. It was done, and in two\ndays all agreed it was the right action. And this action which costs so\nlittle (the parties injured by it being such a handful that they can\nvery easily be indemnified) rids the world, at one stroke, of this\ndegrading nuisance, the cause of war and ruin to nations. This measure\nat once puts all parties right. This is borrowing, as I said, the\nomnipotence of a principle. What is so foolish as the terror lest the\nblacks should be made furious by freedom and wages? It is denying these\nthat is the outrage, and makes the danger from the blacks. But justice\nsatisfies everybody,--white man, red man, yellow man, and black man. All\nlike wages, and the appetite grows by feeding.\n\nBut this measure, to be effectual, must come speedily. The weapon is\nslipping out of our hands. \"Time,\" say the Indian Scriptures, \"drinketh\nup the essence of every great and noble action which ought to be\nperformed, and which is delayed in the execution.\"\n\nI hope it is not a fatal objection to this policy that it is simple and\nbeneficent thoroughly, which is the attribute of a moral action. An\nunprecedented material prosperity has not tended to make us Stoics or\nChristians. But the laws by which the universe is organized reappear at\nevery point, and will rule it. The end of all political struggle is\nto establish morality as the basis of all legislation. It is not free\ninstitutions, 't is not a republic, 't is not a democracy, that is the\nend,--no, but only the means. Morality is the object of government.\nWe want a state of things in which crime shall not pay. This is the\nconsolation on which we rest in the darkness of the future and the\nafflictions of to-day, that the government of the world is moral, and\ndoes forever destroy what is not.\n\nIt is the maxim of natural philosophers, that the natural forces wear\nout in time all obstacles, and take place: and 't is the maxim of\nhistory, that victory always falls at last where it ought to fall; or,\nthere is perpetual march and progress to ideas. But, in either case,\nno link of the chain can drop out. Nature works through her appointed\nelements; and ideas must work through the brains and the arms of good\nand brave men, or they are no better than dreams.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSince the above pages were written, President Lincoln has proposed to\nCongress that the Government shall co\u00f6perate with any State that shall\nenact a gradual abolishment of Slavery. In the recent series of national\nsuccesses, this Message is the best. It marks the happiest day in the\npolitical year. The American Executive ranges itself for the first time\non the side of freedom. If Congress has been backward, the President has\nadvanced. This state-paper is the more interesting that it appears to be\nthe President's individual act, done under a strong sense of duty. He\nspeaks his own thought in his own style. All thanks and honor to the\nHead of the State! The Message has been received throughout the country\nwith praise, and, we doubt not, with more pleasure than has been spoken.\nIf Congress accords with the President, it is not yet too late to begin\nthe emancipation; but we think it will always be too late to make it\ngradual. All experience agrees that it should be immediate. More and\nbetter than the President has spoken shall, perhaps, the effect of this\nMessage be,--but, we are sure, not more or better than he hoped in his\nheart, when, thoughtful of all the complexities of his position, he\npenned these cautious words.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n  COMPENSATION.\n\n\n  In the strength of the endeavor,\n  In the temper of the giver,\n  In the loving of the lover,\n    Lies the hidden recompense.\n\n  In the sowing of the sower,\n  In the fleeting of the flower,\n  In the fading of each hour,\n    Lurks eternal recompense.\n\n\n\n\nA MESSAGE OF JEFF DAVIS IN SECRET SESSION.\n\nCONJECTURALLY REPORTED BY H. BIGLOW.\n\n\n_To the Editors of the_ ATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\nJaalam, 10th March, 1862.\n\nGENTLEMEN,--My leisure has been so entirely occupied with the hitherto\nfruitless endeavour to decypher the Runick inscription whose fortunate\ndiscovery I mentioned in my last communication, that I have not found\ntime to discuss, as I had intended, the great problem of what we are to\ndo with slavery, a topick on which the publick mind in this place is at\npresent more than ever agitated. What my wishes and hopes are I need\nnot say, but for safe conclusions I do not conceive that we are yet\nin possession of facts enough on which to bottom them with certainty.\nAcknowledging the hand of Providence, as I do, in all events, I am\nsometimes inclined to think that they are wiser than we, and am willing\nto wait till we have made this continent once more a place where\nfreemen can live in security and honour, before assuming any further\nresponsibility. This is the view taken by my neighbour Habakkuk\nSloansure, Esq., the president of our bank, whose opinion in the\npractical affairs of life has great weight with me, as I have generally\nfound it to be justified by the event, and whose counsel, had I followed\nit, would have saved me from an unfortunate investment of a considerable\npart of the painful economies of half a century in the Northwest-Passage\nTunnel. After a somewhat animated discussion with this gentleman, a\nfew days since, I expanded, on the _audi alteram partem_ principle,\nsomething which he happened to say by way of illustration, into the\nfollowing fable.\n\n  FESTINA LENTE.\n\n  Once on a time there was a pool\n  Fringed all about with flag-leaves cool\n  And spotted with cow-lilies garish,\n  Of frogs and pouts the ancient parish.\n  Alders the creaking redwings sink on,\n  Tussocks that house blithe Bob o' Lincoln.\n  Hedged round the unassailed seclusion,\n  Where muskrats piled their cells Carthusian;\n  And many a moss-embroidered log,\n  The watering-place of summer frog,\n  Slept and decayed with patient skill,\n  As watering-places sometimes will.\n\n  Now in this Abbey of Theleme,\n  Which realized the fairest dream\n  That ever dozing bull-frog had,\n  Sunned on a half-sunk lily-pad,\n  There rose a party with a mission\n  To mend the polliwogs' condition,\n  Who notified the selectmen\n  To call a meeting there and then.\n  \"Some kind of steps.\" they said, \"are needed;\n  They don't come on so fast as we did:\n  Let's dock their tails; if that don't make 'em\n  Frogs by brevet, the Old One take 'em!\n  That boy, that came the other day\n  To dig some flag-root down this way,\n  His jack-knife left, and 't is a sign\n  That Heaven approves of our design:\n  'T were wicked not to urge the step on,\n  When Providence has sent the weapon.\"\n\n  Old croakers, deacons of the mire,\n  That led the deep batrachiain choir,\n  _Uk! Uk! Caronk!_ with bass that might\n  Have left Lablache's out of sight,\n  Shook knobby heads, and said, \"No go!\n  You'd better let 'em try to grow:\n  Old Doctor Time is slow, but still\n  He does know how to make a pill.\"\n\n  But vain was all their hoarsest bass,\n  Their old experience out of place,\n  And, spite of croaking and entreating,\n  The vote was carried in marsh-meeting.\n\n  \"Lord knows,\" protest the polliwogs,\n  \"We're anxious to be grown-up frogs;\n  But do not undertake the work\n  Of Nature till she prove a shirk;\n  'T is not by jumps that she advances,\n  But wins her way by circumstances:\n  Pray, wait awhile, until you know\n  We're so contrived as not to grow;\n  Let Nature take her own direction,\n  And she'll absorb our imperfection;\n  _You_ mightn't like 'em to appear with,\n  But we must have the things to steer with.