{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_12107/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_12107","id":"gutenberg_12107","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12107","summary":null,"tags":["American periodicals","Category: Art","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Journals","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Politics","The Atlantic Monthly"],"text":"THE\n\nATLANTIC MONTHLY\n\nA MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nVOL. IX.--MAY, 1862.--NO. LV.\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMAN UNDER SEALED ORDERS.\n\n\nA vessel of war leaves its port, but no one on board knows for what\nobject, nor whither it is bound. It is a secret Government expedition.\nAs it sets out, a number of documents, carefully sealed, are put in\ncharge of the commander, in which all his instructions are contained.\nWhen far away from his sovereign, these are to be the authority which he\nmust obey; as he sails on in the dark, these are to be the lights on the\ndeep by which he must steer. They provide for every stage of the way.\nThey direct what ports to approach and what ports to avoid, what to do\nin different seas, what variation to make in certain contingencies, and\nwhat acts to perform at certain opportunities. Each paper of the series\nforbids the opening of the next until its own directions have been\nfulfilled; so that no one can see beyond the immediate point for which\nhe is making.\n\nThe wide ocean is before that ship, and a wider mystery. But in the\npassage of time, as the strange cruise proceeds, its course begins to\ntell upon the chart. The zigzag line, like obscure chirography, has an\nintelligible look, and seems to spell out intimations. As order after\norder is opened, those sibyl leaves of the cabin commence to prophesy,\nglimpses multiply, surmises come quick, and shortly the whole ship's\ncompany more than suspect, from the accumulating _data_ behind them,\nwhat must be their destination, and the mission they have been sent to\naccomplish.\n\nPeople are beginning to imagine that the career of the human race is\nsomething like this. There is a fast-growing conviction that man has\nbeen sent out, from the first, to fulfil some inexplicable purpose, and\nthat he holds a Divine commission to perform a wonderful work on the\nearth. It would seem as if his marvellous brain were the bundle of\nmystic scrolls on which it is written, and within which its terms are\nhid,--and as if his imperishable soul were the great seal, bearing the\nDivine image and superscription, which attests its Almighty original.\n\nThis commission is yet obscure. It has so far only gradually opened to\nhim, for he is sailing under sealed orders. He is still led on from\npoint to point. But the farther he goes, and the more his past gathers\nbehind him, the better is he able to imagine what must be before him.\nHis chart is every day getting more full of amazing indications. He is\nbeginning to feel about him the increasing press of some Providential\ndesign that has been permeating and moulding age after age, and to\ndiscover that be has been all along unconsciously prosecuting a secret\nmission. And so it comes at last that everything new takes that look;\nevery evolution of mind, every addition to knowledge, every discovery of\ntruth, every novel achievement appearing like the breaking of seals and\nopening of rolls, in the performance of an inexhaustible and mysterious\ntrust that has been committed to his hands.\n\nIt is the purpose of this paper to collect together some of these facts\nand incidents of progress, in order to show that this is not a mere\ndream, but a stupendous reality. History shall be the inspiration of our\nprophecy.\n\nThere is a past to be recounted, a present to be described, and a future\nto be foretold. An immense review for a magazine article, and it will\nrequire some ingenuity to be brief and graphic at the same time. In the\nattempt to get as much as possible into the smallest space, many things\nwill have to be omitted, and some most profound particulars merely\nglanced at; but enough will be furnished, perhaps, to make the point we\nhave in view.\n\nWe may compare human progress to a tall tree which has reared itself,\nslowly and imperceptibly, through century after century, hardly more\nthan a bare trunk, with here and there only the slight outshoot of some\ntemporary exploit of genius, but which in this age gives the signs of\nthat immense foliage and fruitage which shall in time embower the whole\nearth. We see but its spring-time of leaf,--for it is only within fifty\nyears that this rich outburst of wonders began. We live in an era when\nprogress is so new as to be a matter of amazement. A hundred years\nhence, perhaps it will have become so much a matter of course to\ndevelop, to expand, and to discover, that it will excite no comment. But\nit is yet novel, and we are yet fresh. Therefore we may gaze back at\nwhat has been, and gaze forward at what is promised to be, with more\nlikelihood of being impressed than if we were a few centuries older.\n\nIf we look down at the roots out of which this tree has risen, and then\nup at its spreading branches,--omitting its intermediate trunk of ages,\nthrough which its processes have been secretly working,--perhaps we may\nrealize in a briefer space the wonder of it all.\n\nIn the beginning of history, according to received authority, there\nwas but a little tract of the earth occupied, and that by one family,\nspeaking but one tongue, and worshipping but one God,--all the rest of\nthe world being an uninhabited wild. At _this_ stage of history the\nwhole globe is explored, covered with races of every color, a host of\nnations and languages, with every diversity of custom, development of\ncharacter, and form of religion. The physical bound from that to this is\nequalled only by the leap which the world of mind has made.\n\nOnce upon a time a man hollowed a tree, and, launching it upon the\nwater, found that it would bear him up. After this a few little floats,\ncreeping cautiously near the land, were all on which men were wont to\nventure. _Now_ there are sails fluttering on every sea, prodigious\nsteamers throbbing like leviathans against wind and wave; harbors are\nbuilt, and rocks and shoals removed; lighthouses gleam nightly from ten\nthousand stations on the shore; the great deep itself is sounded by\nplummet and diving-bell; the submarine world is disclosed; and man\nis gathering into his hands the laws of the very winds that toss its\nsurface.\n\nOnce the earth had a single rude, mud-built hamlet, in which human\ndwellings were first clustered together. _Now_ it is studded with\nsplendid cities, strewn thick with towns and villages, diversified by\ninfinite varieties of architecture: sumptuous buildings, unlike in every\nclime, each as if sprung from its own soil and made out of its air.\n\nOnce there were only the elementary discoveries of the lever, the wedge,\nthe bended bow, the wheel; Tubal worked in iron and copper, and Naamah\ntwisted threads. Since then what a jump the mechanical arts have made!\nThese primitive elements are now so intricately combined that we can\nhardly recognize them; new forces have been added, new principles\nevolved; ponderous engines, like moving mountains of iron, shake the\nvery earth; many-windowed factories, filled with complex machinery\ndriven by water or its vapor, clatter night and day, weaving the plain\ngarments of the poor man and the rich robes of the prince, the curtains\nof the cottage and the upholstery of the palace.\n\nOnce there were but the spear and bow and shield, and hand-to-hand\nconflicts of brute strength. See now the whole enginery of war, the art\nof fortification, the terrific perfection of artillery, the mathematical\ntransfer of all from the body to the mind, till the battlefield is but\na chess-board, and the battle is really waged in the brains of the\ngenerals. How astonishing was that last European field of Solferino,\nten miles in sweep,--with the balloon floating above it for its spy\nand scout,--with the thread-like wire trailing in the grass, and\nthe lightning coursing back and forth, Napoleon's ubiquitous\naide-de-camp,--with railway-trains, bringing reinforcements into the\nmidst of the _mel\u00e9e_, and their steam-whistle shrieking amid the\nthunders of battle! And what a picture of even greater magnificence, in\nsome respects, is before us to-day! A field not of ten, but ten\nthousand miles in sweep! McClellan, standing on the eminence of present\nscientific achievement, is able to overlook half the breadth of a\ncontinent, and the widely scattered detachments of a host of six hundred\nthousand men. The rail connects city with city; the wire hangs between\ncamp and camp, and reaches from army to army. Steam is hurling his\nlegions from one point to another; electricity brings him intelligence,\nand carries his orders; the a\u00ebronaut in the sky is his field-glass\nsearching the horizon. It is practically but one great battle that is\nraging beneath him, on the Potomac, in the mountains of Virginia,\ndown the valley of the Mississippi, in the interiors of Kentucky and\nTennessee, along the seaboard, and on the Gulf coast. The combatants are\nhidden from each other, but under the chieftain's eye the dozen armies\nare only the squadrons of a single host, their battles only the separate\nconflicts of a single field, the movements of the whole campaign only\nthe evolutions of a prolonged engagement. The spectacle is a good\nillustration of the day. Under the magic of progress, war in its essence\nand vitality is really diminishing, even while increasing in _materiel_\nand grandeur. Neither time nor space will permit the old and tedious\ncontests of history to be repeated. Military science has entered upon a\nnew era, nearer than ever to the period when wars shall cease.\n\nBut to go on with a few more contrasts of the past with the present.\nOnce men wrote only in symbols, like wedges and arrow-heads, on\ntiles and bricks, or in hieroglyphic pictures on obelisks and\nsepulchres,--afterward in crude, but current characters on stone, metal,\nwax, and papyrus. In a much later age appeared the farthest perfection\nof the invention: books engrossed on illuminated rolls of vellum, and\nwound on cylinders of boxwood, ivory, or gold,--and then put away like\nrichest treasures of art. What a difference between perfection then and\nprogress now! To-day the steam printing-press throws out its sheets in\nclouds, and fills the world with books. Vast libraries are the vaulted\ncatacombs of modern times, in which the dead past is laid away, and the\nliving present takes refuge. The glory of costly scrolls is dimmed by\nthe illustrated and typographical wonders which make the bookstore a\ngorgeous dream. Knowledge, no longer rare, no longer lies in precarious\naccumulations within the cells of some poor monk's crumbling brain, but\nswells up like the ocean, universal and imperishable, pouring into the\nvacant recesses of all minds as the ocean pours into the hollows under\nits shore. To-day, newspapers multiplied by millions whiten the whole\ncountry every morning, like the hoar-frost; and books, numerous and\nbrilliant as the stars, seem by a sort of astral influence to unseal the\nlatent destinies of many an intellect, as by their illumination they\nstimulate thought and activity everywhere.\n\nOnce art seemed to have reached perfection in the pictures and\nsculptures of Greece and Rome. Yet now those master-pieces are not only\nequalled on canvas and in fresco, but reproduced by tens of thousands\nfrom graven sheets of copper, steel, and even blocks of wood,--or, if\nmodelled in marble or bronze, are remodelled by hundreds, and set up in\ncountless households as the household gods. It is the glory of to-day\nthat the sun himself has come down to be the rival and teacher of\nartists, to work wonders and perform miracles in art. He is the\ncelestial limner who shall preserve the authentic faces of every\ngeneration from now until the world is no more. He holds the mirror up\nto Nature, paralyzes the fleeting phantom, by chemical subtilty, on the\nburnished plate,--and there it is fixed forever. He prepares the optical\nillusion of the stereoscope, so that through tiny windows we may look as\ninto fairy-land and find sections of this magnificent world modelled in\nminiature.\n\nOnce men imagined the earth to be a flat and limited tract. Now they\nrealize that it is a ponderous ball floating in infinite ether. Once\nthey thought the sky was a solid blue concave, studded with blazing\npoints, an empire of fate, the gold-and-azure floor of the abode of\ngods and spirits. Now all that is dissolved away; the wandering planets\nbecome at will broad disks, like sisters of the moon; and countless\nmillions of stars are now mirrored in the same retina with which the\nMagi saw the few thousands of the firmament that were visible from the\nplains of Chaldea.\n\nOnce men were aware of nothing in the earth beneath its hills and\nvalleys and teeming soil. Now they walk consciously over the ruins\nof old worlds; they can decipher the strange characters and read the\nstrange history graven on these gigantic tablets. The stony veil is\nrent, and they can look inimitable periods back, and see the curious\nanimals which then moved up and down in the earth.\n\nOnce a glass bubble was a wonder for magnifying power. Now the lenses of\nthe microscope bring an inverted universe to light. Men can look into a\ndrop and discover an ocean crowded with millions of living creatures,\nmonsters untypified in the visible world, playing about as in a great\ndeep.\n\nOnce a Roman emperor prized a mysterious jewel because it brought the\ngladiators contending in the arena closer to the imperial canopy. Now\nobservatories, with their revolving domes, crown the heights at every\ncentre of civilization, and the mighty telescope, poised on exquisite\nmechanism, turns infinite space into a Coliseum, brings its invisible\nluminaries close to the astronomer's seat, and reveals the harmonies and\nsplendors of those distant works of God.\n\nOnce the supposed elements were fire, and water, and earth, and air;\nonce the amber was unique in its peculiar property, and the loadstone\nin its singular power. Now chemistry holds in solution the elements and\nsecrets of creation; now electricity would seem to be the veil which\nhangs before the soul; now the magnetic needle, true to the loadstar,\ntrembles on the sea, to make the mariner brave and the haven sure.\n\nWe have by no means exhausted the wonders that have accumulated upon\nman, in being accumulated by man. Their enumeration would be almost\nendless. But we leave all to mention one, with which there is nothing of\nold time to compare. It had no beginning then,--not even a germ. It is\nthe peculiar leap and development of the age in which we live. Many\nthings have combined to bring it to pass.\n\nA spirit that had been hid, since the world began, in a coffer of metal\nand acid,--the genie of the lightning,--shut down, as by the seal of\nSolomon in the Arabian tale, was let loose but the other day, and\ncommenced to do the bidding of man. Every one found that he could\ntransport his thought to the ends of the earth in the twinkling of an\neye. That spirit, with its electric wings, soon flew from city to city,\nand whithersoever the magnetic wire could be traced through the air,\ntill the nations of all Europe stood as face to face, and the States\nof this great Union gazed one upon another. It made a continent like a\nhousehold,--a cluster of peoples like members of a family,--each within\nhearing of the other's voice.\n\nBut one achievement remained to be performed before the whole world\ncould become one. The ocean had hitherto hopelessly severed the globe\ninto two hemispheres. Could man make it a single sphere? Could man, like\nMoses, smite the waves with his electric rod, and lead the legions of\nhuman thought across dry shod? He could,--and he did. We all remember\nit well. A range of submarine mountains was discovered, stretching from\nAmerica to Europe. Their top formed a plateau, which, lying within two\nmiles of the surface, offered an undulating shoal within human reach. A\nfleet of steamers, wary of storms, one day cautiously assembled midway\nover it. They caught the monster asleep, safely uncoiled the wire, and\nlaid it from shore to shore. The treacherous, dreadful, omnipotent ocean\nwas conquered and bound!\n\nHow the heart of the two worlds leaped when the news came! Then, more\nthan at any time before, were most of us startled into a conviction of\nhow _real_ progress was,--how tremendous, and limitless, apparently, the\npower which God had put into man. Not that this, in itself, was greater\nthan that which had preceded it, but it was the climax of all. The\nmechanical feat awoke more enthusiasm than even the scientific\nachievement which was its living soul,--not because it was more\nwonderful, but because it dispelled our last doubt. We all began to form\na more definite idea of something great to come, that was yet lying\nstored away in the brain,--laid there from the beginning. Like the\nMagian on the heights of Moab, as he saw the tents of Israel and the\ntabernacle of God in the distance, we grew big with an involuntary\nvision, and were surprised into prophecies.\n\nIt was wonderful to see the Queen of England, on one side of that chasm\nof three thousand miles, wave a greeting to the President, and the\nPresident wave back a greeting to the Queen. But it was glorious to see\nthat chord quiver with the music and the truth of the angelic song:--\n\n  \"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth\n       peace,\n  Good-will toward men!\"\n\nSoon, however, came a check to the excitement. For above a score of days\nwas that mysterious highway kept open from Valentia to Trinity Bay. But\nthen the spell was lost, the waves flowed back, old ocean rolled on as\nbefore, and the crossing messages perished, like the hosts of Pharaoh in\nthe sea.\n\nThat the miracle is ended is no indication that it cannot be repeated.\nFor the very reason that the now dead, inarticulate wire, like an\ninfant, lisped and stammered once, it is certain that another will\nsoon be born, which will live to trumpet forth like the angel of\ncivilization, its minister of flaming fire! No one should abate a jot\nfrom the high hope excited then. No imagination should suffer a cloud on\nthe picture it then painted. Governments and capitalists have not\nbeen idle, and will not be discouraged. Already Europe and Africa are\nconnected by an electric tunnel under the sea, five hundred miles in\nlength; already Malta and Alexandria speak to each other through a tube\nlying under thirteen hundred miles of Mediterranean waters; already\nBritain bound to Holland and Hanover and Denmark by a triple cord of\nsympathy which all the tempests of the German Ocean cannot sever. And if\nwe come nearer home, we shall find a project matured which will carry a\nfiery cordon around the entire coast of our country, linking fortress to\nfortress, and providing that last, desperate resource of unity, an outer\ngirdle and jointed chain of force, to bind together and save a nation\nwhose inner bonds of peace and love are broken.\n\nSuch energy and such success are enough to revive the expectation and to\nguaranty the coming of the day when we shall behold the electric light\nplaying round the world unquenched by the seas, illuminating the land,\nrevealing nation to nation, and mingling language with language, as if\nthe \"cloven tongues like as of fire\" had appeared again, and \"sat upon\neach of them.\"\n\nIt will be a strange period, and yet we shall see it. The word spoken\nhere under the sun of mid-day, when it speaks at the antipodes, will be\nheard under the stars of midnight. Of the world of commerce it may be\nwritten, \"There shall be no night there!\" and of the ancient clock of\nthe sun and stars, \"There shall be time no longer!\"\n\nWhen the electric wire shall stretch from Pekin, by successive India\nstations, to London, and from India, by leaps from island to island, to\nAustralia, and from New York westward to San Francisco, (as has been\nalready accomplished,) and southward to Cape Horn, and across the\nAtlantic, or over the Strait to St. Petersburg,--when the endless\ncircle is formed, and the magic net-work binds continent, and city, and\nvillage, and the isles of the sea, in one,--then who will know the world\nwe live in, for the change that shall come upon it?\n\nTime no more! Space no more! Mankind brought into one vast neighborhood!\n\nProphesy the greater union of all hearts in this interblending of all\nminds. Prophesy the boundless spread of civilization, when all barriers\nare swept away. Prophesy the catholicity of that religion in which as\nmany phases of a common faith shall be endured as there are climes for\nthe common human constitution and countries in a common world!\n\nIn those days men will carry a watch, not with a single face, as now,\ntelling only the time of their own region, but a dial-plate subdivided\ninto the disks of a dozen timepieces, announcing at a glance the hour of\nas many meridian stations on the globe. It will be the fair type of\nthe man who wears it. When human skill shall find itself under this\nnecessity, and mechanism shall reach this perfection, then the soul\nof that man will become also many-disked. He will be alive with the\nperpetual consciousness of many zeniths and horizons beside his own, of\nmany nations far different from his own, of many customs, manners, and\nideas, which he could not share, but is able to account for and respect.\n\nWe can peer as far as this into the future; for what we predict is only\na reasonable deduction from certain given circumstances that are nearly\naround us now. We do not lay all the stress upon the telegraph, as if to\nattribute everything to it, but because that invention, and its recent\ncrowning event, are the last great leap which the mind has made, and\nbecause in itself, and in its carrying out, it summoned all the previous\ndiscoveries and achievements of man to its aid. It is their last-born\nchild,--the greater for its many parents. There is hardly a science, or\nan art, or an invention, which has not contributed to it, or which is\nnot deriving sustenance or inspiration from it.\n\nThis latter fact makes it particularly suggestive. As it was begotten\nitself, and is in its turn begetting, so has it been with everything\nelse in the world of progress. Every scientific or mechanical idea,\nevery species of discovery, has been as naturally born of one or more\nantecedents of its own kind as men are born of men. There is a kith and\nkin among all these extraordinary creatures of the brain. They have\ntheir ancestors and descendants; not one is a Melchizedek, without\nfather, without mother. Every one is a link in a regular order of\ngenerations. Some became extinct with their age, being superseded or no\nlonger wanted; while others had the power of immense propagation, and\nproduced an innumerable offspring, which have a family likeness to this\nday. The law of cause and effect has no better illustration than the\nhistory of inventions and discoveries. If there were among us an\nintellect sufficiently encyclopedic in knowledge and versatile in\ngenius, it could take every one of these facts and trace its intricate\nlineage of principles and mechanisms, step by step, up to the original\nAdam of the first invention and the original Eve of the first necessity.\n\nThere is a period between us and these first parents of our present\nprogress that is strangely obscure. It is a sort of antediluvian age, in\nwhich there were evidently stupendous mechanical powers of some kind,\nand an extensive acquaintance with some things. The ruins of Egypt alone\nwould prove this. But a deluge of oblivion has washed over them, and\nleft these colossal bones to tell what story they can. The only way to\naccount for such an extinction is, that they were monstrous contrivances\nout of all proportion to their age, spasmodic successes in science,\nwonders born out of due time,--deriving no sustenance or support from a\nwide and various kindred, and therefore, like the giants which were of\nold, dying out with their day.\n\nIt is different with what has taken place since. Every work has come in\nits right time, just when best prepared for, and most required. There is\nnot one but is sustained on every side, and fits into its place, as each\nnew piece of colored stone in a mosaic is sustained by the progressive\npicture. Every one is conserved by its connections. Whatever has been\ndone is sure,--and the past being secure, the future is guarantied.\nIt is impossible that the present knowledge in the world should be\nextinguished. Nothing but a stroke of imbecility upon the race, nothing\nbut the destruction of its libraries, nothing but the paralysis of\nthe printing-press, and the annihilation of these means of\nintercommunication,--nothing but some such arbitrary intervention\ncould accomplish it. The facts already in human possession, and the\nconstitution of the mind, together insure what we have as imperishable,\nand what we are to obtain as illimitable.\n\nWe come now to another suggestive characteristic of the time,--another\nof its promises. So far we find Progress gathering fulness and\nstrength,--making sure of itself. It has also been gathering impetus. It\nhas been, all along, accumulating momentum, and now it sweeps on with\nbreathless _rapidity_. The reason is, that, the farther it has gone, the\nmore it has multiplied its agents. The present generation is not only\ncarried forward, but is excited in every quarter. The activity and\nversatility of the intellect would appear to be inexhaustible. Instead\nof getting overstrained, or becoming lethargic, it never was so\npowerful, never had so many resources, never was so wide-awake. Men\nare busy turning over every stone in their way, in the hope of finding\nsomething new. Nothing would seem too small for human attention, nothing\ntoo great for human undertaking. The government Patent-Office, with\nits countless chambers, is not so large a museum of inventions as the\ncapacious brain of to-day.\n\nOne man is engrossed over an apple-parer; another snatches the needle\nfrom the weary fingers of the seamstress, and offers her in return the\nsewing-machine. That man yonder has turned himself into an armory, and\nhe brings out the deadliest instrument he can produce, something perhaps\nthat can shoot you at sight, even though you be a speck in the horizon.\nHis next-door neighbor is an iron workshop, and is forging an armor of\nproof for a vessel of war, from which the mightiest balls shall bound\nas lightly as the arrows from an old-time breastplate. There is another\nsearching for that new motive power which shall keep pace with the\ntelegraph, and hurl the bodies of men through space as fast as their\nthoughts are hurled; there is another seeking that electro-magnetic\nbattery which shall speak instantly and distinctly to the ends of\nthe earth. The mind of that astronomer is a telescope, through whose\nincreasing field new worlds float daily by; the mind of that geologist\nis a divining-rod, forever bending toward the waters of chaos, and\npointing out new places where a shaft can be sunk into periods of almost\ninfinite antiquity; the mind of that chemist is a subtile crucible, in\nwhich aboriginal secrets lie disclosed, and within whose depths the true\nphilosopher's stone will be found; the mind of that mathematician is a\nmaze of ethereal stair-ways, rising higher and higher toward the heaven\nof truth.\n\nThe ambition is everywhere,--in every breast; the power is\neverywhere,--in every brain. The giant and the pigmy are alike active\nin seeking out and finding out many inventions. And in this very\nuniversality of effort and result we discover another guaranty of the\ngreat future. The river of Progress multiplies its tributaries the\nfarther it flows, and even now, unknown ages from its mouth, we already\nsee that magnificent widening of its channel, in which, like the Amazon,\nit long anticipates the sea.\n\nMan, the great achiever! the marvellous magician! Look at him! A head\nhardly six feet above the ground out of which he was taken. His \"dome\nof thought and palace of the soul\" scarce twenty-two inches in\ncircumference; and within it, a little, gray, oval mass of \"convoluted\nalbumen and fibre, of some four pounds' weight,\" and there sits the\nintelligence which has worked all these wonders! An intelligence, say,\nsix thousand years old next century. How many thousand years more will\nit think, and think, and wave the wand, and raise new spirits out of\nNature, open her sealed-up mysteries, scale the stars, and uncover a\nuniverse at home? How long will it be before this inherent power, laid\nin it at the beginning by the Almighty, shall be exhausted, and reach\nits limit? Yes, how long? We cannot begin to know. We cannot imagine\nwhere the stopping-place could be. Perhaps there is none.\n\nTo take up the nautical figure which has furnished our title,--we are in\nthe midst of an infinite sea, sailing on to a destination we know not\nof, but of which the vague and splendid fancies we have formed hang\nbefore our prow like illusions in the sky. We are meeting on every hand\ngreat opportunities which must not be lost, new achievements which must\nbe wrought, and strange adventures which must be undertaken: every day\nwondering more to what our commission shall bring us at last, full of\nmagnificent hopes and a growing faith,--the inscrutable bundle of orders\nnot nearly exhausted: whole continents of knowledge yet to be discovered\nand explored; the gates of yet distant sciences to be sought and\nunlocked; the fortresses of yet undreamed necessities to be taken;\nArcadias of beauty to be visited and their treasures garnered by the\nimagination; an intricate course to be followed amid all future nations\nand governments, and their winding histories, as if threading the\ndevious channels of endless archipelagoes; the spoils of all ages to\nbe gathered, and treaties of commerce with all generations to be made,\nbefore the mysterious voyage is done.\n\nAnd now, before we leave this fascinating theme, or suffer another\ndream, let us stop where we are, in order to see where we are. Let us\ntake our bearings. What says our chart? What do we find in the horizon\nof the present, which may give us the wherewithal to hope, to doubt, or\nto fear?\n\nThe era in which we live presents some remarkable characteristics,\nwhich have been brought into it by this immense material success. It\nis preeminently an age of _reality:_ an age in which a host of\nunrealities--queer and strange old notions--have been destroyed forever.\nNever were the vaulted spaces in this grand old temple of a world swept\nso clean of cobwebs before. The mind has not gone forth working outside\nwonders, without effecting equal inside changes. In achieving abroad, it\nhas been ennobling at home. At no time was it so free from superstition\nas now, and from the absurdities which have for centuries beset and\nfilled it. What numberless delusions, what ghosts, what mysteries, what\nfables, what curious ideas, have disappeared before the besom of the\nday! The old author long ago foretasted this, who wrote,--\"The divine\narts of printing and gunpowder have frightened away Robin Goodfellow,\nand all the fairies.\" It is told of Kepler, that he believed the planets\nwere borne through the skies in the arms of angels; but science shortly\ntook a wider sweep, killed off the angels, and showed that the wandering\nluminaries had been accustomed from infancy to take care of themselves.\nAnd so has the firmament of all knowledge been cleared of its vapors and\nfictions, and been revealed in its solid and shining facts.\n\nHere, then, lies the great distinction of the time: the accumulation of\n_Truth_, and the growing appetite for the true and the real. The year\nwhirls round like the toothed cylinder in a threshing-machine, blowing\nout the chaff in clouds, but quietly dropping the rich kernels within\nour reach. And it will always be so. Men will sow their notions and reap\nharvests, but the inexorable age will winnow out the truth, and scatter\nto the winds whatsoever is error.\n\nNow we see how that impalpable something has been produced which we call\nthe \"Spirit of the Age,\"--that peculiar atmosphere in which we live,\nwhich fills the lungs of the human spirit, and gives vitality and\ncharacter to all that men at present think and say and feel and do. It\nis this identical spirit of courageous inquiry, honest reality, and\nintense activity, wrought up into a kind of universal inspiration,\nmoving with the same disposition, the same taste, the same thought,\npersons whole regions apart and unknown to each other. We are frequently\nsurprised by coincidences which prove this novel, yet common _afflatus_.\nTwo astronomers, with the ocean between them, calculate at the same\nmoment, in the same direction, and simultaneously light upon the same\nnew orb. Two inventors, falling in with the same necessity, think of the\nsame contrivance, and meet for the first time in a newspaper war, or\na duel of pamphlets, for the credit of its authorship. A dozen widely\nscattered philosophers as quickly hit upon the self-same idea as if\nthey were in council together. A more rational development of some old\ndoctrine in divinity springs up in a hundred places at once, as if a\ntheological epidemic were abroad, or a synod of all the churches were in\nsession. It has also another peculiarity. The thought which may occur at\nfirst to but one mind seems to have an affinity to all minds; and if\nit be a free and generous thought, it is instantly caught, intuitively\ncomprehended, and received with acclamations all over the world. Such a\nspirit as this is rapidly bringing all sections and classes of mankind\ninto sympathy with one another, and producing a supreme caste in human\nnature, which, as it increases in numbers, will mould the character and\ncontrol the destinies of the race.\n\nSo far we speak of the upper air of the day. But there is no denying the\nprevalence of a lower and baser spirit. We are uncomfortably aware that\nthere is another extreme to the freaks of the imagination. There are\nsuperstitions of the reason and of realism,--the grotesque fancies,\nmysticisms, and vagaries which prevail, and the diseased gusto for\nsomething ultra and outlandish which affects many raw and undisciplined\nminds. Yet even these are, in their way, indications of the pervading\ndisposition,--the unhealthy exhalations to be expected from hitherto\nstagnant regions, stirred up by the active and regenerating thought of\nthe time. There is promise even in them, and they serve to distinguish\nthe more that purer and higher spirit of honesty and reality, which\nclarifies the intellect, and invigorates the faculties that apprehend\nand grasp the noble and the true.\n\nWe glory in this triumph of the reason over the imagination, and in this\npredominance of the real over the ideal. We prefer that common sense\nshould lead the van, and that mere fancy, like the tinselled conjurer\nbehind his hollow table and hollow apparatus, should be taken for what\nit is, and that its tricks and surprises should cease to bamboozle,\nhowever much they may amuse mankind. Nothing, in the course of\nProvidence, conveys so much encouragement as this recent and growing\ndevelopment of reality in thought and pursuit. In its presence the\nfuture of the world looks substantial and sure. We dream of an immense\nchange in the tone of the human spirit, and in the character of the\ncivilization which shall in time embower the earth.\n\nBut, as it has always been, the greater the good, the nearer the evil;\nSatan is next-door neighbor to the saint; Eden had a lurking-hole for\nthe serpent. Just here the voyaging is most dangerous; just here we drop\nthe plummet and strike upon a shoal; we lift up our eyes, and discover a\nlee-shore.\n\nThe mind that is not profound enough to perceive and believe even what\nit cannot comprehend,--that is the shoal. Unless the reason will permit\nthe sounding-lead to fall illimitably down into a submarine world\nof mystery, too deep for the diver, and yet a true and living\nworld,--unless there is admitted to be a fathomless gulf, called\n_faith_, underlying the surface-sea of demonstration, the race will\nsurely ground in time, and go to pieces. There is the peril of this\nall-prevailing love of the real. It may become such an infatuation that\nnothing will appear actual which is not visible or demonstrable, which\nthe hand cannot handle or the intellect weigh and measure. Even to this\nextreme may the reason run. Its vulnerable point is pride. It is easily\nencouraged by success, easily incited to conceit, readily inclined to\noverestimate its power. It has a Chinese weakness for throwing up a wall\non its involuntary boundary-line, and for despising and defying all\nthat is beyond its jurisdiction. The reason may be the greatest or the\nmeanest faculty in the soul. It may be the most wise or the most foolish\nof active things. It may be so profound as to acknowledge a whole\ninfinitude of truth which it cannot comprehend, or it may be so\nsuperficial as to suspect everything it is asked to believe, and refuse\nto trust a fact out of its sight. There is the danger of the day. There\nis the lee-shore upon which the tendencies of the age are blowing our\nbark: a gross and destructive materialism, which is the horrid and\ntreacherous development of a shallow realism.\n\nIn the midst of this splendid era there is a fast-increasing class who\nare disposed to make the earth the absolute All,--to deny any outlet\nfrom it,--to deny any capacity in man for another sphere,--to deny any\nattribute in God which interests Him in man,--to shut out, therefore,\nall faith, all that is mysterious, all that is spiritual, all that is\nimmortal, all that is Divine.\n\n  \"There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,\n  Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,\n  Who hail thee Man!--the pilgrim of a day,\n  Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,\n  Frail as the leaf in autumn's yellow bower,\n  Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower,\n  A friendless slave, a child without a sire.\n         *       *       *       *       *\n  Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,\n  Lights of the world, and demigods of Fame?\n  Is this your triumph, this your proud applause,\n  Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?\n  For this hath Science searched on weary wing,\n  By shore and sea, each mute and living thing?\n  Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep,\n  To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?\n  Or round the cope her living chariot driven,\n  And wheeled in triumph through the signs of heaven?\n  O star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,\n  To waft us home the message of despair?\"\n\nIs shipwreck, after all, to be the end of the mysterious voyage? Yes,\nunless there is something else beside materialism in the world. Unless\nthere is another spirit blowing _off_ that dreadful shore, unless the\nchart opens a farther sea, unless the needle points to the same distant\nstar, unless there are other orders, yet sealed and secret, there is no\nfurther destiny for the race, no further development for the soul. The\nintellect, however grand, is not the whole of man. Material progress,\nhowever magnificent, is not the guaranty, not even the cardinal element,\nof civilization. And civilization, in the highest possible meaning of\nthat most expressive word, is that great and final and all-embosoming\nharbor toward which all these achievements and changes dimly, but\ndirectly, point. Upon that we have fixed our eyes, but we cannot imagine\nhow it can be attained by intellectual and material force alone.\n\nIn order to indicate this more vividly, let us suppose that there is\nno other condition necessary to the glory of human nature and the\nworld,--let us suppose that no other provision has been made, and that\nthe age is to go on developing only in this one direction,--what a\ndreary grandeur would soon surround us! As icebergs floating in an\nArctic sea are splendid, so would be these ponderous and glistering\nworks. As the gilded and crimsoned cliffs of snow beautify the Polar\nday, so would these achievements beautify the present day. But expect no\nlife, no joy, no soul, amid such ice-bound circumstances as these. The\ntropical heart must congeal and die; its luxuriant fruits can never\nspring up. The earth must lie sepulchred under its own magnificence; and\nthe divinest feelings of the spirit, floating upward in the instinct of\na higher life, but benumbed by the frigid air, and rebuked by the leaden\nsky, must fall back like clouds of frozen vapor upon the soul: and \"so\nshall its thoughts perish.\"\n\nIt would be a gloomy picture to paint, if one could for a moment imagine\nthat intellectual power and material success were all that enter into\nthe development of the race. For if there is no other capacity, and no\nother field in which at least an equal commission to achieve is given,\nand for which equal arrangements have been made by the Providence that\norders all, then the soul must soon be smothered, society dismembered,\nand human nature ruined.\n\nBut this very fact, which we purposely put in these strong colors,\nproves that there must be another and greater element, another and\nhigher faculty, another and wider department, likewise under express and\nsecret conditions of success. It shall come to pass, as the development\ngoes on, that this other will become the foremost and all-important,\n--the relation between them will be reversed,--this must increase, that\ndecrease,--the Material, although the first in time, the first in the\nworld's interest, and the first in the world's effort, will be found to\nbe only an ordained forerunner, preparing the way for Something Else,\nthe latchet of whose shoes it is not worthy to unloose.\n\nThere is that in man--also wrapt up and sealed within his inscrutable\nbrain--which provides for his inner as well as outer life; which\ninsures his highest development; which shall protect, cherish, warm, and\nfertilize his nature now, and perpetuate and exalt his soul forever.\nIt is a commission which begins, but does not end, in time. It is a\ncommission which makes him the agent and builder of an immense moral\nwork on the earth. Under its instructions he shall add improvement to\nimprovement in that social fabric which is already his shelter and\nhabitation. He has found it of brick,--he shall leave it of marble. He\nshall seek out every contrivance, and perfect every plan, and exhaust\nevery scheme, which will bring a greater prosperity and a nobler\nhappiness to mankind. He shall quarry out each human spirit, and carve\nit into the beauty and symmetry of a living stone that shall be worthy\nto take its place in the rising structure. This is the work which is\ngiven him to do. He must develop those conditions of virtue, and peace,\nand faith, and truth, and love, by which the race shall be lifted\nnearer its Creator, and the individual ascend into a more conscious\nneighborhood and stronger affinity to the world which shall receive him\nat last. All this must that other department be, and this other capacity\nachieve or there is a fatal disproportion in the progress of man.\n\nThe beauty of this as a dream perhaps all men will admit; but they\nquestion its possibility. \"It is the old Utopia,\" they say, \"the\nimpracticable enterprise that has always baffled the world.\" Some will\ndoubt whether the Spiritual has an existence at all. Others will doubt,\nif it does exist, whether man can accomplish anything in it. It is\ninvisible, impalpable, unknown. It cannot be substantial, it cannot\nbe real,--at least to man as at present constituted. Its elements and\nconditions cannot be controlled by his spirit. That spirit cannot\ncontrol itself,--how much less go forth and work solid wonders in that\nphantom realm! There can be no success in this that will be coequal with\nthe other; nor a coequal grandeur. There is no such thing as keeping\npace with it. The heart cannot grow better, society cannot be built\nhigher, mankind cannot become happier, God will not draw nearer, the\nhidden truth of all that universe will never be more ascertained than\nit is,--can never be accumulated and stored away among other human\nacquisitions. It is utterly, gloomily impracticable. In this respect we\nshall forever remain as we are, and where we are. So they think.\n\nAnd now we venture to contradict it all, and to assert that there\nis, there must be, just such a corresponding field, and just such a\ncorresponding progress, or else (we say it reverently) God's ways are\nnot equal. So great is our faith. Like Columbus, therefore, we dream\nof the golden Indies, and of that \"unknown residue\" which must yet be\nfound, and be taken possession of by mankind.\n\nWe look far out to where the horizon dips its vapory veil into the sea,\nand beyond which lies that other hemisphere, and ask,--Is there no world\nthere to be a counterpoise to the world that is here? Has the Creator\nmade no provision for the equilibrium of the soul? Is all that infinite\narea a shoreless waste, over which the fleets of speculation may sail\nforever, and discover nothing? Or is there not, rather, a broad\nand solid continent of spiritual truth, eternally rooted in that\nocean,--prepared, from the beginning, for the occupation of man, when\nthe fulness of time shall have come,--ordained to take its place in the\nhistoric evolution of the race, and to give the last and definite shape\nto its wondrous destinies?\n\nIs there, or is there not, another region of truth, of enterprise, of\nprogress,--to finish, to balance, to consummate the world?\n\nSuch is the Problem.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nMY GARDEN.\n\n\nI can speak of it calmly now; but there have been moments when the\nlightest mention of those words would sway my soul to its profoundest\ndepths.\n\nI am a woman. I nip this fact in the bud of my narrative, because I like\nto do as I would be done by, when I can just as well as not. It rasps a\nperson of my temperament exceedingly to be deceived. When any one tells\na story, we wish to know at the outset whether the story-teller is a man\nor a woman. The two sexes awaken two entirely distinct sets of feelings,\nand you would no more use the one for the other than you would put\non your tiny teacups at breakfast, or lay the carving-knife by the\nbutter-plate. Consequently it is very exasperating to sit, open-eyed and\nexpectant, watching the removal of the successive swathings which hide\nfrom you the dusky glories of an old-time princess, and, when the\nunrolling is over, to find it is nothing, after all, but a great\nlubberly boy. Equally trying is it to feel your interest clustering\nround a narrator's manhood, all your individuality merging in his, till,\nof a sudden, by the merest chance, you catch the swell of crinoline,\nand there you are. Away with such clumsiness! Let us have everybody\nchristened before we begin.\n\nI do, therefore, with Spartan firmness depose and say that I am a woman.\nI am aware that I place myself at signal disadvantage by the avowal. I\nfly in the face of hereditary prejudice. I am thrust at once beyond\nthe pale of masculine sympathy. Men will neither credit my success nor\nlament my failure, because they will consider me poaching on their\nmanor. If I chronicle a big beet, they will bring forward one twice\nas large. If I mourn a deceased squash, they will mutter, \"Woman's\nfarming!\" Shunning Scylla, I shall perforce fall into Charybdis. (_Vide_\nClassical Dictionary. I have lent mine, but I know one was a rock and\nthe other a whirlpool, though I cannot state, with any definiteness,\nwhich was which.) I may be as humble and deprecating as I choose, but\nit will not avail me. A very agony of self-abasement will be no armor\nagainst the poisoned shafts which assumed superiority will hurl against\nme. Yet I press the arrow to my bleeding heart, and calmly reiterate, I\nam a woman.\n\nThe full magnanimity of which reiteration can be perceived only when I\ninform you that I could easily deceive you, if I chose. There is about\nmy serious style a vigor of thought, a comprehensiveness of view, a\ncloseness of logic, and a terseness of diction commonly supposed to\npertain only to the stronger sex. Not wanting in a certain fanciful\nsprightliness which is the peculiar grace of woman, it possesses also,\nin large measure, that concentrativeness which is deemed the peculiar\nstrength of man. Where an ordinary woman will leave the beaten track,\nwandering in a thousand little by ways of her own,--flowery and\nbeautiful, it is true, and leading her airy feet to \"sunny spots of\ngreenery\" and the gleam of golden apples, but keeping her not less\nsurely from the goal,--I march straight on, turning neither to the\nright hand nor to the left, beguiled into no side-issues, discussing no\ncollateral question, but with keen eye and strong hand aiming right at\nthe heart of my theme. Judge thus of the stern severity of my virtue.\nThere is no heroism in denying ourselves the pleasures which we cannot\ncompass. It is not self-sacrifice, but self-cherishing, that turns the\ndyspeptic alderman away from turtle-soup and the _p\u00e2t\u00e9 de foie gras_ to\nmush and milk. The hungry newsboy, regaling his nostrils with the scents\nthat come up from a subterranean kitchen, does not always know whether\nor not he is honest, till the cook turns away for a moment, and a\nsteaming joint is within reach of his yearning fingers. It is no credit\nto a weak-minded woman not to be strong-minded and write poetry. She\ncouldn't, if she tried; but to feed on locusts and wild honey that the\nsoul may be in better condition to fight the truth's battles,--to\ngo with empty stomach for a clear conscience's sake,--to sacrifice\nintellectual tastes to womanly duties, when the two conflict,--\n\n  \"That's the true pathos and sublime,\n  Of human life.\"\n\nYou will, therefore, no longer withhold your appreciative admiration,\nwhen, in full possession of what theologians call the power of contrary\nchoice, I make the unmistakable assertion that I am a woman.\n\nOf the circumstances that led me to inchoate a garden it is not\nnecessary now to speak. Enough that the first and most important step\nhad been taken, the land was bought,--a few acres, with a smart little\nhouse peeking up, a crazy little barn tumbling down, and a dozen or so\nfruit-trees that might do either as opportunity offered, and I set out\non my triumphal march from the city of my birth to the estate of my\nadoption. Triumphal indeed! My pathway was strewed with roses. Feathery\nasparagus and the crispness of tender lettuce waved dewy greetings from\nevery railroad-side; green peas crested the racing waves of Long Island\nSound, and unnumbered carrots of gold sprang up in the wake of the\nploughing steamer; till I was wellnigh drunk with the new wine of my own\npurple vintage. But I was not ungenerous. In the height of my innocent\nexultation, I remembered the dwellers in cities who do all their\ngardening at stalls, and in my heart I determined, when the season\nshould be fully blown, to invite as many as my house could hold to\nshare with me the delight of plucking strawberries from their stems and\ndrinking in foaming health from the balmy-breathed cows. Moreover, in\nthe exuberance of my joy, I determined to go still farther, and despatch\nto those doomed ones who cannot purchase even a furlough from burning\npavements baskets of fragrance and sweetness. I pleased myself with\npretty conceits. To one who toils early and late in an official Sahara,\nthat the home atmosphere may always be redolent of perfume, I would send\na bunch of long-stemmed white and crimson rose-buds, in the midst of\nwhich he should find a dainty note whispering, \"Dear Fritz: Drink this\npure glass of my overflowing June to the health of weans and wife, not\nforgetting your unforgetful friend.\" To a pale-browed, sad-eyed woman,\nwho flits from velvet carpets and broidered flounces to the bedside\nof an invalid mother, whom her slender fingers and unslender and most\ngodlike devotion can scarcely keep this side the pearly gates, I would\nheap a basket of summer-hued peaches smiling up from cool, green leaves\ninto their straitened home, and, with eyes, perchance, tear-dimmed, she\nshould read, \"My good Maria: The peaches are to go to your lips, the\nbloom to your cheeks, and the gardener to your heart.\" Ah me! How much\ngrace and gladness may bud and blossom in one little garden! Only\nthree acres of land, but what a crop of sunny surprises, unexpected\ntendernesses, grateful joys, hopes, loves, and restful memories!--what\nwells of happiness, what sparkles of mirth, what sweeps of summer in the\nheart, what glimpses of the Upper Country!\n\nHalicarnassus was there before me (in the garden, I mean, not in the\nspot last alluded to). It has been the one misfortune of my life that\nHalicarnassus got the start of me at the outset. With a fair field and\nno favor I should have been quite adequate to him. As it was, he was\nborn and began, and there was no resource left to me but to be born and\nfollow, which I did as fast as possible; but that one false move could\nnever be redeemed. I know there are shallow thinkers who love to prate\nof the supremacy of mind over matter,--who assert that circumstances are\nplastic as clay in the hands of the man who knows how to mould them.\nThey clench their fists, and inflate their lungs, and quote Napoleon's\nproud boast,--\"Circumstances! I _make_ circumstances!\" Vain babblers!\nWhither did this Napoleonic Idea lead? To a barren rock in a waste of\nwaters. Do we need St. Helena and Sir Hudson Lowe to refute it? Control\ncircumstances! I should like to know if the most important circumstance\nthat can happen to a man isn't to be born? and if that is under his\ncontrol, or in any way affected by his whims and wishes? Would not Louis\nXVI. have been the son of a goldsmith, if he could have had his way?\nWould Burns have been born a slaving, starving peasant, if he had been\nconsulted beforehand? Would not the children of vice be the children of\nvirtue, if they could have had their choice? and would not the whole\ntenor of their lives have been changed thereby? Would a good many of\nus have been born at all, if we could have helped it? Control\ncircumstances, forsooth! when a mother's sudden terror brings an idiot\nchild into the world,--when the restive eye of his great-grandfather,\nwhom he never saw, looks at you from your two-year-old, and the spirit\nof that roving ancestor makes the boy also a fugitive and a vagabond on\nthe earth! No, no. We may coax circumstances a little, and shove them\nabout, and make the best of them, but there they are. We may try to get\nout of their way; but they will trip us up, not once, but many times.\nWe may affect to tread them under foot in the daylight, but in the\nnight-time they will turn again and rend us. All we can do is first to\naccept them as facts, and then reason from them as premises. We cannot\ncontrol them, but we can control our own use of them. We can make them a\nsavor of life unto life, or of death unto death.\n\nApplication.--If mind could have been supreme over matter, Halicarnassus\nshould, in the first place, have taken the world at second-hand from\nme, and, in the second place, he should not have stood smiling on the\nfront-door steps when the coach set me down there. As it was, I made the\nbest of the one case by following in his footsteps,--not meekly, not\nacquiescently, but protesting, yet following,--and of the other, by\nsmiling responsive and asking pleasantly,--\n\n\"Are the things planted yet?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Halicarnassus.\n\nThis was better than I had dared to hope. When I saw him standing there\nso complacent and serene, I felt certain that a storm was brewing, or\nrather had brewed, and burst over my garden, and blighted its fair\nprospects. I was confident that he had gone and planted every square\ninch of the soil with some hideous absurdity which would spring up a\nhundred-fold in perpetual reminders of the one misfortune to which I\nhave alluded.\n\nSo his ready answer gave me relief, and yet I could not divest myself of\na vague fear, a sense of coming thunder. In spite of my endeavors,\nthat calm, clear face would lift itself to my view as a mere\n\"weather-breeder\"; but I ate my supper, unpacked my trunks, took out my\npapers of precious seeds, and sitting in the flooding sunlight under the\nlittle western porch, I poured them into my lap, and bade Halicarnassus\ncome to me. He came, I am sorry to say, with a pipe in his mouth.\n\n\"Do you wish to see my jewels?\" I asked, looking as much like Cornelia\nas a little woman, somewhat inclined to dumpiness, can.\n\nHalicarnassus nodded assent.\n\n\"There,\" said I, unrolling a paper, \"that is _Lychnidea acuminala_.\nSometimes it flowers in white masses, pure as a baby's soul. Sometimes\nit glows in purple, pink, and crimson, intense, but unconsuming, like\nHoreb's burning bush. The old Greeks knew it well, and they baptized\nits prismatic loveliness with their sunny symbolism, and called it the\nFlame-Flower. These very seeds may have sprung centuries ago from the\nhearts of heroes who sleep at Marathon; and when their tender petals\nquiver in the sunlight of my garden, I shall see the gleam of Attic\narmor and the flash of royal souls. Like heroes, too, it is both\nbeautiful and bold. It does not demand careful cultivation,--no\nhot-house, tenderness\"--\n\n\"I should rather think not,\" interrupted Halicarnassus. \"Pat Curran has\nhis front-yard full of it.\"\n\nI collapsed at once, and asked humbly,--\n\n\"Where did he get it?\"\n\n\"Got it anywhere. It grows wild almost. It's nothing but phlox. My\nopinion is, that the old Greeks knew no more about it than that brindled\ncow.\"\n\nNothing further occurring to me to be said on the subject, I waived\nit and took up another parcel, on which I spelled out, with some\ndifficulty, \"_Delphinium exaltatum_. Its name indicates its nature.\"\n\n\"It's an exalted dolphin, then, I suppose,\" said Halicarnassus.\n\n\"Yes!\" I said, dexterously catching up an _argumentum ad hominem_, \"It\n_is_ an exalted dolphin,--an apotheosized dolphin,--a dolphin made\nglorious. For, as the dolphin catches the sunbeams and sends them back\nwith a thousand added splendors, so this flower opens its quivering\nbosom and gathers from the vast laboratory of the sky the purple of a\nmonarch's robe and the ocean's deep, calm blue. In its gracious cup you\nshall see\"--\n\n\"A fiddlestick!\" jerked out Halicarnassus, profanely. \"What are you\nraving about such a precious bundle of weeds for? There isn't a\nshoemaker's apprentice in the village that hasn't his seven-by-nine\ngarden overrun with them. You might have done better than bring\ncartloads of phlox and larkspur a thousand miles. Why didn't you import\na few hollyhocks, or a sunflower or two, and perhaps a dainty slip\nof cabbage? A pumpkin-vine, now, would climb over the front-door\ndeliciously, and a row of burdocks would make a highly entertaining\nborder.\"\n\nThe reader will bear me witness that I had met my first rebuff with\nhumility. It was probably this very humility that emboldened him to a\nsecond attack. I determined to change my tactics and give battle.\n\n\"Halicarnassus,\" said I, severely, \"you are a hypocrite. You set up for\na Democrat\"--\n\n\"Not I,\" interrupted he; \"I voted for Harrison in '40, and for Fremont\nin '56, and\"--\n\n\"Nonsense!\" interrupted I, in turn; \"I mean a Democrat etymological, not\na Democrat political. You stand by the Declaration of Independence, and\nbelieve in liberty, equality, and fraternity, and that all men are of\none blood; and here you are, ridiculing these innocent flowers, because\ntheir brilliant beauty is not shut up in a conservatory to exhale its\nfragrance on a fastidious few, but blooms on all alike, gladdening the\nhome of exile and lightening the burden of labor.\"\n\nHalicarnassus saw that I had made a point against him, and preserved a\ndiscreet silence.\n\n\"But you are wrong,\" I went on, \"even if you are right. You may laugh to\nscorn my floral treasures, because they seem to you common and unclean,\nbut your laughter is premature. It is no ordinary seed that you see\nbefore you. It sprang from no profane soil. It came from the--the--some\nkind of an office at WASHINGTON, Sir! It was given me by one whose name\nstands high on the scroll of fame,--a statesman whose views are as\nbroad as his judgment is sound,--an orator who holds all hearts in his\nhand,--a man who is always found on the side of the feeble truth against\nthe strong falsehood,--whose sympathy for all that is good, whose\nhostility to all that is bad, and whose boldness in every righteous\ncause make him alike the terror and abhorrence of the oppressor, and the\nhope and joy and staff of the oppressed.\"\n\n\"What is his name?\" said Halicarnassus, phlegmatically.\n\n\"And for your miserable pumpkin-vine,\" I went on, \"behold this\nmorning-glory, that shall open its barbaric splendor to the sun and\nmount heavenward on the sparkling chariots of the dew. I took this from\nthe white hand of a young girl in whose heart poetry and purity have\nmet, grace and virtue have kissed each other,--whose feet have danced\nover lilies and roses, who has known no sterner duty than to give\ncaresses, and whose gentle, spontaneous, and ever active loveliness\ncontinually remind me that of such is the kingdom of heaven.\"\n\n\"Courted yet?\" asked Halicarnassus, with a show of interest.\n\nI transfixed him with a look, and continued,--\n\n\"This _Maurandia_, a climber, it may be common or it may be a king's\nransom. I only know that it is rosy-hued, and that I shall look at\nlife through its pleasant medium. Some fantastic trellis, brown and\nbenevolent, shall knot supporting arms around it, and day by day it\nshall twine daintily up toward my southern window, and whisper softly of\nthe sweet-voiced, tender-eyed woman from whose fairy bower it came in\nrosy wrappings. And this _Nemophila_, 'blue as my brother's eyes,'--the\nbrave young brother whose heroism and manhood have outstripped his\nyears, and who looks forth from the dank leafiness of far Australia\nlovingly and longingly over the blue waters, as if, floating above them,\nhe might catch the flutter of white garments and the smile on a sister's\nlip\"--\n\n\"What are you going to do with 'em?\" put in Halicarnassus again.\n\nI hesitated a moment, undecided whether to be amiable or bellicose under\nthe provocation, but concluded that my ends would stand a better\nchance of being gained by adopting the former course, and so answered\nseriously, as if I had not been switched off the track, but was going on\nwith perfect continuity,--\n\n\"To-morrow I shall take observations. Then, where the situation seems\nmost favorable, I shall lay out a garden. I shall plant these seeds in\nit, except the vines and such things, which I wish to put near the house\nto hide as much as possible its garish white. Then, with every little\ntender shoot that appears above the ground, there will blossom also a\npleasant memory or a sunny hope or an admiring thrill.\"\n\n\"What do you expect will be the market-value of that crop?\"\n\n\"Wealth which an empire could not purchase,\" I answered, with\nenthusiasm. \"But I shall not confine my attention to flowers. I shall\nmake the useful go with the beautiful. I shall plant vegetables,--\nlettuce, and asparagus, and--so forth. Our table shall be garnished with\nthe products of our own soil, and our own works shall praise us.\"\n\nThere was a pause of several minutes, during which I fondled the seeds\nand Halicarnassus enveloped himself in clouds of smoke. Presently there\nwas a cessation of puffs, a rift in the cloud showed that the oracle was\nopening his mouth, and directly thereafter he delivered himself of the\nencouraging remark,--\n\n\"If we don't have any vegetables till we raise 'em, we shall be\ncarnivorous some time to come.\"\n\nIt was said with that provoking indifference more trying to a sensitive\nmind than downright insult. You know it is based on some hidden\nobstacle, palpable to your enemy, though hidden from you,--and that he\nis calm because he know that the nature of things will work against you,\nso that he need not interfere. If I had been less interested, I would\nhave revenged myself on him by remaining silent; but I was very much\ninterested, so I strangled my pride and said,--\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Land is too old for such things. Soil isn't mellow enough.\"\n\nI had always supposed that the greater part of the main-land of our\ncontinent was of equal antiquity, and dated back alike to the alluvial\nperiod; but I suppose our little three acres must have been injected\nthrough the intervening strata by some physical convulsion, from the\ndrift, or the tertiary formation, perhaps even from the primitive\ngranite.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" I ventured to inquire. \"I don't suppose the\nland will grow any younger by keeping.\"\n\n\"Plant it with corn and potatoes for at least two years before there can\nbe anything like a garden.\"\n\nAnd Halicarnassus put up his pipe and betook himself to the house, and\nI was glad of it, the abominable bore! to sit there and listen to my\nglowing schemes, knowing all the while that they were soap-bubbles.\n\"Corn and potatoes,\" indeed! I didn't believe a word of it.\nHalicarnassus always had an insane passion for corn and potatoes. Land\nrepresented to him so many bushels of the one or the other. Now corn\nand potatoes are very well in their way, but, like every other innocent\nindulgence, carried too far, become a vice; and I more than suspected he\nhad planned the strategy simply to gratify his own weakness. Corn and\npotatoes, indeed!\n\nBut when Halicarnassus entered the lists against me, he found an\nopponent worthy of his steel. A few more such victories would be his\nruin. A grand scheme fired and filled my mind during the silent watches\nof the night, and sent me forth in the morning, jubilant with high\nresolve. Alexander might weep that he had no more worlds to conquer;\nbut I would create new. Archimedes might desiderate a place to stand\non before he could bring his lever into play; I would move the world,\nself-poised. If Halicarnassus fancied that I was cut up, dispersed, and\nannihilated by one disaster, he should weep tears of blood to see me\nrise, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of my dead hopes, to a newer and more\nglorious life. Here, having exhausted my classics, I took a long sweep\ndown to modern times, and vowed in my heart never to give up the ship.\n\nHalicarnassus saw that a fell purpose was working in my mind, but a\ncertain high tragedy in my aspect warned him to silence; so he only\ndogged me around the corners of the house, eyed me askance from the\nwood-shed, and peeped through the crevices of the demented little barn.\nBut his vigilance bore no fruit. I but walked moodily \"with folded arms\nand fixed eyes,\" or struck out new paths at random, so long as there\nwere any vestiges of his creation extant. His time and patience being at\nlength exhausted, he went into the field to immolate himself with ever\nnew devotion on the shrine of corn and potatoes. Then my scheme came to\na head at once. In my walking, I had observed a box about three feet\nlong, two broad, and one foot deep, which Halicarnassus, with his usual\ndisregard of the proprieties of life, had used to block up a gate-way\nthat was waiting for a gate. It was just what I wanted. I straightway\nknocked out the few nails that kept it in place, and, like another\nSamson, bore it away on my shoulders. It was not an easy thing to\nmanage, as any one may find by trying,--nor would I advise young ladies,\nas a general thing, to adopt that form of exercise,--but the end, not\nthe means, was my object, and by skilful diplomacy I got it up the\nbackstairs and through my window, out upon the roof of the porch\ndirectly below. I then took the ash-pail and the fire-shovel and went\ninto the field, carefully keeping the lee side of Halicarnassus. \"Good,\nrich loam\" I had observed all the gardening books to recommend; but\nwherein the virtue or the richness of loam consisted I did not feel\ncompetent to decide, and I scorned to ask. There seemed to be two kinds:\none black, damp, and dismal; the other fine, yellow, and good-natured.\nA little reflection decided me to take the latter. Gold constituted\nriches, and this was yellow like gold. Moreover, it seemed to have more\nlife in it. Night and darkness belonged to the other, while the very\nheart of sunshine and summer seemed to be imprisoned in this golden\ndust. So I plied my shovel and filled my pail again and again, bearing\nit aloft with joyful labor, eager to be through before Halicarnassus\nshould reappear; but he got on the trail just as I was whisking\nup-stairs for the last time, and shouted, astonished,--\n\n\"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" I answered, with that well-known accent which says,\n\"Everything! and I mean to keep doing it.\"\n\nI have observed, that, in managing parents, husbands, lovers, brothers,\nand indeed all classes of inferiors, nothing is so efficacious as to let\nthem know at the outset that you are going to have your own way. They\nmay fret a little at first, and interpose a few puny obstacles, but\nit will be only a temporary obstruction; whereas, if you parley and\nhesitate and suggest, they will but gather courage and strength for a\nformidable resistance. It is the first step that costs. Halicarnassus\nunderstood at once from my one small shot that I was in a mood to be let\nalone, and he let me alone accordingly.\n\nI remembered he had said that the soil was not mellow enough, and I\ndetermined that my soil should be mellow, to which end I took it up by\nhandfuls and squeezed it through my fingers, completely pulverizing it.\nIt was not disagreeable work. Things in their right places are very\nseldom disagreeable. A spider on your dress is a horror, but a spider\noutdoors is rather interesting. Besides, the loam had a fine, soft feel\nthat was absolutely pleasant; but a hideous black and yellow reptile\nwith horns and hoofs, that winked up at me from it, was decidedly\nunpleasant and out of place, and I at once concluded that the soil was\nsufficiently mellow for my purposes, and smoothed it off directly. Then,\nwith delighted fingers, in sweeping circles, and fantastic whirls, and\nexact triangles, I planted my seeds in generous profusion, determined,\nthat, if my wilderness did not blossom, it should not be from\nniggardliness of seed. But even then my box was full before my basket\nwas emptied, and I was very reluctantly compelled to bring down from the\ngarret another box, which had been the property of my great-grandfather.\nMy great-grandfather was, I regret to say, a barber. I would rather\nnever have had any. If there is anything in the world besides worth that\nI reverence, it is ancestry. My whole life long have I been in search of\na pedigree, and though I ran well at the beginning, I invariably stop\nshort at the third remove by running my head into a barber's shop. If\nhe had only been a farmer, now, I should not have minded. There is\nsomething dignified and antique in land, and no one need trouble himself\nto ascertain whether \"farmer\" stood for a close-fisted, narrow-souled\nclodhopper, or the smiling, benevolent master of broad acres. Farmer\nmeans both these, I could have chosen the meaning I liked, and it is not\nprobable that any troublesome facts would have floated down the years to\nintercept any theory I might have launched. I would rather he had been\na shoemaker; it would have been so easy to transform him, after his\nlamented decease, into a shoe-manufacturer,--and shoe-manufacturers, we\nall know, are highly respectable people, often become great men, and\nget sent to Congress. An apothecary might have figured as an M.D.\nA greengrocer might have been apotheosized into a merchant. A\ndancing-master would flourish on the family-records as a professor of\nthe Terpsichorean art. A taker of daguerreotype portraits would never\nbe recognized in \"my great-grandfather _the artist_.\" But a barber is\nunmitigated and immitigable. It cannot be shaded off nor toned down\nnor brushed up. Besides, was greatness ever allied to barbarity?\nShakspeare's father was a wool-driver, Tillotson's a clothier, Barrow's\na linen-draper, Defoe's a butcher, Milton's a scrivener, Richardson's a\njoiner, Burns's a farmer; but did any one ever hear of a barber's\nhaving remarkable children? I must say, with all deference to my\ngreat-grandfather, that I do wish he would have been considerate enough\nof his descendants' feelings to have been born in the old days when\nbarbers and doctors were one, or else have chosen some other occupation\nthan barbering. Barber he did, however; in this very box he kept his\nwigs, and, painful as it was to have continually before my eyes this\nperpetual reminder of plebeian great-grand-paternity, I consented to it\nrather than lose my seeds. Then I folded my hands in sweet, though calm\nsatisfaction. I had proved myself equal to the emergency, and that\nalways diffuses a glow of genial complacency through the soul. I had\noutwitted Halicarnassus. Exultation number two. He had designed to cheat\nme out of my garden by a story about land, and here was my garden ready\nto burst forth into blossom under my eyes. He said little, but I knew\nhe felt deeply. I caught him one day looking out at my window with\ncorroding envy in every lineament. \"You might have got some dust out of\nthe road; it would have been nearer.\" That was all he said. Even that\nlittle I did not fully understand.\n\nI watched, and waited, and watered, in silent expectancy, for several\ndays, but nothing came up, and I began to be anxious. Suddenly I thought\nof my vegetable-seeds, and determined to try those. Of course a hanging\nkitchen-garden was not to be thought of, and as Halicarnassus was\nfortunately absent for a few days, I prospected on the farm. A sunny\nlittle corner on a southern slope smiled up at me, and seemed to offer\nitself as a delightful situation for the diminutive garden which mine\nmust be. The soil, too, seemed as fine and mellow as could be desired.\nI at once captured an Englishman from a neighboring plantation, hurried\nhim into my corner, and bade him dig me and hoe me and plant me a garden\nas soon as possible. He looked blankly at me for a moment, and I looked\nblankly at him,--wondering what lion he saw in the way.\n\n\"Them is planted with potatoes now,\" he gasped, at length.\n\n\"No matter,\" I returned, with sudden relief to find that nothing but\npotatoes interfered. \"I want it to be unplanted, and planted with\nvegetables,--lettuce and--asparagus--and such.\"\n\nHe stood hesitating.\n\n\"Will the master like it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Diplomacy, \"he will be delighted.\"\n\n\"No matter whether he likes it or not,\" codiciled Conscience. \"You do\nit.\"\n\n\"I--don't exactly like--to--take the responsibility,\" wavered this\nmodern Faint-Heart.\n\n\"I don't want you to take the responsibility,\" I ejaculated, with\nvolcanic vehemence. \"I'll take the responsibility. You take the hoe.\"\n\nThese duty-people do infuriate me. They are so afraid to do anything\nthat isn't laid out in a right-angled triangle. Every path must be\ngraded and turfed before they dare set their scrupulous feet in it.\nI like conscience, but, like corn and potatoes, carried too far, it\nbecomes a vice. I think I could commit a murder with less hesitation\nthan some people buy a ninepenny calico. And to see that man stand\nthere, balancing probabilities over a piece of ground no bigger than a\nbed-quilt, as if a nation's fate were at stake, was enough to ruffle a\ncalmer temper than mine. My impetuosity impressed him, however, and he\nbegan to lay about him vigorously with hoe and rake and lines, and, in\nan incredibly short space of time, had a bit of square flatness laid out\nwith wonderful precision. Meanwhile I had ransacked my vegetable-bag,\nand though lettuce and asparagus were not there, plenty of beets and\nparsnips and squashes, etc., were. I let him take his choice. He took\nthe first two. The rest were left on my hands. But I had gone too far to\nrecede. They burned in my pocket for a few days, and I saw that I must\nget them into the ground somewhere. I could not sleep with them in the\nroom. They were wandering shades craving at my hands a burial, and I\ndetermined to put them where Banquo's ghost would not go,--down. Down\naccordingly they went, but not symmetrically nor simultaneously. I faced\nHalicarnassus on the subject of the beet-bed, and though I cannot say\nthat either of us gained a brilliant victory, yet I can say that I\nkept possession of the ground; still, I did not care to risk a second\nencounter. So I kept my seeds about me continually, and dropped them\nsurreptitiously as occasion offered. Consequently, my garden, taken as\na whole, was located where the Penobscot Indian was born,--\"all along\nshore.\" The squashes were scattered among the corn. The beans were\ntucked under the brushwood, in the fond hope that they would climb\nup it. Two tomato-plants were lodged in the potato-field, under the\nprotection of some broken apple-branches dragged thither for the\npurpose. The cucumbers went down on the sheltered side of a wood-pile.\nThe peas took their chances of life under the sink-nose. The sweet-corn\nwas marked off from the rest by a broomstick,--and all took root alike\nin my heart.\n\nMay I ask you now, O Friend, who, I would fain believe, have followed me\nthus far with no hostile eyes, to glide in tranced forgetfulness through\nthe white blooms of May and the roses of June, into the warm breath of\nJuly afternoons and the languid pulse of August, perhaps even into\nthe mild haze of September and the \"flying gold\" of brown October? In\nnarrating to you the fruition of my hopes, I shall endeavor to preserve\nthat calm equanimity which is the birthright of royal minds. I shall\nendeavor not to be unduly elated by success nor unduly depressed by\nfailure, but to state in simple language the result of my experiments,\nboth for an encouragement and a warning. I shall give the history of the\nseveral ventures separately, as nearly as I can recollect in the\norder in which they grew, beginning with the humbler ministers to our\nappetites, and soaring gradually into the region of the poetical and the\nbeautiful.\n\nBEETS.--The beets came up, little red-veined leaves, struggling for\nbreath among a tangle of Roman wormwood and garlic; and though they\nexhibited great tenacity of life, they also exhibited great irregularity\nof purpose. In one spot there would be nothing, in an adjacent spot a\nwhorl of beets, big and little, crowding and jostling and elbowing each\nother, like school-boys round the red-hot stove on a winter's morning.\nI knew they had been planted in a right line, and I don't, even now,\ncomprehend why they should not come up in a right line. I weeded them,\nand though freedom from foreign growth discovered an intention, of\nstraightness, the most casual observer could not but see that skewiness\nhad usurped its place. I repaired to my friend the gardener. He said\nthey must be thinned out and transplanted. It went to my heart to pull\nup the dear things, but I did it, and set them down again tenderly in\nthe vacant spots. It was evening. The next morning I went to them.\nFlatness has a new meaning to me since that morning. You can hardly\nconceive that anything could look so utterly forlorn, disconsolate,\ndisheartened, and collapsed. In fact, they exhibited a degree of\ndepression so entirely beyond what the circumstances demanded, that I\nwas enraged. If they had shown any symptoms of trying to live, I could\nhave sighed and forgiven them; but, on the contrary, they had flopped\nand died without a struggle, and I pulled them up without a pang,\ncomforting myself with the remaining ones, which throve on their\ncompanions' graves, and waxed fat and full and crimson-hearted, in their\nsoft, brown beds. So delighted was I with their luxuriant rotundity,\nthat I made an internal resolve that henceforth I would always plant\nbeets. True, I cannot abide beets. Their fragrance and their flavor are\nalike nauseating; but they come up, and a beet that will come up is\nbetter than a cedar of Lebanon that won't. In all the vegetable kingdom\nI know of no quality better than this, growth,--nor any quality that\nwill atone for its absence.\n\nPARSNIPS.--They ran the race with an indescribable vehemence that fairly\nthrew the beets into the shade. They trod so delicately at first that\nI was quite unprepared for such enthusiasm. Lacking the red veining, I\ncould not distinguish them even from the weeds with any certainty, and\nwas forced to let both grow together till the harvest. So both grew\ntogether, a perfect jungle. But the parsnips got ahead, and rushed up\ngloriously, magnificently, bacchanalianly,--as the winds come when\nforests are rended,--as the waves come when navies are stranded. I am,\nindeed, troubled with a suspicion that their vitality has all run to\nleaves, and that, when I go down into the depths of the earth for\nthe parsnips, I shall find only bread of emptiness. It is a pleasing\nreflection that parsnips cannot be eaten till the second year. I am told\nthat they must lie in the ground during the winter. Consequently it\ncannot be decided whether there are any or not till next spring. I shall\nin the mean time assume and assert without hesitation or qualification\nthat there are as many tubers below the surface as there are leaves\nabove it. I shall thereby enjoy a pleasant consciousness, and the\nrespect of all, for the winter; and if disappointment awaits me in the\nspring, time will have blunted its keenness for me, and other people\nwill have forgotten the whole subject. You may be sure I shall not\nremind them of it.\n\nCUCUMBERS.--The cucumbers came up so far and stuck. It must have been\ninnate depravity, for there was no shadow of reason why they should not\nkeep on as they began. They did not. They stopped growing in the prime\nof life. Only three cucumbers developed, and they hid under the vines so\nthat I did not see them till they were become ripe, yellow, soft, and\nworthless. They are an unwholesome fruit at best, and I bore their loss\nwith great fortitude.\n\nTOMATOES.--Both dead. I had been instructed to protect them from the\nfrost by night and from the sun by day. I intended to do so ultimately,\nbut I did not suppose there was any emergency. A frost came the first\nnight and killed them, and a hot sun the next day burned up all there\nwas left. When they were both thoroughly dead, I took great pains to\ncover them every night and noon. No symptoms of revival appearing to\nreward my efforts, I left them to shift for themselves. I did not think\nthere was any need of their dying, in the first place; and if they would\nbe so absurd as to die without provocation, I did not see the necessity\nof going into a decline about it. Besides, I never did value plants\nor animals that have to be nursed, and petted, and coaxed to live.\nIf things want to die, I think they'd better die. Provoked by my\nindifference, one of the tomatoes flared up and took a new start,--put\nforth leaves, shot out vines, and covered himself with fruit and glory.\nThe chickens picked out the heart of all the tomatoes as soon as they\nripened, which was of no consequence, however, as they had wasted\nso much time in the beginning that the autumn frosts came upon them\nunawares, and there wouldn't have been fruit enough ripe to be of any\naccount, if no chicken had ever broken a shell.\n\nSQUASHES.--They appeared above-ground, large-lobed and vigorous. Large\nand vigorous appeared the bugs, all gleaming in green and gold, like\nthe wolf on the fold, and stopped up all the stomata and ate up all the\nparenchyma, till my squash-leaves looked as if they had grown for the\nsole purpose of illustrating net-veined organizations. In consternation\nI sought again my neighbor the Englishman. He assured me he had 'em\non his, too,--lots of 'em. This reconciled me to mine. Bugs are not\ninherently desirable, but a universal bug does not indicate special want\nof skill in any one. So I was comforted. But the Englishman said they\nmust be killed. He had killed his. Then I said I would kill mine, too.\nHow should it be done? Oh! put a shingle near the vine at night and they\nwould crawl upon it to keep dry, and go out early in the morning and\nkill 'em. But how to kill them? Why, take 'em right between your thumb\nand finger and crush 'em!\n\nAs soon as I could recover breath, I informed him confidentially, that,\nif the world were one great squash, I wouldn't undertake to save it in\nthat way. He smiled a little, but I think he was not overmuch pleased. I\nasked him why I couldn't take a bucket of water and dip the shingle in\nit and drown them. He said, well, I could try it. I did try it,--first\nwrapping my hand in a cloth to prevent contact with any stray bug. To\nmy amazement, the moment they touched the water they all spread unseen\nwings and flew away, safe and sound. I should not have been much more\nsurprised to see Halicarnassus soaring over the ridge-pole. I had not\nthe slightest idea that they could fly. Of course I gave up the design\nof drowning them. I called a council of war. One said I must put a\nnewspaper over them and fasten it down at the edges; then they couldn't\nget in. I timidly suggested that the squashes couldn't get out. Yes,\nthey could, he said,--they'd grow right through the paper. Another said\nI must surround them with round boxes with the bottoms broken out; for,\nthough they could fly, they couldn't steer, and when they flew up, they\njust dropped down anywhere, and as there was on the whole a good deal\nmore land on the outside of the boxes than on the inside, the chances\nwere in favor of their dropping on the outside. Another said that ashes\nmust be sprinkled on them. A fourth said lime was an infallible remedy.\nI began with the paper, which I secured with no little difficulty; for\nthe wind--the same wind, strange to say--kept blowing the dirt at me\nand the paper away from me; but I consoled myself by remembering the\nnumberless rows of squash-pies that should crown my labors, and May took\nheart from Thanksgiving. The next day I peeped under the paper and the\nbugs were a solid phalanx. I reported at head-quarters, and they asked\nme if I killed the bugs before I put the paper down. I said no, I\nsupposed it would stifle them,--in fact, I didn't think anything about\nit, but if I thought anything, that was what I thought. I wasn't pleased\nto find I had been cultivating the bugs and furnishing them with free\nlodgings. I went home and tried all the remedies in succession. I could\nhardly decide which agreed best with the structure and habits of the\nbugs, but they throve on all. Then I tried them all at once and all o'er\nwith a mighty uproar. Presently the bugs went away. I am not sure that\nthey wouldn't have gone just as soon, if I had let them alone. After\nthey were gone, the vines scrambled out and put forth some beautiful,\ndeep golden blossoms. When they fell off, that was the end of them. Not\na squash,--not one,--not a single squash,--not even a pumpkin. They\nwere all false blossoms.\n\nAPPLES.--The trees swelled into masses of pink and white fragrance.\nNothing could exceed their fluttering loveliness or their luxuriant\npromise. A few days of fairy beauty, and showers of soft petals floated\nnoiselessly down, covering the earth with delicate snow; but I knew,\nthat, though the first blush of beauty was gone, a mighty work was going\non in a million little laboratories, and that the real glory was yet to\ncome. I was surprised to observe, one day, that the trees seemed to be\nturning red. I remarked to Halicarnassus that that was one of Nature's\nprocesses which I did not remember to have seen noticed in any\nbotanical treatise. I thought such a change did not occur till autumn.\nHalicarnassus curved the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into an\narch, the ends of which rested on the wrist of his left coat-sleeve. He\nthen lifted the forefinger high and brought it forward. Then he lifted\nthe thumb and brought it up behind the forefinger, and so made them\ntravel up to his elbow. It seemed to require considerable exertion in\nthe thumb and forefinger, and I watched the progress with interest. Then\nI asked him what he meant by it.\n\n\"That's the way they walk,\" he replied.\n\n\"Who walk?\"\n\n\"The little fellows that have squatted on our trees.\"\n\n\"What little fellows do you mean?\"\n\n\"The canker-worms.\"\n\n\"How many are there?\"\n\n\"About twenty-five decillions, I should think, as near as I can count.\"\n\n\"Why! what are they for? What good do they do?\"\n\n\"Oh! no end. Keep the children from eating green apples and getting\nsick.\"\n\n\"How do they do that?\"\n\n\"Eat 'em themselves.\"\n\nA frightful idea dawned upon me. I believe I turned a kind of ghastly\nblue.\n\n\"Halicarnassus, do you mean to tell me that the canker-worms are eating\nup our apples and that we shan't have any?\"\n\n\"It looks like that exceedingly.\"\n\nThat was months ago, and it looks a great deal more like it now. I\nwatched those trees with sadness at my heart. Millions of brown, ugly,\nvillanous worms gnawed, gnawed, gnawed, at the poor little tender leaves\nand buds,--held them in foul embrace,--polluted their sweetness with\nhateful breath. I could almost feel the shudder of the trees in that\nslimy clasp,--could almost hear the shrieking and moaning of the young\nfruit that saw its hope of happy life thus slowly consuming; but I\nwas powerless to save. For weeks that loathsome army preyed upon the\nunhappy, helpless trees, and then spun loathsomely to the ground, and\nburied itself in the reluctant, shuddering soil. A few dismal little\napples escaped the common fate, but when they rounded into greenness and\na suspicion of pulp, a boring worm came and bored them, and they,\ntoo, died. No apple-pies at Thanksgiving. No apple-roasting in winter\nevenings. No pan-pie with hot brown bread on Sunday mornings.\n\nCHERRIES.--They rivalled the apple-blooms in snowy profusion, and the\nbranches were covered with tiny balls. The sun mounted warm and high in\nthe heavens and they blushed under his ardent gaze. I felt an increasing\nconviction that here there would be no disappointment; but it soon\nbecame palpable that another class of depredators had marked our trees\nfor their own. Little brown toes could occasionally be seen peeping from\nthe foliage, and little bare feet left their print on the garden-soil.\nHumanity had evidently deposited its larva in the vicinity. There was a\nschoolhouse not very far away, and the children used to draw water from\nan old well in a distant part of the garden. It was surprising to see\nhow thirsty they all became as the cherries ripened. It was as if the\nvillage had simultaneously agreed to breakfast on salt fish. Their\nwooden bucket might have been the urn of the Dana\u00efdes, judging from the\ntime it took to fill it. The boys were as fleet of foot as young zebras,\nand presented upon discovery no apology or justification but their\nheels,--which was a wise stroke in them. A troop of rosy-cheeked,\nbright-eyed little snips in white pantalets, caught in the act, reasoned\nwith in a semi-circle, and cajoled with candy, were as sweet as\ndistilled honey, and promised with all their innocent hearts and hands\nnot to do so any more. But the real _pi\u00e8ce de r\u00e9sistance_ was a mass of\npretty well developed crinoline which an informal walk in the infested\ndistrict brought to light, engaged in a systematic raid upon the\ntempting fruit. Now, in my country, the presence of unknown individuals\nin your own garden, plucking your fruit from your trees, without your\nknowledge and against your will, is universally considered as affording\npresumptive evidence of--something. In this part of the world, however,\nI find they do things differently. It doesn't furnish presumptive\nevidence of anything. If you think it does, you do so at your own risk.\nI thought it did, and escaped by the skin of my teeth. I hinted my\nviews, and found myself in a den of lions, and was thankful to come out\nsecond-best. Second? nay, third-best, fourth-best, no best at all, not\neven good,--very bad. In short, I was glad to get out with my life. Nor\nwas my repulse confined to the passing hour. The injured innocents come\nno more for water. I am consumed with inward remorse as I see them daily\nfile majestically past my house to my neighbor's well. I have resolved\nto plant a strawberry-bed next year, and offer them the fruit of it by\nway of atonement, and never, under any provocation, hereafter, to assert\nor insinuate that I have any claim whatever to anything under the sun.\nIf this course, perseveringly persisted in, does not restore the state\nof quo, I am hopeless. I have no further resources.