\"\n\n  \"No,\" piped the party of reform,\n  \"All great results are ta'en by storm;\n  Fate holds her best gifts till we show\n  We've strength to make her let them go:\n  No more reject the Age's chrism,\n  Your cues are an anachronism;\n  No more the Future's promise mock,\n  But lay your tails upon the block,\n  Thankful that we the means have voted\n  To have you thus to frogs promoted.\"\n\n  The thing was done, the tails were cropped,\n  And home each philotadpole hopped,\n  In faith rewarded to exult,\n  And wait the beautiful result.\n  Too soon it came; our pool, so long\n  The theme of patriot bull-frogs' song,\n  Next day was reeking, fit to smother,\n  With heads and tails that missed each other,--\n  Here snoutless tails, there tailless snouts:\n  The only gainers were the pouts.\n\n  MORAL.\n\n  From lower to the higher next,\n  Not to the top, is Nature's text;\n  And embryo Good, to reach full stature,\n  Absorbs the Evil in its nature.\n\nI think that nothing will ever give permanent peace and security to\nthis continent but the extirpation of Slavery therefrom, and that the\noccasion is nigh; but I would do nothing hastily or vindictively, nor\npresume to jog the elbow of Providence. No desperate measures for me\ntill we are sure that all others are hopeless,--_flectere si nequeo\nSUPEROS, Acheronta movebo_. To make Emancipation a reform instead of\na revolution is worth a little patience, that we may have the Border\nStates first, and then the non-slaveholders of the Cotton States with us\nin principle,--a consummation that seems to me nearer than many imagine.\n_Fiat justitia, ruat coelum,_ is not to be taken in a literal sense by\nstatesmen, whose problem is to get justice done with as little jar as\npossible to existing order, which has at least so much of heaven in it\nthat it is not chaos. I rejoice in the President's late Message, which\nat last proclaims the Government on the side of freedom, justice, and\nsound policy.\n\nAs I write, comes the news of our disaster at Hampton Roads. I do not\nunderstand the supineness which, after fair warning, leaves wood to an\nunequal conflict with iron. It is not enough merely to have the right\non our side, if we stick to the old flint-lock of tradition. I have\nobserved in my parochial experience (_haud ignarus mali_) that the Devil\nis prompt to adopt the latest inventions of destructive warfare, and may\nthus take even such a three-decker as Bishop Butler at an advantage. It\nis curious, that, as gunpowder made armour useless on shore, so armour\nis having its revenge by baffling its old enemy at sea,--and that, while\ngunpowder robbed land-warfare of nearly all its picturesqueness to give\neven greater stateliness and sublimity to a sea-fight, armour bids fair\nto degrade the latter into a squabble between two iron-shelled turtles.\n\nYours, with esteem and respect,\n\nHOMER WILBUR, A.M.\n\nP.S. I had wellnigh forgotten to say that the object of this letter is\nto inclose a communication from the gifted pen of Mr. Biglow.\n\n  I sent you a messige, my friens, t' other day,\n  To tell you I'd nothin' pertickler to say:\n  'T wuz the day our new nation gut kin' o' stillborn,\n  So't wuz my pleasant dooty t' acknowledge the corn,\n  An' I see clearly then, ef I didn't before,\n  Thet the _augur_ in inauguration means _bore_.\n  I needn't tell _you_ thet my messige wuz written\n  To diffuse correc' notions in France an' Gret Britten,\n  An' agin to impress on the poppylar mind\n  The comfort an' wisdom o' goin' it blind,--\n  To say thet I didn't abate not a hooter\n  O' my faith in a happy an' glorious futur',\n  Ez rich in each soshle an' p'litickle blessin'\n  Ez them thet we now hed the joy o' possessin',\n  With a people united, an' longin' to die\n  For wut _we_ call their country, without askin' why,\n  An' all the gret things we concluded to slope for\n  Ez much within reach now ez ever--to hope for.\n  We've all o' the ellermunts, this very hour,\n  Thet make up a fus'-class, self-governin' power:\n  We've a war, an' a debt, an' a flag; an' ef this\n  Ain't to be inderpendunt, why, wut on airth is?\n  An' nothin' now henders our takin' our station\n  Ez the freest, enlightenedest, civerlized nation,\n  Built up on our bran'-new politickle thesis\n  Thet a Guv'ment's fust right is to tumble to pieces,--\n  I say nothin' henders our takin' our place\n  Ez the very fus'-best o' the whole human race,\n  A-spittin' tobacker ez proud ez you please\n  On Victory's bes' carpets, or loafin' at ease\n  In the Tool'ries front-parlor, discussin' affairs\n  With our heels on the backs o' Napoleon's new chairs,\n  An' princes a-mixin' our cocktails an' slings,--\n  Excep', wal, excep' jest a very few things,\n  Sech ez navies an' armies an' wherewith to pay,\n  An' gittin' our sogers to run t' other way,\n  An' not be too over-pertickler in tryin'\n  To hunt up the very las' ditches to die in.\n\n  Ther' are critters so base thet they want it explained\n  Jes' wut is the totle amount thet we've gained,\n  Ez ef we could maysure stupenjious events\n  By the low Yankee stan'ard o' dollars an' cents:\n  They seem to forgit, thet, sence last year revolved,\n  We've succeeded in gittin' seceshed an' dissolved,\n  An' thet no one can't hope to git thru dissolootion\n  'Thout sonic kin' o' strain on the best Constitootion.\n  Who asks for a prospec' more flettrin' an' bright,\n  When from here clean to Texas it's all one free fight?\n  Hain't we rescued from Seward the gret leadin' featurs\n  Thet makes it wuth while to be reasonin' creaturs?\n  Hain't we saved Habus Coppers, improved it in fact,\n  By suspending the Unionists 'stid o' the Act?\n  Ain't the laws free to all? Where on airth else d' ye see\n  Every freeman improvin' his own rope an' tree?\n\n  It's ne'ssary to take a good confident tone\n  With the public; but here, jest amongst us, I own\n  Things looks blacker 'n thunder. Ther' 's no use denyin'\n  We're clean out o' money, an' 'most out o' lyin',--\n  Two things a young nation can't mennage without,\n  Ef she wants to look wal at her fust comin' out;\n  For the fust supplies physickle strength, while the second\n  Gives a morril edvantage thet's hard to be reckoned:\n  For this latter I'm willin' to du wut I can;\n  For the former you'll hev to consult on a plan,--\n  Though our _fust_ want (an' this pint I want your best views on)\n  Is plausible paper to print I.O.U.s on.\n  Some gennlemen think it would cure all our cankers\n  In the way o' finance, ef we jes' hanged the bankers;\n  An' I own the proposle 'ud square with my views,\n  Ef their lives wuzn't all thet we'd left 'em to lose.\n  Some say thet more confidence might be inspired,\n  Ef we voted our cities an' towns to be fired,--\n  A plan thet 'ud suttenly tax our endurance,\n  Coz 't would be our own bills we should git for th' insurance;\n  But cinders, no metter how sacred we think 'em,\n  Mightn't strike furrin minds ez good sources of income,\n  Nor the people, perhaps, wouldn't like the eclaw\n  O' bein' all turned into paytriots by law.\n  Some want we should buy all the cotton an' burn it,\n  On a pledge, when we've gut thru the war, to return it,--\n  Then to take the proceeds an' hold _them_ ez security\n  For an issue o' bonds to be met at maturity\n  With an issue o' notes to be paid in hard cash\n  On the fus' Monday follerin' the 'tarnal Allsmash:\n  This hez a safe air, an', once hold o' the gold,\n  'Ud leave our vile plunderers out in the cold,\n  An' _might_ temp' John Bull, ef it warn't for the dip he\n  Once gut from the banks o' my own Massissippi.\n  Some think we could make, by arrangin' the figgers,\n  A hendy home-currency out of our niggers;\n  But it wun't du to lean much on ary sech staff,\n  For they're gittin' tu current a'ready, by half.