\n\nThe one drop of sweetness in the bitter cup was, that the cherries,\nbeing thus let severely alone, were allowed to hang on the trees and\nripen. It took them a great while. If they had been as big as hogsheads,\nI should think the sun might have got through them sooner than he did.\nThey looked ripe long before they were so; and as they were very\nplenty, the trees presented a beautiful appearance. I bought a stack of\nfantastic little baskets from a travelling Indian tribe, at a fabulous\nprice, for the sake of fulfilling my long-cherished design of sending\nfruit to my city friends. After long waiting, Halicarnassus came in one\nmorning with a tin pail full, and said that they were ripe at last, for\nthey were turning purple and falling off; and he was going to have them\ngathered at once. He had brought in the first-fruits for breakfast. I\nput them in the best preserve-dish, twined it with myrtle, and set it\nin the centre of the table. It looked charming,--so ruddy and rural and\nArcadian. I wished we could breakfast out-doors; but the summer was one\nof unusual severity, and it was hardly prudent thus to brave its rigor.\nWe had cup-custards at the close of our breakfast that morning,--very\nvulgar, but very delicious. We reached the cherries at the same moment,\nand swallowed the first one simultaneously. The effect was instantaneous\nand electric. Halicarnassus puckered his face into a perfect wheel,\nwith his mouth for the hub. I don't know how I looked, but I felt badly\nenough.\n\n\"It was unfortunate that we had custards this morning,\" I remarked.\n\"They are so sweet that the cherries seem sour by contrast. We shall\nsoon get the sweet taste out of our mouths, however.\"\n\n\"That's so!\" said Halicarnassus, who _will_ be coarse.\n\nWe tried another. He exhibited a similar pantomime, with improvements.\nMy feelings were also the same, intensified.\n\n\"I am not in luck to-day,\" I said, attempting to smile. \"I got hold of a\nsour cherry this time.\"\n\n\"I got hold of a bitter one,\" said Halicarnassus.\n\n\"Mine was a little bitter, too,\" I added.\n\n\"Mine was a little sour, too,\" said Halicarnassus.\n\n\"We shall have to try again,\" said I.\n\nWe did try again.\n\n\"Mine was a good deal of both this time,\" said Halicarnassus. \"But we\nwill give them a fair trial.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, sepulchrally.\n\nWe sat there sacrificing ourselves to abstract right for five minutes.\nThen I leaned back in my chair, and looked at Halicarnassus. He rested\nhis right elbow on the table, and looked at me.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, at last, \"how are cherries and things?\"\n\n\"Halicarnassus,\" said I, solemnly, \"it is my firm conviction that\nfarming is not a lucrative occupation. You have no certain assurance of\nreturn, either for labor or capital invested. Look at it. The bugs eat\nup the squashes. The worms eat up the apples. The cucumbers won't grow\nat all. The peas have got lost. The cherries are bitter as wormwood and\nsour as you in your worst moods. Everything that is good for anything\nwon't grow, and everything that grows isn't good for anything.\"\n\n\"My Indian corn, though,\" began Halicarnassus; but I snapped him up\nbefore he was fairly under way. I had no idea of travelling in that\ndirection.\n\n\"What am I to do with all those baskets that I bought, I should like to\nknow?\" I asked, sharply.\n\n\"What did you buy them for?\" he asked in return.\n\n\"To send cherries to the Hudsons and the Mavericks and Fred Ashley,\" I\nreplied promptly.\n\n\"Why don't you send 'em, then? There's plenty of them,--more than we\nshall want.\"\n\n\"Because,\" I answered, \"I have not exhausted the pleasures of\nfriendship. Nor do I perceive the benefit that would accrue from turning\nlife-long friends into life-long enemies.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what we can do,\" said Halicarnassus. \"We can give a party\nand treat them to cherries. They'll have to eat 'em out of politeness.\"\n\n\"Halicarnassus,\" said I, \"we should be mobbed. We should fall victims to\nthe fury of a disappointed and enraged populace.\"\n\n\"At any rate,\" said he, \"we can offer them to chance visitors.\"\n\nThe suggestion seemed to me a good one,--at any rate, the only one that\nheld out any prospect of relief. Thereafter, whenever friends called\nsingly or in squads,--if the squads were not large enough to be\nformidable,--we invariably set cherries before them, and with generous\nhospitality pressed them to partake. The varying phases of emotion which\nthey exhibited were painful to me at first, but I at length came to take\na morbid pleasure in noting them. It was a study for a sculptor. By long\npractice I learned to detect the shadow of each coming change, where a\ncasual observer would see only a serene expanse of placid politeness.\nI knew just where the radiance, awakened by the luscious, swelling,\ncrimson globes, faded into doubt, settled into certainty, glared into\nperplexity, fired into rage. I saw the grimace, suppressed as soon as\nbegun, but not less patent to my preternaturally keen eyes. No one\ndeceived me by being suddenly seized with admiration of a view. I\nknew it was only to relieve his nerves by making faces behind the\nwindow-curtains.\n\nI grew to take a fiendish delight in watching the conflict, and the\nfierce desperation which marked its violence. On the one side were\nthe forces of fusion, a reluctant stomach, an unwilling oesophagus, a\nloathing palate; on the other, the stern, unconquerable will. A natural\nphilosopher would have gathered new proofs of the unlimited capacity of\nthe human race to adapt itself to circumstances, from the _d\u00e9bris_ that\nstrewed our premises after each fresh departure. Cherries were chucked\nunder the sofa, into the table-drawers, behind the books, under the\nlamp-mats, into the vases, in any and every place where a dexterous hand\ncould dispose of them without detection. Yet their number seemed to\nsuffer no abatement. Like Tityus's liver, they were constantly renewed,\nthough constantly consumed. The small boys seemed to be suffering from a\nfit of conscience. In vain we closed the blinds and shut ourselves up in\nthe house to give them a fair field. Not a cherry was taken. In vain we\nwent ostentatiously to church all day on Sunday. Not a twig was touched.\nFinally I dropped all the curtains on that side of the house, and\navoided that part of the garden in my walks. The cherries may be hanging\nthere to this day, for aught I know.\n\nBut why do I thus linger over the sad recital? _\"Ab uno disce omnes.\"_\n(A quotation from Virgil: means, \"All of a piece.\") There may have been,\nthere probably was, an abundance of sweet-corn, but the broomstick that\nhad marked the spot was lost, and I could in no wise recall either spot\nor stick. Nor did I ever see or hear of the peas,--or the beans. If our\nchickens could be brought to the witness-box, they might throw light on\nthe subject. As it is, I drop a natural tear, and pass on to\n\nTHE FLOWER-GARDEN.--It appeared very much behind time,--chiefly Roman\nwormwood. I was grateful even for that. Then two rows of four-o'clocks\nbecame visible to the naked eye. They are cryptogamous, it seems.\nBotanists have hitherto classed them among the Phaenogamia. A sweet-pea\nand a china-aster dawdled up just in time to get frost-bitten. _\"Et\npraeterea nihil.\"_ (Virgil: means, \"That's all.\") I am sure it was no\nfault of mine. I tended my seeds with assiduous care. My devotion was\nunwearied. I was a very slave to their caprices. I planted them just\nbeneath the surface in the first place, so that they might have an easy\npassage. In two or three days they all seemed to be lying round loose on\nthe top, and I planted them an inch deep. Then I didn't see them at\nall for so long that I took them up again, and planted them half-way\nbetween. It was of no use. You cannot suit people or plants that are\ndetermined not to be suited.\n\nYet, sad as my story is, I cannot regret that I came into the country\nand attempted a garden. It has been fruitful in lessons, if in nothing\nelse. I have seen how every evil has its compensating good. When I am\ntempted to repine that my squashes did not grow, I reflect, that, if\nthey had grown, they would probably have all turned into pumpkins, or if\nthey had stayed squashes, they would have been stolen. When it seems\na mysterious Providence that kept all my young hopes underground, I\nreflect how fine an illustration I should otherwise have lost of what\nKossuth calls the solidarity of the human race,--what Paul alludes to,\nwhen he says, if one member suffer, all the members suffer with it. I\nrecall with grateful tears the sympathy of my neighbors on the right\nhand and on the left,--expressed not only by words, but by deeds. In my\nmind's eye, Horatio, I see again the baskets of apples, and pears, and\ntomatoes, and strawberries,--squashes too heavy to lift,--and corn\nsweet as the dews of Hymettus, that bore daily witness of human\nbrotherhood. I remember, too, the victory which I gained over my own\ndepraved nature. I saw my neighbor prosper in everything he undertook.\n_Nihil tetigit quod non crevit._ Fertility found in his soil its\ncongenial home, and spanned it with rainbow hues. Every day I walked by\nhis garden and saw it putting on its strength, its beautiful garments.\nI had not even the small satisfaction of reflecting that amid all his\nsplendid success his life was cold and cheerless, while mine, amid all\nits failures, was full of warmth,--a reflection which, I have often\nobserved, seems to go a great way towards making a person contented with\nhis lot,--for he had a lovely wife, promising children, and the whole\nvillage for his friends. Yet, notwithstanding all these obstacles, I\nlearned to look over his garden-wall with sincere joy.\n\nThere is one provocation, however, which I cannot yet bear with\nequanimity, and which I do not believe I shall ever meet without at\nleast a spasm of wrath, even if my Christian character shall ever become\nstrong enough to preclude absolute tetanus; and I do hereby beseech all\npersons who would not be guilty of the sin of Jeroboam who made Israel\nto sin, who do not wish to have on their hands the burden of my ruined\ntemper, to let me go quietly down into the valley of humiliation and\noblivion, and not pester me, as they have hitherto done from all parts\nof the North-American continent, with the infuriating question, \"How did\nyou get on with your garden?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLYRICS OF THE STREET.\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE TELEGRAMS.\n\n\n  Bring the hearse to the station,\n    When one shall demand it, late;\n  For that dark consummation\n    The traveller must not wait.\n  Men say not by what connivance\n    He slid from his weight of woe,\n  Whether sickness or weak contrivance,\n    But we know him glad to go.\n            On, and on, and ever on!\n                     What next?\n\n  Nor let the priest be wanting\n    With his hollow eyes of prayer,\n  While the sexton wrenches, panting,\n    The stone from the dismal stair.\n  But call not the friends who left him,\n    When Fortune and Pleasure fled;\n  Mortality hath not bereft him,\n    That they should confront him, dead.\n            On, and on, and ever on!\n                     What next?\n\n  Bid my mother be ready:\n    We are coming home to-night:\n  Let my chamber be still and shady,\n    With the softened nuptial light.\n  We have travelled so gayly, madly,\n    No shadow hath crossed our way;\n  Yet we come back like children, gladly,\n    Joy-spent with our holiday.\n             On, and on, and ever on!\n                      What next?\n\n  Stop the train at the landing,\n    And search every carriage through;\n  Let no one escape your handing,\n    None shiver or shrink from view.\n  Three blood-stained guests expect him,\n    Three murders oppress his soul;\n  Be strained every nerve to detect him\n    Who feasted, and killed, and stole.\n              On, and on, and ever on!\n                       What next?\n\n  Be rid of the notes they scattered;\n    The great house is down at last;\n  The image of gold is shattered,\n    And never can be recast.\n  The bankrupts show leaden features,\n    And weary, distracted looks,\n  While harpy-eyed, wolf-souled creatures\n    Pry through their dishonored books.\n              On, and on, and ever on!\n                       What next?\n\n  Let him hasten, lest worse befall him,\n    To look on me, ere I die:\n  I will whisper one curse to appall him,\n    Ere the black flood carry me by.\n  His bridal? the friends forbid it;\n    I have shown them his proofs of guilt:\n  Let him hear, with my laugh, who did it;\n    Then hurry, Death, as thou wilt!\n              On, and on, and ever on!\n                       What next?\n\n  Thus the living and dying daily\n    Flash forward their wants and words,\n  While still on Thought's slender railway\n    Sit scathless the little birds:\n  They heed not the sentence dire\n    By magical hands exprest,\n  And only the sun's warm fire\n    Stirs softly their happy breast.\n              On, and on, and ever on!\n                       God next!\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOUTH BREAKER.\n\nIN TWO PARTS.\n\n\nPART I.\n\n\nJust a cap-full of wind, and Dan shook loose the linen, and a straight\nshining streak with specks of foam shot after us. The mast bent like\neel-grass, and our keel was half out of the water. Faith belied her\nname, and clung to the sides with her ten finger-nails; but as for me, I\nliked it.\n\n\"Take the stick, Georgie,\" said Dan, suddenly, his cheeks white. \"Head\nher up the wind. Steady. Sight the figurehead on Pearson's loft. Here's\ntoo much sail for a frigate.\"\n\nBut before the words were well uttered, the mast doubled up and coiled\nlike a whip-lash, there was a report like the crack of doom, and half of\nthe thing crashed short over the bows, dragging the heavy sail in the\nwaves.\n\nThen there came a great laugh of thunder close above, and the black\ncloud dropped like a curtain round us: the squall had broken.\n\n\"Cut it off, Dan! quick!\" I cried. \"Let it alone,\" said he, snapping\ntogether his jack-knife; \"it's as good as a best bower-anchor. Now I'll\ntake the tiller, Georgie. Strong little hand,\" said he, bending so that\nI didn't see his face. \"And lucky it's good as strong. It's saved us\nall.--My God, Georgie! where's Faith?\"\n\nI turned. There was no Faith in the boat. We both sprang to our feet,\nand so the tiller swung round and threw us broadside to the wind, and\nbetween the dragging mast and the centre-board drowning seemed too good\nfor us.\n\n\"You'll have to cut it off,\" I cried again; but he had already ripped\nhalf through the canvas and was casting it loose.\n\nAt length he gave his arm a toss. With the next moment, I never shall\nforget the look of horror that froze Dan's face.\n\n\"I've thrown her off!\" he exclaimed. \"I've thrown her off!\"\n\nHe reached his whole length over the boat, I ran to his side, and\nperhaps our motion impelled it, or perhaps some unseen hand; for he\ncaught at an end of rope, drew it in a second, let go and clutched at a\nhandful of the sail, and then I saw how it had twisted round and swept\npoor little Faith over, and she had swung there in it like a dead\nbutterfly in a chrysalis. The lightnings were slipping down into the\nwater like blades of fire everywhere around us, with short, sharp\nvolleys of thunder, and the waves were more than I ever rode this side\nof the bar before or since, and we took in water every time our hearts\nbeat; but we never once thought of our own danger while we bent to pull\ndear little Faith out of hers; and that done, Dan broke into a great\nhearty fit of crying that I'm sure he'd no need to be ashamed of. But it\ndidn't last long; he just up and dashed off the tears and set himself at\nwork again, while I was down on the floor rubbing Faith. There she\nlay like a broken lily, with no life in her little white face, and no\nbreath, and maybe a pulse and maybe not. I couldn't hear a word Dan\nsaid, for the wind; and the rain was pouring through us. I saw him take\nout the oars, but I knew they'd do no good in such a chop, even if they\ndidn't break; and pretty soon he found it so, for he drew them in and\nbegan to untie the anchor-rope and wind it round his waist. I sprang to\nhim.\n\n\"What are you doing, Dan?\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"I can swim, at least,\" he answered.\n\n\"And tow us?--a mile? You know you can't! It's madness!\"\n\n\"I must try. Little Faith will die, if we don't get ashore.\"\n\n\"She's dead now, Dan.\"\n\n\"What! No, no, she isn't. Faith isn't dead. But we must get ashore.\"\n\n\"Dan,\" I cried, clinging to his arm, \"Faith's only one. But if you die\nso,--and you will!--I shall die too.\"\n\n\"You?\"\n\n\"Yes; because, if it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have been here at\nall.\"\n\n\"And is that all the reason?\" he asked, still at work.\n\n\"Reason enough,\" said I.\n\n\"Not quite,\" said he.\n\n\"Dan,--for my sake\"----\n\n\"I can't, Georgie. Don't ask me. I mustn't\"--and here he stopped short,\nwith the coil of rope in his hand, and fixed me with his eye, and his\nlook was terrible--\"_we_ mustn't let Faith die.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"try it, if you dare,--and as true as there's a Lord in\nheaven, I'll cut the rope!\"\n\nHe hesitated, for he saw I was resolute; and I would, I declare I would\nhave done it; for, do you know, at the moment I hated the little dead\nthing in the bottom of the boat there.\n\nJust then there came a streak of sunshine through the gloom where we'd\nbeen plunging between wind and water, and then a patch of blue sky, and\nthe great cloud went blowing down river. Dan threw away the rope and\ntook out the oars again.\n\n\"Give me one, Dan,\" said I; but he shook his head. \"Oh, Dan, because I'm\nso sorry!\"\n\n\"See to her, then,--fetch Faith to,\" he replied, not looking at me, and\nmaking up with great sturdy pulls.\n\nSo I busied myself, though I couldn't do a bit of good. The instant we\ntouched bottom, Dan snatched her, sprang through the water and up the\nlanding. I stayed behind; as the boat recoiled, pushed in a little,\nfastened the anchor and threw it over, and then followed.\n\nOur house was next the landing, and there Dan had carried Faith; and\nwhen I reached it, a great fire was roaring up the chimney, and the\ntea-kettle hung over it, and he was rubbing Faith's feet hard enough to\nstrike sparks. I couldn't understand exactly what made Dan so fiercely\nearnest, for I thought I knew just how he felt about Faith; but\nsuddenly, when nothing seemed to answer, and he stood up and our eyes\nmet, I saw such a haggard, conscience-stricken face that it all rushed\nover me. But now we had done what we could, and then I felt all at once\nas if every moment that I effected nothing was drawing out murder.\nSomething flashed by the window, I tore out of the house and threw up my\narms, I don't know whether I screamed or not, but I caught the doctor's\neye, and he jumped from his gig and followed me in. We had a siege of\nit. But at length, with hot blankets, and hot water, and hot brandy\ndribbled down her throat, a little pulse began to play upon Faith's\ntemple and a little pink to beat up and down her cheek, and she opened\nher pretty dark eyes and lifted herself and wrung the water out of her\nbraids; then she sank back.\n\n\"Faith! Faith! speak to me!\" said Dan, close in her ear. \"Don't you know\nme?\"\n\n\"Go away,\" she said, hoarsely, pushing his face with her flat wet palm.\n\"You let the sail take me over and drown me, while you kissed Georgie's\nhand.\"\n\nI flung my hand before her eyes.\n\n\"Is there a kiss on those fingers?\" I cried, in a blaze. \"He never\nkissed my hands or my lips. Dan is your husband, Faith!\"\n\nFor all answer Faith hid her head and gave a little moan. Somehow I\ncouldn't stand that; so I ran and put my arms round her neck and lifted\nher face and kissed it, and then we cried together. And Dan, walking the\nfloor, took up his hat and went out, while she never cast a look after\nhim. To think of such a great strong nature and such a powerful depth of\nfeeling being wasted on such a little limp rag! I cried as much for that\nas anything. Then I helped Faith into my bedroom, and running home, I\ngot her some dry clothes,--after rummaging enough, dear knows! for you'd\nbe more like to find her nightcap in the tea-caddy than elsewhere,--and\nI made her a corner on the settle, for she was afraid to stay in the\nbedroom, and when she was comfortably covered there she fell asleep.\nDan came in soon and sat down beside her, his eyes on the floor, never\nglancing aside nor smiling, but gloomier than the grave. As for me, I\nfelt at ease now, so I went and laid my hand on the back of his chair\nand made him look up. I wanted he should know the same rest that I\nhad, and perhaps he did,--for, still looking up, the quiet smile came\nfloating round his lips, and his eyes grew steady and sweet as they used\nto be before he married Faith. Then I went bustling lightly about the\nkitchen again.\n\n\"Dan,\" I said, \"if you'd just bring me in a couple of those chickens\nstalking out there like two gentlemen from Spain.\"\n\nWhile he was gone I flew round and got a cake into the bake-kettle, and\na pan of biscuit down before the fire; and I set the tea to steep on the\ncoals, because father always likes his tea strong enough to bear up an\negg, after a hard day's work, and he'd had that to-day; and I put on the\ncoffee to boil, for I knew Dan never had it at home, because Faith liked\nit and it didn't agree with her. And then he brought me in the chickens\nall ready for the pot, and so at last I sat down, but at the opposite\nside of the chimney. Then he rose, and, without exactly touching me,\nswept me back to the other side, where lay the great net I was making\nfor father; and I took the little stool by the settle, and not far from\nhim, and went to work.\n\n\"Georgie,\" said Dan, at length, after he'd watched me a considerable\ntime, \"if any word I may have said to-day disturbed you a moment, I want\nyou to know that it hurt me first, and just as much.\"\n\n\"Yes, Dan,\" said I.\n\nI've always thought there was something real noble between Dan and me\nthen. There was I,--well, I don't mind telling you. And he,--yes, I'm\nsure he loved me perfectly,--you mustn't be startled, I'll tell you how\nit was,--and always had, only maybe he hadn't known it; but it was deep\ndown in his heart just the same, and by-and-by it stirred. There we\nwere, both of us thoroughly conscious, yet neither of us expressing it\nby a word, and trying not to by a look,--both of us content to wait for\nthe next life, when we could belong to one another. In those days I\ncontrived to have it always pleasure enough for me just to know that Dan\nwas in the room; and though that wasn't often, I never grudged Faith her\nright in him, perhaps because I knew she didn't care anything about it.\nYou see, this is how it was.\n\nWhen Dan was a lad of sixteen, and took care of his mother, a ship went\nto pieces down there on the island. It was one of the worst storms that\never whistled, and though crowds were on the shore, it was impossible to\nreach her. They could see the poor wretches hanging in the rigging, and\ndropping one by one, and they could only stay and sicken, for the surf\nstove the boats, and they didn't know then how to send out ropes on\nrockets or on cannon-balls, and so the night fell, and the people wrung\ntheir hands and left the sea to its prey, and felt as if blue sky could\nnever come again. And with the bright, keen morning not a vestige of the\nship, but here a spar and there a door, and on the side of a sand-hill\na great dog watching over a little child that he'd kept warm all night.\nDan, he'd got up at turn of tide, and walked down,--the sea running over\nthe road knee-deep,--for there was too much swell for boats; and when\nday broke, he found the little girl, and carried her up to town. He\ndidn't take her home, for he saw that what clothes she had were the very\nfinest,--made as delicately,--with seams like the hair-strokes on that\nheart's-ease there; and he concluded that he couldn't bring her up as\nshe ought to be. So he took her round to the rich men, and represented\nthat she was the child of a lady, and that a poor fellow like\nhimself--for Dan was older than his years, you see--couldn't do her\njustice: she was a slight little thing, and needed dainty training\nand fancy food, maybe a matter of seven years old, and she spoke some\nforeign language, and perhaps she didn't speak it plain, for nobody knew\nwhat it was. However, everybody was very much interested, and everybody\nwas willing to give and to help, but nobody wanted to take her, and the\nupshot of it was that Dan refused all their offers and took her himself.\n\nHis mother'd been in to our house all the afternoon before, and she'd\nkept taking her pipe out of her mouth,--she had the asthma, and\nsmoked,--and kept sighing.\n\n\"This storm's going to bring me something,\" says she, in a mighty\nmiserable tone. \"I'm sure of it!\"\n\n\"No harm, I hope, Miss Devereux,\" said mother.\n\n\"Well, Rhody,\"--mother's father, he was a queer kind,--called his girls\nall after the thirteen States, and there being none left for Uncle Mat,\nhe called him after the state of matrimony,--\"Well, Rhody,\" she replied,\nrather dismally, and knocking the ashes out of the bowl, \"I don't know;\nbut I'll have faith to believe that the Lord won't send me no ill\nwithout distincter warning. And that it's good I _have_ faith to\nbelieve.\"\n\nAnd so when the child appeared, and had no name, and couldn't answer for\nherself, Mrs. Devereux called her Faith.\n\nWe're a people of presentiments down here on the Flats, and well we\nmay be. You'd own up yourself, maybe, if in the dark of the night, you\nlocked in sleep, there's a knock on the door enough to wake the dead,\nand you start up and listen and nothing follows; and falling back,\nyou're just dozing off, and there it is once more, so that the lad in\nthe next room cries out, \"Who's that, mother?\" No one answering, you're\nhalf lost again, when _rap_ comes the hand again, the loudest of the\nthree, and you spring to the door and open it, and there's nought there\nbut a wind from the graves blowing in your face; and after a while you\nlearn that in that hour of that same night your husband was lost at sea.\nWell, that happened to Mrs. Devereux. And I haven't time to tell you the\nwarnings I've known of. As for Faith, I mind that she said herself, as\nwe were in the boat for that clear midnight sail, that the sea had a\nspite against her, but third time was trying time.\n\nSo Faith grew up, and Dan sent her to school what he could, for he set\nstore by her. She was always ailing,--a little, wilful, pettish thing,\nbut pretty as a flower; and folks put things into her head, and she\nbegan to think she was some great shakes; and she may have been a matter\nof seventeen years old when Mrs. Devereux died. Dan, as simple at\ntwenty-six as he had been ten years before, thought to go on just in\nthe old way, but the neighbors were one too many for him; and they all\nrepresented that it would never do, and so on, till the poor fellow got\nperplexed and vexed and half beside himself. There wasn't the first\nthing she could do for herself, and he couldn't afford to board her out,\nfor Dan was only a laboring-man, mackerelling all summer and shoemaking\nall winter, less the dreadful times when he stayed out on the Georges;\nand then he couldn't afford, either, to keep her there and ruin the poor\ngirl's reputation;--and what did Dan do but come to me with it all?\n\nNow for a number of years I'd been up in the other part of the town with\nAunt Netty, who kept a shop that I tended between schools and before and\nafter, and I'd almost forgotten there was such a soul on earth as Dan\nDevereux,--though he'd not forgotten me. I'd got through the Grammar\nand had a year in the High, and suppose I should have finished with an\neducation and gone off teaching somewhere, instead of being here now,\ncheerful as heart could wish, with a little black-haired hussy tiltering\non the back of my chair.--Rolly, get down! Her name's Laura,--for his\nmother.--I mean I might have done all this, if at that time mother\nhadn't been thrown on her back, and been bedridden ever since. I haven't\nsaid much about mother yet, but there all the time she was, just as she\nis to-day, in her little tidy bed in one corner of the great kitchen,\nsweet as a saint, and as patient; and I had to come and keep house for\nfather. He never meant that I should lose by it, father didn't; begged,\nborrowed, or stolen, bought or hired, I should have my books, he said:\nhe's mighty proud of my learning, though between you and me it's little\nenough to be proud of; but the neighbors think I know 'most as much as\nthe minister,--and I let 'em think. Well, while Mrs. Devereux was sick I\nwas over there a good deal,--for if Faith had one talent, it was total\nincapacity,--and there had a chance of knowing the stuff that Dan was\nmade of; and I declare to man 'twould have touched a heart of stone to\nsee the love between the two. She thought Dan held up the sky, and Dan\nthought she was the sky. It's no wonder,--the risks our men lead can't\nmake common-sized women out of their wives and mothers. But I hadn't\nbeen coming in and out, busying about where Dan was, all that time,\nwithout making any mark; though he was so lost in grief about his mother\nthat he didn't take notice of his other feelings, or think of himself at\nall. And who could care the less about him for that? It always brings\ndown a woman to see a man wrapt in some sorrow that's lawful, and tender\nas it is large. And when he came and told me what the neighbors said he\nmust do with Faith, the blood stood still in my heart.\n\n\"Ask mother, Dan,\" says I,--for I couldn't have advised him. \"She knows\nbest about everything.\"\n\nSo he asked her.\n\n\"I think--I'm sorry to think, for I fear she'll not make you a good\nwife,\" said mother, \"but that perhaps her love for you will teach her to\nbe--you'd best marry Faith.\"\n\n\"But I can't marry her!\" said Dan, half choking; \"I don't want to marry\nher,--it--it makes me uncomfortable-like to think of such a thing. I\ncare for the child plenty----Besides,\" said Dan, catching at a bright\nhope, \"I'm not sure that she'd have me.\"\n\n\"Have you, poor boy! What else can she do?\"\n\nDan groaned.\n\n\"Poor little Faith!\" said mother. \"She's so pretty, Dan, and she's so\nyoung, and she's pliant. And then how can we tell what may turn up about\nher some day? She may be a duke's daughter yet,--who knows? Think of the\nstroke of good-fortune she may give you!\"\n\n\"But I don't love her,\" said Dan, as a finality.\n\n\"Perhaps----It isn't----You don't love any one else?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Dan, as a matter of course, and not at all with reflection.\nAnd then, as his eyes went wandering, there came over them a misty look,\njust as the haze creeps between you and some object away out at sea, and\nhe seemed to be searching his very soul. Suddenly the look swept off\nthem, and his eyes struck mine, and he turned, not having meant to, and\nfaced me entirely, and there came such a light into his countenance,\nsuch a smile round his lips, such a red stamped his cheek, and he bent\na little,--and it was just as if the angel of the Lord had shaken his\nwings over us in passing, and we both of us knew that here was a man and\nhere was a woman, each for the other, in life and death; and I just hid\nmy head in my apron, and mother turned on her pillow with a little moan.\nHow long that lasted I can't say, but by-and-by I heard mother's\nvoice, clear and sweet as a tolling bell far away on some fair Sunday\nmorning,--\n\n\"The Lord is in his holy temple, the Lord's throne is in heaven: his\neyes behold, his eyelids try the children of men.\"\n\nAnd nobody spoke.\n\n\"Thou art my Father, my God, and the rock of my salvation. Thou wilt\nlight my candle: the Lord my God will enlighten my darkness. For with\nthee is the fountain of life: in thy light shall we see light.\"\n\nThen came the hush again, and Dan started to his feet, and began to walk\nup and down the room as if something drove him; but wearying, he stood\nand leaned his head on the chimney there. And mother's voice broke the\nstillness anew, and she said,--\n\n\"Hath God forgotten to be gracious? His mercy endureth forever. And none\nof them that trust in him shall be desolate.\"\n\nThere was something in mother's tone that made me forget myself and my\nsorrow, and look; and there she was, as she hadn't been before for six\nmonths, half risen from the bed, one hand up, and her whole face white\nand shining with confident faith. Well, when I see all that such trust\nhas buoyed mother over, I wish to goodness I had it: I take more after\nMartha. But never mind, do well here and you'll do well there, say I.\nPerhaps you think it wasn't much, the quiet and the few texts breathed\nthrough it; but sometimes when one's soul's at a white heat, it may be\nmoulded like wax with a finger. As for me, maybe God hardened Pharaoh's\nheart,--though how that was Pharaoh's fault I never could see. But\nDan,--he felt what it was to have a refuge in trouble, to have a great\nlove always extending over him like a wing; he longed for it; he\ncouldn't believe it was his now, he was so suddenly convicted of all sin\nand wickedness; and something sprang up in his heart, a kind of holy\npassion that he felt to be possible for this great and tender Divine\nBeing; and he came and fell on his knees by the side of the bed, crying\nout for mother to show him the way; and mother, she put her hand on his\nhead and prayed,--prayed, oh, so beautifully, that it makes the water\nstand in my eyes now to remember what she said. But I didn't feel so\nthen, my heart and my soul were rebellious, and love for Dan alone kept\nme under, not love for God. And in fact, if ever I'd got to heaven\nthen, love for Dan'd have been my only saving grace; for I was mighty\nhigh-spirited, as a girl. Well, Dan he never made open profession; but\nwhen he left the house, he went and asked Faith to marry him.\n\nNow Faith didn't care anything about Dan,--except the quiet attachment\nthat she couldn't help, from living in the house with him, and he'd\nalways petted and made much of her, and dressed her like a doll,--he\nwasn't the kind of man to take her fancy: she'd have maybe liked some\nslender, smooth-faced chap; but Dan was a black, shaggy fellow, with\nshoulders like the cross-tree, and a length of limb like Saul's, and\neyes set deep, like lamps in caverns. And he had a great, powerful\nheart,--and, oh, how it was lost! for she might have won it, she might\nhave made him love her, since I would have stood wide away and aside for\nthe sake of seeing him happy. But Faith was one of those that, if they\ncan't get what they want, haven't any idea of putting up with what they\nhave,--God forgive me, if I'm hard on the child! And she couldn't give\nDan an answer right off, but was loath to think of it, and went flirting\nabout among the other boys; and Dan, when he saw she wasn't so easily\ngotten, perhaps set more value on her. For Faith, she grew prettier\nevery day; her great brown eyes were so soft and clear, and had a wide,\nsorrowful way of looking at you; and her cheeks, that were usually pale,\nblossomed to roses when you spoke to her, her hair drooping over them\ndark and silky; and though she was slack and untidy and at loose ends\nabout her dress, she somehow always seemed like a princess in disguise;\nand when she had on any thing new,--a sprigged calico, and her little\nstraw bonnet with the pink ribbons, and Mrs. Devereux's black scarf, for\ninstance,--you'd have allowed that she might have been daughter to the\nQueen of Sheba. I don't know, but I rather think Dan wouldn't have said\nany more to Faith, from various motives, you see, notwithstanding the\nneighbors were still remonstrating with him, if it hadn't been that Miss\nBrown--she that lived round the corner there; the town's well quit\nof her now, poor thing!--went to saying the same stuff to Faith,\nand telling her all that other folks said. And Faith went home in a\npassion,--some of your timid kind nothing ever abashes, and nobody gets\nto the windward of them,--and, being perfectly furious, fell to accusing\nDan of having brought her to this, so that Dan actually believed he had,\nand was cut to the quick with contrition, and told her that all the\nreparation he could make he was waiting and wishing to make, and then\nthere came floods of tears. Some women seem to have set out with the\nidea that life's a desert for them to cross, and they've laid in a\nsupply of water-bags accordingly,--but it's the meanest weapon! And then\nagain, there's men that are iron, and not to be bent under calamities,\nthat these tears can twist round your little finger. Well, I suppose\nFaith concluded 'twas no use to go hungry because her bread wasn't\nbuttered on both sides, but she always acted as if she'd condescended\nninety degrees in marrying Dan, and Dan always seemed to feel that he'd\ndone her a great injury; and there it was.\n\nI kept in the house for a time; mother was worse.--and I thought the\nless Dan saw of me the better; I kind of hoped he'd forget, and find his\nhappiness where it ought to be. But the first time I saw him, when Faith\nhad been his wife all the spring, there was the look in his eyes that\ntold of the ache in his heart. Faith wasn't very happy herself, of\ncourse, though she was careless; and she gave him trouble,--keeping\ncompany with the young men just as before; and she got into a way of\nflying straight to me, if Dan ventured to reprove her ever so lightly;\nand stormy nights, when he was gone, and in his long trips, she always\nlocked up her doors and came over and got into my bed; and she was one\nof those that never listened to reason, and it was none so easy for me,\nyou may suppose.\n\nThings had gone on now for some three years, and I'd about lived in my\nbooks,--I'd tried to teach Faith some, but she wouldn't go any farther\nthan newspaper stories,--when one day Dan took her and me to sail, and\nwe were to have had a clam-chowder on the Point, if the squall hadn't\ncome. As it was, we'd got to put up with chicken-broth, and it couldn't\nhave been better, considering who made it. It was getting on toward the\ncool of the May evening, the sunset was round on the other side of the\nhouse, but all the east looked as if the sky had been stirred up\nwith currant-juice, till it grew purple and dark, and then the two\nlight-houses flared out and showed us the lip of froth lapping the\nshadowy shore beyond, and I--heard father's voice, and he came in.\n\nThere was nothing but the fire-light in the room, and it threw about\ngreat shadows, so that at first entering all was indistinct; but I heard\na foot behind father's, and then a form appeared, and something, I never\ncould tell what, made a great shiver rush down my back, just as when a\ncreature is frightened in the dark at what you don't see, and so, though\nmy soul was unconscious, my body felt that there was danger in the air.\nDan had risen and lighted the lamp that swings in the chimney, and\nfather first of all had gone up and kissed mother, and left the stranger\nstanding; then he turned round, saying,--\n\n\"A tough day,--it's been a tough day; and here's some un to prove it.\nGeorgie, hope that pot's steam don't belie it, for Mr. Gabriel Verelay\nand I want a good supper and a good bed.\"\n\nAt this, the stranger, still standing, bowed.\n\n\"Here's the one, father,\" said I. \"But about the bed,--Faith'll have to\nstay here,--and I don't see--unless Dan takes him over\"----\n\n\"That I'll do,\" said Dan.\n\n\"All right,\" said the stranger, in a voice that you didn't seem to\nnotice while he was speaking, but that you remembered afterwards like\nthe ring of any silver thing that has been thrown down; and he dropped\nhis hat on the floor and drew near the fireplace, warming hands that\nwere slender and brown, but shapely as a woman's. I was taking up the\nsupper; so I only gave him a glance or two, and saw him standing there,\nhis left hand extended to the blaze, and his eye resting lightly and\nthen earnestly on Faith in her pretty sleep, and turning away much as\none turns from a picture. At length I came to ask him to sit by, and at\nthat moment Faith's eyes opened.\n\nFaith always woke up just as a baby does, wide and bewildered, and the\nfire had flushed her cheeks, and her hair was disordered, and she fixed\nher gaze on him as if he had stepped out of her dream, her lips half\nparted and then curling in a smile,--but in a second he moved off with\nme, and Faith slipped down and into the little bedroom.\n\nWell, we didn't waste many words until father'd lost the edge of his\nappetite, and then I told about Faith.\n\n\"'F that don't beat the Dutch!\" said father. \"Here's Mr.--Mr.\"------\n\n\"Gabriel,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"Yes,--Mr. Gabriel Verelay been served the same trick by the same\nsquall, only worse and more of it,--knocked off the yacht--What's that\nyou call her?\"\n\n\"La belle Louise.\"\n\n\"And left for drowned,--if they see him go at all. But he couldn't 'a'\nsinked in that sea, if he'd tried. He kep' afloat; we blundered into\nhim; and here he is.\"\n\nDan and I looked round In considerable surprise, for he was dry as an\nAugust leaf.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the stranger, coloring, and with the least little turn of his\nwords, as if he didn't always speak English, \"the good captain reached\nshore, and, finding sticks, he kindled a fire, and we did dry our\nclothes until it made fine weather once more.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said father; \"but 't wouldn't been quite such fine weather, I\nreckon, if this 'd gone to the fishes!\" And he pushed something across\nthe table.\n\nIt was a pouch with steel snaps, and well stuffed. The stranger colored\nagain, and held his hand for it, and the snap burst, and great gold\npieces, English coin and very old French ones, rolled about the table,\nand father shut his eyes tight; and just then Faith came back and\nslipped into her chair. I saw her eyes sparkle as we all reached,\nlaughing and joking, to gather them; and Mr. Gabriel--we got into the\nway of calling him so,--he liked it best--hurried to get them out of\nsight as if he'd committed some act of ostentation. And then, to make\namends, he threw off what constraint he had worn in this new atmosphere\nof ours, and was so gay, so full of questions and quips and conceits,\nall spoken in his strange way, his voice was so sweet, and he laughed so\nmuch and so like a boy, and his words had so much point and brightness,\nthat I could think of nothing but the showers of colored stars in\nfireworks. Dan felt it like a play, sat quiet, but enjoying, and I saw\nhe liked it;--the fellow had a way of attaching every one. Father was\nuproarious, and kept calling out, \"Mother, do you hear?--d' you hear\n_that_, mother?\" And Faith, she was near, taking it all in as a flower\ndoes sunshine, only smiling a little, and looking utterly happy. Then I\nhurried to clear up, and Faith sat in the great arm-chair, and father\ngot out the pipes, and you could hardly see across the room for the wide\ntobacco-wreaths; and then it was father's turn, and he told story after\nstory of the hardships and the dangers and the charms of our way of\nliving. And I could see Mr. Gabriel's cheek blanch, and he would bend\nforward, forgetting to smoke, and his breath coming short, and then\nright himself like a boat after lurching,--he had such natural ways, and\nexcept that he'd maybe been a spoiled child, he would have had a good\nheart, as hearts go. And nothing would do at last but he must stay and\nlive the same scenes for a little; and father told him 't wouldn't\npay;--they weren't so much to go through with as to tell of,--there was\ntoo much prose in the daily life, and too much dirt, and 't wa'n't fit\nfor gentlemen. Oh, he said, he'd been used to roughing it,--woodsing,\ncamping and gunning and yachting, ever since he'd been a free man. He\nwas Canadian, and had been cruising from the St. Lawrence to Florida,\n--and now, as his companions would go on without him, he had a mind to\ntry a bit of coast-life. And could he board here? or was there any handy\nplace? And father said, there was Dan,--Dan Devereux, a man that hadn't\nhis match at oar or helm. And Mr. Gabriel turned his keen eye and bowed\nagain,--and couldn't Dan take Mr. Gabriel? And before Dan could answer,\nfor he'd referred it to Faith, Mr. Gabriel had forgotten all about it,\nand was humming a little French song and stirring the coals with the\ntongs. And that put father off in a fresh remembrance; and as the hours\nlengthened, the stories grew fearful, and he told them deep into the\nmidnight, till at last Mr. Gabriel stood up.\n\n\"No more, good friend,\" said he. \"But I will have a taste of this life\nperilous. And now where is it that I go?\"\n\nDan also stood up.\n\n\"My little woman,\" said he, glancing at Faith, \"thinks there's a corner\nfor you, Sir.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon\"--And Mr. Gabriel paused, with a shadow skimming\nover his clear dark face.\n\nDan wondered what he was begging pardon for, but thought perhaps he\nhadn't heard him, so he repeated,--\n\n\"My wife\"--nodding over his shoulder at Faith, \"she's my wife--thinks\nthere's a\"----\n\n\"She's your wife?\" said Mr. Gabriel, his eyes opening and brightening\nthe way an aurora runs up the sky, and looking first at one and then at\nthe other, as if he couldn't understand how so delicate a flower grew on\nso thorny a stem.\n\nThe red flushed up Dan's face,--and up mine too, for the matter of\nthat,--but in a minute the stranger had dropped his glance.\n\n\"And why did you not tell me,\" he said, \"that I might have found her\nless beautiful?\"\n\nThen he raised his shoulders, gave her a saucy bow, with his hand on\nDan's arm,--Dan, who was now too well pleased at having Faith made\nhappy by a compliment to sift it,--and they went out.\n\nBut I was angry enough; and you may imagine I wasn't much soothed by\nseeing Faith, who'd been so die-away all the evening, sitting up before\nmy scrap of looking-glass, trying in my old coral earrings, bowing up my\nribbons, and plaiting and prinking till the clock frightened her into\nbed.\n\nThe next morning, mother, who wasn't used to such disturbance, was ill,\nand I was kept pretty busy tending on her for two or three days. Faith\nhad insisted on going home the first thing after breakfast, and in\nthat time I heard no more of anybody,--for father was out with the\nnight-tides, and, except to ask how mother did, and if I'd seen the\nstray from the Lobblelyese again, was too tired for talking when he came\nback. That had been--let me see--on a Monday, I think,--yes, on a\nMonday; and Thursday evening, as in-doors had begun to tell on me, and\nmother was so much improved, I thought I'd run out for a walk along the\nseawall. The sunset was creeping round everything, and lying in great\nsheets on the broad, still river, the children were frolicking in\nthe water, and all was so gay, and the air was so sweet, that I went\nlingering along farther than I'd meant, and by-and-by who should I see\nbut a couple sauntering toward me at my own gait, and one of them was\nFaith. She had on a muslin with little roses blushing all over it,\nand she floated along in it as if she were in a pink cloud, and she'd\nsnatched a vine of the tender young woodbine as she went, and, throwing\nit round her shoulders, held the two ends in one hand like a ribbon,\nwhile with the other she swung her white sun-bonnet. She laughed, and\nshook her head at me, and there, large as life, under the dark braids\ndangled my coral ear-rings, that she'd adopted without leave or license.\nShe'd been down to the lower landing to meet Dan,--a thing she'd done\nbefore I don't know when,--and was walking up with Mr. Gabriel while Dan\nstayed behind to see to things. I kept them talking, and Mr. Gabriel was\nsparkling with fun, for he'd got to feeling acquainted, and it had put\nhim in high spirits to get ashore at this hour, though he liked the sea,\nand we were all laughing, when Dan came up. Now I must confess I hadn't\nfancied Mr. Gabriel over and above; I suppose my first impression had\nhardened into a prejudice; and after I'd fathomed the meaning of Faith's\nfine feathers I liked him less than ever. But when Dan came up, he\njoined right in, gay and hearty, and liking his new acquaintance so\nmuch, that, thinks I, he must know best, and I'll let him look out for\nhis interests himself. It would 'a' been no use, though, for Dan to\npretend to beat the Frenchman at his own weapons,--and I don't know that\nI should have cared to have him. The older I grow, the less I think of\nyour mere intellect; throw learning out of the scales, and give me a\ngreat, warm heart,--like Dan's.\n\nWell, it was getting on in the evening, when the latch lifted, and in\nran Faith. She twisted my ear-rings out of her hair, exclaiming,--\n\n\"Oh, Georgie, are you busy? Can't you perse my ears now?\"\n\n\"Pierce them yourself, Faith.\"\n\n\"Well, pierce, then. But I can't,--you know I can't. Won't you now,\nGeorgie?\" and she tossed the ear-rings into my lap.\n\n\"Why, Faith,\" said I, \"how'd you contrive to wear these, if your ears\naren't\"--\n\n\"Oh, I tied them on. Come now, Georgie!\"\n\nSo I got the ball of yarn and the darning-needle.\n\n\"Oh, not such a big one!\" cried she.\n\n\"Perhaps you'd like a cambric needle,\" said I.\n\n\"I don't want a winch,\" she pouted.\n\n\"Well, here's a smaller one. Now kneel down.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you wait a moment, till I screw up my courage.\"\n\n\"No need. You can talk, and I'll take you at unawares.\"\n\nSo Faith knelt down, and I got all ready.\n\n\"And what shall I talk about?\" said she. \"About Aunt Rhody, or Mr.\nGabriel, or--I'll tell you the queerest thing, Georgie! Going to now?\"\n\n\"Do be quiet, Faith, and not keep your head flirting about so!\"--for\nshe'd started up to speak. Then she composed herself once more.\n\n\"What was I saying? Oh, about that. Yes, Georgie, the queerest thing!\nYou see, this evening, when Dan was out, I was sitting talkin' with Mr.\nGabriel, and he was wondering how I came to be dropped down here, so I\ntold him all about it. And he was so interested that I went and showed\nhim the things I had on when Dan found me,--you know they've been kept\nreal nice. And he took them, and looked them over, close, admiring them,\nand--and--admiring me,--and finally he started, and then held the frock\nto the light, and then lifted a little plait, and in the under side of\nthe belt-lining there was a name very finely wrought,--Virginie des\nViolets; and he looked at all the others, and in some hidden corner of\nevery one was the initials of the same name,--V. des V.\n\n\"'That should be your name, Mrs. Devereux,' says he.\n\n\"'Oh, no!' says I. 'My name's Faith.'\n\n\"Well, and on that he asked, was there no more; and so I took off the\nlittle chain that I've always worn and showed him that, and he asked if\nthere was a face in it, in what we thought was a coin, you know; and I\nsaid, oh, it didn't open; and he turned it over and over, and finally\nsomething snapped, and there _was_ a face,--here, you shall see it,\nGeorgie.\"\n\nAnd Faith drew it from her bosom, and opened and held it before me; for\nI'd sat with my needle poised, and forgetting to strike. And there was\nthe face indeed, a sad, serious face, dark and sweet, yet the image of\nFaith, and with the same mouth,--that so lovely in a woman becomes weak\nin a man,--and on the other side there were a few threads of hair, with\nthe same darkness and fineness as Faith's hair, and under them a little\npicture chased in the gold and enamelled, which, from what I've read\nsince, I suppose must have been the crest of the Des Violets.\n\n\"And what did Mr. Gabriel say then?\" I asked, giving it back to Faith,\nwho put her head into the old position again.\n\n\"Oh, he acted real queer. 'The very man!' he cried out. 'The man\nhimself! His portrait,--I have seen it a hundred times!' And then\nhe told me that about a dozen years ago or more, a ship sailed\nfrom--from--I forget the place exactly, somewhere up there where _he_\ncame from,--Mr. Gabriel, I mean,--and among the passengers was this\nman and his wife, and his little daughter, whose name was Virginie des\nViolets, and the ship was never heard from again. But he says that\nwithout a doubt I'm the little daughter and my name is Virginie, though\nI suppose every one'll call me Faith. Oh, and that isn't the queerest.\nThe queerest is, this gentleman,\" and Faith lifted her head, \"was very\nrich. I can't tell you how much he owned. Lands that you can walk on a\nwhole day and not come to the end, and ships, and gold. And the whole of\nit's lying idle and waiting for an heir,--and I, Georgie, am the heir.\"\n\nAnd Faith told it with cheeks burning and eyes shining, but yet quite as\nif she'd been born and brought up in the knowledge.\n\n\"It don't seem to move you much, Faith,\" said I, perfectly amazed,\nalthough I'd frequently expected something of the kind.\n\n\"Well, I may never get it, and so on. If I do, I'll give you a silk\ndress and set you up in a book-store. But here's a queerer thing yet.\nDes Violets is the way Mr. Gabriel's own name is spelt, and his father\nand mine--his mother and--Well, some way or other we're sort of\ncousins. Only think, Georgie! isn't that--I thought, to be sure, when he\nquartered at our house, Dan'd begin to take me to do, if I looked at\nhim sideways,--make the same fuss that he does, if I nod to any of the\nother young men.\"\n\n\"I don't think Dan speaks before he should, Faith.\"\n\n\"Why don't you say Virginie?\" says she, laughing.\n\n\"Because Faith you've always been, and Faith you'll have to remain, with\nus, to the end of the chapter.\"\n\n\"Well, that's as it may be. But Dan can't object now to my going where\nI'm a mind to with my own cousin!\" And here Faith laid her ear on the\nball of yarn again.\n\n\"Hasten, headsman!\" said she, out of a novel, \"or they'll wonder where I\nam.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I answered, \"just let me run the needle through the emery.\"\n\n\"Yes, Georgie,\" said Faith, going back with her memories while I\nsharpened my steel, \"Mr. Gabriel and I are kin. And he said that the\nmoment he laid eyes on me he knew I was of different blood from the rest\nof the people\"--.\n\n\"What people?\" asked I.\n\n\"Why, you, and Dan, and all these. And he said he was struck to stone\nwhen he heard I was married to Dan,--I must have been entrapped,--the\ncourts would annul it,--any one could see the difference between us\"--\n\nHere was my moment, and I didn't spare it, but jabbed the needle into\nthe ball of yarn, if her ear did lie between them.\n\n\"Yes!\" says I, \"anybody with half an eye can see the difference between\nyou, and that's a fact! Nobody'd ever imagine for a breath that you were\ndeserving of Dan,--Dan, who's so noble he'd die for what he thought was\nright,--you, who are so selfish and idle and fickle and\"--\n\nAnd at that Faith burst out crying.\n\n\"Oh, I never expected you'd talk about me so, Georgie!\" said she between\nher sobs. \"How could I tell you were such a mighty friend of Dan's? And\nbesides, if ever I was Virginie des Violets, I'm Faith Devereux now, and\nDan'll resent _any one's_ speaking so about his wife!\"\n\nAnd she stood up, the tears sparkling like diamonds in her flashing dark\neyes, her cheeks red, and her little fist clenched.\n\n\"That's the right spirit, Faith,\" says I, \"and I'm glad to see you show\nit. And as for this young Canadian, the best thing to do with him is to\nsend him packing. I don't believe a word he says; it's more than likely\nnothing but to get into your good graces.\"\n\n\"But there's the names,\" said she, so astonished that she didn't\nremember she was angry.\n\n\"Happened so.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! 'Happened so' A likely story! It's nothing but your envy, and\nthat's all!\"\n\n\"Faith!\" says I, for I forgot she didn't know how close she struck.\n\n\"Well,--I mean----There, don't let's talk about it any more! How under\nthe sun am I going to get these ends tied?\"\n\n\"Come here. There! Now for the other one.\"\n\n\"No, I sha'n't let you do that; you hurt me dreadfully, and you got\nangry and took the big needle.\"\n\n\"I thought you expected to be hurt.\"\n\n\"I didn't expect to be stabbed.\"\n\n\"Well, just as you please. I suppose you'll go round with one ear-ring.\"\n\n\"Like a little pig with his ear cropped? No, I shall do it myself. See\nthere, Georgie!\" and she threw a bit of a box into my hands.\n\nI opened it, and there lay inside, on their velvet cushion, a pair of\nthe prettiest things you ever saw,--a tiny bunch of white grapes, and\nevery grape a round pearl, and all hung so that they would tinkle\ntogether on their golden stems every time Faith shook her head,--and she\nhad a cunning little way of shaking it often enough.\n\n\"These must have cost a penny, Faith,\" said I. \"Where'd you get them?\"\n\n\"Mr. Gabriel gave them to me, just now. He went up-town and bought them.\nAnd I don't want him to know that my ears weren't bored.\"\n\n\"Mr. Gabriel? And you took them?\"\n\n\"Of course I took them, and mighty glad to get them.\"\n\n\"Faith, dear,\" said I, \"don't you know that you shouldn't accept\npresents from gentlemen, and especially now you're a married woman, and\nespecially from those of higher station?\"\n\n\"But he isn't higher.\"\n\n\"You know what I mean. And then, too, he is; for one always takes rank\nfrom one's husband.\"\n\nFaith looked rather downcast at this.\n\n\"Yes,\" said I,--\"and pearls and calico\"----\n\n\"Just because you haven't got a pair yourself! There, be still! I don't\nwant any of your instructions in duty!\"\n\n\"You ought to put up with a word from a friend, Faith,\" said I. \"You\nalways come to me with your grievances. And I'll tell you what I'll do.\nYou used to like these coral branches of mine; and if you'll give those\nback to Mr. Gabriel, you shall have the coral.\"\n\nWell, Faith she hesitated, standing there trying to muster her mind to\nthe needle, and it ended by her taking the coral, though I don't believe\nshe returned the pearls,--but we none of us ever saw them afterwards.\n\nWe'd been talking in a pretty low tone, because mother was asleep; and\njust as she'd finished the other ear, and a little drop of blood stood\nup on it like a live ruby, the door opened and Dan and Mr. Gabriel came\nin. There never was a prettier picture than Faith at that moment, and so\nthe young stranger thought, for he stared at her, smiling and at ease,\njust as if she'd been hung in a gallery and he'd bought a ticket. So\nthen he sat down and repeated to Dan and mother what she'd told me, and\nhe promised to send for the papers to prove it all. But he never did\nsend for them,--delaying and delaying, till the summer wore away; and\nperhaps there were such papers and perhaps there weren't. I've always\nthought he didn't want his own friends to know where he was. Dan might\nbe a rich man to-day, if he chose to look them up; but he'd scorch at a\nslow fire before he'd touch a copper of it. Father never believed a word\nabout it, when we recited it again to him.\n\n\"So Faith 'a come into her fortune, has she?\" said he. \"Pretty child!\nShe 'a'n't had so much before sence she fell heir to old Miss Devereux's\nbest chany, her six silver spoons, and her surname.\"\n\nSo the days passed, and the greater part of every one Mr. Gabriel was\ndabbling in the water somewhere. There wasn't a brook within ten miles\nthat he didn't empty of trout, for Dan knew the woods as well as the\nshores, and he knew the clear nights when the insects can keep free from\nthe water so that next day the fish rise hungry to the surface; and so\nsometimes in the brightest of May noons they'd bring home a string of\nthose beauties, speckled with little tongues of flame; and Mr. Gabriel\nwould have them cooked, and make us all taste them,--for we don't care\nmuch for that sort, down here on the Flats; we should think we were\nfamished, if we had to eat fish. And then they'd lie in wait all day for\nthe darting pickerel in the little Stream of Shadows above; and when\nit came June, up the river he went trolling for bass, and he used\na different sort of bait from the rest,--bass won't bite much at\nclams,--and he hauled in great forty-pounders. And sometimes in the\nafternoons he took out Faith and me,--for, as Faith would go, whether or\nno, I always made it a point to put by everything and go too; and I used\nto try and get some of the other girls in, but Mr. Gabriel never would\ntake them, though he was hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, and was\neverybody's favorite, and it was known all round how he found out Faith,\nand that alone made him so popular, that I do believe, if he'd only\ntaken out naturalization-papers, we'd have sent him to General Court.\nAnd then it grew time for the river-mackerel, and they used to bring in\nat sunset two or three hundred in a shining heap, together with great\nlobsters that looked as if they'd been carved out of heliotrope-stone,\nand so old that they were barnacled. And it was so novel to Mr. Gabriel,\nthat he used to act as if he'd fallen in fairy-land.\n\nAfter all, I don't know what we should have done without him that\nsummer: he always paid Dan or father a dollar a day and the hire of the\nboat; and the times were so hard, and there was so little doing, that,\nbut for this, and packing the barrels of clam-bait, they'd have been\nidle and fared sorely. But we'd rather have starved: though, as for\nthat, I've heard father say there never was a time when he couldn't\ngo out and catch some sort of fish and sell it for enough to get us\nsomething to eat. And then this Mr. Gabriel, he had such a winning way\nwith him, he was as quick at wit as a bird on the wing, he had a story\nor a song for every point, he seemed to take to our simple life as if\nhe'd been born to it, and he was as much interested in all our trifles\nas we were ourselves. Then he was so sympathetic, he felt everybody's\ntroubles, he went to the city and brought down a wonderful doctor to see\nmother, and he got her queer things that helped her more than you'd have\nthought anything could, and he went himself and set honeysuckles out\nall round Dan's house, so that before summer was over it was a bower of\ngreat sweet blows, and he had an alms for every beggar, and a kind word\nfor every urchin, and he followed Dan about as a child would follow some\nbig shaggy dog. He introduced, too, a lot of new-fangled games; he was\nwhat they called a gymnast, and in feats of rassling there wasn't a man\namong them all but he could stretch as flat as a flounder. And then he\nalways treated. Everybody had a place for him soon,--even _I_ did; and\nas for Dan, he'd have cut his own heart out of his body, if Mr. Gabriel\n'd had occasion to use it. He was a different man from any Dan 'd ever\nmet before, something finer, and he might have been better, and Dan's\nloyal soul was glad to acknowledge him master, and I declare I believe\nhe felt just as the Jacobites in the old songs used to feel for royal\nCharlie. There are some men born to rule with a haughty, careless\nsweetness, and others born to die for them with stern and dogged\ndevotion.\n\nWell, and all this while Faith wasn't standing still; she was changing\nsteadily, as much as ever the moon changed in the sky. I noticed it\nfirst one day when Mr. Gabriel'd caught every child in the region and\ngiven them a picnic in the woods of the Stack-Yard-Gate, and Faith was\nnowhere to be seen tiptoeing round every one as she used to do, but\nI found her at last standing at the head of the table,--Mr. Gabriel\ndancing here and there, seeing to it that all should be as gay as he\nseemed to be,--quiet and dignified as you please, and feeling every one\nof her inches. But it wasn't dignity really that was the matter with\nFaith,--it was just gloom. She'd brighten up for a moment or two and\nthen down would fall the cloud again, she took to long fits of dreaming,\nand sometimes she'd burst out crying at any careless word, so that my\nheart fairly bled for the poor child,--for one couldn't help seeing that\nshe'd some secret unhappiness or other; and I was as gentle and soothing\nto her as it's in my nature to be. She was in to our house a good deal;\nshe kept it pretty well out of Dan's way, and I hoped she'd get over it\nsooner or later, and make up her mind to circumstances. And I talked\nto her a sight about Dan, praising him constantly before her, though I\ncouldn't hear to do it; and finally, one very confidential evening, I\ntold her that I'd been in love with Dan myself once a little, but I'd\nseen that he would marry her, and so had left off thinking about it;\nfor, do you know, I thought it might make her set more price on him now,\nif she knew somebody else had ever cared for him. Well, that did answer\nawhile: whether she thought she ought to make it up to Dan, or whether\nhe really did grow more in her eyes, Faith got to being very neat and\ndomestic and praiseworthy. But still there was the change, and it didn't\nmake her any the less lovely. Indeed, if I'd been a man, I should have\ncared for her more than ever: it was like turning a child into a woman:\nand I really think, as Dan saw her going about with such a pleasant\ngravity, her pretty figure moving so quietly, her pretty face so still\nand fair, as if she had thoughts and feelings now, he began to wonder\nwhat had come over Faith, and, if she were really as charming as this,\nwhy he hadn't felt it before; and then, you know, whether you love a\nwoman or not, the mere fact that she's your wife, that her life is sunk\nin yours, that she's something for you to protect and that your honor\nlies in doing so, gives you a certain kindly feeling that might ripen\ninto love any day under sunshine and a south wall.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nMETHODS OF STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY\n\n\nXI.\n\n\nAmong the astounding discoveries of modern science is that of the\nimmense periods which have passed in the gradual formation of our earth.\nSo vast were the cycles of time preceding even the appearance of man on\nthe surface of our globe, that our own period seems as yesterday when\ncompared with the epochs that have gone before it. Had we only the\nevidence of the deposits of rock heaped above each other in regular\nstrata by the slow accumulation of materials, they alone would convince\nus of the long and slow maturing of God's work on the earth but when we\nadd to these the successive populations of whose life this world has\nbeen the theatre, and whose remains are hidden in the rocks into which\nthe mud or sand or soil of whatever kind on which they lived has\nhardened in the course of time,--or the enormous chains of mountains\nwhose upheaval divided these periods of quiet accumulation by great\nconvulsions,--or the changes of a different nature in the configuration\nof our globe, as the sinking of lands beneath the ocean, or the gradual\nrising of continents and islands above it,--or the wearing of great\nriver-beds, or the filling of extensive water-basins, till marshes first\nand then dry land succeeded to inland seas,--or the slow growth of coral\nreefs, those wonderful sea-walls raised by the little ocean-architects\nwhose own bodies furnish both the building-stones and the cement that\nbinds them together, and who have worked so busily during the long\ncenturies, that there are extensive countries, mountain-chains, islands,\nand long lines of coast consisting solely of their remains,--or the\ncountless forests that must have grown up, flourished, died, and\ndecayed, to fill the storehouses of coal that feed the fires of the\nhuman race to-day,--if we consider all these records of the past, the\nintellect fails to grasp a chronology for which our experience furnishes\nno data, and the time that lies behind us seems as much an eternity to\nour conception as the future that stretches indefinitely before us.\n\nThe physical as well as the human history of the world has its mythical\nage, lying dim and vague in the morning mists of creation, like that of\nthe heroes and demigods in the early traditions of man, defying all\nour ordinary dates and measures. But if the succession of periods that\nprepared the earth for the coming of man, and the animals and plants\nthat accompany him on earth, baffles our finite attempts to estimate its\nduration, have we any means of determining even approximately the length\nof the period to which we ourselves belong? If so, it may furnish us\nwith some data for the further solution of these wonderful mysteries of\ntime, and it is besides of especial importance with reference to the\nquestion of permanence of Species. Those who maintain the mutability of\nSpecies, and account for all the variety of life on earth by the gradual\nchanges wrought by time and circumstances, do not accept historical\nevidence as affecting the question at all. The monuments of those oldest\nnations, all whose history is preserved in monumental records, do not\nindicate the slightest variation of organic types from that day to this.\nThe animals that were preserved within their tombs or carved upon their\nwalls by the ancient Egyptians were the same as those that have their\nhome in the valley of the Nile today; the negro, whose peculiar features\nare unmistakable even in their rude artistic attempts to represent them,\nwas the same woolly-haired, thick-lipped, flat-nosed, dark-skinned being\nin the days of the Rameses that he is now. The Apis, the Ibis, the\nCrocodiles, the sacred Beetles, have brought down to us unchanged all\nthe characters that superstition hallowed in those early days. The\nstony face of the Sphinx is not more true to its past, nor the massive\narchitecture of the Pyramids more unchanged, than they are. But the\nadvocates of the mutability of Species say truly enough that the most\nancient traditions are but as yesterday in the world's history, and that\nwhat six thousand years could not do sixty thousand years might effect.\nLeaving aside, then, all historical chronology, how far back can we\ntrace our own geological period, and the Species belonging to it? By\nwhat means can we determine its duration? Within what limits, by what\nstandard, may it be measured? Shall hundreds, or thousands, or hundreds\nof thousands, or millions of years be the unit from which we start?\n\nI will begin this inquiry with a series of facts which I myself have\nhad an opportunity of investigating with especial care respecting the\nformation and growth of the Coral Reefs of Florida. But first a few\nwords on Coral Reefs in general. They are living limestone walls that\nare built up from certain depths in the ocean by the natural growth of a\nvariety of animals, but limited by the level of high-water, beyond which\nthey cannot rise, since the little beings that compose them die as soon\nas they are removed from the vitalizing influence of the pure sea-water.\nThese walls have a variety of outlines: they may be straight, circular,\nsemicircular, oblong, according to the form of the coast along which\nthe little Reef-Builders establish themselves; and their height is, of\ncourse, determined by the depth of the bottom on which they rest. If\nthey settle about an island on all sides of which the conditions for\ntheir growth are equally favorable, they will raise a wall all around\nit, thus encircling it with a ring of Coral growth. The Athols in the\nPacific Ocean, those circular islands inclosing sometimes a fresh-water\nlake in mid-ocean, are Coral walls of this kind, that have formed a ring\naround a central island. This is easily understood, if we remember that\nthe bottom of the Pacific Ocean is by no means a stable foundation\nfor such a structure. On the contrary, over a certain area, which has\nalready been surveyed with some accuracy by Professor Dana, during the\nUnited States Exploring Expedition, it is subsiding; and if an island\nupon which the Reef-Builders have established themselves be situated\nin that area of subsidence, it will, of course, sink with the floor on\nwhich it rests, carrying down also the Coral wall to a greater depth in\nthe sea. In such instances, if the rate of subsidence be more rapid than\nthe rate of growth in the Corals, the island and the wall itself will\ndisappear beneath the ocean. But whenever, on the contrary, the rate of\nincrease in the wall is greater than that of subsidence in the island,\nwhile the latter gradually sinks below the surface, the former rises\nin proportion, and by the time it has completed its growth the central\nisland has vanished, and there remains only a ring of Coral Reef, with\nhere and there a break, perhaps, at some spot where the more prosperous\ngrowth of the Corals has been checked. If, however, as sometimes\nhappens, there is no such break, and the wall is perfectly\nuninterrupted, the sheet of sea-water so inclosed may be changed to\nfresh water by the rains that are poured into it. Such a water-basin\nwill remain salt, it is true, in its lower part, and the fact that it is\naffected by the rise and fall of the tides shows that it is not entirely\nsecluded from communication with the ocean outside; but the salt water,\nbeing heavier, sinks, while the lighter rain-water remains above, and it\nis to all appearance actually changed into a fresh-water lake.\n\nI need not dwell here on the further history of such a Coral island, or\nfollow it through the changes by which the summit of its circular wall\nbecomes covered with a fertile soil, a tropical vegetation springs up on\nit, and it is at last perhaps inhabited by man. There is something very\nattractive in the idea of these green rings inclosing sheltered harbors\nand quiet lakes in mid-ocean, and the subject has lost none of its\nfascination since the mystery of their existence has been solved by the\ninvestigations of several contemporary naturalists who have enabled us\nto trace the whole story of their structure. I would refer all who wish\nfor a more detailed account of them to Charles Darwin's charming\nlittle volume on \"Coral Reefs,\" where their mode of formation is fully\ndescribed, and also to James D. Dana's \"Geological Report of the United\nStates Exploring Expedition.\"\n\nCoral Reefs are found only in tropical regions: although Polyps, animals\nof the same class as those chiefly instrumental in their formation,\nare found in all parts of the globe, yet the Reef-Building Polyps are\nlimited to the Tropics. We are too apt to forget that the homes of\nanimals are as definitely limited in the water as on the land. Indeed,\nthe subject of the geographical distribution of animals according to\nlaws that are established by altitude, by latitude and longitude, by\npressure of atmosphere or pressure of water, already alluded to in\na previous article, is exceedingly interesting, and presents a most\nimportant field of investigation. The climatic effect of different\ndegrees of altitude upon the growth of animals and plants is the same as\nthat of different degrees of latitude; and the slope of a high mountain\nin the Tropics, from base to summit, presents, in a condensed form, an\nepitome, as it were, of the same kind of gradation in vegetable growth\nthat may be observed from the Tropics to the Arctics. At the base of\nsuch a mountain we have all the luxuriance of growth characteristic\nof the tropical forest,--the Palms, the Bananas, the Bread-trees, the\nMimosas; higher up, these give way to a different kind of growth,\ncorresponding to our Oaks, Chestnuts, Maples, etc.; as these wane, on\nthe loftier slopes comes in the Pine forest, fading gradually, as it\nascends, into a dwarfish growth of the same kind; and this at last gives\nway to the low creeping Mosses and Lichens of the greater heights, till\neven these find a foothold no longer, and the summit of the mountain is\nclothed in perpetual snow and ice. What have we here but the same series\nof changes through which we pass, if, travelling northward from the\nTropics, we leave Palms and Pomegranates and Bananas behind, where the\nLive-Oaks and Cypresses, the Orange-trees and Myrtles of the warmer\nTemperate Zone come in, and these die out as we reach the Oaks,\nChestnuts, Maples, Elms, Nut-trees, Beeches, and Birches of the colder\nTemperate Zone, these again waning as we enter the Pine forests of\nthe Arctic borders, till, passing out of these, nothing but a dwarf\nvegetation, a carpet of Moss and Lichen, fit food for the Reindeer and\nthe Esquimaux, greets us, and beyond that lies the region of the snow\nand ice fields, impenetrable to all but the daring Arctic voyager?\n\nI have thus far spoken of the changes in the vegetable growth alone as\ninfluenced by altitude and latitude, but the same is equally true of\nanimals. Every zone of the earth's surface has its own animals, suited\nto the conditions under which they are meant to live; and with the\nexception of those that accompany man in all his pilgrimages, and are\nsubject to the same modifying influences by which he adapts his home and\nhimself to all climates, animals are absolutely bound by the laws of\ntheir nature within the range assigned to them. Nor is this the case\nonly on land, where river-banks, lake-shores, and mountain-ranges might\nbe supposed to form the impassable boundaries that keep animals within\ncertain limits; but the ocean as well as the land has its faunae and\nflorae bound within their respective zo\u00f6logical and botanical provinces;\nand a wall of granite is not more impassable to a marine animal than\nthat ocean-line, fluid and flowing and ever-changing though it be, on\nwhich is written for him, \"Hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther.\"\nOne word as to the effect of pressure on animals will explain this.\n\nWe all live under the pressure of the atmosphere. Now thirty-two feet\nunder the sea doubles that pressure, since a column of water of that\nheight is equal in weight to the pressure of one atmosphere. At the\ndepth of thirty-two feet, then, any marine animal is under the pressure\nof two atmospheres,--that of the air which surrounds our globe, and of a\nweight of water equal to it; at sixty-four feet he is under the pressure\nof three atmospheres, and so on,--the weight of one atmosphere being\nalways added for every thirty-two feet of depth. There is a great\ndifference in the sensitiveness of animals to this pressure. Some fishes\nlive at a great depth and find the weight of water genial to them, while\nothers would be killed at once by the same pressure, and the latter\nnaturally seek the shallow waters. Every fisherman knows that he must\nthrow a long line for a Halibut, while with a common fishing-rod he will\ncatch plenty of Perch from the rocks near the shore; and the differently\ncolored bands of sea-weed revealed by low tide, from the green line of\nthe Ulvas through the brown zone of the common Fucas to the rosy and\npurple hued sea-weeds of the deeper water show that the florae as well\nas the faunae of the ocean have their precise boundaries. This wider\nor narrower range of marine animals is in direct relation to their\nstructure, which enables them to bear a greater or less pressure of\nwater. All fishes, and, indeed, all animals having a wide range of\ndistribution in ocean-depths, have a special apparatus of water-pores,\nso that the surrounding element penetrates their structure, thus\nequalizing the pressure of the weight, which is diminished from without\nin proportion to the quantity of water they can admit into their bodies.\nMarine animals differ in their ability to sustain this pressure, just\nas land animals differ in their power of enduring great variations of\nclimate and of atmospheric pressure.\n\nOf all air-breathing animals, none exhibits a more surprising power of\nadapting itself to great and rapid changes of external influences than\nthe Condor. It may be seen feeding on the sea-shore under a burning\ntropical sun, and then, rising from its repast, it floats up among the\nhighest summits of the Andes and is lost to sight beyond them, miles\nabove the line of perpetual snow, where the temperature must be lower\nthan that of the Arctics. But even the Condor, sweeping at one flight\nfrom tropic heat to arctic cold, although it passes through greater\nchanges of temperature, does not undergo such changes of pressure as a\nfish that rises from a depth of sixty-four feet to the surface of the\nsea; for the former remains within the air that surrounds our globe,\nand therefore the increase or diminution of pressure to which it is\nsubjected must be confined within the limits of one atmosphere, while\nthe latter, at a depth of sixty-four feet, is under a weight equal to\nthat of three such atmospheres, which is reduced to one when it reaches\nthe sea-level. The change is even much greater for those fishes that\ncome from a depth of several hundred feet. These laws of limitation in\nspace explain many facts in the growth of Coral Reefs that would be\notherwise inexplicable, and which I will endeavor to make clear to my\nreaders.\n\nFor a long time it was supposed that the Coral animals inhabited very\ndeep waters, for they were sometimes brought up on sounding-lines from a\ndepth of many hundreds or even thousands of feet, and it was taken for\ngranted that they must have had their home where they were found;\nbut the facts recently ascertained respecting the subsidence of\nocean-bottoms have shown that the foundation of a Coral wall may have\nsunk far below the place where it was laid, and it is now proved beyond\na doubt that no Reef-Building Coral can thrive at a depth of more than\nfifteen fathoms, though Corals of other kinds occur far lower, and that\nthe dead Reef-Corals sometimes brought to the surface from much greater\ndepths are only broken fragments of some Reef that has subsided with\nthe bottom on which it was growing. But though fifteen fathoms is the\nmaximum depth at which any Reef-Builder can prosper, there are many\nwhich will not sustain even that degree of pressure, and this fact has,\nas we shall see, an important influence on the structure of the Reef.\n\nImagine now a sloping shore on some tropical coast descending gradually\nbelow the surface of the sea. Upon that slope, at a depth of from ten\nto twelve or fifteen fathoms, and two or three or more miles from the\nmain-land, according to the shelving of the shore, we will suppose that\none of those little Coral animals to whom a home in such deep waters is\ngenial has established itself. How it happens that such a being, which\nwe know is immovably attached to the ground and forms the foundation of\na solid wall, was ever able to swim freely about in the water till it\nfound a suitable resting-place, I shall explain hereafter, when I say\nsomething of the mode of reproduction of these animals. Accept, for the\nmoment, my unsustained assertion, and plant our little Coral on this\nsloping shore some twelve or fifteen fathoms below the surface of the\nsea. The internal structure of such a Coral corresponds to that of the\nSea-Anemone: the body is divided by vertical partitions from top to\nbottom, leaving open chambers between, while in the centre hangs the\ndigestive cavity connecting by an opening in the bottom with all these\nchambers; at the top is an aperture which serves as a mouth, surrounded\nby a wreath of hollow tentacles, each one connecting at its base with\none of the chambers, so that all parts of the animal communicate freely\nwith each other. But though the structure of the Coral is identical in\nall its parts with that of the Sea-Anemone, it nevertheless presents one\nimportant difference. The body of the Sea-Anemone is soft, while that of\nthe Coral is hard. It is well known that all animals and plants have the\npower of appropriating to themselves and assimilating the materials they\nneed, each selecting from the surrounding elements whatever contributes\nto its well-being. The plant takes carbon, the animal takes oxygen, each\nrejecting what the other requires. We ourselves build our bones with\nthe lime that we find unconsciously in the world around us; much of our\nnourishment supplies us with it, and the very vegetables we eat have,\nperhaps, themselves been fed from some old lime strata deposited\ncenturies ago. We all represent materials that have contributed to\nconstruct our bodies. Now Corals possess, in an extraordinary degree,\nthe power of assimilating to themselves the lime contained in the salt\nwater around them; and as soon as our little Coral is established on a\nfirm foundation, a lime deposit begins to form in all the walls of its\nbody, so that its base, its partitions, and its outer wall, which in\nthe Sea-Anemone remain always soft, become perfectly solid in the Polyp\nCoral and form a frame as hard as bone. It may naturally be asked\nwhere the lime comes from in the sea which the Corals absorb in such\nquantities. As far as the living Corals are concerned the answer is\neasy, for an immense deal of lime is brought down to the ocean by\nrivers that wear away the lime deposits through which they pass. The\nMississippi, whose course lies through extensive lime regions, brings\ndown yearly lime enough to supply all the animals living in the Gulf of\nMexico. But behind this lies a question not so easily settled, as to\nthe origin of the extensive deposits of limestone found at the very\nbeginning of life upon earth. This problem brings us to the threshold of\nastronomy, for limestone is metallic in character, susceptible therefore\nof fusion, and may have formed a part of the materials of our earth,\neven in an incandescent state, when the worlds were forming. But though\nthis investigation as to the origin of lime does not belong either to\nthe naturalist or the geologist, its suggestion reminds us that the\ntime has come when all the sciences and their results are so intimately\nconnected that no one can be carried on independently of the others.\nSince the study of the rocks has revealed a crowded life whose records\nare hoarded within them, the work of the geologist and the naturalist\nhas become one and the same, and at that border-land where the first\ncrust of the earth condensed out of the igneous mass of materials which\nformed its earliest condition their investigation mingles with that of\nthe astronomer, and we cannot trace the limestone in a little Coral\nwithout going back to the creation of our solar system, when the worlds\nthat compose it were thrown off from a central mass in a gaseous\ncondition.\n\nWhen the Coral has become in this way permeated with lime, all parts of\nthe body are rigid, with the exception of the upper margin, the stomach,\nand the tentacles. The tentacles are soft and waving, projected or drawn\nin at will, and they retain their flexible character through life, and\ndecompose when the animal dies. For this reason the dried specimens of\nCorals preserved in museums do not give us the least idea of the living\nCorals, in which every one of the millions of beings composing such\na community is crowned by a waving wreath of white or green or\nrose-colored tentacles.\n\nAs soon as the little Coral is fairly established and solidly attached\nto the ground, it begins to bud. This may take place in a variety of\nways, dividing at the top or budding from the base or from the sides,\ntill the primitive animal is surrounded by a number of individuals like\nitself, of which it forms the nucleus, and which now begin to bud in\ntheir turn, each one surrounding itself with a numerous progeny, all\nremaining, however, attached to the parent. Such a community increases\ntill its individuals are numbered by millions; and I have myself counted\nno less than fourteen millions of individuals in a Coral mass measuring\nnot more than twelve feet in diameter. These are the so-called Coral\nheads which form the foundation of a Coral wall, and their massive\ncharacter and regular form seem to be especially adapted to give a\nstrong, solid base to the whole structure. They are known in our\nclassifications as the Astraeans, so named on account of the star-shaped\nform of the little pits that are crowded upon the surface, each one\nmarking the place of a single individual in such a community.\n\nThus firmly and strongly is the foundation of the reef laid by the\nAstraeans; but we have seen that for their prosperous growth they\nrequire a certain depth and pressure of water, and when they have\nbrought the wall so high that they have not more than six fathoms of\nwater above them, this kind of Coral ceases to grow. They have, however,\nprepared a fitting surface for different kinds of Corals that could not\nlive in the depths from which the Astraeans have come, but find their\ngenial home nearer the surface; such a home being made ready for them\nby their predecessors, they now establish themselves on the top of the\nCoral wall and continue its growth for a certain time. These are the\nMandrinas, or the so-called Brain-Corals, and the Porites. The Mandrinas\ndiffer from the Astraeans by their less compact and definite pits. In\nthe Astraeans the place occupied by the animal in the community is\nmarked by a little star-shaped spot, in the centre of which all the\npartition-walls meet. But in the Mandrinas, although all the partitions\nconverge toward the central opening, as in the Astraeans, these central\nopenings elongate, run into each other, and form waving furrows all over\nthe surface, instead of the small round pits so characteristic of the\nAstraeans. The Porites resemble the Astraeans, but the pits are smaller,\nwith fewer partitions and fewer tentacles, and their whole substance is\nmore porous.\n\nBut these also have their bounds within the sea: they in their turn\nreach the limit beyond which they are forbidden by the laws of their\nnature to pass, and there they also pause. But the Coral wall continues\nits steady progress; for here the lighter kinds set in,--the Madrepores,\nthe Millepores, and a great variety of Sea-Fans and Corallines, and the\nreef is crowned at last with a many-colored shrubbery of low feathery\ngrowth. These are all branching in form, and many of them are simple\ncalciferous plants, though most of them are true animals, resembling,\nhowever, delicate Algae more than any marine animals; but, on\nexamination of the latter, one finds them to be covered with myriads of\nminute dots, each representing one of the little beings out of which the\nwhole is built.\n\nI would add here one word on the true nature of the Millepores, long\nmisunderstood by naturalists, because it throws light not only on some\ninteresting facts respecting Coral Reefs, especially the ancient ones,\nbut also because it tells us something of the early inhabitants of the\nglobe, and shows us that a class of Radiates supposed to be missing in\nthat primitive creation had its representatives then as now. In the\ndiagram of the geological periods introduced in a previous article, I\nhave represented all the three classes of Radiates, Polyps, Acalephs,\nand Echinoderms, as present on the first floor of our globe that was\ninhabited at all. But it is only recently that positive proofs have been\nfound of the existence of Acalephs or Jelly-Fishes, as they are\ncalled, at that early period. Their very name indicates their delicate\nstructure; and were there no remains preserved in the rocks of these\nsoft, transparent creatures, it would yet be no evidence that they did\nnot exist. Fragile as they are, however, they have left here and there\nsome faint record of themselves, and in the Museum at Carlsruhe, on a\nslab from Solenhofen, I have seen a very perfect outline of one which\nremains undescribed to this day. This, however, does not carry them\nfarther back than the Jurassic period, and it is only lately that I have\nsatisfied myself that they not only existed, but were among the most\nnumerous animals in the first representation of organic life.