\n  One gennleman says, ef we lef' our loan out\n  Where Floyd could git hold on 't, _he_'d take it, no doubt;\n  But 't ain't jes' the takin', though 't hez a good look,\n  We mus' git sunthin' out on it arter it's took,\n  An' we need now more 'n ever, with sorrer I own,\n  Thet some one another should let us a loan,\n  Sence a soger wun't fight, on'y jes' while he draws his\n  Pay down on the nail, for the best of all causes,\n  'Thout askin' to know wut the quarrel's about,--\n  An' once come to thet, why, our game is played out.\n  It's ez true ez though I shouldn't never hev said it\n  Thet a hitch hez took place in our system o' credit;\n  I swear it's all right in my speeches an' messiges,\n  But ther' 's idees afloat, ez ther' is about sessiges:\n  Folks wun't take a bond ez a basis to trade on,\n  Without nosin' round to find out wut it's made on,\n  An' the thought more an' more thru the public min' crosses\n  Thet our Treshry hez gut 'mos' too many dead hosses.\n  Wut's called credit, you see, is some like a balloon,\n  Thet looks while it's up 'most ez harnsome 'z a moon,\n  But once git a leak in 't an' wut looked so grand\n  Caves righ' down in a jiffy ez flat ez your hand.\n  Now the world is a dreffle mean place, for our sins,\n  Where ther' ollus is critters about with long pins\n  A-prickin' the globes we've blowcd up with sech care,\n  An' provin' ther' 's nothin' inside but bad air:\n  They're all Stuart Millses, poor-white trash, an' sneaks,\n  Without no more chivverlry 'n Choctaws or Creeks,\n  Who think a real gennleman's promise to pay\n  Is meant to be took in trade's ornery way:\n  Them fellers an' I couldn' never agree;\n  They're the nateral foes o' the Southun Idee;\n  I'd gladly take all of our other resks on me\n  To be red o' this low-lived politikle 'con'my!\n\n  Now a dastardly notion is gittin' about\n  Thet our bladder is bust an' the gas oozin' out,\n  An' onless we can mennage in some way to stop it,\n  Why, the thing's a gone coon, an' we might ez wal drop it.\n  Brag works wal at fust, but it ain't jes' the thing\n  For a stiddy inves'ment the shiners to bring,\n  An' votin' we're prosp'rous a hundred times over\n  Wun't change bein' starved into livin' on clover.\n  Manassas done sunthin' tow'rds drawin' the wool\n  O'er the green, anti-slavery eyes o' John Bull:\n  Oh, _warn't_ it a godsend, jes' when sech tight fixes\n  Wuz crowdin' us mourners, to throw double-sixes!\n  I wuz tempted to think, an' it wuzn't no wonder,\n  Ther' wuz reelly a Providence,--over or under,--\n  When, all packed for Nashville, I fust ascertained\n  From the papers up North wut a victory we'd gained,\n  'T wuz the time for diffusin' correc' views abroad\n  Of our union an' strength an' relyin' on God;\n  An', fact, when I'd gut thru my fust big surprise,\n  I much ez half b'lieved in my own tallest lies,\n  An' conveyed the idee thet the whole Southun popperlace\n  Wuz Spartans all on the keen jump for Thermopperlies,\n  Thet set on the Lincolnites' bombs till they bust,\n  An' fight for the priv'lege o' dyin' the fust;\n  But Roanoke, Bufort, Millspring, an' the rest\n  Of our recent starn-foremost successes out West,\n  Hain't left us a foot for our swellin' to stand on,--\n\n  We've showed _too_ much o' wut Buregard calls _abandon_,\n  For all our Thermopperlies (an' it's a marcy\n  We hain't hed no more) hev ben clean vicy-varsy,\n  An' wut Spartans wuz lef' when the battle wuz done\n  Wuz them thet wuz too unambitious to run.\n\n  Oh, ef we hed on'y jes' gut Reecognition,\n  Things now would ha' ben in a different position!\n  You'd ha' hed all you wanted: the paper blockade\n  Smashed up into toothpicks,--unlimited trade\n  In the one thing thet's needfle, till niggers, I swow,\n  Hed ben thicker 'n provisional shinplasters now,--\n  Quinine by the ton 'ginst the shakes when they seize ye,--\n  Nice paper to coin into C.S.A. specie;\n  The voice of the driver'd be heerd in our land,\n  An' the univarse scringe, ef we lifted our hand:\n  Wouldn't _thet_ be some like a fulfillin' the prophecies,\n  With all the fus' fem'lies in all the best offices?\n  'T wuz a beautiful dream, an' all sorrer is idle,--\n  But _ef_ Lincoln _would_ ha' hanged Mason an' Slidell!\n  They ain't o' no good in European pellices,\n  But think wut a help they'd ha' ben on their gallowses!\n  They'd ha' felt they wuz truly fulfillin' their mission,\n  An', oh, how dog-cheap we'd ha' gut Reecognition!\n\n  But somehow another, wutever we've tried,\n  Though the the'ry's fust-rate, the facs _wun't_ coincide:\n  Facs are contrary 'z mules, an' ez hard in the mouth,\n  An' they allus hev showed a mean spite to the South.\n  Sech bein' the case, we hed best look about\n  For some kin' o' way to slip _our_ necks out:\n  Le''s vote our las' dollar, ef one can be found,\n  (An', at any rate, votin' it hez a good sound,)--\n  Le''s swear thet to arms all our people is flyin',\n  (The critters can't read, an' wun't know how we're lyin',)--\n  Thet Toombs is advancin' to sack Cincinnater,\n  With a rovin' commission to pillage an' slarter,--\n  Thet we've throwed to the winds all regard for wut's lawfle,\n  An' gone in for sunthin' promiscu'sly awfle.\n  Ye see, hitherto, it's our own knaves an' fools\n  Thet we've used,--those for whetstones, an't' others ez tools,--\n  An' now our las' chance is in puttin' to test\n  The same kin' o' cattle up North an' out West.\n  I----But, Gennlemen, here's a despatch jes' come in\n  Which shows thet the tide's begun turnin' agin,--\n  Gret Cornfedrit success! C'lumbus eevacooated!\n  I mus' run down an' hev the thing properly stated,\n  An' show wut a triumph it is, an' how lucky\n  To fin'lly git red o' thet cussed Kentucky,--\n  An' how, sence Fort Donelson, winnin' the day\n  Consists in triumphantly gittin' away.\n\n\n\n\nREVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n_The Sisters, Inisfail, and other Poems._ By AUBREY DE VERE. London.\n\nWhatever Mr. De Vere writes is welcomed by a select audience. Not taking\nrank among the great masters of English poetry, he yet possesses a\ngenuine poetic faculty which distinguishes him from \"the small harpers\nwith their glees\" who counterfeit the true gift of Nature. In refined\nand delicate sensibility, in purity of feeling, in elevation of tone,\nthere is no English writer of verse at the present day who surpasses\nhim. The fine instinct of a poet is united in him with the cultivated\ntaste of a scholar. There is nothing forced or spasmodic in his verse;\nit is the true expression of character disciplined by thought and study,\nof fancy quickened by ready sympathies, of feeling deepened and calmed\nby faith. As is the case with most English poets since Wordsworth, he\ninvests the impressions received from the various aspects of Nature with\nmoral associations, and with fine spiritual insight he seeks out the\ninner meaning of the external life of the earth. No one describes more\ntruthfully than he those transient beauties of Nature which in their\nbriefness and their exquisite variety of change elude the coarse grasp\nof the common observer, and too frequently pass half unnoticed and\nunfelt even by those whose temperament is susceptive of their inspiring\ninfluences, but whose thoughts are occupied with the cares and business\nof living. But it is especially as the poet of Ireland, and of the Roman\nChurch, that Mr. De Vere presents himself to us in this last volume;\nand while, consequently, the subject and treatment of many of the poems\ncontained in it give to them a special rather than a universal interest,\nthe patriotic spirit and the fervor of faith manifest in them appeal\npowerfully to the sympathies of readers in other countries and of other\ncreeds. \"'Inisfail' may be regarded as a sort of National Chronicle,\ncast in a form partly lyrical, partly narrative.... Its aim is to record\nthe past alone, and that chiefly as its chances might have been sung by\nthose old bards, who, consciously or unconsciously, uttered the voice\nwhich comes from a people's heart.