\n\nThe earliest Corals correspond in certain features of their structure to\nthe Millepores. They differ from them as all early animals differ from\nthe succeeding ones, every geological period having its special set of\nrepresentatives. But still they are always true to their class, and have\na certain general correspondence with animals of like kind that follow\nthem in later periods. In this sense the Millepores are in our epoch the\nrepresentatives of those early Corals called by naturalists Tabulata and\nRugosa,--distinguished from the Polyp Corals by the horizontal floors,\nwaving in some, straight in others, which divide the body transversely\nat successive heights through its whole length, and also by the absence\nof the vertical partitions, extending from top to bottom of each animal,\nso characteristic of the true Polyps. As I have said, they were for a\nlong time supposed, notwithstanding these differences, to be Polyps, and\nI had shared in this opinion, till, during the winter of 1857, while\npursuing my investigations on the Coral Reefs of Florida, one of these\nMillepores revealed itself to me in its true character of Acaleph. It is\nby its soft parts alone--those parts which are seen only in its living\nstate, and when the animal is fully open--that its Acalephian character\ncan be perceived, and this accounts for its being so long accepted as\na Polyp, when studied in the dry Coral stock. Nothing could exceed\nmy astonishment when for the first time I saw such an animal fully\nexpanded, and found it to be a true Acaleph. It is exceedingly difficult\nto obtain a view of them in this state, for, at any approach, they draw\nthemselves in, and remain closed to all investigation. Only once, for a\nshort hour, I had this opportunity; during that time one of these little\ncreatures revealed to me its whole structure, as if to tell me, once for\nall, the story of its existence through all the successive epochs from\nthe dawn of Creation till now, and then withdrew. With my most patient\nwatching, I have never been able to see one of them open again. But to\nestablish the fact that one of the Corals represented from the earliest\nperiod till now, and indeed far more numerous in the beginning than any\nother, was in truth no Polyp, but an Acaleph, the glimpse I had was\nall-sufficient. It came out as if to bear witness of its class,--as if\nto say, \"We, too, were among the hosts of living beings with which God\nfirst peopled His earth.\"\n\nWith these branching Corals the reef reaches the level of high-water,\nbeyond which, as I have said, there can be no further growth, for want\nof the action of the fresh sea-water. This dependence upon the vivifying\ninfluence of the sea accounts for one unfailing feature in the Coral\nwalls. They are always abrupt and steep on the seaward side, but have a\ngentle slope towards the land. This is accounted for by the circumstance\nthat the Corals on the outer side of the reef are in immediate contact\nwith the pure ocean-water, while by their growth they partially exclude\nthe inner ones from the same influence,--the rapid growth of the latter\nbeing also impeded by any impurity or foreign material washed away from\nthe neighboring shore and mingling with the water that fills the channel\nbetween the main-land and the reef. Thus the Coral Reefs, whether built\naround an island, or concentric to a rounding shore, or along a straight\nline of coast, are always shelving toward the land, while they\nare comparatively abrupt and steep toward the sea. This should be\nremembered, for, as we shall see hereafter, it has an important bearing\non the question of time as illustrated by Coral Reefs.\n\nI have spoken of the budding of Corals, by which each one becomes the\ncentre of a cluster; but this is not the only way in which they multiply\ntheir kind. They give birth to eggs also, which are carried on the inner\nedge of their partition-walls, till they drop into the sea, where they\nfloat about, little, soft, transparent, pear-shaped bodies, as unlike as\npossible to the rigid stony structure they are to assume hereafter. In\nthis condition they are covered with vibratile cilia or fringes, that\nare always in rapid, uninterrupted motion, and keep them swimming about\nin the water. It is by means of these little germs of the Corals,\nswimming freely about during their earliest stages of growth, that the\nreef is continued, at the various heights where special kinds die\nout, by those that prosper at shallower depths; otherwise it would be\nimpossible to understand how this variety of building material, as it\nwere, is introduced wherever it is needed. This point, formerly a puzzle\nto naturalists, has become quite clear since it has been found that\nmyriads of these little germs are poured into the water surrounding a\nreef. There they swim about till they find a genial spot on which to\nestablish themselves, when they become attached to the ground by one\nend, while a depression takes place at the opposite end, which gradually\ndeepens to form the mouth and inner cavity, while the edges expand to\nform the tentacles, and the productive life of the little Coral begins:\nit buds from every side, and becomes the foundation of a new community.\n\nI should add, that, beside the Polyps and the Acalephs, Mollusks also\nhave their representatives among the Corals. There is a group of small\nMollusks called Bryozoa, allied to the Clams by their structure, but\nexcessively minute when compared to the other members of their class,\nwhich, like the other Corals, harden in consequence of an absorption of\nsolid materials, and contribute to the formation of the reef. Besides\nthese, there are certain plants, limestone Algae,--Corallines, as they\nare called,--which have their share also in the work.\n\nI had intended to give some account of the Coral Reefs of Florida,\nand to show what bearing they have upon the question of time and the\npermanence of Species; but this cursory sketch of Coral Reefs in general\nhas grown to such dimensions that I must reserve a more particular\naccount of the Florida Reefs and Keys for a future article.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSPIRITS.\n\n\n\"Did you ever see a ghost?\" said a gentleman to his friend.\n\n\"No, but I once came very nigh seeing one,\" was the facetious reply.\n\nThe writer of this article has had still better luck,--having _twice_\ncome very nigh seeing a ghost. In other words, two friends, in whose\nveracity and healthy clearness of vision I have perfect confidence, have\nassured me that they have distinctly seen a disembodied spirit.\n\nIf I had permission to do so, I would record the street in Boston, and\nthe number of the house, where the first of these two apparitions was\nseen; but that would be unpleasant to parties concerned. Years ago, the\nlady who witnessed it told me the particulars, and I have recently heard\nher repeat them. A cousin, with whom her relations were as intimate as\nwith a brother, was in the last stages of consumption. One morning, when\nshe carried him her customary offering of fruit or flowers, she found\nhim unusually bright, his cheeks flushed, his eyes brilliant, and his\nstate of mind exceedingly cheerful. He talked of his recovery and future\nplans in life with hopefulness almost amounting to certainty. This made\nher somewhat sad, for she regarded it as a delusion of his flattering\ndisease, a flaring up of the life-candle before it sank in the socket.\nShe thus reported the case, when she returned home. In the afternoon she\nwas sewing as usual, surrounded by her mother and sisters, and listening\nto one who was reading aloud. While thus occupied, she chanced to raise\nher eyes from her work and glance to the opposite corner of the room.\nHer mother, seeing her give a sudden start, exclaimed, \"What is the\nmatter?\" She pointed to the corner of the room and replied, \"There is\nCousin ------!\" They all told her she had been dreaming, and was only\nhalf wakened. She assured them she had not even been drowsy; and she\nrepeated with great earnestness, \"There is Cousin ------, just as I saw\nhim this morning. Don't you see him?\" She could not measure the time\nthat the vision remained; but it was long enough for several questions\nand answers to pass rapidly between herself and other members of the\nfamily. In reply to their persistent incredulity, she said, \"It is very\nstrange that you don't see him; for I see him as plainly as I do any\nof you.\" She was so obviously awake and in her right mind, that the\nincident naturally made an impression on those who listened to her. Her\nmother looked at her watch, and despatched a messenger to inquire how\nCousin ------ did. Word was soon brought that he died at the same moment\nhe had appeared in the house of his relatives. The lady who had\nthis singular experience is too sensible and well-informed to be\nsuperstitious. She was not afflicted with any disorder of the nerves,\nand was in good health at the time.\n\nTo my other story I can give \"a local habitation and a name\" well known.\nWhen Harriet Hosmer, the sculptor, visited her native country a few\nyears ago, I had an interview with her, during which our conversation\nhappened to turn upon dreams and visions.\n\n\"I have had some experience in that way,\" said she. \"Let me tell you a\nsingular circumstance that happened to me in Rome. An Italian girl named\nRosa was in my employ for a long time, but was finally obliged to return\nto her mother, on account of confirmed ill-health. We were mutually\nsorry to part, for we liked each other. When I took my customary\nexercise on horseback, I frequently called to see her. On one of these\noccasions, I found her brighter than I had seen her for some time past.\nI had long relinquished hopes of her recovery, but there was nothing in\nher appearance that gave me the impression of immediate danger. I left\nher with the expectation of calling to see her again many times. During\nthe remainder of the day I was busy in my studio, and I do not recollect\nthat Rosa was in my thoughts after I parted from her. I retired to rest\nin good health and in a quiet frame of mind. But I woke from a sound\nsleep with an oppressive feeling that some one was in the room. I\nwondered at the sensation, for it was entirely new to me; but in vain\nI tried to dispel it. I peered beyond the curtain of my bed, but could\ndistinguish no objects in the darkness. Trying to gather up my thoughts,\nI soon reflected that the door was locked, and that I had put the key\nunder my bolster. I felt for it, and found it where I had placed it. I\nsaid to myself that I had probably had some ugly dream, and had waked\nwith a vague impression of it still on my mind. Reasoning thus, I\narranged myself comfortably for another nap. I am habitually a good\nsleeper, and a stranger to fear; but, do what I would, the idea still\nhaunted me that some one was in the room. Finding it impossible to\nsleep, I longed for daylight to dawn, that I might rise and pursue\nmy customary avocations. It was not long before I was able dimly to\ndistinguish the furniture in my room, and soon after I heard, in the\napartments below, familiar noises of servants opening windows and doors.\nAn old clock, with ringing vibrations, proclaimed the hour. I counted\none, two, three, four, five, and resolved to rise immediately. My bed\nwas partially screened by a long curtain looped up at one side. As I\nraised my head from the pillow, Rosa looked inside the curtain, and\nsmiled at me. The idea of anything supernatural did not occur to me. I\nwas simply surprised, and exclaimed, 'Why, Rosa! How came you here,\nwhen you are so ill?' In the old familiar tones, to which I was so much\naccustomed, a voice replied, 'I am well, now.' With no other thought\nthan that of greeting her joyfully, I sprang out of bed. There was\nno Rosa there! I moved the curtain, thinking she might perhaps have\nplayfully hidden herself behind its folds. The same feeling induced me\nto look into the closet. The sight of her had come so suddenly, that, in\nthe first moment of surprise and bewilderment, I did not reflect that\nthe door was locked. When I became convinced there was no one in the\nroom but myself, I recollected that fact, and thought I must have seen a\nvision.\n\n\"At the breakfast-table, I said to the old lady with whom I boarded,\n'Rosa is dead.' 'What do you mean by that?' she inquired. 'You told me\nshe seemed better than common when you called to see her yesterday.'\nI related the occurrences of the morning, and told her I had a strong\nimpression Rosa was dead. She laughed, and said I had dreamed it all. I\nassured her I was thoroughly awake, and in proof thereof told her I had\nheard all the customary household noises, and had counted the clock when\nit struck five. She replied, 'All that is very possible, my dear. The\nclock struck into your dream. Real sounds often mix with the illusions\nof sleep. I am surprised that a dream should make such an impression on\na young lady so free from superstition as you are.' She continued to\njest on the subject, and slightly annoyed me by her persistence in\nbelieving it a dream, when I was perfectly sure of having been wide\nawake. To settle the question, I summoned a messenger and sent him to\ninquire how Rosa did. He returned with the answer that she died that\nmorning at five o'clock.\"\n\nI wrote the story as Miss Hosmer told it to me, and after I had shown\nit to her, I asked if she had any objection, to its being published,\nwithout suppression of names. She replied, \"You have reported the story\nof Rosa correctly. Make what use you please of it. You cannot think it\nmore interesting, or unaccountable, than I do myself.\"\n\nA remarkable instance of communication between spirits at the moment of\ndeath is recorded in the Life of the Rev. Joseph S. Buckminster, written\nby his sister. When he was dying in Boston, their father was dying in\nVermont, ignorant of his son's illness. Early in the morning, he said to\nhis wife, \"My son Joseph is dead.\" She told him he had been dreaming.\nHe calmly replied, \"I have not slept, nor dreamed. He is dead.\" When\nletters arrived from Boston, they announced that the spirit of the son\nhad departed from his body the same night that the father received an\nimpression of it.\n\nSuch incidents suggest curious psychological inquiries, which I think\nhave attracted less attention than they deserve. It is common to explain\nall such phenomena as \"optical illusions\" produced by \"disordered\nnerves.\" But _is_ that any explanation? _How_ do certain states of the\nnerves produce visions as distinct as material forms? In the two cases I\nhave mentioned, there was no disorder of the nerves, no derangement of\nhealth, no disquietude of mind. Similar accounts come to us from all\nnations, and from the remotest periods of time; and I doubt whether\nthere ever was a universal superstition that had not some great,\nunchangeable truth for its basis. Some secret laws of our being are\nwrapt up in these occasional mysteries, and in the course of the world's\nprogress we may perhaps become familiar with the explanation, and\nfind genuine philosophy under the mask of superstition. When any\nwell-authenticated incidents of this kind are related, it is a very\ncommon inquiry, \"What are such visions sent _for_?\" The question implies\na supposition of miraculous power, exerted for a temporary and special\npurpose. But would it not be more rational to believe that all\nappearances, whether spiritual or material, are caused by the operation\nof universal laws, manifested under varying circumstances? In the\ninfancy of the world, it was the general tendency of the human mind to\nconsider all occasional phenomena as direct interventions of the gods,\nfor some special purpose at the time. Thus, the rainbow was supposed\nto be a celestial road, made to accommodate the swift messenger of the\ngods, when she was sent on an errand, and withdrawn as soon as she had\ndone with it. We now know that the laws of the refraction and reflection\nof light produce the radiant iris, and that it will always appear\nwhenever drops of water in the air present themselves to the sun's rays\nin a suitable position. Knowing this, we have ceased to ask what the\nrainbow appears _for_.\n\nThat a spiritual form is contained within the material body is a very\nancient and almost universal belief. Hindoo books of the remotest\nantiquity describe man as a triune being, consisting of the soul, the\nspiritual body, and the material body. This form within the outer body\nwas variously named by Grecian poets and philosophers. They called\nit \"the soul's image,\" \"the invisible body,\" \"the a\u00ebrial body,\" \"the\nshade.\" Sometimes they called it \"the sensuous soul,\" and described it\nas \"_all_ eye and _all_ ear,\"--expressions which cannot fail to suggest\nthe phenomena of clairvoyance. The \"shade\" of Hercules is described by\npoets as dwelling in the Elysian Fields, while his body was converted to\nashes on the earth, and his soul was dwelling on Olympus with the gods.\nSwedenborg speaks of himself as having been a visible form to angels in\nthe spiritual world; and members of his household, observing him at such\ntimes, describe the eyes of his body on earth as having the expression\nof one walking in his sleep. He tells us, that, when his thoughts turned\ntoward earthly things, the angels would say to him, \"Now we are losing\nsight of you\": and he himself felt that he was returning to his material\nbody. For several years of his life, he was in the habit of seeing and\nconversing familiarly with visitors unseen by those around him. The\ndeceased brother of the Queen of Sweden repeated to him a secret\nconversation, known only to himself and his sister. The Queen had asked\nfor this, as a test of Swedenborg's veracity; and she became pale with\nastonishment when every minute particular of her interview with her\nbrother was reported to her. Swedenborg was a sedate man, apparently\ndevoid of any wish to excite a sensation, engrossed in scientific\npursuits, and remarkable for the orderly habits of his mind. The\nintelligent and enlightened German, Nicolai, in the later years of his\nlife, was accustomed to find himself in the midst of persons whom he\nknew perfectly well, but who were invisible to others. He reasoned very\ncalmly about it, but arrived at no solution more satisfactory than the\nold one of \"optical illusion,\" which is certainly a very inadequate\nexplanation. Instances are recorded, and some of them apparently well\nauthenticated, of persons still living in this world, and unconscious of\ndisease, who have seen _themselves_ in a distinct visible form, without\nthe aid of a mirror. It would seem as if such experiences had not been\nconfined to any particular part of the world; for they have given birth\nto a general superstition that such apparitions are a forerunner of\ndeath,--or, in other words, of the complete separation of the spiritual\nbody from the natural body. A friend related to me the particulars of a\nfainting-fit, during which her body remained senseless an unusually long\ntime. When she was restored to consciousness, she told her attendant\nfriends that she had been standing near the sofa all the time, watching\nher own lifeless body, and seeing what they did to resuscitate it. In\nproof thereof she correctly repeated to them all they had said and\ndone while her body remained insensible. Those present at the time\ncorroborated her statement, so far as her accurate knowledge of all\ntheir words, looks, and proceedings was concerned.\n\nThe most numerous class of phenomena concerning the \"spiritual body\"\nrelate to its visible appearance to others at the moment of dissolution.\nThere is so much testimony on this subject, from widely separated\nwitnesses, that an unprejudiced mind, equally removed from superstition\nand skepticism, inclines to believe that they must be manifestations of\nsome hidden law of our mysterious being. Plato says that everything in\nthis world is merely the material form of some model previously existing\nin a higher world of ethereal spiritual forms; and Swedenborg's\nbeautiful doctrine of Correspondences is a reappearance of the same\nidea. If their theory be true, may not the antecedent type of that\nstrange force which in the material world we call electricity be a\n_spiritual_ magnetism. As yet, we know extremely little of the laws of\nelectricity, and we know nothing of those laws of _spiritual_ attraction\nand repulsion which are perhaps the _cause_ of electricity. There may be\nsubtile and as yet unexplained causes, connected with the state of the\nnervous system, the state of the mind, the accord of two souls under\npeculiar circumstances, etc., which may sometimes enable a person who is\nin a material body to see another who is in a spiritual body. That such\nvisions are not of daily occurrence may be owing to the fact that it\nrequires an unusual combination of many favorable circumstances to\nproduce them; and when they do occur, they seem to us miraculous\nsimply because we are ignorant of the laws of which they are transient\nmanifestations.\n\nLord Bacon says,--\"The relations touching the force of imagination and\nthe secret instincts of Nature are so uncertain, as they require a great\ndeal of examination ere we conclude upon them. I would have it first\nthoroughly inquired whether there be any secret passages of sympathy\nbetween persons of near blood,--as parents, children, brothers, sisters,\nnurse-children, husbands, wives, etc. There be many reports in history,\nthat, upon the death of persons of such nearness, men have had an inward\nfeeling of it. I myself remember, that, being in Paris, and my father\ndying in London, two or three days before my father's death I had a\ndream, which I told to divers English gentlemen, that my father's house\nin the country was plastered all over with black mortar. Next to those\nthat are near in blood, there may be the like passage and instincts of\nNature between great friends and great enemies. Some trial also would be\nmade whether pact or agreement do anything: as, if two friends should\nagree, that, such a day in every week, they, being in far distant\nplaces, should pray one for another, or should put on a ring or tablet\none for another's sake, whether, if one of them should break their vow\nand promise, the other should have any feeling of it in absence.\"\n\nThis query of Lord Bacon, whether an agreement between two distant\npersons to think of each other at a particular time may not produce an\nactual nearness between their spirits, is suggestive. People partially\ndrowned and resuscitated have often described their last moments of\nconsciousness as flooded with memories, so that they seemed to be\nsurrounded by the voices and countenances of those they loved. If this\nis common when soul and body are approaching dissolution, may not such\nconcentration of loving thoughts produce an actual nearness, filling the\nperson thought of with \"a feeling as if somebody were in the room\"? And\nif the feeling thus induced is very powerful, may not the presence thus\nfelt become objective, or, in other words, a vision?\n\nThe feeling of the nearness of spirits to when the thoughts are busily\noccupied with them may have led to the almost universal belief among\nancient nations that the souls of the dead came back on the anniversary\nof their death to the places where their bodies were deposited. This\nbelief invested their tombs with peculiar sacredness, and led the\nwealthy to great expense in their construction. Egyptians, Greeks, and\nRomans built them with upper apartments, more or less spacious. These\nchambers were adorned with vases, sculptures, and paintings on the\nwalls, varying in costliness and style according to the means or taste\nof the builder. The tomb of Cestius in Rome contained a chamber much\nornamented with paintings. Ancient Egyptian tombs abound with sculptures\nand paintings, probably representative of the character of the deceased.\nThus, on the walls of one a man is pictured throwing seed into the\nground, followed by a troop of laborers; farther on, the same individual\nis represented as gathering in the harvest; then he is seen in\nprocession with wife, children, friends, and followers, carrying sheaves\nto the temple, a thank-offering to the gods. This seems to be a painted\nepitaph, signifying that the deceased was industrious, prosperous, and\npious. It was common to deposit in these tombs various articles of\nuse or ornament, such as the departed ones had been familiar with and\nattached to, while on earth. Many things in the ancient sculptures\nindicate that Egyptian women were very fond of flowers. It is a curious\nfact, that little china boxes with Chinese letters on them, like those\nin which the Chinese now sell flower-seeds, have been discovered in some\nof these tombs. Probably the ladies buried there were partial to exotics\nfrom China; and perhaps friends placed them there with the tender\nthought that the spirit of the deceased would be pleased to see them,\nwhen it came on its annual visit. Sometimes these paintings and\nsculptures embodied ideas reaching beyond the earthly existence, and\n\"the a\u00ebrial body\" was represented floating among stars, escorted by\nwhat we should call angels, but which they named \"Spirits of the\nSun.\" Families and friends visited these consecrated chambers on the\nanniversary of the death of those whose bodies were placed in the\nroom below. They carried with them music and flowers, cakes and wine.\nReligious ceremonies were performed, with the idea that the \"invisible\nbody\" was present with them and took part in the prayers and offerings.\nThe visitors talked together of past scenes, and doubtless their\nconversation abounded with touching allusions to the character and\nhabits of the unseen friend supposed to be listening. It was, in fact,\nan annual family-gathering, scarcely sadder in its memories than is our\nThanksgiving festival to those who have travelled far on the pilgrimage\nof life.\n\nSt. Paul teaches that \"there is a natural body, and there is a spiritual\nbody.\" The early Christians had a very vivid faith, that, when the\nsoul dropped its outer envelope of flesh, it continued to exist in\na spiritual form. When any of their number died, they observed the\nanniversary of his departure by placing on the altar an offering to the\nchurch, in his name. On such occasions, they partook of the sacrament,\nwith the full belief that his unseen form was present with them, and\nshared in the sacred rite, as he had done while in the material body. On\nthe anniversary of the death of martyrs, there were such commemorations\nin all the churches; and that their spirits were believed to be present\nis evident from the fact that numerous petitions were addressed to them.\nIn the Roman Catacombs, where many of the early Christians were buried,\nare apartments containing sculptures and paintings of apostles and\nmartyrs. They are few and rude, because the Christians of that period\nwere poor, and used such worldly goods as they had more for benevolence\nthan for show. But these memorials, in such a place, indicate the same\nfeeling that adorned the magnificent tombs of Egypt, Greece, and Rome.\nThese subterranean apartments were used for religious meetings in the\nfirst centuries of our era, and it is generally supposed that they were\nchosen as safe hiding-places from persecution. Very likely it was so;\nbut it is not improbable that the spot had peculiar attractions to\nworshippers, from the feeling that they were in the midst of an unseen\ncongregation, whose bodies were buried there. If it was so, it would be\nbut one of many proofs that the early Christians mixed with their new\nreligion many of the traditions and ceremonies of their forefathers, who\nhad been educated in other forms of faith. Even in our own time, threads\nof these ancient traditions are more or less visible through the whole\nwarp and woof of our literature and our customs. Many of the tombs in\nthe Cemetery of P\u00e8re la Chaise have pretty upper apartments. On the\nanniversary of the death of those buried beneath, friends and relatives\ncarry thither flowers and garlands. Women often spend the entire day\nthere, and parties of friends assemble to partake of a picnic repast.\n\nMost of the ancient nations annually observed a day in honor of the\nSouls of Ancestors. This naturally grew out of the custom of meeting in\ntombs to commemorate the death of relatives. As generations passed away,\nit was unavoidable that many of the very old sepulchres should be seldom\nor never visited. Still it was believed that the \"shades\" even of remote\nancestors hovered about their descendants and were cognizant of their\ndoings. It was impossible to observe separately the anniversaries of\ndeparted millions, and therefore a day was set apart for religious\nceremonies in honor of _all_ ancestors. Hindoo and Chinese families have\nfrom time immemorial consecrated such days; and the Romans observed a\nsimilar anniversary under the name of Parentalia.\n\nChristians retained this ancient custom, but it took a new coloring from\ntheir peculiar circumstances. The ties of the church were substituted\nfor ties of kindred. Its members were considered _spiritual_ fathers\nand brothers, and there was an annual festival in honor of _spiritual_\nancestors. The forms greatly resembled those of the Roman Parentalia.\nThe gathering-place was usually at the tomb of some celebrated martyr,\nor in some chapel consecrated to his memory. Crowds of people came\nfrom all quarters to implore the spirits of the martyrs to send them\nfavorable seasons, good crops, healthy children, etc., just as the old\nRomans had been accustomed to invoke the names of their ancestors for\nsimilar blessings. Prayers were repeated, hymns sung, and offerings\npresented to the church, as aforetime to the gods. A great banquet was\nprepared, and wine was drunk to the souls of the martyrs so freely that\ncomplete intoxication was common. In view of this and other excesses,\nthe pious among the bishops exerted their influence to abolish the\ncustom. But it was so intertwined with the traditional faith of the\npopulace, and so gratifying to their social propensities, that it was\na long time before it could be suppressed. A vestige of the old\nanniversaries in honor of the Souls of Ancestors remains in the Catholic\nChurch under the name of All-Souls' Day.\n\nIn France, the Parentalia of the ancient Romans is annually observed\nunder the name of \"Le Jour des Morts.\" All Paris flock to the\ncemeteries, bearing bouquets, crosses, and garlands to decorate the\ntombs of departed ancestors, relatives, and friends. The gay population\nis, for that day, sobered by tender and solemn memories. Many a tear\nglistens on the wreaths, and the passing traveller notices many a one\nwhose trembling lips and swollen eyelids indicate that the soul is\nimmersed in recollections of departed loved ones. The \"cities of the\ndead\" bloom with fresh flowers, in multifarious forms of crosses,\ncrowns, and hearts. From all the churches prayers ascend for those who\nhave dropped their earthly garment of flesh, and who live henceforth in\nthe \"spiritual body,\" which becomes more and more beautiful with the\nprogress of the soul,--it being, as the ancients called it, \"the soul's\nimage.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE TITMOUSE.\n\n\n  You shall not be over-bold\n  When you deal with arctic cold,\n  As late I found my lukewarm blood\n  Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood.\n  How should I fight? my foeman fine\n  Has million arms to one of mine.\n  East, west, for aid I looked in vain;\n  East, west, north, south, are his domain.\n  Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home;\n  Must borrow his winds who there would come.\n  Up and away for life! be fleet!\n  The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,\n  Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,\n  Curdles the blood to the marble bones,\n  Tugs at the heartstrings, numbs the sense,\n  Hems in the life with narrowing fence.\n\n  Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,\n  The punctual stars will vigil keep,\n  Embalmed by purifying cold,\n  The winds shall sing their dead-march old,\n  The snow is no ignoble shroud,\n  The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.\n  Softly,--but this way fate was pointing,\n  'Twas coming fast to such anointing,\n  When piped a tiny voice hard by,\n  Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,\n  \"_Chic-chic-a-dee-dee_!\" saucy note,\n  Out of sound heart and merry throat,\n  As if it said, \"Good day, good Sir!\n  Fine afternoon, old passenger!\n  Happy to meet you in these places,\n  Where January brings few men's faces.\"\n\n  This poet, though he live apart,\n  Moved by a hospitable heart,\n  Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,\n  To do the honors of his court,\n  As fits a feathered lord of land,\n  Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand,\n  Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,\n  Prints his small impress on the snow,\n  Shows feats of his gymnastic play,\n  Head downward, clinging to the spray.\n  Here was this atom in full breath\n  Hurling defiance at vast death,\n  This scrap of valor just for play\n  Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,\n  As if to shame my weak behavior.\n  I greeted loud my little saviour:\n  \"Thou pet! what dost here? and what for?\n  In these woods, thy small Labrador,\n  At this pinch, wee San Salvador!\n  What fire burns in that little chest,\n  So frolic, stout, and self-possest?\n  Didst steal the glow that lights the West?\n  Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine:\n  Ashes and black all hues outshine.\n  Why are not diamonds black and gray,\n  To ape thy dare-devil array?\n  And I affirm the spacious North\n  Exists to draw thy virtue forth.\n  I think no virtue goes with size:\n  The reason of all cowardice\n  Is, that men are overgrown,\n  And, to be valiant, must come down\n  To the titmouse dimension.\"\n\n  'Tis good-will makes intelligence,\n  And I began to catch the sense\n  Of my bird's song: \"Live out of doors,\n  In the great woods, and prairie floors.\n  I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea,\n  I, too, have a hole in a hollow tree.\n  And I like less when summer beats\n  With stifling beams on these retreats\n  Than noontide twilights which snow makes\n  With tempest of the blinding flakes:\n  For well the soul, if stout within,\n  Can arm impregnably the skin;\n  And polar frost my frame defied,\n  Made of the air that blows outside.\"\n\n  With glad remembrance of my debt,\n  I homeward turn. Farewell, my pet!\n  When here again thy pilgrim comes,\n  He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs.\n  Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant\n  O'er all that mass and minster vaunt:\n  For men mishear thy call in spring,\n  As 'twould accost some frivolous wing,\n  Crying out of the hazel copse, \"_Phe--be!_\"\n  And in winter, \"_Chic-a-dee-dee!_\"\n  I think old Caesar must have heard\n  In Northern Gaul my dauntless bird,\n  And, echoed in some frosty wold,\n  Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.\n  And I shall write our annals new,\n\n  And thank thee for a better clew:\n  I, who dreamed not, when I came here,\n  To find the antidote of fear,\n  Now hear thee say in Roman key,\n  \"_Paean! Ve-ni, Vi-di, Vi-ci._\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSALTPETRE AS A SOURCE OF POWER.\n\n\nEvery element of _strength_ in a civilized community demands special\nnotice. The present material progress of nations brings us every day in\ncontact with the application of power under various conditions, and the\nmost thoughtless person is to some extent influenced mentally by the\nimprovements, taking the places of older means and ways of adaptation,\nin the arts of life.\n\nWe travel by the aid of steam-power, and we think and speak of a\nlocomotive or a steamboat as we once thought and spoke of a horse or\na man; and no little feeling of self-sufficiency is engendered by the\nconclusion that this new source of power has been brought under control\nand put to work in our day.\n\nIt is also true that we do not always entertain the most correct view of\nwhat we term the new power of locomotive and steamboat; and as it may\naid us in some further steps connected with the subject of my remarks,\na familiar object, such as a steamboat, may be taken as illustrative of\nthe application of power, and we may thus obtain some simple ideas of\nwhat power truly is, in Nature.\n\nMy travelled friend considers a steamboat as a ship propelled by wheels,\nthe shaft to which they are attached being moved by the machinery.\nHe follows back to the piston of the engine and finds the motor\nthere,--satisfied that he has discovered in the transference of\nrectilinear to rotatory motion the reason for the progress of the boat.\nA more inquisitive friend does not rest here, but assumes that the power\nof the steam flowing through the machine sets in action its parts; and\nhe rests from farther pursuit of the power, where the larger number\nof those who give any observation to the application of steam are\nfound,--gratified with the knowledge accumulated, and the readiness with\nwhich an explanation of the motion of the boat can be traced to the\npower of steam as its source.\n\nWe must proceed a little farther on our backward course from the point\nwhere the power is applied, and in our analysis consider the steam as\nonly the vehicle or carrier of the power; and examining the conditions,\nwe find that water acted on by fire, while contained in a suitable\nvessel, after some time takes up certain properties which enable it\nto go forward and move the ponderous machinery of the boat. The water\nevidently here derives its new character of steam from the fire, and we\nhave now reached the source of the _movement_ of steam, and traced it\nto the fire. In fact, we have found the source of power, in this most\nmechanical of all mechanical machines, to be removed from the department\nof knowledge which treats of machines!\n\nBut we need not pause here, although we must now enter a little way into\nchemical, instead of mechanical science. The fire prepares the water to\nact as a carrier of power; it must contain power, therefore; and what\nis it which we call fire? In placing on the grate coal or wood, and\nproviding for the contact of a continuous current of air, we intend to\nbring about certain chemical actions as consequent on a disposition\nwhich we know coal and wood to possess. When we apply fire, the chemical\nactions commence and the usual effects follow. Now, if we for a moment\ndismiss the consideration of the means adopted, it becomes apparent to\nevery one, that, as the fire will continue to increase with successive\nadditions of fuel, or as it will continue indefinitely with a regular\nsupply, there must be something else than mere motor action here. We\ncannot call it chemical action, and dismiss the thought, and neglect\nfurther inquiry, unless we would place ourselves with those who regard\nthe movement of the steamboat as being due to the machinery.\n\nOur farther progress in this analysis will soon open a wide field of\nknowledge and inquiry; but it is sufficient for our present purpose, if,\nby a careful study of the composition and chemical disposition of the\nproximate compounds of the coal and the wood fuel, we arrive at the\nconclusion that both are the result of forces which, very slight in\nthemselves at any moment, yet when acting through long periods of time\nbecome laid up in the form of coal and wood. All that effort which the\ntree has exhibited during its growth from the germ of the seed to its\nstate of maturity, when taken as fuel, is pent up in its substance,\nready, when fire is applied, to escape slowly and continuously. In\nthe case of the coal, after the growth of the plant from which it was\nformed, the material underwent changes which enabled it to conserve more\nforces, and to exhibit more energy when fire is applied to its mass; and\nhence the distinction between wood and coal.\n\nOur analysis thus far has developed the source of the power moving\nthe steamboat as existing in the gradual action of forces influencing\nvegetation, concentrated and locked up in the fuel. For the purpose of\nillustrating the subject of this essay, we require no farther progress\nin this direction. A moment of thought at this point and we shall cease\nto consider steam-power as _new_; for, long before man appeared on this\nearth, the vegetation was collecting and condensing those ordinary\nnatural powers which we find in fuel. In our time, too, the rains and\ndews, heat, motion, and gaseous food, are being stored up in a wondrous\nmanner, to serve as elements of power which may be used and applied now\nor hereafter.\n\nIn this view, too, we may include the winds, the falling of rain, the\nascent and descent of sap, the condensation of gases,--in short,\nthe natural powers, exerted before,--as the cause of motion in the\nsteamboat.\n\nPassing from these considerations not unconnected with the subject, let\nus inquire what saltpetre is, and how it is formed.\n\nThe term Saltpetre is applied to a variety of bodies, distinguished,\nhowever, by their bases, as potash saltpetre, soda saltpetre, lime\nsaltpetre, etc., which occur naturally. They are all compounds of nitric\nacid and bases, or the gases nitrogen and oxygen united to bases, and\nare found in all soils which have not been recently washed by rains, and\nwhich are protected from excessive moisture.\n\nThe decomposition of animal and of some vegetable bodies in the soil\ncauses the production of one constituent of saltpetre, while the earth\nand the animal remains supply the other. Evaporation of pure water from\nthe surface of the earth causes the moisture which rises from below to\nbring to the surface the salt dissolved in it; and as this salt is not\nvolatile, the escape of the moisture leaves it at or near the surface.\nHence, under buildings, especially habitations of men and animals, the\nsalt accumulates, and in times of scarcity it may be collected. In all\ncases of its extraction from the earth several kinds of saltpetre are\nobtained, and the usual course is to decompose these by the addition of\nsalts of potash, so as to form from them potash saltpetre, the kind most\ngenerally consumed.\n\nIn this decomposition of animal remains and the formation of saltpetre\nthe air performs an important part, and the changes it effects are\nworthy of our attention.\n\nLet us consider the a\u00ebrial ocean surrounding our earth and resting upon\nit, greatly larger in mass and extent than the more familiar aqueous\nocean below it, and more closely and momentarily affecting our\nwell-being.\n\nThe pure air, consisting of 20.96 volumes of oxygen gas and 79.04\nvolumes of nitrogen gas, preserves, under all the variations of climate\nand height above the surface of the earth, a remarkable constancy of\ncomposition,--the variation of one one-hundredth part never having been\nobserved. But additions and subtractions are being constantly made,\nand the atmosphere, as distinguished from the pure air, is mixed with\nexhalations from countless sources on the land and the sea. Wherever man\nmoves, his fire, his food, the materials of his dwellings, the soil he\ndisturbs, all add their volatile parts to the atmosphere. Vegetation,\ndeath, and decay pour into it copiously substances foreign to the\ncomposition of pure air. The combustion of one ton of coal adds at least\nsixteen tons of impurity to the atmosphere; and when we estimate on\nthe daily consumption of coal the addition from this source alone, the\namount becomes enormous.\n\nExperiments have been made for the purpose of estimating these\nadditions, and the results of those most carefully conducted show how\nvery slightly the combined causes affect the general composition of our\natmosphere; and although the present refined methods of chemists enable\nthem to detect the presence of an abnormal amount of some substances, no\nresearch has yet been successful in determining how far this varies from\nthe natural quantity at all times necessarily present in the atmosphere.\n\nIt is, however, the comparatively minute portions of nitrogenous matter\nin the atmosphere that we are to consider as the source of the nitrous\nacids formed there, and of part of that found in the earth. From some\nexperiments made during the day and night it has been found, that, under\nthe most favorable circumstances, six millions six hundred and seventy\nthousand parts of air afford one part of nitrogenous bodies, if the\nwhole quantity be abstracted! A portion only of this quantity can be\nwithdrawn in natural operations, such as the falling of rain and the\ndeposition of dew,--the larger part always remaining behind.\n\nWhen the oxygen of our atmosphere is exposed, while in its usual\nhygrometric state, to the influence of bodies attracting a portion of\nit, such as decomposing substances, or when it forms the medium of\nelectrical discharges, it suddenly assumes new powers, acquires a\ngreatly increased activity, affects our organs of smell, dissolves\nin fluids, and has been mistaken for a new substance, and even named\n\"ozone.\" Among the new characters thus conferred on it is the power of\nuniting with or burning many substances. This ozonized oxygen, when\nbrought into mixture with many nitrogenized bodies, forms with them\nnitrous acids, completely destroying their former condition and\ncomposition; hence, in the atmosphere, this part of the oxygen becomes\na purifier of the whole mass, from which it removes putrescent\nexhalations, miasmatic vapors, and the effluvia from every source of sea\nor land. Very curious are the effects of this active oxygen, which is\never present in some portion of the atmosphere. Moved by the wind, mixed\nwith the impure upward currents rising from cities, it seizes on\nand changes rapidly all foulness, and if the currents are not too\nvoluminous, the impure air becomes changed to pure. As ozonized oxygen\ncan be easily detected, we may pass from the city, where (overpowered\nby the exhalations) it does not exist, and find it in the air of the\nvicinity; and moving away several miles, ascertain that a normal amount\nthere prevails, and that step by step, on our return to abodes of a\ndense population, the quantity diminishes and finally all disappears.\n\nWe are now prepared to answer the second part of the question which was\nsuggested, and to find that nitrous acids formed in the atmosphere\nby direct oxidation of nitrogenous matter may unite with the ammonia\npresent to produce one kind of saltpetre; and when the rains or the dews\ncarry this to the earth, the salts of lime, potash, and soda there found\nwill decompose this ammoniacal saltpetre, and set the ammonia free, to\nact over again its part. So in regard to decomposing organic matters in\nthe soil: ozonized oxygen changes them in the same way. The earth\nand calcareous rocks of caves, penetrated by the air, slowly produce\nsaltpetre, and before the theory of the action was understood,\nartificial imitation of natural conditions enabled us to manufacture\nsaltpetre. Animal remains, stratified with porous earth or the sweepings\nof cities, and disposed in long heaps or walls, protected from rain, but\nexposed to the prevailing winds, soon form nitrous salts, and a large\nspace covered with these deposits carefully tended forms a saltpetre\nplantation. France, Prussia, Sweden, Switzerland, and other countries,\nhave been supplied with saltpetre from similar artificial arrangements.\n\nBut the atmosphere is washed most thoroughly by the rains falling in and\nnear tropical countries, and the changes there are most rapid, so that\nthe production of saltpetre, favored by moisture and hot winds, attains\nits highest limit in parts of India and the bordering countries.\n\nDuring the prevalence of dry winds, the earth in many districts of India\nbecomes frosted over with nitrous efflorescences, and the great quantity\nshipped from the commercial ports, and that consumed in China, is thus a\nnatural production of that region. The increased amount due to tropical\ninfluences will be seen in the instances here given of the produce from\nthe rich earths of different countries:--\n\n_Natural_.\n\n  France, Church of Mousseau,            5-3/8 per cent.\n    \"     Cavern of Fouqui\u00e8res,          3-1/2  \"\n  U. States, Tennessee, dirt of caves,   0.86   \"\n  Ceylon, Cave of Memoora,               3-1/10 \"\n  Upper Bengal, Tirhoot, earth simply,   1-6/10 \"\n  Patree in Guzerat, best sweepings,     8-7/10 \"\n\nIn each case the salt is mixed saltpetres.\n\n_Artificial_.\n\n  France, 100 lbs. earth from\n       plantations afford                 8 to 9 oz.\n  Hungary and Sweden, from\n       the same,                          1/2 to 2-3/10 per cent.\n\nIt may be calculated that the flesh of animals, free from bone,\ncarefully decomposed, will afford ninety-five pounds of saltpetre for\none thousand pounds thus consumed.\n\nIn the manufacture of saltpetre, the earths, whether naturally or\nartificially impregnated, are mixed with the ashes from burnt wood, or\nsalts of potash, so that this base may take the place of all others, and\nproduce long prisms of potash saltpetre.\n\nIn this country there are numerous caves of great extent in Kentucky,\nTennessee, and Missouri, from which saltpetre has been manufactured.\nUnder the most favorable conditions of abundance of labor, obtainable\nat a low price, potash saltpetre can be made at a cost about one-fourth\ngreater than the average price of India saltpetre, and those sources of\nsupply are the best natural deposits known on this side of the Rocky\nMountains. Where there is an insufficient supply of manure in a country,\nresort to the artificial production of saltpetre is simply a robbery\ncommitted on the resources of the agriculturists, and it is only during\nthe pressure of a great struggle like that of the wars of Napoleon, that\nthe conversion into saltpetre of materials which can become food for the\ncommunity would be permitted.\n\nHitherto, in peaceful times, our supply of saltpetre has come from India\nthrough commercial channels; but twice within a few years this course of\ntrade has been interrupted by the British Government, and the price of a\nnecessary article has been greatly enhanced,--leading reflecting minds\nto the inquiry after other sources whence to draw the quantity required\nfor an increasing consumption. On the boundary between Peru and Chili,\nin South Peru, about forty miles from the ports of Conception and\nIquique, is a depression in the general surface of a saline desert,\nwhere a bed of soda saltpetre, about two and a half feet thick and\none hundred and fifty miles long, exists. The salt is massive, and,\noccurring in a rainless climate, it is dry, and contains about sixty per\ncent. of pure soda saltpetre. In Brazil, on the San Francisco, the same\nsalt is found extending sixty or seventy miles,--and again near the town\nof Pilao Arcado, the beds being about two hundred and forty miles from\nBahia, but at present inaccessible for want of roads. The Peruvian\nnative saltpetre is rudely refined in the desert, and then transported\non the backs of mules to the shipping-port. As found in commerce, it is\nless impure than India saltpetre; and it might be usefully substituted\nfor the latter in the manufacture of gunpowder, were it less\ndeliquescent in damp atmospheres. For chemical purposes it now replaces\nIndia saltpetre, but the larger consumption is perhaps as a fertilizer\nof land, in the cool and humid climate of England, the low price it\nbears in the market permitting this consumption.\n\nWe have found that the various saltpetres of natural production, or\nthose obtained in artificial arrangements, are converted by the use of\npotash salts into potash saltpetre, and among the products so changed is\nnatural soda saltpetre. Now to us in this country, so near the sources\nof abundant supply of soda saltpetre, this substitution becomes a matter\nof great interest. We possess and can produce the alkaline salt of\npotash in almost unlimited quantity, and, excepting for some special\npurposes, it is consumed for its alkaline energy alone. When soda\nsaltpetre in proper proportion is dissolved and thus mixed with potash\nsalt, an exchange of bases takes place, and no loss of alkaline energy\nfollows. The soda in a quite pure state is eliminated from the soda\nsaltpetre, and will serve for the manufactures of glass and soap; while\nthe potash, taking the oxygen compound of the soda saltpetre, produces,\nas a final result, a pure and beautiful prismatic saltpetre, most\neconomically and abundantly.\n\nInstead of working on a hundred pounds of earth to obtain at most eight\nor nine pounds of saltpetre, a hundred pounds of soda saltpetre will\nafford more than one hundred and nine pounds of potash saltpetre, when\nskilfully treated. Here, then, we have, by simple chemical treatment\nof an imported, but very cheap salt, a result constituting a source of\nabundant supply of potash saltpetre, _without the loss of the agent_\nconcerned in the transformation.\n\nWe have traced slightly in outline the formation of saltpetre to the\naction of ozonized oxygen on nitrogen compounds, in the atmosphere, or\nin the earth,--the conditions being the same in both cases. If we pursue\nthe study of this action of ozonized oxygen farther, we shall not\nrestrict its combining disposition to these compounds, but prove that it\nhas the power of uniting directly with the nitrogen naturally forming\npart of the pure air. While nitrogenized bodies are present, however,\nin the atmosphere, or in the humid artificial heaps of saltpetre\nplantations, the action of ozonized oxygen is on these, and the nitrous\ncompounds formed unite with the bases lime, soda, and potash, also\npresent, to form saltpetre.\n\nUnder all the conditions necessary, we see the permanent gases, oxygen\nand nitrogen, leaving the atmosphere and changing from their gaseous to\na solid dry state, when they become chemically combined with potash, and\nthere are 53-46/100 parts of the gaseous matter and 46-54/100 parts of\nthe potash in 100 parts of the saltpetre by weight.\n\nHaving now found what saltpetre is and how it is formed, let us advance\nto the consideration of it as a source of power.\n\nThrough the exertion of chemical attraction the gaseous elements of the\natmosphere have become solid in the saltpetre; and as we know the weight\nof this part in a cubic inch of saltpetre, the volume of the gases\ncombined is easily ascertained to be about eight hundred times that of\nthe saltpetre. Hence, as every cubic inch of condensation represents\nan atmosphere as large as the cubic inch of saltpetre formed, we may\nroughly estimate that the condensing force arising from chemical\nattraction in this case is 800 times 15 lbs., or 12,000 lbs.!\n\nStrictly speaking, only about four-tenths of a cubic inch of potash\nholds this enormous power in connection with it so as to form a cubic\ninch of saltpetre, which we may handle and bruise, may melt and cool,\ndissolve and crystallize, without explosion or change. It contains\nconserved a force which represents the aggregate result of innumerable\nminute actions, taking place among portions of matter which escape\nour senses from their minuteness and excite our wonder by their\ntransformation. Closely similar are these actions to the agencies in\nvegetation which build up the wood of the tree or the material of\nthe coal destined to serve for the production of fire in all the\napplications of steam which we have briefly noticed in illustration.\n\nIn availing ourselves of the concentrated power accumulated in\nsaltpetre, we resort to bodies which easily kindle when fire is applied,\nsuch as sulphur and finely powdered charcoal: these substances are\nmost intimately mixed with the saltpetre in a powdered state, and the\ndampened mass subjected to great pressure is afterwards broken into\ngrains of varied size, constituting gunpowder.\n\nThe substances thus added to the saltpetre have both the disposition and\nthe power of burning with and decomposing the nitrous element of the\nsaltpetre, and in so doing they do not simply open the way for the\nenergetic action of the gases escaping, but, owing to the high\ntemperature produced, a new force is added.\n\nIf the gases escaped from combination simply, they would exert for every\ncubic inch of saltpetre, as we have here considered it, the direct power\nof 12,000 lbs.; but under the new conditions, the volume of escaping gas\nhas a temperature above 2,000\u00b0 Fahrenheit, and consequently its force\nin overcoming resistance is more than four times as great, or at least\n48,000 lbs.\n\nSuch, then, is the power which can be obtained from a cubic inch of\nsaltpetre, when it is so compounded as to form some of the kinds of\ngunpowder; and the fact of greatest importance in this connection is the\ncontrol we have over the amount of the force exerted and the time in\nwhich the energy can be expended, by variations in the proportions of\nthe eliminating agents employed.\n\nWe have used the well-known term Gunpowder to express the compound by\nwhich we easily obtain the power latent in saltpetre; and the use of the\nterm suggests the employment of guns, which is secondary to the main\npoint we are illustrating. As the enormous consumption of power takes\nplace during peaceful times, so the consumption of saltpetre during a\nstate of war is much lessened, because the prosecution of public and\nprivate works is then nearly suspended.\n\nThe value and importance of saltpetre as a source of power is seen in\nthe adaptation of its explosive force to special purposes. It performs\nthat work well which we cannot carry on so perfectly by means of any\nother agent, and the great mining and engineering works of a country are\ndependent on this source for their success, and for overcoming obstacles\nwhere other forces fail. With positive certainty the engineer can remove\na portion of a cliff or rock without breaking it into many parts, and\ncan displace masses to convenient distances, under all the varying\ndemands which arise in the process of mining, tunnelling, or cutting\ninto the earth.\n\nIn all these cases of application we see that the powder contains within\nitself both the material for producing force and the means by which that\nforce is applied, no other motor being necessary in its application.\n\nModern warfare has become in its simplest expression the intelligent\napplication of force, and that side will successfully overcome or resist\nthe other which can in the shortest time so direct the greater force.\nIn artillery as well as infantry practice, the control over the time\nnecessary in the decomposition of the powder has been obtained through\nthe refinements already made in the manufacture, and the best results\nof the latest trials confirm in full the conclusion that saltpetre is a\nsource of great and easily controlled power, which can act through short\nor extended space.\n\nUnder the view here presented, it is evident that saltpetre is\nindispensable to progress in the arts of civilization and peace, as well\nas in military operations, and that no nation can advance in material\ninterests, or even maintain strict independence, without possessing\nwithin its boundaries either saltpetre or the sources from which it\ncan be drawn at all times. In its use for protecting the property of\na nation from the attacks of an enemy, and as the means of insuring\nrespect, we may consider saltpetre as an element of strength in a State,\nand as such deserving a high place in the consideration of those who\ndirect the counsels or form the policy of a country.\n\nHas the subject of having an exhaustless supply of this important\nproduct or the means of producing it been duly considered?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nWEATHER IN WAR.\n\n\nIt is not very flattering to that glory-loving, battle-seeking creature,\nMan, that his best-arranged schemes for the destruction of his fellows\nshould often be made to fail by the condition of the weather. More\nor less have the greatest of generals been \"servile to all the skyey\ninfluences.\" Upon the state of the atmosphere frequently depends the\nability of men to fight, and military hopes rise and fall with the\nrising and falling of the metal in the thermometer's tube. Mercury\ngoverns Mars. A hero is stripped of his plumes by a tempest, and his\nlaurels fly away on the invisible wings of the wind, and are seen no\nmore forever. Empires fall because of a heavy fall of snow. Storms of\nrain have more than once caused monarchs to cease to reign. A hard\nfrost, a sudden thaw, a \"hot spell,\" a \"cold snap,\" a contrary wind, a\nlong drought, a storm of sand,--all these things have had their part in\ndeciding the destinies of dynasties, the fortunes of races, and the fate\nof nations. Leave the weather out of history, and it is as if night were\nleft out of the day, and winter out of the year. Americans have fretted\na little because their \"Grand Army\" could not advance through mud that\ncame up to the horses' shoulders, and in which even the seven-league\nboots would have stuck, though they had been worn as deftly as Ariel\ncould have worn them. They talked as if no such thing had ever before\nbeen known to stay the march of armies; whereas all military operations\nhave, to a greater or a lesser extent, depended for their issue upon the\nsoftening or the hardening of the earth, or upon the clearing or the\nclouding of the sky. The elements have fought against this or that\nconqueror, or would-be conqueror, as the stars in their courses fought\nagainst Sisera; and the Kishon is not the only river that has through\nits rise put an end to the hopes of a tyrant. The condition of rivers,\nwhich must be owing to the condition of the weather, has often colored\nevents for ages, perhaps forever. The melting of the snows of the\nPyrenees, causing a great rise of the rivers of Northern Spain, came\nnigh bringing ruin upon Julius Caesar himself; and nothing but the\nfeeble character of the opposing general saved him from destruction.\n\nThe preservation of Greece, with all its incalculable consequences, must\nbe credited to the weather. The first attempt to conquer that country,\nmade by the Persians, failed because of a storm that disabled their\nfleet. Mardonius crossed the Hellespont twelve or thirteen years before\nthat feat was accomplished by Xerxes, and he purposed marching as far as\nAthens. His army was not unsuccessful, but off Mount Athos the Persian\nfleet was overtaken by a storm, which destroyed three hundred ships\nand twenty thousand men. This compelled him to retreat, and the Greeks\ngained time to prepare for the coming of their enemy. But for that\nstorm, Athens would have been taken and destroyed, the Persians having\nan especial grudge against the Athenians because of their part in the\ntaking and burning of Sardis; and Athens was destined to become Greece\nfor all after-time, so that her as yet dim light could not have been\nquenched without darkening the whole world. When Xerxes himself entered\nEurope, and was apparently about to convert Hellas into a satrapy, it\nwas a storm, or a brace of storms, that saved that country from so sad a\nfate, and preserved it for the welfare of all after generations of men.\nThe Great King, in the hope of escaping \"the unseen atmospheric enemies\nwhich howl around that formidable promontory,\" had caused Mount Athos to\nbe cut through, but, as the historian observes, \"the work of destruction\nto his fleet was only transferred to the opposite side of the\nintervening Thracian sea.\" That fleet was anchored on the Magnesian\ncoast, when a hurricane came upon it, known to the people of the country\nas the _Hellespontias_, and which blew right upon the shore. For three\ndays this wind continued to blow, and the Persians lost four hundred\nwarships, many transports and provision craft, myriads of men, and an\nenormous amount of _mat\u00e9riel_. The Grecian fleet, which had fled before\nthat of Persia, now retraced its course, believing that the latter was\ndestroyed, and would have fled again but for the arts and influence\nof Themistocles. The sea-fights of Artemisium followed, in which the\nadvantage was, though not decisively, with the Greeks; and that\nthey finally retreated was owing to the success of the Persians at\nThermopylae. Between the first and second battle of Artemisium the\nPersians suffered from another storm, which inflicted great losses upon\nthem. These disasters to the enemy greatly encouraged the Greeks,\nwho believed that they came directly from the gods; and they made it\npossible for them to fight the naval battle of Salamis, and to win it.\nSo great was the alarm of Xerxes, who thought that the victors would\nsail to the Hellespont, and destroy the bridge he had thrown over that\nstrait, that he ordered his still powerful fleet to hasten to its\nprotection. He himself fled by land, but on his arrival at the\nHellespont he found that the bridge had been destroyed by a storm; and\nhe must have been impressed as deeply as Napoleon was in this century,\nthat the elements had leagued themselves with his mortal enemies. After\nhis flight, and the withdrawal of his fleet from the war, the Persians\nhad not a chance left, and the defeat of his lieutenant Mardonius, at\nPlataea, was of the nature of a foregone conclusion.\n\nIt is not possible to exaggerate the importance of the assistance which\nthe Greeks received from the storms mentioned, and it is not strange\nthat they were lavish in their thanks and offerings to Poseidon the\nSaviour, or that they continued piously to express their gratitude\nin later days. Mankind at large have reason to be thankful for the\noccurrence of those storms; for if they had not happened, Greece must\nhave been conquered, and all that she has been to the world would have\nbeen that world's loss. It was not until after the overthrow of the\nPersians that Athens became the home of science, literature, art, and\ncommerce; and if Athens had been removed from Greece, there would have\nbeen little of Hellenic genius left for the delight of future days. Not\nonly was most of that which is known as Greek literature the production\nof the years that followed the failure of Xerxes, but the success of the\nGreeks was the means of preserving all of their earlier literature. The\nPersians were not barbarians, and, had they achieved their purpose, they\nmight have promoted civilisation in Europe; but that civilization would\nhave been Asiatic in its character, and it might have been as fleeting\nas the labors of the Carthaginians in Europe and Africa. Nor would they\nhave felt any interest in the preservation of the works of those Greeks\nwho wrote before the Marathonian time, which they would have regarded\nwith that contempt with which most conquerors look upon the labors of\nthose whom they have enslaved. That most brilliant of ages, the age of\nPericles, could never have come to pass under the dominion of Persia;\nand the Greeks of Europe, when ruled by satraps from Susa, would have\nbeen of as little weight in the ancient world as, under that kind of\nrule, were the Greeks of Ionia. All future history was involved in the\ndecision of the Persian contest, and we may well feel grateful that the\nevent was not left for the hands of men to decide, but that the winds\nand the waves of the Grecian seas so far equalized the power of the\ncombatants as to enable the Greeks, who fought for us as well as for\nthemselves, to roll back the tide of Oriental conquest. We might not\nhave had even the Secession War, if there had been no storms in the\nThracian seas in a summer the roses of which perished more than two\nthousand three hundred years ago.[A]\n\n[Footnote A: When the Athenian patriots under Thrasybulus occupied\nPhyle, they would have been destroyed by the forces of the Thirty\nTyrants, had not a violent snow-storm happened, which compelled\nthe besiegers to retreat. The patriots characterized this storm as\nProvidential. Had the weather remained fair, the patriots would have\nbeen beaten, the democracy would not have been restored, and we should\nnever have had the orations of Demosthenes; and perhaps even Plato might\nnot have written and thought for all after time.]\n\nThe modern contest which most resembles that which was waged between the\nGreeks and the Persians is that war between England and Spain which\ncame to a crisis in 1588, when the Spanish Armada was destroyed by the\ntempests of the Northern seas, after having been well mauled by the\nEnglish fleet. The English seamen behaved well, as they always do; but\nthe Spanish loss would not have been irreparable, if the weather had\nremained mild. What men had begun so well storms completed. A contrary\nwind prevented the Spanish Admiral from pursuing his course in a\ndirection that would have proved favorable to his second object, which\nwas the preservation of his fleet. He was forced to stand to the North,\nso that he rushed right into the jaws of destruction. He encountered\nin those remote and almost unknown waters tempests that were even more\nmerciless than the fighting ships and fireships of the island heretics.\nPhilip II. bore his loss with the same calmness that he bore the victory\nof Lepanto. As, on hearing of the latter, he merely said, \"Don John\nrisked a great deal,\" so, when tidings came to him that the Invincible\nArmada had been found vincible, he quietly remarked, \"I sent it out\nagainst men, and not against the billows.\" Down to the very last year,\nit had been the common, and all but universal opinion, that, if the\nSpaniards had succeeded in landing in England, they would have been\nbeaten, so resolute were the English in their determination to oppose\nthem, and so extensive were their preparations for resistance. Elizabeth\nat Tilbury had been one of the stock pieces of history, and her words of\ndefiance to Parma and to Spain have been ringing through the world ever\nsince they were uttered _after_ the Armada had ceased to threaten her\nthrone. We now know that the common opinion on this subject, like the\ncommon opinion respecting some other crises, was all wrong, a delusion\nand a sham, and based on nothing but plausible lies. Mr. Motley has put\nmen right on this point, as on some others; and it is impossible to\nread his brilliant and accurate narrative of the events of 1588 without\ncoming to the conclusion that Elizabeth was in the summer of that year\nin the way to receive punishment for the cowardly butchery which had\nbeen perpetrated, in her name, if not by her direct orders, in the great\nhall of Fotheringay. She was saved by those winds which helped the Dutch\nto blockade Parma's army, in the first instance, and then by those\nOrcadian tempests which smote the Armada, and converted its haughty\npride into a by-word and a scoffing. The military preparations of\nEngland were of the feeblest character; and it is not too much to say,\nthat the only parallel case of Governmental weakness is that which is\nafforded by the American history of last spring, when we had not an\nefficient company or a seaworthy armed ship with which to fight the\nSecessionists, who had been openly making their preparations for war for\nmonths. The late Mr. Richard Rush mentions, in the second series of his\n\"Residence at the Court of London,\" that at a dinner at the Marquis of\nLansdowne's, in 1820, the conversation turned on the Spanish Armada; and\nhe was surprised to find that most of the company, which was composed of\nmembers of Parliament and other public men, were of the opinion that the\nSpaniards, could they have been landed, would have been victorious. With\ngenuine American faith in English invincibility, he wondered what the\ncompany could mean, and also what the English armies would have been\nabout. It was not possible for any one then to have said that there were\nno English armies at that time to be about anything; but now we see\nthat those armies were but imaginary bodies, having not even a paper\nexistence. Parma, who was even an abler diplomatist than soldier,--that\nis, he was the most accomplished liar in an age that was made up of\nfalsehood,--had so completely gulled the astute Elizabeth that she was\nliving in the fools' paradise; and so little did she and most of her\ncounsellors expect invasion, that a single Spanish regiment of infantry\nmight, had it then been landed, have driven the whole organized force\nof England from Sheerness to Bristol. Those Englishmen who sneer so\nbitterly at the conduct of our Government but a year ago would do well\nto study closely the history of their own country in 1588, in which they\nwill find much matter calculated to lessen their conceit, and to teach\nthem charity. The Lincoln Government of the United States had been in\nexistence but little more than thirty days when it found itself involved\nin war with the Rebels; the Elizabethan Government had been in existence\nfor thirty years when the Armada came to the shores of England, to the\nastonishment and dismay of those \"barons bold and statesmen old in\nbearded majesty\" whom we have been content to regard as the bravest and\nthe wisest men that have lived since David and Solomon. Elizabeth, who\nhad a beard that vied with Burleigh's,--the evidence of her virgin\ninnocence,--felt every hair of her head curling from terror when she\nlearned how she had been \"done\" by Philip's lieutenant; and old Burleigh\nmust have thought that his mistress was in the condition of Jockey of\nNorfolk's master at Bosworth,--\"bought and sold.\" Fortunately for both\nold women, and for us all, the summer gales of 1588 were adverse to the\nSpaniards, and protected Old England. We know not whence the wind cometh\nnor whither it goeth, but we know that its blows have often been given\nwith effect on human affairs; and it never blew with more usefulness,\nsince the time when it used up the ships of Xerxes, than when it sent\nthe ships of Philip to join \"the treasures that old Ocean hoards.\" Had\nEngland then been conquered by Spain, though but temporarily, Protestant\nEngland would have ceased to exist, and the current of history would\nhave been as emphatically changed as was the current of the Euphrates\nunder the labors of the soldiers of Cyrus. We should have had no\nShakspeare, or a very different Shakspeare from the one that we have;\nand the Elizabethan age would have presented to after centuries an\nappearance altogether unlike that which now so impressively strikes the\nmind. As that was the time out of which all that is great and good in\nEngland and America has proceeded, in letters and in arms, in religion\nand in politics, we can easily understand how vast must have been the\nchange, had not the winds of the North been so unpropitious to the\npurposes of the King of the South.\n\nThe English are very proud of the victories of Cr\u00e9cy and Agincourt, as\nwell they may be; for, though gained in the course of as unjust and\nunprovoked and cruel wars as ever were waged even by Englishmen, they\nare as splendid specimens of slaughter-work as can be found in the\nhistory of \"the Devil's code of honor.\" But they owe them both to the\nweather, which favored their ancestors, and was as unfavorable to the\nancestors of the French. At Cr\u00e9cy the Italian cross-bow men in the\nFrench army not only came into the field worn down by a long march on a\nhot day in August, but immediately after their arrival they were\nexposed to a terrible thunder-storm, in which the rain fell in absolute\ntorrents, wetting the strings of their bows, and rendering them\nunserviceable. The English archers, who carried the far more useful\nlong-bow, kept their bows in their cases until the rain ceased, and then\ntook them out dry, and in perfect condition; besides which, even if\nthe strings of the long-bows had been wetted, they could not have been\nmaterially injured, as they were thin and pliable, while those of the\ncross-bows were so thick and unpliable that they could not be tightened\nor slackened at pleasure. In after-days this defect in the cross-bow was\nremoved, but it existed in full force in 1346. When the battle began,\nthe Italian _quarrel_ was found to be worthless, because of the strings\nof the arbalists having absorbed so much moisture, while the English\narrows came upon the poor Genoese in frightful showers, throwing them\ninto a panic, and inaugurating disaster to the French at the very\nbeginning of the action. The day was lost from that moment, and there\nwas not a leader among the French capable of restoring it.\n\nAt Agincourt the circumstances were very different, but quite as fatal\nto the French. That battle was fought on the 25th of October, 1415, and\nthe French should have won it according to all the rules of war,--but\nthey did not win it, because they had too much valor and too little\nsense. A cautious coward makes a better soldier than a valiant fool, and\nthe boiling bravery of the French has lost them more battles than any\nother people have lost through timidity. Henry V.'s invasion of France\nwas the most wicked attack that ever was made even by England on a\nneighboring nation, and it was meeting with its proper reward, when\nFrench folly ruined everything. The French overtook the English on the\n24th of October, and by judicious action might have destroyed them, for\nthey were by far the more numerous,--though most English authorities,\nwith characteristic \"unveracity,\" grossly exaggerate the inequality of\nnumbers that really did exist between the two armies. On the night of\nthe 24th the rain fell heavily, making the ground quite unfit for\nthe operations of heavy cavalry, in which the strength of the French\nconsisted, while the English had their incomparable archers, the\nworthy predecessors of the English infantry of to-day, one of whom was\ncalculated to do more efficient service than could have been expected,\nas the circumstances of the field were, from ten knights cumbered with\nbulky mail. Sir Harris Nicolas, the most candid English historian of the\nbattle, and who prepared a very useful, but unreadable volume concerning\nit, after speaking of the bad arrangements adopted by the French,\nproceeds to say,--\"The inconveniences under which the French labored\nwere much increased by the state of the ground, which was not only soft\nfrom heavy rains, but was broken up by their horses during the preceding\nnight, the weather having obliged the valets and pages to keep them in\nmotion. Thus the statement of French historians may readily be credited,\nthat, from the ponderous armor with which the men-at-arms were\nenveloped, and the softness of the ground, it was with the utmost\ndifficulty they could either move or lift their weapons, notwithstanding\ntheir lances had been shortened to enable them to fight closely,--that\nthe horses at every step sunk so deeply into the mud, that it required\ngreat exertion to extricate them,--and that the narrowness of the place\ncaused their archers to be so crowded as to prevent them from drawing\ntheir bows.\" Michelet's description of the day is the best that can be\nread, and he tells us, that, when the signal of battle was given by Sir\nThomas Erpingham, the English shouted, but \"the French army, to their\ngreat astonishment, remained motionless. Horses and knights appeared to\nbe enchanted, or struck dead in their armor. The fact was, that their\nlarge battle-steeds, weighed down with their heavy riders and lumbering\ncaparisons of iron, had all their feet completely sunk in the deep wet\nclay; they were fixed there, and could only struggle out to crawl on a\nfew steps at a walk,\" Upon this mass of chivalry, all stuck in the mud,\nthe cloth-yard shafts of the English yeomen fell like hailstones upon\nthe summer corn. Some few of the French made mad efforts to charge, but\nwere annihilated before they could reach the English line. The English\nadvanced upon the \"mountain of men and horses mixed together,\" and\nbutchered their immovable enemies at their leisure. Plebeian hands that\nday poured out patrician blood in torrents. The French fell into a\npanic, and those of their number who could run away did so. It was the\nstory of Poitiers over again, in one respect; for the Black Prince owed\nhis victory to a panic that befell a body of sixteen thousand French,\nwho scattered and fled without having struck a blow. Agincourt was\nfought on St. Crispin's day, and a precious strapping the French got.\nThe English found that there was \"nothing like leather.\" It was the last\nbattle in which the oriflamme was displayed; and well it might be; for,\nred as it was, it must have blushed a deeper red over the folly of the\nFrench commanders.\n\nThe greatest battle ever fought on British ground, with the exceptions\nof Hastings and Bannockburn,--and greater even than Hastings, if numbers\nare allowed to count,--was that of Towton, the chief action in the Wars\nof the Roses; and its decision was due to the effect of the weather on\nthe defeated army. It was fought on the 29th of March, 1461, which was\nthe Palm-Sunday of that year. Edward, Earl of March, eldest son of the\nDuke of York, having made himself King of England, advanced to the North\nto meet the Lancastrian army. That army was sixty thousand strong, while\nEdward IV. was at the head of less than forty-nine thousand. After some\npreliminary fighting, battle was joined on a plain between the villages\nof Saxton and Towton, in Yorkshire, and raged for ten hours. Palm-Sunday\nwas a dark and tempestuous day, with the snow falling heavily. At first\nthe wind was favorable to the Lancastrians, but it suddenly changed, and\nblew the snow right into their faces. This was bad enough, but it was\nnot the worst, for the snow slackened their bow-strings, causing their\narrows to fall short of the Yorkists, who took them from the ground, and\nsent them back with fatal effect. The Lancastrian leaders then sought\ncloser conflict, but the Yorkists had already achieved those advantages\nwhich, under a good general, are sure to prepare the way to victory. It\nwas as if the snow had resolved to give success to the pale rose. That\nwhich Edward had won he was resolved to increase, and his dispositions\nwere of the highest military excellence; but it is asserted that he\nwould have been beaten, because of the superiority of the enemy in men,\nbut for the coming up, at the eleventh hour, of the Duke of Norfolk, who\nwas the Joseph Johnston of 1461, doing for Edward what the Secessionist\nJohnston did for Beauregard in 1861. The Lancastrians then gave way,\nand retreated, at first in orderly fashion, but finally falling into\na panic, when they were cut down by thousands. They lost twenty-eight\nthousand men, and the Yorkists eight thousand. This was a fine piece of\nwork for the beginning of Passion-Week, bloody laurels gained in civil\nconflict being substituted for palm-branches! No such battle was ever\nfought by Englishmen in foreign lands. This was the day when\n\n  \"Wharfe ran red with slaughter,\n  Gathering in its guilty flood\n  The carnage, and the ill-spilt blood\n  That forty thousand lives could yield.\n  Cr\u00e9cy was to this but sport,\n  Poitiers but a pageant vain,\n  And the work of Agincourt\n  Only like a tournament.\n  Half the blood which there was spent\n  Had sufficed to win again\n  Anjou and ill-yielded Maine,\n  Normandy and Aquitaine.\"\n\nEdward IV., it should seem, was especially favored by the powers of the\nair; for, if he owed victory at Towton to wind and snow, he owed it to a\nmist at Barnet. This last action was fought on the 14th of April, 1471,\nand the prevalence of the mist, which was very thick, enabled Edward so\nto order his military work as to counterbalance the enemy's superiority\nin numbers. The mist was attributed to the arts of Friar Bungay, a\nfamous and most rascally \"nigromancer.\" The mistake made by Warwick's\nmen, when they thought Oxford's cognizance, a star paled with rays,\nwas that of Edward, which was a sun in full glory, (the White Rose _en\nsoleil,_) and so assailed their own friends, and created a panic, was in\npart attributable to the mist, which prevented them from seeing clearly;\nand this mistake was the immediate occasion of the overthrow of the army\nof the Red Rose. That Edward was enabled to fight the Battle of Barnet\nwith any hope of success was also owing to the weather. Margaret of\nAnjou had assembled a force in France, Louis XI. supporting her cause,\nand this force was ready to sail in February, and by its presence\nin England victory would unquestionably have been secured for the\nLancastrians. But the elements opposed themselves to her purpose with so\nmuch pertinacity and consistency that it is not strange that men should\nhave seen therein the visible hand of Providence. Three times did she\nembark, but only to be driven back by the wind, and to suffer loss. Some\nof her party sought to persuade her to abandon the enterprise, as Heaven\nseemed to oppose it; but Margaret was a strong-minded woman, and would\nnot listen to the suggestions of superstitious cowards. She sailed a\nfourth time, and held on in the face of bad weather. Half a day of good\nweather was all that was necessary to reach England, but it was not\nuntil the end of almost the third week that she was able to effect a\nlanding, and then at a point distant from Warwick. Had the King-maker\nbeen the statesman-soldier that he has had the credit of being, he never\nwould have fought Edward until he had been joined by Margaret; and he\nmust have known that her non-arrival was owing to contrary winds,\nhe having been himself a naval commander. But he acted like a\nknight-errant, not like a general, gave battle, and was defeated and\nslain, \"The Last of the Barons.\" Having triumphed at Barnet, Edward\nmarched to meet Margaret's army, which was led by Somerset, and defeated\nit on the 4th of May, after a hardly-contested action at Tewkesbury. It\nwas on that field that Prince Edward of Lancaster perished; and as his\nfather, Henry VI., died a few days later, \"of pure displeasure and\nmelancholy,\" the line of Lancaster became extinct.\n\nIn justice to the memory of a monarch, to whom justice has never been\ndone, it should be remarked, in passing, that Edward IV. deserved the\nfavors of Fortune, if talent for war insures success in war. He was, so\nfar as success goes, one of the greatest soldiers that ever lived. He\nnever fought a battle that he did not win, and he never won a battle\nwithout annihilating his foe. He was not yet nineteen when he commanded\nat Towton, at the head of almost fifty thousand men; and two months\nbefore he had gained the Battle of Mortimer's Cross, under circumstances\nthat showed skillful generalship. No similar instance of precocity is\nto be found in the military history of mankind. His victories have been\nattributed to Warwick, but it is noticeable that he was as successful\nover Warwick as he had been over the Lancastrians, against whom Warwick\noriginally fought. Barnet was, with fewer combatants, as remarkable an\naction as Towton; and at Mortimer's Cross Warwick was not present, while\nhe fought and lost the second battle of St. Alban's seventeen days after\nEdward had won his first victory. Warwick was not a general, but a\nmagnificent paladin, resembling much Coeur de Lion, and most decidedly\nout of place in the England of the last half of the fifteenth century.\nWhat is peculiarly remarkable in Edward's case is this: he had received\nno military training beyond that which was common to all high-born\nyouths in that age. The French wars had long been over, and what had\nhappened in the early years of the Roses' quarrel was certainly not\ncalculated to make generals out of children. In this respect Edward\nstands quite alone in the list of great commanders. Alexander, Hannibal,\nthe first Scipio Africanus, Pompeius, Don John of Austria, Cond\u00e9,\nCharles XII., Napoleon, and some other young soldiers of the highest\neminence, were either all regularly instructed in the military art, or\nsucceeded to the command of veteran armies, or were advised and assisted\nby old and skilful generals. Besides, they were all older than Edward\nwhen they first had independent command. Gaston de Foix approaches\nnearest to the Yorkist king, but he gained only one battle, was older at\nRavenna than Edward was at Towton, and perished in the hour of victory.\nClive, perhaps, may be considered as equalling the Plantagenet king in\noriginal genius for war, but the scene of his actions, and the materials\nwith which he wrought, were so very different from those of other\nyouthful commanders, that no just comparison can be made between him and\nany one of their number.\n\nThe English have asserted that they lost the Battle of Falkirk, in 1746,\nbecause of the severity of a snow-storm that took place when they went\ninto action, a strong wind blowing the snow straight into their faces;\nand one of the causes of the defeat of the Highlanders at Culloden,\nthree months later, was another fall of snow, which was accompanied by\nwind that then blew into their faces. Fortune was impartial, and made\nthe one storm to balance the other.\n\nThat the American army was not destroyed soon after the Battle of Long\nIsland must be attributed to the foggy weather of the 29th of August,\n1776. But for the successful retreat of Washington's army from Long\nIsland, on the night of the 29th-30th, the Declaration of Independence\nwould have been made waste paper in \"sixty days\" after its adoption; and\nthat retreat could not have been made, had there not been a dense fog\nunder cover of which to make it, and to deter the enemy from action.\nWashington and his whole army would have been slain or captured, could\nthe British forces have had clear weather in which to operate. \"The\nfog which prevailed all this time,\" says Irving, \"seemed almost\nProvidential. While it hung over Long Island, and concealed the\nmovements of the Americans, the atmosphere was clear on the New York\nside of the river. The adverse wind, too, died away, the river became\nso smooth that the rowboats could be laden almost to the gunwale; and a\nfavoring breeze sprang up for the sail-boats. The whole embarkation of\ntroops, ammunition, provisions, cattle, horses, and carts, was happily\neffected, and by daybreak the greater part had safely reached the city,\nthanks to the aid of Glover's Marblehead men. Scarce anything was\nabandoned to the enemy, excepting a few heavy pieces of artillery. At\na proper time, Mifflin with his covering party left the lines, and\neffected a silent retreat to the ferry. Washington, though repeatedly\nentreated, refused to enter a boat until all the troops were embarked,\nand crossed the river with the last.\" Americans should ever regard a fog\nwith a certain reverence, for a fog saved their country in 1776.\n\nThat Poland was not restored to national rank by Napoleon I. was in some\nmeasure owing to the weather of the latter days of 1806. Those of the\nFrench officers who marched through the better portions of that country\nwere for its restoration, but others who waded through its terrible\nmud took different ground in every sense. Hence there was a serious\ndifference of opinion in the French councils on this vitally important\nsubject, which had its influence on Napoleon's mind. The severe\nwinter-weather of 1806-7, by preventing the Emperor from destroying the\nRussians, which he was on the point of doing, was prejudicial to the\ninterests of Poland; for the ultimate effect was, to compel France to\ntreat with Russia as equal with equal, notwithstanding the crowning\nvictory of Friedland. This done, there was no present hope of Polish\nrestoration, as Alexander frankly told the French Emperor that the world\nwould not be large enough for them both, if he should seek to renew\nPoland's rank as a nation. So far as the failure of the French in 1812\nis chargeable upon the weather, the weather must be considered as having\nbeen again the enemy of Poland; for Napoleon would have restored that\ncountry, had he succeeded in his Russian campaign. Such restoration\nwould then have been a necessity of his position. But it was not the\nweather of Russia that caused the French failure of 1812. That failure\nwas all but complete before the invaders of Russia had experienced any\nvery severe weather. The two powers that conquered Napoleon were those\nwhich General Von Knesebeck had pointed out to Alexander as sure to\nbe too much for him,--Space and Time. The cold, frosts, and snows of\nRussia simply completed what those powers had so well begun, and so well\ndone.\n\nIn the grand campaign of 1813, the weather had an extraordinary\ninfluence on Napoleon's fortunes, the rains of Germany really doing him\nfar more mischief than he had experienced from the snows of Russia; and,\noddly enough, a portion of this mischief came to him through the gate\nof victory. The war between the French and the Allies was renewed the\nmiddle of August, and Napoleon purposed crushing the Army of Silesia,\nunder old Bl\u00fccher, and marched upon it; but he was recalled by the\nadvance of the Grand Army of the Allies upon Dresden; for, if that city\nhad fallen into their hands, his communications with the Rhine would\nhave been lost. Returning to Dresden, he restored affairs there on the\n26th of August; and on the 27th, the Battle of Dresden was fought, the\nlast of his great victories. It was a day of mist and rain, the mist\nbeing thick, and the rain heavy. Under cover of the mist, Murat\nsurprised a portion of the Austrian infantry, and, as their muskets were\nrendered unserviceable by the rain, they fell a prey to his horse, who\nwere assisted by infantry and artillery, more than sixteen thousand men\nbeing killed, wounded, or captured. The left wing of the Allies was\nannihilated. So far all was well for the Child of Destiny; but Nemesis\nwas preparing to exact her dues very swiftly. A victory can scarcely be\nso called, unless it be well followed up; and whether Dresden should be\nanother Austerlitz depended upon what might be done during the next two\nor three days. Napoleon did _not_ act with his usual energy on that\ncritical occasion, and in seven months he had ceased to reign. Why did\nhe refrain from reaping the fruits of victory? Because the weather,\nwhich had been so favorable to his fortunes on the 27th, was quite as\nunfavorable to his person. On that day he was exposed to the rain for\ntwelve hours, and when he returned to Dresden, at night, he was wet to\nthe skin, and covered with mud, while the water was streaming from his\nchapeau, which the storm had knocked _out_ of a cocked hat. It was a\npeculiarity of Napoleon's constitution, that he could not expose himself\nto damp without bringing on a pain in the stomach; and this pain seized\nhim at noon on the 28th, when he had partaken of a repast at Pirna,\nwhither he had gone in the course of his operations against the beaten\nenemy. This illness caused him to cease his personal exertions, but not\nfrom giving such orders as the work before him required him to issue.