\" In this attempt Mr. De Vere has had\nan uncommon measure of success. The strings of the Irish harp sound with\nthe cadences of fitting harmonies under his hand, as he sings of the\nsorrows and the joys of Ireland, of the wild storms and the rare\nsunshine of her pathetic history,--as he denounces vengeance on her\noppressors, or blesses the saints and the heroes who have made the land\ndear and beautiful to its children. The key-note of the series of poems\nwhich form this poetic chronicle is struck in the fine verses with which\nit begins, entitled \"History,\" and of which our space allows us to quote\nbut the opening stanza:--\n\n  \"At my casement I sat by night, while the wind far off in dark valleys\n  Voluminous gathered and grew, and waxing swelled to a gale;\n  An hour I heard it, or more, ere yet it sobbed on my lattice:\n  Far off, 't was a People's moan; hard by, but a widow's wail.\n  Atoms we are, we men: of the myriad sorrow around us\n  Our littleness little grasps; and the selfish in that have no part:\n  Yet time with the measureless chain of a world-wide mourning hath\n     wound us;\n  History but counts the drops as they fall from a Nation's heart.\"\n\nOne of the most vigorous poems in the volume is that called \"The Bard\nEthell,\" and which represents this bard of the thirteenth century\ntelling in his old age of himself and his country, of his memories, and\nof the wrongs that he and his land had alike suffered:--\n\n  \"I am Ethell, the son of Conn;\n    Here I live at the foot of the hill;\n  I am clansman to Brian, and servant to none;\n    Whom I hated, I hate; whom I loved, love still.\"\n\nHere is a passage from near the end of this poem:--\n\n  \"Ah me, that man who is made of dust\n    Should have pride toward God! 'T is an angel's sin!\n  I have often feared lest God, the All-Just,\n    Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean,\n  Should sweep us all into corners and holes,\n  Like dust of the house-floor, both bodies and\n    souls;\n  I have often feared He would send some\n    wind\n  In wrath, and the nation wake up stone-blind!\n  In age or youth we have all wrought ill.\"\n\nBut a large part of the volume before us is made up of poems that do not\nbelong to this Irish series, and the readers of the \"Atlantic\" will find\nin it several pieces which they will recognize with pleasure as having\nfirst appeared in our own pages, and which, once read, were not to be\nreadily forgotten. Mr. De Vere has expressed in several passages his\nwarm sympathy in our national affairs, and his clear appreciation of\nthe great cause, so little understood abroad, which we of the North are\nengaged in upholding and maintaining. And although in these days of war\nthere is little reading of poetry, and little chance that this volume\nwill find the welcome it deserves and would receive in quieter times in\nAmerica, we yet trust that it will meet with worthy readers among those\nwho possess their souls in quietness in the midst of the noise of arms,\nand to such we heartily commend it.\n\n\n_A Book about Doctors_. By J. CORDY JEAFFRESON, Author of \"Novels and\nNovelists,\" \"Crewe Else,\" etc., etc. New York: Rudd & Carleton. 12mo.\n\nMr. Jeaffreson is not usually either a brilliant or a sensible man with\npen in hand, albeit he dates from \"Rolls Chambers, Chancery Lane.\" He is\napt to select slow coaches, whenever he attempts a ride. His \"Novels\nand Novelists\" is a sad move in the \"deadly lively\" direction, and his\n\"Crewe Rise\" has not risen to much distinction among the reading crew.\nIn those volumes of departed rubbish he sinks very low, whenever he\nessays to mount; but his dulness is innoxious, for few there be who can\nsay, \"We have read him.\" His \"Book about Doctors\" is the best literary\nventure he has yet made. It is not a dull volume. The anecdotes so\nindustriously collected keep attention alert, and one feels inclined to\napplaud Mr. Jeaffreson as the leaves of his book are turned.\n\nEverything about Doctors is interesting. Here are a few Bible verses\nwhich it will do no harm to quote in connection with Mr. Jeaffreson's\nvolume:--\n\n  \"Honor a physician with the honor due\n  unto him for the uses which you have made\n  of him: for the Lord hath created him.\"\n\n  \"For of the Most High cometh healing, and\n  he shall receive honor of the king.\"\n\n  \"The skill of the physician shall lift up his\n  head; and in the sight of great men he shall\n  be in admiration.\"\n\n  \"The Lord hath created medicines out of\n  the earth; and he that is wise will not abhor\n  them.\"\n\nIt was no unwise thing in Mr. Jeaffreson to bring so many noble men\ntogether, as it were into one family. What \"names embalmed\" one meets\nwith in the collection! Here are Sydenham, Goldsmith, Smollett, Sir\nThomas Browne, and a golden line of other Doctors, nearly all the\nway down to our own time. (Our well-beloved M.D. [Monthly Diamond]\ncontributor is too young to be included.) Keats is among the worthies,\nalthough he got no farther into the mysteries than the apothecary's\ncounter. Meeting with this interesting series of splendid medicine-men\nleads us to muse a good deal about the Faculty, and to re-read several\ngood anecdotes about the great symptom-watchers of the past and the\npresent day.\n\nWhen Sir Richard Blackmore asked the great Sydenham, \"Prince of English\nphysicians,\" what he would advise him for medical reading, he is said to\nhave replied, \"Read Don Quixote, Sir.\" Sensible and witty old man!\n\nWe are struck with the cheerful character of nearly all the M.D.s\nmentioned in the volume, and are constantly reminded of the advice we\nonce read of an old Doctor to a young one:--\"Moreover, let me tell you,\nmy young doctor friend, that a cheerful face, and step, and neckcloth,\nand button-hole, and an occasional hearty and kindly joke, a power of\nexecuting and setting a-going a good laugh, are stock in our trade not\nto be despised.\"\n\n\"I may give an instance,\" says the same good-natured physician, \"when\na joke was more and better than itself. A comely young wife, the\n'cynosure' of her circle, was in bed, apparently dying from swelling and\ninflammation of the throat, an inaccessible abscess stopping the way;\nshe could swallow nothing; everything had been tried. Her friends were\nstanding round the bed in misery and helplessness. '_Try her wi' a\ncompliment_,' said her husband, in a not uncomic despair. She had\ngenuine humor, as well as he; and an physiologists know, there is a sort\nof mental tickling which is beyond and above control, being under the\nreflex system, and instinctive as well as sighing. She laughed with her\nwhole body, and burst the abscess, and was well.\"\n\nMr. Jeaffreson's book might be better, but it might be worse. We cannot\nforgive him for his \"Novels and Novelists\" and his \"Crewe Rise,\" two\nworks which go far to prove their author a person of indefatigable\nincoherency; but we thank him for the industry which brought together so\nmuch that is very readable about Doctors.\n\n\n_John Brent_. By THEODORE WINTHROP, Author of \"Cecil Dreeme.\" Boston:\nTicknor & Fields. 16mo.