\nPerhaps it would have had no evil effect, had it not been, that, while\nhalting at Pirna, news came to him of two great failures of distant\narmies, which led him to order the Young Guard to halt at that\nplace,--an order that cost him his empire. One more march in advance,\nand Napoleon would have become greater than ever he had been; but\nthat march was not made, and so the flying foe was converted into a\nvictorious army. For General Vandamme, who was at the head of the chief\nforce of the pursuing French, pressed the Allies with energy, relying on\nthe support of the Emperor, whose orders he was carrying out in the best\nmanner. This led to the Battle of Kulm, in which Vandamme was defeated,\nand his army destroyed for the time, because of the overwhelming\nsuperiority of the enemy; whereas that action would have been one of the\ncompletest French victories, had the Young Guard been ordered to march\nfrom Pirna, according to the original intention. The roads were in a\nmost frightful state, in consequence of the wet weather; but, as a\nvictorious army always finds food, so it always finds roads over which\nto advance to the completion of its task, unless its chief has no head.\nVandamme had a head, and thought he was winning the Marshal's staff\nwhich Napoleon had said was awaiting him in the midst of the enemy's\nretiring masses. So confident was he that the Emperor would support him,\nthat he would not retreat while yet it was in his power to do so; and\nthe consequence was that his _corps d'arm\u00e9e_ was torn to pieces, and\nhimself captured. Napoleon had the meanness to charge Vandamme with\ngoing too far and seeking to do too much, as he supposed he was slain,\nand therefore could not prove that he was simply obeying orders, as\nwell as acting in exact accordance with sound military principles. That\nVandamme was right is established by the fact that an order came from\nNapoleon to Marshal Mortier, who commanded at Pirna, to reinforce him\nwith two divisions; but the order did not reach Mortier until after\nVandamme had been defeated. Marshal Saint-Cyr, who was bound to aid\nVandamme, was grossly negligent, and failed of his duty; but even he\nwould have acted well, had he been acting under the eye of the Emperor,\nas would have been the case, had not the weather of the 27th broken down\nthe health of Napoleon, and had not other disasters to the French, all\ncaused by the same storm that had raged around Dresden, induced Napoleon\nto direct his personal attention to points remote from the scene of his\nlast triumph.[B]\n\n[Footnote B: There was a story current that Napoleon's indisposition on\nthe 28th of August was caused by his eating heartily of a shoulder of\nmutton stuffed with garlic, not the wholesomest food in the world; and\nthe digestive powers having been reduced by long exposure to damp, this\ndish may have been too much for them. Thiers says that the Imperial\nillness at Pirna was \"a malady invented by flatterers,\" and yet only a\nfew pages before he says that \"Napoleon proceeded to Pirna, where he\narrived about noon, and where, after having partaken of a slight repast,\nhe was seized with a pain in the stomach, to which he was subject after\nexposure to damp.\" Napoleon suffered from stomach complaints from an\nearly period of his career, and one of their effects is greatly to\nlessen the powers of the sufferer's mind. His want of energy at Borodino\nwas attributed to a disordered stomach, and the Russians were simply\nbeaten, not destroyed, on that field. When he beard of Vandamme's\ndefeat, Napoleon said, \"One should make a bridge of gold for a flying\nenemy, where it is impossible, as in Vandamme's case, to oppose to him\na bulwark of steel.\" He forgot that his own plan was to have opposed to\nthe enemy a bulwark of steel, and that the non-existence of that bulwark\non the 30th of August was owing to his own negligence. Still, the\nreverse at Kulm might not have proved so terribly fatal, had it not been\npreceded by the reverses on the Katzbach, which also were owing to the\nheavy rains, and news of which was the cause of the halting of so large\na portion of his pursuing force at Pirna, and the march of many of his\nbest men back to Dresden, his intention being to attempt the restoration\nof affairs in that quarter, where they had been so sadly compromised\nunder Macdonald's direction. He was as much overworked by the necessity\nof attending to so many theatres of action as his armies were\novermatched in the field by the superior numbers of the Allies. He is\nsaid to have repeated the following lines, after musing for a while on\nthe news from Kulm:--\n\n  \"J'ai servi, command\u00e9, vaincu quarante ann\u00e9es;\n  Du monde entre mes mains j'ai tu les destin\u00e9es,\n  Et j'ai toujours connu qu'en chaque \u00e9v\u00e9nement\n  Le destin des \u00e9tats d\u00e9pendait d'un moment.\"\n\nBut he had hours, we might say days, to settle his destiny, and was not\ntied down to a moment. Afterward he had the fairness to admit that he\nhad lost a great opportunity to regain the ascendency in not supporting\nVandamme with the whole of the Young Guard.]\n\nWhen Napoleon was called from the pursuit of Bl\u00fccher by Schwarzenberg's\nadvance upon Dresden, he confided the command of the army that was to\nact against that of Silesia to Marshal Macdonald, a brave and honest\nman, but a very inferior soldier, yet who might have managed to hold his\nown against so unscientific a leader as the fighting old hussar, had it\nnot been for the terrible rainstorm that began on the night of the 25th\nof August. The swelling of the rivers, some of them deep and rapid, led\nto the isolation of the French divisions, while the rain was so severe\nas to prevent them from using their muskets. Animated by the most ardent\nhatred, the new Prussian levies, few of whom had been in service half as\nlong as our volunteers, and many of whom were but mere boys, rushed upon\ntheir enemies, butchering them with butt and bayonet, and forcing\nthem into the boiling torrent of the Katzbach. Puthod's division was\nprevented from rejoining its comrades by the height of the waters, and\nwas destroyed, though one of the best bodies in the French army. The\nstate of the country drove the French divisions together on the same\nlines of retreat, creating immense confusion, and leading to the most\nserious losses of men and _mat\u00e9riel_. Macdonald's blunder was in\nadvancing after the storm began, and had lasted for a whole night. His\nofficers pointed out the danger of his course, but he was one of those\nmen who think, that, because they are not knaves, they can accomplish\neverything; but the laws of Nature no more yield to honest stupidity\nthan to clever roguery. The Baron Von M\u00fcffling, who was present in\nBl\u00fccher's army, says, that, when the French attempted to protect their\nretreat at the Katzbach with artillery, the guns stuck in the mud; and\nhe adds,--\"The field of battle was so saturated by the incessant rain,\nthat a great portion of our infantry left their shoes sticking in\nthe mud, and followed the enemy barefoot.\" Even a brook, called the\nDeichsel, was so swollen by the rain that the French could cross it at\nonly one place, and there they lost wagons and guns. Old Bl\u00fccher issued\na thundering proclamation for the encouragement of his troops. \"In the\nbattle on the Katzbach,\" he said to them, \"the enemy came to meet you\nwith defiance. Courageously, and with the rapidity of lightning, you\nissued from behind your heights. You scorned to attack them with\nmusketry-fire: you advanced without a halt; your bayonets drove them\ndown the steep ridge of the valley of the raging Neisse and Katzbach.\nAfterwards you waded through rivers and brooks swollen with rain. You\npassed nights in mud. You suffered for want of provisions, as the\nimpassable roads and want of conveyance hindered the baggage from\nfollowing. You struggled with cold, wet, privations, and want of\nclothing; nevertheless you did not murmur,--with great exertions you\npursued your routed foe. Receive my thanks for such laudable conduct.\nThe man alone who unites such qualities is a true soldier. One hundred\nand three cannons, two hundred and fifty ammunition-wagons, the enemy's\nfield-hospitals, their field-forges, their flour-wagons, one general of\ndivision, two generals of brigade, a great number of colonels, staff\nand other officers, eighteen thousand prisoners, two eagles, and other\ntrophies, are in your hands. The terror of your arms has so seized upon\nthe rest of your opponents, that they will no longer bear the sight of\nyour bayonets. You have seen the roads and fields between the Katzbach\nand the Bober: they bear the signs of the terror and confusion of your\nenemy.\" The bluff old General, who at seventy had more \"dash\" than all\nthe rest of the leaders of the Allies combined, and who did most of the\nreal fighting business of \"those who wished and worked\" Napoleon's fall,\nknew how to talk to soldiers, which is a quality not always possessed\nby even eminent commanders. Soldiers love a leader who can take them to\nvictory, and then talk to them about it. Such a man is \"one of them.\"\n\nNapoleon never recovered from the effects of the losses he experienced\nat Kulm and on the Katzbach,--losses due entirely to the wetness of the\nweather. He went downward from that time with terrible velocity, and was\nin Elba the next spring, seven months after having been on the Elbe. The\nwinter campaign of 1814, of which so much is said, ought to furnish\nsome matter for a paper on weather in war; but the truth is, that that\ncampaign was conducted politically by the Allies. There was never a\ntime, after the first of February, when, if they had conducted the war\nsolely on military principles, they could not have been in Paris in a\nfortnight.\n\nNapoleon's last campaign owed its lamentable decision to the peculiar\ncharacter of the weather on its last two days, though one would not look\nfor such a thing as severe weather in June, in Flanders. But so it was,\nand Waterloo would have been a French victory, and Wellington where\n_Henry_ was when he ran against _Eclipse_,--nowhere,--if the rain that\nfell so heavily on the 17th of June had been postponed only twenty-four\nhours. Up to the afternoon of the 17th, the weather, though very warm,\nwas dry, and the French were engaged in following their enemies. The\nAnglo-Dutch infantry had retreated from Quatre-Bras, and the cavalry was\nfollowing, and was itself followed by the French cavalry, who pressed it\nwith great audacity. \"The weather,\" says Captain Siborne, \"during the\nmorning, had become oppressively hot; it was now a dead calm; not a leaf\nwas stirring; and the atmosphere was close to an intolerable degree;\nwhile a dark, heavy, dense cloud impended over the combatants. The 18th\n[English] Hussars were fully prepared, and awaited but the command to\ncharge, when the brigade guns on the right commenced firing, for the\npurpose of previously disturbing and breaking the order of the enemy's\nadvance. The concussion seemed instantly to rebound through the still\natmosphere, and communicate, as an electric spark, with the heavily\ncharged mass above. A most awfully loud thunder-clap burst forth,\nimmediately succeeded by a rain which has never, probably, been exceeded\nin violence even within the tropics. In a very few minutes the ground\nbecame perfectly saturated,--so much so, that it was quite impracticable\nfor any rapid movement of the cavalry.\" This storm prevented the French\nfrom pressing with due force upon their retiring foes; but that would\nhave been but a small evil, if the storm had not settled into a steady\nand heavy rain, which converted the fat Flemish soil into a mud that\nwould have done discredit even to the \"sacred soil\" of Virginia, and the\nlatter has the discredit of being the nastiest earth in America. All\nthrough the night the windows of heaven were open, as if weeping over\nthe spectacle of two hundred thousand men preparing to butcher each\nother. Occasionally the rain fell in torrents, greatly distressing the\nsoldiers, who had no tents. On the morning of the 18th the rain ceased,\nbut the day continued cloudy, and the sun did not show himself until the\nmoment before setting, when for an instant he blazed forth in full glory\nupon the forward movement of the Allies. One may wonder if Napoleon\nthen thought of that morning \"Sun of Austerlitz,\" which he had so often\napostrophized in the days of his meridian triumphs. The evening sun of\nWaterloo was the practical antithesis to the rising sun of Austerlitz.\n\nThe Battle of Waterloo was not begun until about twelve o'clock, because\nof the state of the ground, which did not admit of the action of cavalry\nand artillery until several hours had been allowed for its hardening.\nThat inevitable delay was the occasion of the victory of the Allies;\nfor, if the battle had been opened at seven o'clock, the French would\nhave defeated Wellington's army before a Prussian regiment could have\narrived on the field. It has been said that the rain was as baneful to\nthe Allies as to the French, as it prevented the early arrival of the\nPrussians; but the remark comes only from persons who are not familiar\nwith the details of the most momentous of modern pitched battles.\nB\u00fclow's Prussian corps, which was the first to reach the field, marched\nthrough Wavre in the forenoon of the 18th; but no sooner had its\nadvanced guard--an infantry brigade, a cavalry regiment, and one\nbattery--cleared that town, than a fire broke out there, which greatly\ndelayed the march of the remainder of the corps. There were many\nammunition-wagons in the streets, and, fearful of losing them, and of\nbeing deprived of the means of fighting, the Prussians halted, and\nturned firemen for the occasion. This not only prevented most of the\ncorps from arriving early on the right flank of the French, but it\nprevented the advanced guard from acting, B\u00fclow being too good a soldier\nto risk so small a force as that immediately at his command in an attack\non the French army. It was not until about half-past one that the\nPrussians were first seen by the Emperor, and then at so great a\ndistance that even with glasses it was difficult to say whether the\nobjects looked at were men or trees. But for the bad weather, it is\npossible that B\u00fclow's whole corps, supposing there had been no fire at\nWavre, might have arrived within striking distance of the French army\nby two o'clock, P.M.; but by that hour the battle between Napoleon and\nWellington would have been decided, and the Prussians would have come\nup only to \"augment the slaughter,\" had the ground been hard enough for\noperations at an early hour of the day. As the battle was necessarily\nfought in the afternoon, because of the softness of the soil consequent\non the heavy rains of the preceding day and night, there was time gained\nfor the arrival of B\u00fclow's corps by four o'clock of the afternoon of the\n18th. Against that corps Napoleon had to send almost twenty thousand of\nhis men, and sixty-six pieces of cannon, all of which might have been\nemployed against Wellington's army, had the battle been fought in the\nforenoon. As it was, that large force never fired a shot at the English.\nThe other Prussian corps that reached the field toward the close of the\nday, Zieten's and Pirch's, did not leave Wavre until about noon. The\ncoming up of the advanced guard of Zieten, but a short time before the\nclose of the battle, enabled Wellington to employ the fresh cavalry of\nVivian and Vandeleur at another part of his line, where they did eminent\nservice for him at a time which is known as \"the crisis\" of the day.\nTaking all these facts into consideration, it must be admitted that\nthere never was a more important rain-storm than that which happened on\nthe 17th of June, 1815. Had it occurred twenty-four hours later, the\ndestinies of the world might, and most probably would, have been\ncompletely changed; for Waterloo was one of those decisive battles which\ndominate the ages through their results, belonging to the same class\nof combats as do Marathon, Pharsalia, Lepanto, Blenheim, Yorktown, and\nTrafalgar. It was decided by water, and not by fire, though the latter\nwas hot enough on that fatal field to satisfy the most determined lover\nof courage and glory.\n\nIf space permitted, we could bring forward many other facts to show the\ninfluence of weather on the operations of war. We could show that it was\nowing to changes of wind that the Spaniards failed to take Leyden, the\nfall of which into their hands would probably have proved fatal to the\nDutch cause; that a sudden thaw prevented the French from seizing the\nHague in 1672, and compelling the Dutch to acknowledge themselves\nsubjects of Louis XIV.; that a change of wind enabled William of Orange\nto land in England, in 1688, without fighting a battle, when even\nvictory might have been fatal to his purpose; that Continental\nexpeditions fitted out for the purpose of restoring the Stuarts to the\nBritish throne were more than once ruined by the occurrence of tempests;\nthat the defeat of our army at Germantown was in part due to the\nexistence of a fog; that a severe storm prevented General Howe from\nassailing the American position on Dorchester Heights, and so enabled\nWashington to make that position too strong to be attacked with hope\nof success, whereby Boston was freed from the enemy's presence; that a\nheavy fall of rain, by rendering the River Catawba unfordable, put\na stop, for a few days, to those movements by which Lord Cornwallis\nintended to destroy the army of General Morgan, and obtain compensation\nfor Tarleton's defeat at the Cowpens; that an autumnal tempest compelled\nthe same British commander to abandon a project of retreat from\nYorktown, which good military critics have thought well conceived, and\npromising success; that the severity of the winter of 1813 interfered\neffectively with the measures which Napoleon had formed with the view of\nrestoring his affairs, so sadly compromised by his failure in Russia;\nthat the \"misty, chilly, and insalubrious\" weather of Louisiana, and its\nmud, had a marked effect on Sir Edward Pakenham's army, and helped us to\nvictory over one of the finest forces ever sent by Europe to the West;\nthat in 1828 the Russians lost myriads of men and horses, in the\nDanubian country and its vicinity, through heavy rains and hard frosts;\nthat the November hurricane of 1854 all but paralyzed the allied forces\nin the Crimea;--and many similar things that establish the helplessness\nof men in arms when the weather is adverse to them. But enough has been\nsaid to convince even the most skeptical that our Potomac Army did not\nstand alone in being forced to stand still before the dictation of the\nelements. Our armies, indeed, have suffered less from the weather than\nit might reasonably have been expected they would suffer, having simply\nbeen delayed at some points by the occurrence of winds and thaws; and\nover all such obstacles they are destined ultimately to triumph, as\nthe Union itself will bid defiance to what Bacon calls \"the waves and\nweathers of time.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLINES\n\nWRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF THEODORE WINTHROP.\n\n\n  O Knightly soldier bravely dead!\n  O poet-soul too early sped!\n  O life so pure! O life so brief!\n  Our hearts are moved with deeper grief,\n  As, dwelling on thy gentle face,\n  Its twilight smile, its tender grace,\n  We fill the shadowy years to be\n  With what had been thy destiny.\n  And still, amid our sorrow's pain,\n  We feel the loss is yet our gain;\n  For through the death we know the life,\n  Its gold in thought, its steel in strife,--\n  And so with reverent kiss we say\n  Adieu! O Bayard of our day!\n\n\n\n\nHINDRANCE.\n\n\nMuch that is in itself undesirable occurs in obedience to a general law\nwhich is not only desirable, but of infinite necessity and benefit. It\nis not desirable that Topper and Macaulay should be read by tens of\nthousands, and Wilkinson only by tens. It is not desirable that a\nnarrow, selfish, envious Cecil, who could never forgive his noblest\ncontemporaries for failing to be hunchbacks like himself, should steer\nEngland all his life as it were with supreme hand, and himself sail on\nthe topmost tide of fortune; while the royal head of Raleigh goes to the\nblock, and while Bacon, with his broad and bountiful nature,--Bacon,\none of the two or three greatest and humanest statesmen ever born to\nEngland, and one of the friendliest men toward mankind ever born into\nthe world,--dies in privacy and poverty, bequeathing his memory \"to\nforeign nations and the next ages.\" But it is wholly desirable that\nhe who would consecrate himself to excellence in art or life should\nsometimes be compelled to make it very clear to himself whether it be\nindeed excellence that he covets, or only plaudits and pounds sterling.\nSo when we find our purest wishes perpetually hindered, not only in the\nworld around us, but even in our own bosoms, many of the particular\nfacts may indeed merit reproach, but the general fact merits, on the\ncontrary, gratitude and gratulation. For were our best wishes not, nor\never, hindered, sure it is that the still better wishes of destiny\nin our behalf would be hindered yet worse. Sure it is, I say, that\nHindrance, both outward and inward, comes to us not through any\nimprovidence or defect of benignity in Nature, but in answer to our\nneed, and as part of the best bounty which enriches our days. And to\nmake this indubitably clear, let us hasten to meditate that simple and\ncentral law which governs this matter and at the same time many others.\n\nAnd the law is, that every definite action is conditioned upon a\ndefinite resistance, and is impossible without it. We walk in virtue of\nthe earth's resistance to the foot, and are unable to tread the elements\nof air and water only because they are too complaisant, and deny the\nfoot that opposition which it requires. Precisely that, accordingly,\nwhich makes the difficulty of an action may at the same time make its\npossibility. Why is flight difficult? Because the weight of every\ncreature draws it toward the earth. But without this downward\nproclivity, the wing of the bird would have no power upon the air.\nWhy is it difficult for a solid body to make rapid progress in water?\nBecause the water presses powerfully upon it, and at every inch of\nprogress must be overcome and displaced. Yet the ship is able to float\nonly in virtue of this same hindering pressure, and without it would not\nsail, but sink. The bird and the steamer, moreover,--the one with\nits wings and the other with its paddles,--apply themselves to this\nhindrance to progression as their only means of making progress; so\nthat, were not their motion obstructed, it would be impossible.\n\nThe law governs not actions only, but all definite effects whatsoever.\nIf the luminiferous ether did not resist the sun's influence, it could\nnot be wrought into those undulations wherein light consists; if the\nair did not resist the vibrations of a resonant object, and strive\nto preserve its own form, the sound-waves could not be created and\npropagated: if the tympanum did not resist these waves, it would not\ntransmit their suggestion to the brain; if any given object does not\nresist the sun's rays,--in other words, reflect them,--it will not be\nvisible; neither can the eye mediate between any object and the brain\nsave by a like opposing of rays on the part of the retina.\n\nThese instances might be multiplied _ad libitum_, since there is\nliterally _no_ exception to the law. Observe, however, what the law is,\nnamely, that _some_ resistance is indispensable,--by no means that this\nalone is so, or that all modes and kinds of resistance are of equal\nservice. Resistance and Affinity concur for all right effects; but it is\nthe former that, in some of its aspects, is much accused as a calamity\nto man and a contumely to the universe; and of this, therefore, we\nconsider here.\n\nNot all kinds of resistance are alike serviceable; yet that which is\nrequired may not always consist with pleasure, nor even with safety. Our\nmost customary actions are rendered possible by forces and conditions\nthat inflict weariness at times upon all, and cost the lives of many.\nGravitation, forcing all men against the earth's surface with an energy\nmeasured by their weight avoirdupois, makes locomotion feasible; but by\nthe same attraction it may draw one into the pit, over the precipice, to\nthe bottom of the sea. What multitudes of lives does it yearly destroy!\nWhy has it never occurred to some ingenious victim of a sluggish liver\nto represent Gravitation as a murderous monster revelling in blood?\nSurely there are woful considerations here that might be used with the\nhappiest effect to enhance the sense of man's misery, and have been too\nmuch neglected!\n\nProbably there are few children to whom the fancy has not occurred, How\nconvenient, how fine were it to weigh nothing! We smile at the little\nwiseacres; we know better. How much better do we know? That ancient\nlament, that ever iterated accusation of the world because it opposes a\ncertain hindrance to freedom, love, reason, and every excellence which\nthe imagination of man can portray and his heart pursue,--what is it, in\nthe final analysis, but a complaint that we cannot walk without weight,\nand that therefore climbing _is_ climbing?\n\nInstead, however, of turning aside to applications, let us push forward\nthe central statement in the interest of applications to be made by\nevery reader for himself,--since he says too much who does not leave\nmuch more unsaid. Observe, then, that objects which so utterly submit\nthemselves to man as to become testimonies and publications of his\ninward conceptions serve even these most exacting and monarchical\npurposes only by opposition to them, and, to a certain extent, in the\nvery measure of that opposition. The stone which the sculptor carves\nbecomes a fit vehicle for his thought through its resistance to his\nchisel; it sustains the impress of his imagination solely through its\nunwillingness to receive the same. Not chalk, not any loose and friable\nmaterial, does Phidias or Michel Angelo choose, but ivory, bronze,\nbasalt, marble. It is quite the same whether we seek expression or\nuses. The stream must be dammed before it will drive wheels; the steam\ncompressed ere it will compel the piston. In fine, Potentiality combines\nwith Hindrance to constitute active Power. Man, in order to obtain\ninstrumentalities and uses, blends his will and intelligence with a\nforce that vigorously seeks to pursue its own separate free course; and\nwhile this resists him, it becomes his servant.\n\nBut why not look at this fact in its largest light? For do we not here\ntouch upon the probable reason why God must, as it were, be offset by\nWorld, Spirit by Matter, Soul by Body? The Maker must needs, if it be\nlawful so to speak, heap up in the balance against His own pure, eternal\nfreedom these numberless globes of cold, inert matter. Matter is,\nindeed, movable by no fine persuasions: brutely faithful to its own law,\nit cares no more for AEschylus than for the tortoise that breaks his\ncrown; the purpose of a cross for the sweetest saint it serves no less\nwillingly than any other purpose,--stiffly holding out its arms there,\nabout its own wooden business, neither more nor less, centred utterly\nupon itself. But is it not this stolid self-centration which makes it\nneedful to Divinity? An infinite energy required a resisting or doggedly\nindifferent material, itself _quasi_ infinite, to take the impression of\nits life, and render potentiality into power. So by the encountering of\nbody with soul is the product, man, evolved. Philosophers and saints\nhave perceived that the spiritual element of man is hampered and\nhindered by his physical part: have they also perceived that it is the\nvery collision between these which strikes out the spark of thought\nand kindles the sense of law? As the tables of stone to the finger of\nJehovah on Sinai, so is the firm marble of man's material nature to the\nrecording soul. But even Plato, when he arrives at these provinces of\nthought, begins to limp a little, and to go upon Egyptian crutches. In\nthe incomparable apologues of the \"Phaedrus\" he represents our inward\ncharioteer as driving toward the empyrean two steeds, of which the one\nis virtuously attracted toward heaven, while the other is viciously\ndrawn to the earth; but he countenances the inference that the earthward\nproclivity of the latter is to be accounted pure misfortune. But to the\nuniverse there is neither fortune nor misfortune; there is only the\nreaper, Destiny, and his perpetual harvest. All that occurs on a\nuniversal scale lies in the line of a pure success. Nor can the universe\nattain any success by pushing past man and leaving him aside. That\nwere like the prosperity of a father who should enrich himself by\ndisinheriting his only son.\n\nPrinciples necessary to all action must of course appear in moral\naction. The moral imagination, which pioneers and produces inward\nadvancement, works under the same conditions with the imagination of\nthe artist, and must needs have somewhat to work _upon_. Man is both\nsculptor and quarry,--and a great noise and dust of chiselling is there\nsometimes in his bosom. If, therefore, we find in him somewhat which\ndoes not immediately and actively sympathize with his moral nature, let\nus not fancy this element equally out of sympathy with his pure destiny.\nThe impulsion and the resistance are alike included in the design of our\nbeing. Hunger--to illustrate--respects food, food only. It asks leave to\nbe hunger neither of your conscience, your sense of personal dignity,\nnor indeed of your humanity in any form; but exists by its own\npermission, and pushes with brute directness toward its own ends. True,\nthe soul may at last so far prevail as to make itself felt even in\nthe stomach; and the true gentleman could as soon relish a lunch of\nporcupines' quills as a dinner basely obtained, though it were of\nnightingales' tongues. But this is sheer conquest on the part of\nthe soul, not any properly gastric inspiration at all; and it is in\nfurnishing opportunity for precisely such conquest that the lower nature\nbecomes a stairway of ascent for the soul.\n\nAnd now, if in the relations between every manly spirit and the world\naround him we discover the same fact, are we not by this time prepared\nto contemplate it altogether with dry eyes? What if it be true, that\nin trade, in politics, in society, all tends to low levels? What if\ndisadvantages are to be suffered by the grocer who will not sell\nadulterated food, by the politician who will not palter, by the\ndiplomatist who is ashamed to lie? For this means only that no one can\nbe honest otherwise than by a productive energy of honesty in his own\nbosom. In other words,--a man reaches the true welfare of a human\nsoul only when his bosom is a generative centre and source of noble\nprinciples; and therefore, in pure, wise kindness to man, the world\nis so arranged that there shall be perpetual need of this access and\nreinforcement of principle. Society, the State, and every institution,\ngrow lean the moment there is a falling off in this divine fruitfulness\nof man's heart, because only in virtue of bearing such fruit is man\nworthy of his name. Honor and honesty are constantly consumed _between_\nmen, that they may be forever newly demanded _in_ them.\n\nWe cannot too often remind ourselves that the aim of the universe is\na personality. As the terrestrial globe through so many patient\naeons climbed toward the production of a human body, that by this\nall-comprehending, perfect symbol it might enter into final union with\nSpirit, so do the uses of the world still forever ascend toward man, and\nseek a continual realization of that ancient wish. When, therefore,\nTime shall come to his great audit with Eternity, persons alone will be\npassed to his credit. \"So many wise and wealthy souls,\"--that is what\nthe sun and his household will have come to. The use of the world is not\nfound in societies faultlessly mechanized; for societies are themselves\nbut uses and means. They are the soil in which persons grow; and I no\nmore undervalue them than the husbandman despises his fertile acres\nbecause it is not earth, but the wheat that grows from it, which comes\nto his table. Society is the culmination of all uses and delights;\npersons, of all results. And societies answer their ends when they\nafford two things: first, a need for energy of eye and heart, of noble\nhuman vigor; and secondly, a generous appreciation of high qualities,\nwhen these may appear. The latter is, indeed, indispensable; and\nwhenever noble manhood ceases to be recognized in a nation, the days of\nthat nation are numbered. But the need is also necessary. Society must\nbe a consumer of virtue, if individual souls are to be producers of it.\nThe law of demand and supply has its applications here also. New waters\nmust forever flow from the fountain-heads of our true life, if the\nmillwheel of the world is to continue turning; and this not because the\nsupernal powers so greatly cared to get corn ground, but because the\nHighest would have rivers of His influence forever flowing, and would\ncall them men. Therefore it is that satirists who paint in high colors\nthe resistances, but have no perception of the law of conversion into\nopposites, which is the grand trick of Nature,--these pleasant gentlemen\nare themselves a part of the folly at which they mock.\n\nAs a man among men, so is a nation among nations. Very freely I\nacknowledge that any nation, by proposing to itself large and liberal\naims, plucks itself innumerable envies and hatreds from without, and\nconfers new power for mischief upon all blindness and savagery that\nexist within it. But what does this signify? Simply that no nation can\nbe free longer than it nobly loves freedom; that none can be great in\nits national purposes when it has ceased to be so in the hearts of its\ncitizens. Freedom must be perpetually won, or it must be lost; and this\nbecause the sagacious Manager of the world will not let us off from\nthe disciplines that should make us men. The material of the artist is\npassive, and may be either awakened from its ancient rest or suffered\nto sleep on; but that marble from which the perfections of manhood and\nwomanhood are wrought quits the quarry to meet us, and converts us to\nstone, if we do not rather transform that to life and beauty.\nHostile, predatory, it rushes upon us; and we, cutting at it in brave\nself-defence, hew it above our hope into shapes of celestial and\nimmortal comeliness. So that angels are born, as it were, from the noble\nfears of man,--from an heroic fear in man's heart that he shall fall\naway from the privilege of humanity, and falsify the divine vaticination\nof his soul.\n\nHence follows the fine result, that in life to hold your own is to make\nadvance. Destiny comes to us, like the children in their play, saying,\n\"Hold fast all I give you\"; and while we nobly detain it, the penny\nchanges between our palms to the wealth of cities and kingdoms. The\nbarge of blessing, freighted for us by unspeakable hands, comes floating\ndown from the head-waters of that stream whereon we also are afloat; and\nto meet it we have only to wait for it, not ourselves ebbing away, but\nloyally stemming the tide. It may be, as Mr. Carlyle alleges, that the\nConstitution of the United States is no supreme effort of genius; but\nevents now passing are teaching us that every day of fidelity to the\nspirit of it lends it new preciousness; and that an adherence to it, not\npetty and literal, but at once large and indomitable, might almost make\nit a charter of new sanctities both of law and liberty for the human\nrace.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STATESMANSHIP OF RICHELIEU.\n\n\nThus far, the struggles of the world have developed its statesmanship\nafter three leading types.\n\nFirst of these is that based on faith in some great militant principle.\nStrong among statesmen of this type, in this time, stand Cavour, with\nhis faith in constitutional liberty,--Cobden, with his faith in freedom\nof trade,--the third Napoleon, with his faith that the world moves, and\nthat a successful policy must keep the world's pace.\n\nThe second style of statesmanship is seen in the reorganization of old\nStates to fit new times. In this the chiefs are such men as Cranmer and\nTurgot.\n\nBut there is a third class of statesmen sometimes doing more brilliant\nwork than either of the others. These are they who serve a State in\ntimes of dire chaos,--in times when a nation is by no means ripe for\nrevolution, but only stung by desperate revolt: these are they who are\nquick enough and firm enough to bind all the good forces of the State\ninto one cosmic force, therewith to compress or crush all chaotic\nforces: these are they who throttle treason and stab rebellion,--who\nfear not, when defeat must send down misery through ages, to insure\nvictory by using weapons of the hottest and sharpest. Theirs, then, is a\nstatesmanship which it may be well for the leading men of this land and\ntime to be looking at and thinking of, and its representative man shall\nbe Richelieu.\n\nNever, perhaps, did a nation plunge more suddenly from the height of\nprosperity into the depth of misery than did France on that fourteenth\nof May, 1610, when Henry IV. fell dead by the dagger of Ravaillac.\nAll earnest men, in a moment, saw the abyss yawning,--felt the State\nsinking,--felt themselves sinking with it. And they did what, in such a\ntime, men always do: first all shrieked, then every man clutched at the\nmeans of safety nearest him. Sully rode through the streets of Paris\nwith big tears streaming down his face,--strong men whose hearts had\nbeen toughened and crusted in the dreadful religious wars sobbed\nlike children,--all the populace swarmed abroad bewildered,--many\nswooned,--some went mad. This was the first phase of feeling.\n\nThen came a second phase yet more terrible. For now burst forth that old\nwhirlwind of anarchy and bigotry and selfishness and terror which Henry\nhad curbed during twenty years. All earnest men felt bound to protect\nthemselves, and seized the nearest means of defence. Sully shut himself\nup in the Bastille, and sent orders to his son-in-law, the Duke of\nRohan, to bring in six thousand soldiers to protect the Protestants.\nAll un-earnest men, especially the great nobles, rushed to the Court,\ndetermined, now that the only guardians of the State were a weak-minded\nwoman and a weak-bodied child, to dip deep into the treasury which Henry\nhad filled to develop the nation, and to wrench away the power which he\nhad built to guard the nation.\n\nIn order to make ready for this grasp at the State treasure and power by\nthe nobles, the Duke of Epernon, from the corpse of the King, by\nwhose side he was sitting when Ravaillac struck him, strides into the\nParliament of Paris, and orders it to declare the late Queen, Mary of\nMedici, Regent; and when this Parisian court, knowing full well that it\nhad no right to confer the regency, hesitated, he laid his hand on his\nsword, and declared, that, unless they did his bidding at once, his\nsword should be drawn from its scabbard. This threat did its work.\nWithin three hours after the King's death, the Paris Parliament, which\nhad no right to give it, bestowed the regency on a woman who had no\ncapacity to take it.\n\nAt first things seemed to brighten a little. The Queen-Regent sent such\nurgent messages to Sully that he left his stronghold of the Bastille and\nwent to the palace. She declared to him, before the assembled Court,\nthat he must govern France still. With tears she gave the young King\ninto his arms, telling Louis that Sully was his father's best friend,\nand bidding him pray the old statesman to serve the State yet longer.\n\nBut soon this good scene changed. Mary had a foster-sister, Leonora\nGalligai, and Leonora was married to an Italian adventurer, Concini.\nThese seemed a poor couple, worthless and shiftless, their only stock in\ntrade Leonora's Italian cunning; but this stock soon came to be of\nvast account, for thereby she soon managed to bind and rule the\nQueen-Regent,--managed to drive Sully into retirement in less than a\nyear,--managed to make herself and her husband the great dispensers at\nCourt of place and pelf. Penniless though Concini had been, he was in a\nfew months able to buy the Marquisate of Ancre, which cost him nearly\nhalf a million livres,--and, soon after, the post of First Gentleman of\nthe Bedchamber, and that cost him nearly a quarter of a million,--and,\nsoon after that, a multitude of broad estates and high offices at\nimmense prices. Leonora, also, was not idle, and among her many\ngains was a bribe of three hundred thousand livres to screen certain\nfinanciers under trial for fraud.\n\nNext came the turn of the great nobles. For ages the nobility of France\nhad been the worst among her many afflictions. From age to age attempts\nhad been made to curb them. In the fifteenth century Charles VII. had\ndone much to undermine their power, and Louis XI. had done much to crush\nit. But strong as was the policy of Charles, and cunning as was the\npolicy of Louis, they had made one omission, and that omission left\nFrance, though advanced, miserable. For these monarchs had not cut\nthe root of the evil. The French nobility continued practically a\nserf-holding nobility.\n\nDespite, then, the curb put upon many old pretensions of the nobles, the\nserf-owning spirit continued to spread a net-work of curses over every\narm of the French government, over every acre of the French soil, and,\nworst of all, over the hearts and minds of the French people. Enterprise\nwas deadened; invention crippled. Honesty was nothing; honor everything.\nLife was of little value. Labor was the badge of servility; laziness the\nvery badge and passport of gentility. The serf-owning spirit was an iron\nwall between noble and not-noble,--the only unyielding wall between\nFrance and prosperous peace.\n\nBut the serf-owning spirit begat another evil far more terrible: it\nbegat a substitute for patriotism,--a substitute which crushed out\npatriotism just at the very emergencies when patriotism was most needed.\nFor the first question which in any State emergency sprang into the mind\nof a French noble was not,--How does this affect the welfare of the\nnation? but,--How does this affect the position of my order? The\nserf-owning spirit developed in the French aristocracy an instinct which\nled them in national troubles to guard the serf-owning class first and\nthe nation afterward, and to acknowledge fealty to the serf-owning\ninterest first and to the national interest afterward.\n\nSo it proved in that emergency at the death of Henry. Instead of\nplanting themselves as a firm bulwark between the State and harm, the\nDuke of \u00c9pernon, the Prince of Cond\u00e9, the Count of Soissons, the Duke of\nGuise, the Duke of Bouillon, and many others, wheedled or threatened\nthe Queen into granting pensions of such immense amount that the great\ntreasury filled by Henry and Sully with such noble sacrifices, and to\nsuch noble ends, was soon nearly empty.\n\nBut as soon as the treasury began to run low the nobles began a worse\nwork, Mary had thought to buy their loyalty; but when they had gained\nsuch treasures, their ideas mounted higher. A saying of one among them\nbecame their formula, and became noted:--\"The day of Kings is past; now\nis come the day of the Grandees.\"\n\nEvery great noble now tried to grasp some strong fortress or rich city.\nOne fact will show the spirit of many. The Duke of \u00c9pernon had served\nHenry as Governor of Metz, and Metz was the most important fortified\ntown in France; therefore Henry, while allowing D'\u00c9pernon the honor of\nthe Governorship, had always kept a Royal Lieutenant in the citadel, who\ncorresponded directly with the Ministry. But, on the very day of the\nKing's death, D'\u00c9pernon despatched commands to his own creatures at Metz\nto seize the citadel, and to hold it for him against all other orders.\n\nBut at last even Mary had to refuse to lavish more of the national\ntreasure and to shred more of the national territory among these\nmagnates. Then came their rebellion.\n\nImmediately Cond\u00e9 and several great nobles issued a proclamation\ndenouncing the tyranny and extravagance of the Court,--calling on\nthe Catholics to rise against the Regent in behalf of their\nreligion,--calling on the Protestants to rise in behalf of\ntheirs,--summoning the whole people to rise against the waste of their\nState treasure.\n\nIt was all a glorious joke. To call on the Protestants was wondrous\nimpudence, for Cond\u00e9 had left their faith, and had persecuted them; to\ncall on the Catholics was not less impudent, for he had betrayed their\ncause scores of times; but to call on the whole people to rise in\ndefence of their treasury was impudence sublime, for no man had besieged\nthe treasury more persistently, no man had dipped into it more deeply,\nthan Cond\u00e9 himself.\n\nThe people saw this and would not stir. Cond\u00e9 could rally only a few\ngreat nobles and their retainers, and therefore, as a last tremendous\nblow at the Court, he and his followers raised the cry that the Regent\nmust convoke the States-General.\n\nAny who have read much in the history of France, and especially in the\nhistory of the French Revolution, know, in part, how terrible this cry\nwas. By the Court, and by the great privileged classes of France, this\ngreat assembly of the three estates of the realm was looked upon as the\nlast resort amid direst calamities. For at its summons came stalking\nforth from the foul past the long train of Titanic abuses and Satanic\nwrongs; then came surging up from the seething present the great hoarse\ncry of the people; then loomed up, dim in the distance, vast shadowy\nideas of new truth and new right; and at the bare hint of these, all\nthat was proud in France trembled.