\n\nIt is probable that we have not yet completely appreciated the value\nof the bright and noble life which a wretched Rebel sharp-shooter\nextinguished in the disastrous fight of Great Bethel. \"John Brent\" is\na book which gives us important aid in the attempt to form an adequate\nconception of Winthrop's character. Its vivid pages shine throughout\nwith the author's brave and tender spirit. \"Cecil Dreeme\" was an\nembodiment of his thoughts, observations, and imaginations; \"John Brent\"\nshows us the inbred poetry and romance of the man in the grander form of\naction. The scene is placed in the wild Western plains of America, among\nmen entirely free from the restraints of conventional life; and the\nbook has a buoyancy and brisk vitality, a dashing, daring, and jubilant\nvigor, such as we are not accustomed to in ordinary romances of American\nlife. Sir Philip Sidney is the type of the Anglo-Saxon hero; but we\nthink that Winthrop was fully his match in delicacy and intrepidity, in\nmanly courage, and in sweet, instinctive tenderness. As to style, the\nAmerican far exceeds the Englishman. A certain conventional artifice and\ndainty affectation clouded the clear and beautiful nature of Sidney,\nwhen he wrote. The elaborate embroidery of thought, the stiff and\ncumbrous Elizabethan _dress_ of language, with all its ruffles and\nlaces, make the \"Arcadia\" an imperfect exponent of Sidney's nature.\nHis intense thoughts, delicate emotions, and burning passions are half\nconcealed in the form he adopts for their expression. But Winthrop is as\nfresh, natural, strong, and direct in his language as in his life.\nHe used words, not for ornament, but for expression. Every phrase is\nstamped by a die supplied by reflection or feeling, and not a paragraph\nin \"John Brent\" differs in spirit from the practical heroism which urged\nthe author to expose himself to certain death at Great Bethel. The\ncondensed, lucid, picturesque, and sharp-cut sentences, flooded with\nwill, show the nature of the man,--a man who announced no sentiments and\nprinciples he was not willing to sacrifice himself to disseminate or\ndefend. A living energy of soul glows over the whole book,--swift,\nfiery, brave, wholesome, sincere, impatient of all physical obstacles to\nthe operation of thought and affection, and eager to make stubborn facts\nyield to the impatient pressure of spiritual purpose.\n\nWe cannot say much in praise of the plot of \"John Brent,\" but it at\nleast enables the author to supply a good framework for his incidents,\ndescriptions, and characters. The plot is based rather on possibilities\nthan probabilities; but the men and women he depicts are thoroughly\nnatural. It would be difficult to point to any other American novel\nwhich furnishes incidents that can compare in vigor and vividness\nwith some of the incidents in this romance. The ride to rescue Helen\nClitheroe from her kidnappers is a masterpiece, worthy to rank with the\nfinest passages of Cooper or Scott. The fierce, swift black stallion,\n\"Don Fulano,\" a horse superior to any which Homer has immortalized, is\nalmost the hero of the romance. That Winthrop, with all his sympathy\nwith the \"advanced\" ideas and sentiments of the reformers and\nphilanthropists of the time, was not a mere prattling and scribbling\nsentimentalist, is proved by his glorious idealization of this\nmagnificent horse. He raises the beast into a moral and intellectual\nsympathy with his human rider, and there is a poetic justice in making\nhim die at last in an attempt to further the escape of a fugitive slave.\n\nThe characterization of the book is original. Gerrian, Jake Shamberlain,\nArmstrong, Sizzum, the Mormon preacher, are absolutely new creations.\nHugh Clitheroe may suggest Dickens's Skimpole and Hawthorne's Clifford,\nbut the character is developed under entirely new circumstances. As for\nWade and Brent, they are persons whom we all recognize as the old heroes\nof romance, though the conditions under which they act are changed.\nHelen, the heroine of the story, is a more puzzling character to the\ncritic; but, on the whole, we are bound to say that she is a new\ndevelopment of womanhood. The author exhausts all the resources of his\ngenius in giving a \"local habitation and a name\" to this fond creation\nof his imagination, and he has succeeded. Helen Clitheroe promises to be\none of those \"beings of the mind\" which will he permanently remembered.\n\nHeroism, active or passive, is the lesson taught by this romance, and\nwe know that the author, in his life, illustrated both phases of the\nquality. His novels, which, when he was alive, the booksellers refused\nto publish, are now passing through their tenth and twelfth editions.\nEverybody reads \"Cecil Dreeme\" and \"John Brent,\" and everybody must\ncatch a more or less vivid glimpse of the noble nature of their author.\nBut these books give but an imperfect expression of the soul of Theodore\nWinthrop. They have great merits, but they are still rather promises\nthan performances. They hint of a genius which was denied full\ndevelopment. The character, however, from which they derive their\nvitality and their power to please, shines steadily through all the\nimperfections of plot and construction. The novelist, after all, only\nsuggests the power and beauty of the man; and the man, though dead, will\nkeep the novels alive. Through them we can commune with a rare and noble\nspirit, called away from earth before all its capacities of invention\nand action were developed, but still leaving brilliant traces in\nliterature of the powers it was denied the opportunity adequately to\nunfold.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFOREIGN LITERATURE.\n\n\nTo keep pace with the productions of foreign literature is a task beyond\nthe possibilities of any reader. The bibliographical journals of France,\nGermany, Italy, and Spain weekly present such copious lists of new\nworks, that a mere mention of only the principal ones would far exceed\nthe limits we have proposed to ourselves. However, from the chaos of\ncontemporary productions it is our intention to sift, as far as lies in\nour power, such works as may with justice be styled _representative_ of\nthe country in which they are produced. Ranging in this introductory\narticle through the year 1861, we shall limit ourselves to a few of the\ncontributions upon French literary history.\n\nNo branch of letters is richer at the present time than that in which\nthe writer, laying aside all thought of direct creativeness, confines\nhimself to the criticism of the works of the past or present, analyzing\nand studying the influences that have been brought to hear upon the\npoet, historian, or novelist, anatomizing literature and resolving it\ninto its elements, pointing out the action exercised upon thought and\nexpression by the age, and seeking the effects of these upon society\nand politics as well as upon the general tastes and moral being of a\ngeneration. Methods of writing are now discussed rather than put in\npractice. We are in a transition age more than politically. Creative\ngenius seems to be resting for more marked and permanent channels to be\nformed; so that, though every year gives birth to numberless works in\nevery branch of art, original production is rarer than the activity, the\nrestlessness of the time might lead us to expect.\n\nIn no country has literary criticism more life than in France. It\nengages the attention of the best minds. No writer, whatever be his\nspeciality, thinks it derogatory to give long and elaborate notices\nin the daily press of new books or new editions of old books. Thus,\nSainte-Beuve in the \"Moniteur,\" De Sacy, Saint-Marc Girardin, Philar\u00e8te\nChasles, Pr\u00e9vost-Paradol in the \"Journal des D\u00e9bats,\" not to mention the\nnumerous writers of the \"Revue des Deux Mondes,\" the \"Europ\u00e9enne,\" and\nthe \"Nationale,\" vie with each other in extracting from all that appears\nwhat is most acceptable to the general reader.\n\nM. Sainte-Beuve may be taken as a type of the avowedly professional\ncritic. Whatever he may accomplish as the historian of Port-Royal, it is\nto his weekly articles, informal and disconnected as they are, that he\nowes his high rank among French authors. These \"Causeries du Lundi\" have\nnow reached the fourteenth volume.[A] In the last we find the same easy\nadmiration, facility of approbation, and suppleness that enable him to\npraise the \"Fanny\" of Feydeau, calling it a poem, and on the next page\nto do justice to the last volume of Thiers's \"Consulate and Empire,\"\nor to the recent publication of the Correspondence of Buffon. The most\nimportant articles in the volume are those on Vauvenargues, on the Abb\u00e9\nde Marolles, and on Bonstetten.\n\n[Footnote A: _Causeries du Lundi_. Par C.A. Sainte-Beuve, de l'Acad\u00e9mie\nFran\u00e7aise. Tome Quatorzi\u00e9me. Paris: Garnier Fr\u00e8res. 12mo. pp. 480.]\n\nOf quite a different school is M. Armand de Pontmartin, who, under the\ntitles of \"Causeries du Samedi,\" \"Causeries Litt\u00e9raires,\" etc., has\nnow issued over a dozen volumes touching on all points of contemporary\nletters, often very severe in their strictures. The last, \"Les Semaines\nLitt\u00e9raires,\"[B] contains notices of late works by Cousin, About,\nQuinet, Laprade, and others, and concludes with an article on Scribe.\nPontmarlin represents the Catholic sentiment in literature. He measures\neverything as it agrees or disagrees with Legitimacy and Ultramontanism.\nHis works are a continual defence of the Bourbons and the Pope. Modern\ndemocracy he cannot pardon. Without seeking to deny the excesses and\nshortcomings of his own party, he finds an explanation for all in the\nlevelling tendencies of the age. He cannot be too severe on the first\nFrench Revolution and its results. \"In letters,\" he tells us, \"it has\nled to materialism and anarchy, while the Bourbons personify for France\npeace, glory,\" etc.\n\n[Footnote B: _Les Semaines Litt\u00e9raires_. Troisi\u00e8me S\u00e9rie des Causeries\nLitt\u00e9raires. Par Armand de Pontmartin. Paris: Michel L\u00e9vy Fr\u00e8res. 12mo.\npp. 364.]\n\nPontmartin is an able representative of the side he has taken. He\nbelieves in and ably defends those heroes of literature so well\ncharacterized as \"Prophets of the Past,\" Chateaubriand, De Bonald,\nand J. de Maistre. His special objects of antipathy are writers\nlike Michelet and Quinet, pamphleteers like About, and critics like\nSainte-Beuve.\n\nThe last he cannot pardon for his work on Chateaubriand,[C] published in\nthe early part of the year 1861. The time is past for giving a fuller\naccount of this remarkable production of the historian of Port-Royal.\nSuffice it to say, that, though it deals in very small criticism indeed,\nthough its author seems to have made it his task to sum up all the\nweaknesses of one the prestige of whose name fills, in France at least,\nthe first half of this century, yet there exists no more valuable\ncontribution to the history of literature under the first Empire. It has\nbeen called \"a work no one would wish to have written, yet which is read\nby all with exquisite pleasure.\" Nothing could be truer.\n\n[Footnote C: _Chateaubriand et son Groupe Litt\u00e9raire sous l'Empire_.\nCours profess\u00e9 \u00e0 Li\u00e9ge en 1848-1849, par C.A. Sainte-Beuve, de\nl'Acad\u00e9mie Fran\u00e7aise. Paris: Garnier Fr\u00e8res. 2 vols. 8vo. pp. 410, 457.]\n\n\"Chateaubriand and his Literary Group under the Empire\" is a course\nof twenty-one lectures delivered by Sainte-Beuve at Li\u00e8ge, whither he\nrepaired soon after the Revolution of 1848 broke out in Paris. Fragments\nof the work appeared in the \"Revue des Deux Mondes,\" among others the\npaper on Ch\u00eanedoll\u00e9, which forms the most interesting portion of the\nsecond division. In this are to be found several original letters, now\npublished for the first time, casting much new light on the life of that\nunfortunate poet.\n\nOf more general interest, however, are the pages on Chateaubriand\nhimself. It was the fate of this writer to be flattered beyond measure\nin his lifetime, and now come the first judgments of posterity, which\ndeals with him no less harshly than it has already begun to deal\nwith another idol of the French people, B\u00e9ranger. Sainte-Beuve has\nconstituted himself judge, reversing even his own adulatory articles,\nas they may be read in the earlier volumes of the \"Causeries.\" It is at\nbest an ungrateful task to dissect a reputation in the way in which we\nfind it done in the present work. It must seem strange to many a reader\nthat the very man who in early life could utter such sweet flattery, who\nlong was the foremost to bear incense, should now consider it his duty\n\"to seek the foot of clay beneath the splendid drapery, and to replace\nabout the statue the aromas of the sanctuary by the perfumes of the\nboudoir.\" In spite of this, \"Chateaubriand and his Literary Group\" must\nbe ranked among the most remarkable of literary biographies. Here the\ncritic gives full scope to his inclination for minute analysis; the\nhistory of the author of \"Ren\u00e9\" explains his works, and these in turn\nare made to tell his life,--that life so full of love of effect, and\nconstant painstaking to seem rather than to be. Even in his religious\nsentiments the author of the \"Genius of Christianity\" appears lukewarm,\nnot to say more.\n\nIn comprehensive works on literary history France is far from being\nas rich as Germany. Beyond the native literature little has been\naccomplished; and even in this, works of importance may be counted on\nthe fingers. The past year saw the conclusion of Nisard's work, the most\ncomprehensive history of French literature. The fourth volume[D] is\ndevoted to the eighteenth century, and concludes with a few general\nchapters on the nineteenth.\n\n[Footnote D: _Histoire de la Literature Fran\u00e7aise_. Par D. Nisard, de\nl'Acad\u00e9mie Fran\u00e7aise, Inspecteur-G\u00e9n\u00e9ral de l'Enseignement Sup\u00e9rieur.\nTome Quatri\u00e8me, Paris: Firmin Didot Fr\u00e8res, Fils, et Cie. 8vo. pp. 584.]\n\nThe work of M. Gerusez, \"History of French Literature from its Origin to\nthe Devolution,\"[E] although it had the honor of being considered worthy\nof the _prix Gobert_ by the French Academy, is far from satisfying the\nrequirements of general literary history. It may rather be considered\na systematic series of essays, beginning with the \"Chansons de Geste,\"\nanalyzing several poems of the cycle of Charlemagne, and followed by\nsuccessive independent chapters on the Middle Ages, the revival of\nletters, and modern times down to the Revolution. It will be remembered\nthat in 1859 M. Gerusez published a \"History of Literature during the\nFrench Revolution, 1789-1800.\" This also obtained a prize from the\nAcademy,--much more deservedly, we think, than the last production, when\nwe consider the interest he cast over the literary efforts of a period\nmuch more marked by action than by artistic productiveness of any kind.\nThe German writer Schmidt-Weiszenfels in the same year issued a work\nwith the pretentious title, \"History of the Revolution-Literature of\nFrance.\"[F] This is little more than a declamatory production, wanting\nin what is most characteristic of the German mind, original research.\nThe \"Literary History of the National Convention,\" [G] by E. Maron, is\ndevoted more to politics than to letters.\n\n[Footnote E: Histoire de la Litt\u00e9rature Fran\u00e7aise, depuis ses Origines\njusqu'\u00e0 la Revolution. Par Eug\u00e8ne Gerusez. Paris: Didier et Cie. 2 vols.\n8vo. pp. 488, 507.]\n\n[Footnote F: _Geschichte der Franz\u00f6sischen Revolutions-Literatur_,\n1789-1795. Von Schmidt-Weiszenfels. Prague: Kober und Markgraf. 8vo. pp.\n395.]\n\n[Footnote G: _Histoire Litt\u00e9raire de la Convention Nationale_. Par\nEug\u00e8ne Maron. Paris: Poulet-Malassis et De Boise. 12mo. pp. 359.]\n\nTo return to the volumes of M. Gerusez. It is rather a sign of poverty\nin general literary history, that detached sketches, with little\nconnection beyond their chronological order, should have been deemed\nworthy of the prize and the praises awarded to them. However, though\nlacking in comprehensive views such as we have a right to expect from an\nauthor who attempts to portray the rise, growth, and full expansion of\na literature, the work of M. Gerusez may be perused with pleasure and\nprofit by the student. It is clear and satisfactory in the details.\nThus, the pages devoted to the writers of the \"Encyclop\u00e9die,\" though\nfew, may vie with any that have been written to set in their true light\nmen whose influence was so great on the generation that succeeded them.\nIf impartiality consisted in always steering in the _juste-milieu_, M.\nGerusez would be the most impartial of historians. As it is, we have to\nthank him for a good book, regretting only that he has gone no farther.\n\nFar otherwise is it with M. Saint-Marc Girardin. The eloquent Sorbonne\nprofessor has seen his fame increase with every new volume of his\n\"Course of Dramatic Literature.\" We have now the fourth volume.[H] \"A\nCourse of Dramatic Literature\";--it is more. It is the history of the\nexpression of Passion among the ancients and the moderns, by no means\nconfined to the drama. The present volume, as well as the third,\npublished several years ago, is devoted to the analysis of Love as\nexpressed in different ages and by different nations, under the two\ndivisions of _L'Amour Ing\u00e9nu_ and _L'Amour Conjugal_.\n\n[Footnote H: _Cours de Litt\u00e9rature Dramatique._ Par Saint-Marc Girardin,\nde l'Acad\u00e9mie Fran\u00e7aise, Professeur \u00e0 la Facult\u00e9 des Lettres de Paris,\nMembre du Conseil Imp\u00e9rial de l'Instruction Publique. Tome IV. Paris:\nCharpentier.]\n\nThe first he had studied in the authors of antiquity in his third\nvolume, beginning in this with the episode of Cupid and Psyche in\nApuleius; then following up, through the moderns, the expression\nof Ingenuous Love in Corneille, La Fontaine, S\u00e9daine, Bernardin de\nSaint-Pierre, Milton, Gessner, Voss, Andr\u00e9 Ch\u00e9nier, and Chateaubriand.\nFor the last he finds more blame than praise. Indeed, this\neffect-seeking writer, with all his genius, seemed less fitted than any\none to express the natural and spontaneous. His Atala, who charms us so\nat the first reading, deals in studied emotions. As to Ren\u00e9, his is the\nvain sentimentality parading its own impotency for higher feelings,\na virtual boasting of want of soul,--the sickly dissatisfaction of\nWerther, without his passion for an excuse. M. Saint-Marc Girardin then\nfollows up his subject through later authors, even in Madame George\nSand and in Madame \u00c9mile de Girardin. He is particularly severe upon\nLamartine, that poet \"who for more than thirty years seemed best to\nexpress love as our century understands it,\" but who in Raphael\nand Graziella destroyed, by disclosing too much, the power of his\n\"M\u00e9ditations Po\u00e9tiques.\"\n\nOn Conjugal Love the classic models are first consulted,--Oenone,\nEvadne, Medea,--these characters being followed through the delineation\nof modern dramatists. We know of no more exquisite criticism than\nthe pages devoted to Griseldis. Analyzing the accounts of Boccaccio,\nChaucer, and Perault, our author concludes with the play of \"Munck\nBellinghausen.\" The last chapters, on \"Love and Duty,\" are among the\nmost eloquently written in the volume. For style, M. Saint-Marc Girardin\nis second to no living author of France.\n\nIn this course we find an evident predilection for the models of\nantiquity. When a comparison is instituted between the ancients and the\nmoderns, we feel pretty certain of the result before the writer has\nproceeded very far. Not that we ever find a systematic idolizing of all\nthat is classic merely. Far from it. Modern writers are not neglected.\nIn this particular a genuine service is done to critical literature. It\noften seems as if literary lecturers and historians were attacked by an\naesthetic presbyopy. For them the present age never produces anything\nworth even a passing remark. The masterpieces they notice must be old\nand time-honored. Not so in the present studies on the passions. Ponsard\nfinds his place side by side with older names. After an appreciative\nnotice of the Lucretia of Livy, we find a comment on the Lucretia which\nmay have been played the week before at the Th\u00e9\u00e2tre Fran\u00e7ais. Nor is\nit a slight service done to contemporary letters, when a master-critic\nturns his thoughts to works which, if they do not hold the first rank,\nyet, by the talent of their authors and the nature of their subjects,\nhave attracted all eyes for a time. Such are the writings of Madame\nGeorge Sand. Of these, \"Andr\u00e9,\" \"La Mare au Diable,\" and \"La Petite\nFadette\" are reviewed with praise in the work under consideration, while\nthe force of criticism is expended on \"Indiana,\" \"Lelia,\" and \"Jacques.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhatever claims the academician Victor de Laprade may have to poetic\ntalent, he certainly sinks below mediocrity when he attempts to\ndiscuss the principles of the art he practises. Since it has been his\ngood-fortune to be numbered among the illustrious Forty he has several\ntimes attempted literary criticism, but never so extensively as in\nhis last work, \"Questions d'Art et de Morale.\"[I] This is a series of\ndiscursive essays, a few upon art in general, the greater part, however,\nrestricted to letters; the whole written in a poetic prose not without a\ncertain charm, but wearisome for continuous reading.\n\n[Footnote I: _Questions d'Art et de Morale._ Par Victor de Laprade, de\nl'Acad\u00e9mie Fran\u00e7aise. Paris: Didier et Cie. 8vo.]\n\nThe object of M. de Laprade is to defend what he calls \"Spiritualism in\nArt.\" He wages an unrelenting war against the modern school of Realism.\nIt is not the representation of visible Nature that the artist must\nseek; his aim must be \"the representation of the invisible.\" He grows\neloquent when he develops his favorite theories, and always succeeds in\ninteresting when he applies them successively to all the arts. As to the\nauthor's political opinions, he takes no pains to conceal them. His work\nis an outcry against equality and universal suffrage. He traces the\napathy of poetic creativeness in France to the sovereignty usurped\neverywhere \"by the inferior elements of intelligence in the State.\" He\nseems to think, that, as humanity grows older, art falls from its divine\nideal. Of contemporary architecture, he says that it can produce nothing\noriginal save railroad depots and crystal palaces. \"A glass architecture\nis the only one that fully belongs to our age.\" Music, the \"vaguest and\nmost sensuous of all the arts,\" he regards as the art of the present.\nThe religious worship of the future appears to him \"a symphony with a\nthousand instruments executed under a dome of glass.\"\n\nAs to the purely literary essays of M. de Laprade, they may be read both\nwith more pleasure and more profit than those in which he attempts to\ndiscuss the principles of aesthetics. \"French Tradition in Literature,\"\nand \"Poetry, and Industrialism,\" are full of suggestive thoughts, and,\ncoming in the latter half of the volume, make us forget the pretentious\nnature of the first.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nM. Gustave Merlet is a more modest opponent of some of the tendencies\nof the age. He presents his first book to the public under the title,\n\"R\u00e9alisme et Fantaisie,\"[J] earnestly and loyally attacking the two\nextremes of literature.\n\n[Footnote J: _Le R\u00e9alisme et la Fantaisie dans la Litt\u00e9rature_. Par\nGustave Merlet. Paris: Didier et Cie. 12mo. pp. 431.]\n\nTwo styles of writing, diametrically opposed in every particular, have\nof late years flourished in the lighter productions of France. Some\nthere are who would seek to incarnate in letters Nature as it is,\nwithout adornings, without ideal additions. The cry of the upholders\nof this doctrine is: Truth in art, war against the freaks of the\nimagination that colors all in unreal tints. The writers who have\nadopted such sentiments have been termed \"Realists,\" much to their\ndissatisfaction. Balzac was the greatest of them. Champfleury may be\ncalled the most strenuous supporter of the system. There is a certain\nforce, a false air of truth, in this daguerreotype process of writing,\nthat seduces at first sight. When a man of some genius, as Gustave\nFlaubert in \"Madame Bovary,\" undertakes to paint Nature, he sets details\notherwise revolting in such relief that the very novelty and boldness of\nthe attempt put us off our guard, and we are in danger of admitting as\nbeauties what, after all, are only audacities.\n\nThe other extreme into which the literature of the day in France has\nfallen is an excess of fancy. A writer like Ars\u00e8ne Houssaye will write\nhis \"King Voltaire\" or his \"Madame de Pompadour,\" or Capefigue his\n\"Madame de la Valli\u00e8re,\" in which the judgment seems to have been\nset aside, and historical facts accumulated in some opium-dream are\nstrangely woven into a narrative representing reality, with about as\nmuch truth as Oriental arabesques, or the adornings of richly wrought\ntapestry. This extreme is even more dangerous than the former, for it\nmakes of letters a mere plaything, and recommends itself to many by its\nvery faults. Paradox and overdrawn scenes usurp the place of the real.\nThe world presented by the exclusive worshippers of fancy is\nlittle better than that \"Pompadour\" style of painting in which the\ncarnation-tipped checks of shepherds and shepherdesses take the place of\na too healthy Rubens-like portraiture. There are dainty, well-trimmed\nlambs, with pretty blue favors tied about their necks, just like\n_drag\u00e9es_ and _bonbons_. As we wander among those opera-swains in silk\nhose and those shepherdesses in satin bodices, their perfumes tire\nand nauseate, till we fairly wish for a good breeze wafted from some\nfarm-yard, reconciled in a measure to the extravagances of the so-called\n\"school of Nature.\"\n\nM. Merlet's subject, it may be seen, is of interest merely to the\nstudent of the latest French literature. A more comprehensive study\nwould not have been out of place in his volume. To those who may be\ninterested in writers like Murger, Feydeau, Houssaye, and Brifaut, the\nbook is full of interesting matter. To the general reader it may be of\nvalue as characterizing with fidelity some of the tendencies of French\nthought.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe must not omit mentioning a work published in Germany on the\n\"Literature of the Second Empire since the _Coup d'\u00c9tat_ of the Second\nof December, 1852.\"[K] The nature of this sketch could almost be\npredicated with certainty from the state of feeling towards France in\nthe capital in which it was issued, and the encomiums it received from\nthe Prussian political press. The author, William Reymond, who has\nproved himself no mean critic in some of his former essays upon the\nmodern productions of France, addresses himself almost exclusively to a\nGerman public. His work, as he himself seemed to fear, is not calculated\nfor the taste of Paris, even if it were considered unobjectionable there\non the score of the political strictures that are introduced, whether in\nthe discussion of the last play or in the analysis of the last volume of\npoems.\n\n[Footnote K: _\u00c9tudes sur la Litt\u00e9rature du Second Empire Fran\u00e7ais,\ndepuis le Coup d'\u00c9tat du deux Decembre._ Par William Reymond. Berlin: A.\nCharisius. 12mo. pp. 227.]\n\nThe truth is, M. Reymond, with much apparent praise, very nearly comes\nto the conclusion that the second Empire has no literature, and very\nlittle philosophy is granted to it in the chapter, \"What remains of\nPhilosophy in France.\" The Novel and the Theatre fare little better at\nhis hands. He has literally made a police investigation of what is most\nobjectionable in French letters, citing now and then some great name,\nbut dwelling with complacency on what is deserving of censure. The\ninfluence of France, and of Paris in particular, on the tastes of the\nContinent, irritates him. He seeks to impress upon his readers the\nvenality of letters and the general debasement of character and of\ntalent that are prevalent in that capital. Such is the spirit of these\n\"\u00c9tudes.\" The author has, unfortunately, not to seek far for a practical\ncorroboration of his theory, though it is but justice to say that the\nverses he quotes as characteristic are far from being so. It is to be\nfeared that M. Reymond has rather sought out the blemishes. He has found\nmany, we admit. His readers will thank him for his clever exposition of\nthem, satisfied in many cases to accept the results he presents, without\nfeeling inclined to make such a personal investigation into the lower\nregions of letters.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"The Political and Literary History of the Press in France,\"[L] by\nEugene Hatin, is now concluded. As early as 1846, this author published\na small work, \"Histoire du Journal en France.\" Since that time he has\ndevoted himself exclusively to the study of French journalism. Though\nliberal in his views, he is not in favor of unlimited liberty of the\npress. He believes it to be the interest of society that a curb should\nbe put on its excesses. \"What we must hope for is a liberty that may\nhave full power for good, but not for evil.\"\n\n[Footnote L: _Histoire Politique et Litt\u00e9raire de la Presse en France._\nAvec une Introduction Historique sur les Origines du Journal et la\nBibliographie G\u00e9n\u00e9rale des Journaux, depuis leur Origine. Par Eug\u00e8ne\nHatin. Paris: Poulet-Malassis et De Boise. 8 vols. 12mo.]\n\nThe two volumes published in 1861 contain the history of journalism\nduring the latter part of the French Revolution, under the first Empire,\nthe Restoration, and the Government of July. The work may be said to\nconclude with 1848, as less than twenty pages are devoted to the twelve\nyears following. In this, however, the writer has done all he could be\nexpected to do. This is no time for the candid historian to utter his\nthoughts of the present _r\u00e9gime_ in France. Since the fatal decree of\nthe 17th of February, 1852, the press has had only so much of life as\nthe present sovereign has thought fit to grant it. Then it was that a\nrepresentative of the people uttered the words,--\"We must overthrow the\npress, as we have overthrown the barricades.\" Such were the sentiments\nof the National Assembly,--not understanding, that, when it struck at\nsuch an ally, it destroyed itself. And, indeed, it was but a short time\nbefore the tribune shared the fate of journalism. 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Carleton. 8vo. pp. 386.\n\nEthical and Physiological Inquiries, chiefly Relative to Subjects of\nPopular Interest. By A.H. Dana. New York. C. Scribner. 12mo. pp. 308.\n$1.00.\n\nThe New American Cyclopaedia: A Popular Dictionary of General Knowledge.\nEdited by George Ripley and Charles A. Dana. Volume XIV. Reed-Spire. New\nYork. D. Appleton & Co. 8vo. pp. 850, viii. $3.00.\n\nTracts for Priests and People. By Various Writers. Boston. Walker, Wise,\n& Co. 12mo. pp. 372. $1.00.\n\nMethod of Teachers' Institutes, and the Theory of Education. By\nSamuel P. Bates. A.M., Deputy-Superintendent of the Common Schools of\nPennsylvania, and Author of \"Institute Lectures.\" New York. Barnes &\nBurr. 8vo. pp. 75. 50 cts.","title":"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 54, April, 1862: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":84536}