\n\nThis cry for the States-General, then, brought the Regent to terms at\nonce, and, instead of acting vigorously, she betook herself to her old\nvicious fashion of compromising,--buying off the rebels at prices more\nenormous than ever. By her treaty of Sainte-M\u00e9nehould, Cond\u00e9 received\nhalf a million of livres, and his followers received payments\nproportionate to the evil they had done.\n\nBut this compromise succeeded no better than previous compromises. Even\nif the nobles had wished to remain quiet, they could not. Their lordship\nover a servile class made them independent of all ordinary labor and of\nall care arising from labor; some exercise of mind and body they must\nhave; Cond\u00e9 soon took this needed exercise by attempting to seize the\ncity of Poitiers, and, when the burgesses were too strong for him, by\nravaging the neighboring country. The other nobles broke the compromise\nin ways wonderfully numerous and ingenious. France was again filled with\nmisery.\n\nDull as Regent Mary was, she now saw that she must call that dreaded\nStates-General, or lose not only the nobles, but the people: undecided\nas she was, she soon saw that she must do it at once,--that, if she\ndelayed it, her great nobles would raise the cry for it, again and\nagain, just as often as they wished to extort office or money.\nAccordingly, on the fourteenth of October, 1614, she summoned the\ndeputies of the three estates to Paris, and then the storm set in.\n\nEach of the three orders presented its \"portfolio of grievances\" and its\nprogramme of reforms. It might seem, to one who has not noted closely\nthe spirit which serf-mastering thrusts into a man, that the nobles\nwould appear in the States-General not to make complaints, but to answer\ncomplaints. So it was not. The noble order, with due form, entered\ncomplaint that theirs was the injured order. They asked relief from\nfamiliarities and assumptions of equality on the part of the people.\nSaid the Baron de S\u00e9nec\u00e9, \"It is a great piece of insolence to pretend\nto establish any sort of equality between the people and the nobility\":\nother nobles declared, \"There is between them and us as much difference\nas between master and lackey.\"\n\nTo match these complaints and theories, the nobles made\ndemands,--demands that commoners should not be allowed to keep\nfire-arms,--nor to possess dogs, unless the dogs were hamstrung,--nor to\nclothe themselves like the nobles,--nor to clothe their wives like the\nwives of nobles,--nor to wear velvet or satin under a penalty of five\nthousand livres. And, preposterous as such claims may seem to us, they\ncarried them into practice. A deputy of the Third Estate having been\nseverely beaten by a noble, his demands for redress were treated as\nabsurd. One of the orators of the lower order having spoken of the\nFrench as forming one great family in which the nobles were the elder\nbrothers and the commoners the younger, the nobles made a formal\ncomplaint to the King, charging the Third Estate with insolence\ninsufferable.\n\nNext came the complaints and demands of the clergy. They insisted on\nthe adoption in France of the Decrees of the Council of Trent, and the\ndestruction of the liberties of the Gallican Church.\n\nBut far stronger than these came the voice of the people.\n\nFirst spoke Montaigne, denouncing the grasping spirit of the nobles.\nThen spoke Savaron, stinging them with sarcasm, torturing them with\nrhetoric, crushing them with statements of facts.\n\nBut chief among the speakers was the President of the Third Estate,\nRobert Miron, Provost of the Merchants of Paris. His speech, though\nspoken across the great abyss of time and space and thought and custom\nwhich separates him from us, warms a true man's heart even now. With\ntouching fidelity he pictured the sad life of the lower orders,--their\nthankless toil, their constant misery; then, with a sturdiness which\nawes us, he arraigned, first, royalty for its crushing taxation,--next,\nthe whole upper class for its oppressions,--and then, daring death, he\nthus launched into popular thought an _idea_:--\n\n\"It is nothing less than a miracle that the people are able to answer so\nmany demands. On the labor of _their_ hands depends the maintenance\nof Your Majesty, of the clergy, of the nobility, of the commons. What\nwithout _their_ exertions would be the value of the tithes and great\npossessions of the Church, of the splendid estates of the nobility,\nor of our own house-rents and inheritances? With their bones scarcely\nskinned over, your wretched people present themselves before you, beaten\ndown and helpless, with the aspect rather of death itself than of living\nmen, imploring your succor in the name of Him who has appointed you to\nreign over them,--who made you a man, that you might be merciful to\nother men,--and who made you the father of your subjects, that you might\nbe compassionate to these your helpless children. If Your Majesty shall\nnot take means for that end, _I fear lest despair should teach the\nsufferers that a soldier is, after all, nothing more than a peasant\nbearing arms; and lest, when the vine-dresser shall have taken up his\narquebuse, he should cease to become an anvil only that he may become a\nhammer.\"_\n\nAfter this the Third Estate demanded the convocation of a general\nassembly every ten years, a more just distribution of taxes, equality\nof all before the law, the suppression of interior custom-houses, the\nabolition of sundry sinecures held by nobles, the forbidding to leading\nnobles of unauthorized levies of soldiery, some stipulations regarding\nthe working clergy and the non-residence of bishops; and in the midst of\nall these demands, as a golden grain amid husks, they placed a demand\nfor the emancipation of the serfs.\n\nBut these demands were sneered at. The idea of the natural equality in\nrights of all men,--the idea of the personal worth of every man,--the\nidea that rough-clad workers have prerogatives which can be whipped out\nby no smooth-clad idlers,--these ideas were as far beyond serf-owners\nof those days as they are beyond slave-owners of these days. Nothing was\ndone. Augustin Thierry is authority for the statement that the clergy\nwere willing to yield something. The nobles would yield nothing. The\ndifferent orders quarrelled until one March morning in 1615, when, on\ngoing to their hall, they were barred out and told that the workmen were\nfitting the place for a Court ball. And so the deputies separated,--to\nall appearance no new work done, no new ideas enforced, no strong men\nset loose.\n\nSo it was in seeming,--so it was not in reality. Something had been\ndone. That assembly planted ideas in the French mind which struck more\nand more deeply, and spread more and more widely, until, after a century\nand a half, the Third Estate met again and refused to present petitions\nkneeling,--and when king and nobles put on their hats, the commons put\non theirs,--and when that old brilliant stroke was again made, and the\nhall was closed and filled with busy carpenters and upholsterers, the\ndeputies of the people swore that great tennis-court oath which blasted\nFrench tyranny.\n\nBut something great was done _immediately_; to that suffering nation a\ngreat man was revealed. For, when the clergy pressed their requests,\nthey chose as their orator a young man only twenty-nine years of age,\nthe Bishop of Lucon, ARMAND JEAN DU PLESSIS DE RICHELIEU.\n\nHe spoke well. His thoughts were clear, his words pointed, his bearing\nfirm. He had been bred a soldier, and so had strengthened his will;\nafterwards he had been made a scholar, and so had strengthened his mind.\nHe grappled with the problems given him in that stormy assembly with\nsuch force that he seemed about to _do_ something; but just then came\nthat day of the Court ball, and Richelieu turned away like the rest.\n\nBut men had seen him and heard him. Forget him they could not. From that\ntremendous farce, then, France had gained directly one thing at least,\nand that was a sight at Richelieu.\n\nThe year after the States-General wore away in the old vile fashion.\nCond\u00e9 revolted again, and this time he managed to scare the Protestants\ninto revolt with him. The daring of the nobles was greater than ever.\nThey even attacked the young King's train as he journeyed to Bordeaux,\nand another compromise had to be wearily built in the Treaty of Loudun.\nBy this Cond\u00e9 was again bought off,--but this time only by a bribe of\na million and a half of livres. The other nobles were also paid\nenormously, and, on making a reckoning, it was found that this\ncompromise had cost the King four millions, and the country twenty\nmillions. The nation had also to give into the hands of the nobles some\nof its richest cities and strongest fortresses.\n\nImmediately after this compromise, Cond\u00e9 returned to Paris, loud,\nstrong, jubilant, defiant, bearing himself like a king. Soon he and his\nrevolted again; but just at that moment Concini happened to remember\nRichelieu. The young bishop was called and set at work.\n\nRichelieu grasped the rebellion at once. In broad daylight he seized\nCond\u00e9 and shut him up in the Bastille; other noble leaders he declared\nguilty of treason, and degraded them; he set forth the crimes and\nfollies of the nobles in a manifesto which stung their cause to death in\na moment; he published his policy in a proclamation which ran through\nFrance like fire, warming all hearts of patriots, withering all hearts\nof rebels; he sent out three great armies: one northward to grasp\nPicardy, one eastward to grasp Champagne, one southward to grasp Berri.\nThere is a man who can _do_ something! The nobles yield in a moment:\nthey _must_ yield.\n\nBut, just at this moment, when a better day seemed to dawn, came an\nevent which threw France back into anarchy, and Richelieu out into the\nworld again.\n\nThe young King, Louis XIII., was now sixteen years old. His mother the\nRegent and her favorite Concini had carefully kept him down. Under their\ntreatment he had grown morose and seemingly stupid; but he had wit\nenough to understand the policy of his mother and Concini, and strength\nenough to hate them for it.\n\nThe only human being to whom Louis showed any love was a young falconer,\nAlbert de Luynes,--and with De Luynes he conspired against his mother's\npower and her favorite's life. On an April morning, 1617, the King and\nDe Luynes sent a party of chosen men to seize Concini. They met him at\nthe gate of the Louvre. As usual, he is bird-like in his utterance,\nsnake-like in his bearing. They order him to surrender; he chirps forth\nhis surprise,--and they blow out his brains. Louis, understanding the\nnoise, puts on his sword, appears on the balcony of the palace, is\nsaluted with hurrahs, and becomes master of his kingdom.\n\nStraightway measures are taken against all supposed to be attached\nto the Regency. Concini's wife, the favorite Leonora, is burned as a\nwitch,--Regent Mary is sent to Blois,--Richelieu is banished to his\nbishopric.\n\nAnd now matters went from bad to worse. King Louis was no stronger\nthan Regent Mary had been,--King's favorite Luynes was no better than\nRegent's favorite Concini had been. The nobles rebelled against the new\nrule, as they had rebelled against the old. The King went through the\nsame old extortions and humiliations.\n\nThen came also to full development yet another vast evil. As far back\nas the year after Henry's assassination, the Protestants, in terror of\ntheir enemies, now that Henry was gone and the Spaniards seemed to grow\nin favor, formed themselves into a great republican league,--a State\nwithin the State,--regularly organised in peace for political effort,\nand in war for military effort,--with a Protestant clerical caste which\nruled always with pride, and often with menace.\n\nAgainst such a theocratic republic war must come sooner or later, and in\n1617 the struggle began. Army was pitted against army,--Protestant Duke\nof Rohan against Catholic Duke of Luynes. Meanwhile Austria and the\nforeign enemies of France, Cond\u00e9 and the domestic enemies of France,\nfished in the troubled waters, and made rich gains every day. So France\nplunged into sorrows ever deeper and blacker. But in 1624, Mary\nde Medici, having been reconciled to her son, urged him to recall\nRichelieu.\n\nThe dislike which Louis bore Richelieu was strong, but the dislike he\nbore toward compromises had become stronger. Into his poor brain, at\nlast, began to gleam the truth, that a serf-mastering caste, after a\ncompromise, only whines more steadily and snarls more loudly,--that, at\nlast, compromising becomes worse than fighting. Richelieu was called and\nset at work.\n\nFortunately for our studies of the great statesman's policy, he left at\nhis death a \"Political Testament\" which floods with light his steadiest\naims and boldest acts. In that Testament he wrote this message:--\n\n  \"When Your Majesty resolved to give\n  me entrance into your councils and a\n  great share of your confidence, I can declare\n  with truth that the Huguenots divided\n  the authority with Your Majesty, that\n  the great nobles acted not at all as subjects,\n  that the governors of provinces took\n  on themselves the airs of sovereigns, and\n  that the foreign alliances of France were\n  despised. I promised Your Majesty to\n  use all my industry, and all the authority\n  you gave me, to ruin the Huguenot party,\n  to abase the pride of the high nobles,\n  and to raise your name among foreign\n  nations to the place where it ought to\n  be.\"\n\nSuch were the plans of Richelieu at the outset. Let us see how he\nwrought out their fulfilment.\n\nFirst of all, he performed daring surgery and cautery about the very\nheart of the Court. In a short time he had cut out from that living\ncentre of French power a number of unworthy ministers and favorites, and\nreplaced them by men, on whom he could rely.\n\nThen he began his vast work. His policy embraced three great objects:\nFirst, the overthrow of the Huguenot power; secondly, the subjugation\nof the great nobles; thirdly, the destruction of the undue might of\nAustria.\n\nFirst, then, after some preliminary negotiations with foreign\npowers,--to be studied hereafter,--he attacked the great\npolitico-religious party of the Huguenots.\n\nThese held, as their great centre and stronghold, the famous seaport of\nLa Rochelle. He who but glances at the map shall see how strong was this\nposition: he shall see two islands lying just off the west coast at that\npoint, controlled by La Rochelle, yet affording to any foreign allies\nwhom the Huguenots might admit there facilities for stinging France\nduring centuries. The position of the Huguenots seemed impregnable. The\ncity was well fortressed,--garrisoned by the bravest of men,--mistress\nof a noble harbor open at all times to supplies from foreign ports,--and\nin that harbor rode a fleet, belonging to the city, greater than the\nnavy of France.\n\nRichelieu saw well that here was the head of the rebellion. Here, then,\nhe must strike it.\n\nStrange as it may seem, his diplomacy was so skillful that he obtained\nships to attack Protestants in La Rochelle from the two great Protestant\npowers,--England and Holland. With these he was successful. He attacked\nthe city fleet, ruined it, and cleared the harbor.\n\nBut now came a terrible check. Richelieu had aroused the hate of that\nincarnation of all that was and Is offensive in English politics,--the\nDuke of Buckingham. Scandal-mongers were wont to say that both were in\nlove with the Queen,--and that the Cardinal, though unsuccessful in his\nsuit, outwitted the Duke and sent him out of the kingdom,--and that the\nDuke swore a great oath, that, if he could not enter France in one way,\nhe would enter in another,--and that he brought about a war, and came\nhimself as a commander: of this scandal believe what you will. But, be\nthe causes what they may, the English policy changed, and Charles I.\nsent Buckingham with ninety ships to aid La Rochelle.\n\nBut Buckingham was flippant and careless; Richelieu, careful when there\nwas need, and daring when there was need. Buckingham's heavy blows\nwere foiled by Richelieu's keen thrusts, and then, in his confusion,\nBuckingham blundered so foolishly, and Richelieu profited by his\nblunders so shrewdly, that the fleet returned to England without any\naccomplishment of its purpose. The English were also driven from that\nvexing position in the Isle of Rh\u00e9.\n\nHaving thus sent the English home, for a time at least, he led king and\nnobles and armies to La Rochelle, and commenced the siege in full force.\nDifficulties met him at every turn; but the worst difficulty of all was\nthat arising from the spirit of the nobility.\n\nNo one could charge the nobles of France with lack of bravery. The only\ncharge was, that their bravery was almost sure to shun every useful\nform, and to take every noxious form. The bravery which finds outlet\nin duels they showed constantly; the bravery which finds outlet in\nstreet-fights they had shown from the days when the Duke of Orleans\nperished in a brawl to the days when the _\"Mignons\"_ of Henry III.\nfought at sight every noble whose beard was not cut to suit them. The\npride fostered by lording it over serfs, in the country, and by lording\nit over men who did not own serfs, in the capital, aroused bravery of\nthis sort and plenty of it. But that bravery which serves a great, good\ncause, which must be backed by steadiness and watchfulness, was not so\nplentiful. So Richelieu found that the nobles who had conducted the\nsiege before he took command had, through their brawling propensities\nand lazy propensities, allowed the besieged to garner in the crops from\nthe surrounding country, and to master all the best points of attack.\n\nBut Richelieu pressed on. First he built an immense wall and earthwork,\nnine miles long, surrounding the city, and, to protect this, he raised\neleven great forts and eighteen redoubts.\n\nStill the harbor was open, and into this the English fleet might return\nand succor the city at any time. His plan was soon made. In the midst of\nthat great harbor of La Rochelle he sank sixty hulks of vessels filled\nwith stone; then, across the harbor,--nearly a mile wide, and, in\nplaces, more than eight hundred feet deep,--he began building over these\nsunken ships a great dike and wall,--thoroughly fortified, carefully\nengineered, faced with sloping layers of hewn stone. His own men scolded\nat the magnitude of the work,--the men in La Rochelle laughed at\nit. Worse than that, the Ocean sometimes laughed and scolded at it.\nSometimes the waves sweeping in from that fierce Bay of Biscay destroyed\nin an hour the work of a week. The carelessness of a subordinate once\ndestroyed in a moment the work of three months.\n\nYet it is but fair to admit that there was one storm which did not beat\nagainst Richelieu's dike. There set in against it no storm of hypocrisy\nfrom neighboring nations. Keen works for and against Richelieu were put\nforth in his day,--works calm and strong for and against him have been\nissuing from the presses of France and England and Germany ever since;\nbut not one of the old school of keen writers or of the new school of\ncalm writers is known to have ever hinted that this complete sealing of\nthe only entrance to a leading European harbor was unjust to the world\nat large or unfair to the besieged themselves.\n\nBut all other obstacles Richelieu had to break through or cut through\nconstantly. He was his own engineer, general, admiral, prime-minister.\nWhile he urged on the army to work upon the dike, he organized a French\nnavy, and in due time brought it around to that coast and anchored it so\nas to guard the dike and to be guarded by it.\n\nYet, daring as all this work was, it was but the smallest part of his\nwork. Richelieu found that his officers were cheating his soldiers\nin their pay and disheartening them; in face of the enemy he had to\nreorganize the army and to create a new military system. He made the\narmy twice as effective and supported it at two-thirds less cost than\nbefore. It was his boast in his \"Testament,\" that, from a mob, the\narmy became \"like a well-ordered convent.\" He found also that his\nsubordinates were plundering the surrounding country, and thus rendering\nit disaffected; he at once ordered that what had been taken should be\npaid for, and that persons trespassing thereafter should be severely\npunished. He found also the great nobles who commanded in the army\nhalf-hearted and almost traitorous from sympathy with those of their own\ncaste on the other side of the walls of La Rochelle, and from their fear\nof his increased power, should he gain a victory. It was their common\nsaying, that they were fools to help him do it. But he saw the true\npoint at once--He placed in the most responsible positions of his army\nmen who felt for his cause, whose hearts and souls were in it,--men not\nof the Dalgetty stamp, but of the Cromwell stamp. He found also, as he\nafterward said, that he had to conquer not only the Kings of England and\nSpain, but also the King of France. At the most critical moment of the\nsiege Louis deserted him,--went back to Paris,--allowed courtiers to\nfill him with suspicions. Not only Richelieu's place, but his life,\nwas in danger, and he well knew it; yet he never left his dike and\nsiege-works, but wrought on steadily until they were done; and then the\nKing, of his own will, in very shame, broke away from his courtiers, and\nwent back to his master.\n\nAnd now a Royal Herald summoned the people of La Rochelle to surrender.\nBut they were not yet half conquered. Even when they had seen two\nEnglish fleets, sent to aid them, driven back from Richelieu's dike,\nthey still held out manfully. The Duchess of Rohan, the Mayor Guiton,\nand the Minister Salbert, by noble sacrifices and burning words, kept\nthe will of the besieged firm as steel. They were reduced to feed on\ntheir horses,--then on bits of filthy shell-fish,--then on stewed\nleather. They died in multitudes.\n\nGuiton the Mayor kept a dagger on the city council-table to stab any man\nwho should speak of surrender; some who spoke of yielding he ordered\nto execution as seditious. When a friend showed him a person dying of\nhunger, be said, \"Does that astonish you? Both you and I must come to\nthat.\" When another told him that multitudes were perishing, he said,\n\"Provided one remains to hold the city-gate, I ask nothing more.\"\n\nBut at last even Guiton had to yield. After the siege had lasted more\nthan a year, after five thousand were found remaining out of fifteen\nthousand, after a mother had been seen to feed her child with her own\nblood, the Cardinal's policy became too strong for him. The people\nyielded, and Richelieu entered the city as master.\n\nAnd now the victorious statesman showed a greatness of soul to which all\nthe rest of his life was as nothing. He was a Catholic cardinal,--the\nRochellois were Protestants; he was a stern ruler,--they were\nrebellious subjects who had long worried and almost impoverished\nhim;--all Europe, therefore, looked for a retribution more terrible than\nany in history.\n\nRichelieu allowed nothing of the sort. He destroyed the old franchises\nof the city, for they were incompatible with that royal authority\nwhich he so earnestly strove to build. But this was all. He took no\nvengeance,--he allowed the Protestants to worship as before,--he took\nmany of them into the public service,--and to Guiton he showed marks of\nrespect. He stretched forth that strong arm of his over the city, and\nwarded off all harm. He kept back greedy soldiers from pillage,--he kept\nback bigot priests from persecution. Years before this he had said, \"The\ndiversity of religions may indeed create a division in the other world,\nbut not in this\"; at another time he wrote, \"Violent remedies only\naggravate spiritual diseases.\" And he was now so tested, that these\nexpressions were found to embody not merely an idea, but a belief. For,\nwhen the Protestants in La Rochelle, though thug owing tolerance\nand even existence to a Catholic, vexed Catholics in a spirit most\nintolerant, even that could not force him to abridge the religious\nliberties he had given.\n\nHe saw beyond his time,--not only beyond Catholics, but beyond\nProtestants. Two years after that great example of toleration in La\nRochelle, Nicholas Antoine w as executed for apostasy from Calvinism at\nGeneva. And for his leniency Richelieu received the titles of Pope of\nthe Protestants and Patriarch of the Atheists. But he had gained the\nfirst great object of his policy, and he would not abuse it: he had\ncrushed the political power of the Huguenots forever.\n\nLet us turn now to the second great object of his policy. He must break\nthe power of the nobility: on that condition alone could France have\nstrength and order, and here he showed his daring at the outset. \"It is\niniquitous,\" he was wont to tell the King, \"to try to make an example by\npunishing the lesser offenders: they are but trees which cast no shade:\nit is the great nobles who must be disciplined.\"\n\nIt was not long before he had to begin this work,--and with\nthe highest,--with no less a personage than Gaston, Duke of\nOrleans,--favorite son of Mary,--brother of the King. He who thinks\nshall come to a higher idea of Richelieu's boldness, when he remembers\nthat for many years after this Louis was childless and sickly, and\nthat during all those years Richelieu might awake any morning to find\nGaston--King.\n\nIn 1626, Gaston, with the Duke of Vend\u00f4me, half-brother of the King, the\nDuchess of Chevreuse, confidential friend of the Queen, the Count\nof Soissons, the Count of Chalais, and the Marshal Ornano, formed a\nconspiracy after the old fashion. Richelieu had his hand at their lofty\nthroats in a moment. Gaston, who was used only as a makeweight, he\nforced into the most humble apologies and the most binding pledges;\nOrnano he sent to die in the Bastille; the Duke of Vend\u00f4me and the\nDuchess of Chevreuse he banished; Chalais he sent to the scaffold.\n\nThe next year he gave the grandees another lesson. The serf-owning\nspirit had fostered in France, through many years, a rage for duelling.\nRichelieu determined that this should stop. He gave notice that the law\nagainst duelling was revived, and that he would enforce it. It was\nsoon broken by two of the loftiest nobles in France,--by the Count of\nBouteville-Montmorency and the Count des Chapelles. They laughed at the\nlaw: they fought defiantly in broad daylight. Nobody dreamed that the\nlaw would be carried out against _them_. The Cardinal would, they\nthought, deal with them as rulers have dealt with serf-mastering\nlaw-breakers from those days to these,--invent some quibble and screen\nthem with it. But his method was sharper and shorter. He seized both,\nand executed both on the Place de Greve,--the place of execution for the\nvilest malefactors.\n\nNo doubt, that, under the present domineering of the pettifogger caste,\nthere are hosts of men whose minds run in such small old grooves that\nthey hold legal forms not a means, but an end: these will cry out\nagainst this proceeding as tyrannical. No doubt, too, that, under the\npresent palaver of the \"sensationist\" caste, the old ladies of both\nsexes have come to regard crime as mere misfortune: these will lament\nthis proceeding as cruel. But, for this act, if for no other, an earnest\nman's heart ought in these times to warm toward the great statesman. The\nman had a spine. To his mind crime was cot mere misfortune: crime was\nCRIME. Crime was strong; it would pay him well to screen it; it might\ncost him dear to fight it. But he was not a modern \"smart\" lawyer, to\nseek popularity by screening criminals,--nor a modern soft juryman,\nto suffer his eyes to be blinded by quirks and quibbles to the great\npurposes of law,--nor a modern bland governor, who lets a murderer loose\nout of politeness to the murderer's mistress. He hated crime; he whipped\nthe criminal; no petty forms and no petty men of forms could stand\nbetween him and a rascal. He had the sense to see that this course was\nnot cruel, but merciful. See that for yourselves. In the eighteen years\nbefore Richelieu's administration, four thousand men perished in duels;\nin the ten years after Richelieu's death, nearly a thousand thus\nperished; but during his whole administration, duelling was checked\ncompletely. Which policy was tyrannical? which policy was cruel?\n\nThe hatred of the serf-mastering caste toward their new ruler grew\nblacker and blacker; but he never flinched. The two brothers Marillac,\nproud of birth, high in office, endeavored to stir revolt as in their\ngood days of old. The first, who was Keeper of the Seals, Richelieu\nthrew into prison; with the second, who was a Marshal of France,\nRichelieu took another course. For this Marshal had added to revolt\nthings more vile and more insidiously hurtful: he had defrauded the\nGovernment in army-contracts. Richelieu tore him from his army and\nput him on trial. The Queen-Mother, whose pet he was, insisted on his\nliberation. Marillac himself blubbered, that it \"was all about a little\nstraw and hay, a matter for which a master would not whip a lackey.\"\nMarshal Marillac was executed. So, when statesmen rule, fare all who\ntake advantage of the agonies of a nation to pilfer a nation's treasure.\n\nTo crown all, the Queen-Mother began now to plot against Richelieu,\nbecause he would not be her puppet,--and he banished her from France\nforever.\n\nThe high nobles were now exasperate. Gaston tied the country, first\nissuing against Richelieu a threatening manifesto. Now awoke the Duke\nof Montmorency. By birth he stood next the King's family: by office, as\nConstable of France, he stood next the King himself. Montmorency was\ndefeated and taken. The nobles supplicated for him lustily: they looked\non crimes of nobles resulting in deaths of plebeians as lightly as the\nEnglish House of Lords afterward looked on Lord Mohun's murder of Will\nMountfort, or as another body of lords looked on Matt Ward's murder of\nProfessor Butler: but Montmorency was executed. Says Richelieu, in his\nMemoirs, \"Many murmured at this act, and called it severe; but others,\nmore wise, praised the justice of the King, _who preferred the good of\nthe State to the vain reputation of a hurtful clemency._\"\n\nNor did the great minister grow indolent as he grew old. The Duke of\nEpernon, who seems to have had more direct power of the old feudal sort\nthan any other man in France, and who had been so turbulent under the\nRegency,--him Richelieu humbled completely. The Duke of La Valette\ndisobeyed orders in the army, and he was executed as a common soldier\nwould have been for the same offence. The Count of Soissons tried to see\nif he could not revive the good old turbulent times, and raised a rebel\narmy; but Richelieu hunted him down like a wild beast. Then certain\nCourt nobles,--pets of the King,--Cinq-Mars and De Thou, wove a new\nplot, and, to strengthen it, made a secret treaty with Spain; but the\nCardinal, though dying, obtained a copy of the treaty, through his\nagent, and the traitors expiated their treason with their blood.\n\nBut this was not all. The Parliament of Paris,--a court of\njustice,--filled with the idea that law is not a means, but an end,\ntried to interpose _forms_ between the Master of France and the vermin\nhe was exterminating. That Parisian court might, years before, have done\nsomething. They might have insisted that petty quibbles set forth by the\nlawyers of Paris should not defeat the eternal laws of retribution set\nforth by the Lawgiver of the Universe. That they had not done, and the\ntime for legal forms had gone by. The Paris Parliament would not see\nthis, and Richelieu crushed the Parliament. Then the Court of Aids\nrefused to grant supplies, and he crushed that court. In all this the\nnation braced him. Woe to the courts of a nation, when they have forced\nthe great body of plain men to regard legality as injustice!--woe to the\ncouncils of a nation, when they have forced the great body of plain men\nto regard legislation as traffic!--woe, thrice repeated, to gentlemen of\nthe small pettifogger sort, when they have brought such times, and God\nhas brought a man to fit them!\n\nThere was now in France no man who could stand against the statesman's\npurpose.\n\nAnd so, having hewn, through all that anarchy and bigotry and\nselfishness, a way for the people, he called them to the work. In 1626\nhe summoned an assembly to carry out reforms. It was essentially a\npeople's assembly. That anarchical States-General, domineered by great\nnobles, he would not call; but he called an Assembly of Notables. In\nthis was not one prince or duke, and two-thirds of the members came\ndirectly from the people. Into this body he thrust some of his own\nenergy. Measures were taken for the creation of a navy. An idea was now\ncarried into effect which many suppose to have sprung from the French\nRevolution; for the army was made more effective by opening its high\ngrades to the commons.[A] A reform was also made in taxation, and shrewd\nmeasures were taken to spread commerce and industry by calling the\nnobility into them.\n\n[Footnote A: See the ordonnances in Thierry, Histoire du Tiers Etat.]\n\nThus did France, under his guidance, secure order and progress. Calmly\nhe destroyed all useless feudal castles which had so long overawed the\npeople and defied the monarchy. He abolished also the military titles of\nGrand Admiral and High Constable, which had hitherto given the army\nand navy into the hands of leading noble families. He destroyed some\ntroublesome remnants of feudal courts, and created royal courts: in one\nyear that of Poitiers alone punished for exactions and violence against\nthe people more than two hundred nobles. Greatest step of all, he\ndeposed the hereditary noble governors, and placed in their stead\ngovernors taken from the people,--_Intendants,_--responsible to the\ncentral authority alone.[B]\n\n[Footnote B: For the best sketch of this see Caillet, _L'Administration\nsous Richelieu._]\n\nWe are brought now to the _third_ great object of Richelieu's policy.\nHe saw from the beginning that Austria and her satellite Spain must be\nhumbled, if France was to take her rightful place in Europe.\n\nHardly, then, had he entered the council, when he negotiated a marriage\nof the King's sister with the son of James I. of England; next he signed\nan alliance with Holland; next he sent ten thousand soldiers to drive\nthe troops of the Pope and Spain out of the Valtelline district of the\nAlps, and thus secured an alliance with the Swiss. We are to note here\nthe fact which Buckle wields so well, that, though Richelieu was a\nCardinal of the Roman Church, all these alliances were with Protestant\npowers against Catholic.[C] Austria and Spain intrigued against\nhim,--sowing money in the mountain-districts of South France which\nbrought forth those crops of armed men who defended La Rochelle. But he\nbeat them at their own game. He set loose Count Mansfyld, who revived\nthe Thirty Tears' War by raising a rebellion in Bohemia; and when one\ngreat man, Wallenstein, stood between Austria and ruin, Richelieu sent\nhis monkish diplomatist, Father Joseph, to the German Assembly of\nElectors, and persuaded them to dismiss Wallenstein and to disgrace him.\n\n[Footnote C: History of Civilisation in England, Vol. I. Chap. VIII.]\n\nBut the great Frenchman's master-stroke was his treaty with Gustavus\nAdolphus. With that keen glance of his, he saw and knew Gustavus while\nyet the world knew him not,--while he was battling afar off in the wilds\nof Poland. Richelieu's plan was formed at once. He brought about a\ntreaty between Gustavus and Poland; then he filled Gustavus's mind with\npictures of the wrongs inflicted by Austria on German Protestants,\nhinted to him probably of a new realm, filled his treasury, and finally\nhurled against Austria the man who destroyed Tilly, who conquered\nWallenstein, who annihilated Austrian supremacy at the Battle of L\u00fcizen,\nwho, though in his grave, wrenched Protestant rights from Austria at the\nTreaty of Westphalia, who pierced the Austrian monarchy with the most\nterrible sorrows it ever saw before the time of Napoleon.\n\nTo the main objects of Richelieu's policy already given might be added\ntwo subordinate objects.\n\nThe first of these was a healthful extension of French territory. In\nthis Richelieu planned better than the first Napoleon; for, while he did\nmuch to carry France out to her natural boundaries, he kept her always\nwithin them. On the South he added Roussillon, on the East, Alsace, on\nthe Northeast, Artois.\n\nThe second subordinate object of his policy sometimes flashed forth\nbrilliantly. He was determined that England should never again interfere\non French soil. We have seen him driving the English from La Rochelle\nand from the Isle of Rh\u00e9; but he went farther. In 1628, on making some\nproposals to England, he was repulsed with English haughtiness.\n\"They shall know,\" said the Cardinal, \"that they cannot despise me.\"\nStraightway one sees protests and revolts of the Presbyterians of\nScotland, and Richelieu's agents in the thickest of them.\n\nAnd now what was Richelieu's statesmanship in its sum?\n\nI. In the Political Progress of France, his work has already been\nsketched as building monarchy and breaking anarchy.\n\nTherefore have men said that he swept away old French liberties. What\nold liberties? Richelieu but tore away the decaying, poisonous husks\nand rinds which hindered French liberties from their chance at life and\ngrowth.\n\nTherefore, also, have men said that Richelieu built up absolutism. The\ncharge is true and welcome. For, evidently, absolutism was the only\nforce, in that age, which could destroy the serf-mastering caste. Many a\nPolish patriot, as he to-day wanders through the Polish villages, groans\nthat absolutism was not built to crush that serf-owning aristocracy\nwhich has been the real architect of Poland's ruin. Any one who reads to\nmuch purpose in De Mably, or Guizot, or Henri Martin, knows that this\npart of Richelieu's statesmanship was but a masterful continuation of\nall great French statesmanship since the twelfth-century league of king\nand commons against nobles, and that Richelieu stood in the heirship of\nall great French statesmen since Suger. That part of Richelieu's work,\nthen, was evidently bedded in the great line of Divine Purpose running\nthrough that age and through all ages.\n\nII. In the _Internal Development of France_, Richelieu proved himself a\ntrue builder. The founding of the French Academy and of the Jardin des\nPlantes, the building of the College of Plessis, and the rebuilding of\nthe College of the Sorbonne, are among the monuments of this part of his\nstatesmanship. His, also, is much of that praise usually lavished on\nLouis XIV. for the career opened in the seventeenth century to science,\nliterature, and art. He was also a reformer, and his zeal was proved,\nwhen, in the fiercest of the La Rochelle struggle, he found time to\ninstitute great reforms not only in the army and navy, but even in the\nmonasteries.\n\nIII. On the _General Progress of Europe_, his work must be judged as\nmainly for good. Austria was the chief barrier to European progress, and\nthat barrier he broke. But a far greater impulse to the general progress\nof Europe was given by the idea of Toleration which he thrust into the\nmethods of European statesmen. He, first of all statesmen in France,\nsaw, that, in French policy, to use his own words, \"A Protestant\nFrenchman is better than a Catholic Spaniard\"; and he, first of all\nstatesmen in Europe, saw, that, in European policy, patriotism, must\noutweigh bigotry.\n\nIV. His _Faults in Method_ were many. His under-estimate of the\nsacredness of human life was one; but that was the fault of his age.\nHis frequent working by intrigue was another; but that also was a vile\nmethod accepted by his age. The fair questions, then, are,--Did he not\ncommit the fewest and smallest wrongs possible in beating back those\nmany and great wrongs? Wrong has often a quick, spasmodic force; but was\nthere not in _his_ arm a steady growing force, which could only be a\nforce of right?\n\nV. His _Faults in Policy_ crystallized about one: for, while he subdued\nthe serf-mastering nobility, he struck no final blow at the serf-system\nitself.\n\nOur running readers of French history need here a word of caution. They\nfollow De Tocqueville, and De Tocqueville follows Biot in speaking of\nthe serf-system as abolished in most of France hundreds of years before\nthis. But Biot and De Tocqueville take for granted a knowledge in their\nreaders that the essential vileness of the system, and even many of its\nmost shocking outward features, remained.\n\nRichelieu might have crushed the serf-system, really, as easily as Louis\nX. and Philip the Long had crushed it nominally. This Richelieu did not.\n\nAnd the consequences of this great man's great fault were terrible.\nHardly was he in his grave, when the nobles perverted the effort of\nthe Paris Parliament for advance in liberty, and took the lead in the\nfearful revolts and massacres of the Fronde. Then came Richelieu's\npupil, Mazarin, who tricked the nobles into order, and Mazarin's pupil,\nLouis XIV., who bribed them into order. But a nobility borne on high by\nthe labor of a servile class must despise labor; so there came those\nweary years of indolent gambling and debauchery and \"serf-eating\" at\nVersailles.\n\nThen came Louis XV., who was too feeble to maintain even the poor decent\nrestraints imposed by Louis XIV.; so the serf-mastering caste became\nactive in a new way, and their leaders in vileness unutterable became at\nlast Fronsac and De Sade.\n\nThen came \"the deluge.\" The spirit of the serf-mastering caste, as left\nby Richelieu, was a main cause of the miseries which brought on the\nFrench Revolution. When the Third Estate brought up their \"portfolio of\ngrievances,\" for one complaint against the exactions of the monarchy\nthere were fifty complaints against the exactions of the nobility.[D]\n\n[Footnote D: See any _R\u00e9sum\u00e9 des Cahiers_,--even the meagre ones in\nBuchez and Roux, or Le Bas, or Ch\u00e9ruel.]\n\nThen came the failure of the Revolution in its direct purpose; and of\nthis failure the serf-mastering caste was a main cause. For this caste,\nhardened by ages of domineering over a servile class, despite fourth of\nAugust renunciations, would not, could not, accept a position compatible\nwith freedom and order: so earnest men were maddened, and sought to tear\nout this cancerous mass, with all its burning roots.\n\nBut for Richelieu's great fault there is an excuse. His mind was\nsaturated with ideas of the impossibility of inducing freed peasants to\nwork,--the impossibility of making them citizens,--the impossibility, in\nshort, of making them _men_. To his view was not unrolled the rich newer\nworld-history, to show that a working class is most dangerous when\nrestricted,--that oppression is more dangerous to the oppressor than to\nthe oppressed,--that, if man will hew out paths to liberty, God will\nhew out paths to prosperity. But Richelieu's fault teaches the world not\nless than his virtues.\n\nAt last, on the third of December, 1642, the great statesman lay upon\nhis death-bed. The death-hour is a great revealer of motives, and as\nwith weaker men, so with Richelieu. Light then shot over the secret of\nhis whole life's plan and work.\n\nHe was told that he must die: he received the words with calmness. As\nthe Host, which he believed the veritable body of the Crucified, was\nbrought him, he said, \"Behold my Judge before whom I must shortly\nappear! I pray Him to condemn me, if I have ever had any other motive\nthan the cause of religion and my country.\" The confessor asked him if\nhe pardoned his enemies: he answered, \"I have none but those of the\nState.\"\n\nSo passed from earth this strong man. Keen he was in sight, steady in\naim, strong in act. A true man,--not \"non-committal,\" but wedded to a\ngreat policy in the sight of all men: seen by earnest men of all times\nto have marshalled against riot and bigotry and unreason divine forces\nand purposes; seen by earnest men of these times to have taught the true\nmethod of grasping desperate revolt, and of strangling that worst foe of\nliberty and order in every age,--a serf-owning aristocracy.\n\n\n\n\nUNDER THE SNOW.\n\n\nThe spring had tripped and lost her flowers,\n  The summer sauntered through the glades,\nThe wounded feet of autumn hours\n Left ruddy footprints on the blades.\n\nAnd all the glories of the woods\n  Had flung their shadowy silence down,--\nWhen, wilder than the storm it broods,\n She fled before the winter's frown.\n\nFor _her_ sweet spring had lost its flowers,\n  She fell, and passion's tongues of flame\nRan reddening through the blushing bowers,\n  Now haggard as her naked shame.\n\nOne secret thought her soul had screened,\n  When prying matrons sought her wrong,\nAnd Blame stalked on, a mouthing fiend,\n  And mocked her as she fled along.\n\nAnd now she bore its weight aloof,\n  To hide it where one ghastly birch\nHeld up the rafters of the roof,\n  And grim old pine-trees formed a church.\n\n'Twas there her spring-time vows were sworn,\n  And there upon its frozen sod,\nWhile wintry midnight reigned forlorn,\n  She knelt, and held her hands to God.\n\nThe cautious creatures of the air\n  Looked out from many a secret place,\nTo see the embers of despair\n  Flush the gray ashes of her face.\n\nAnd where the last week's snow had caught\n  The gray beard of a cypress limb,\nShe heard the music of a thought\n  More sweet than her own childhood's hymn.\n\nFor rising in that cadence low,\n  With \"Now I lay me down to sleep,\"\nHer mother rocked her to and fro,\n  And prayed the Lord her soul to keep.\n\nAnd still her prayer was humbly raised,\n  Held up in two cold hands to God,\nThat, white as some old pine-tree blazed,\n  Gleamed far o'er that dark frozen sod.\n\nThe storm stole out beyond the wood,\n  She grew the vision of a cloud,\nHer dark hair was a misty hood,\n  Her stark face shone as from a shroud.\n\nStill sped the wild storm's rustling feet\n  To martial music of the pines,\nAnd to her cold heart's muffled beat\n  Wheeled grandly into solemn lines.\n\nAnd still, as if her secret's woe\n  No mortal words had ever found,\nThis dying sinner draped in snow\n  Held up her prayer without a sound.\n\nBut when the holy angel bands\n  Saw this lone vigil, lowly kept,\nThey gathered from her frozen hands\n  The prayer thus folded, and they wept.\n\nSome snow-flakes--wiser than the rest--\n  Soon faltered o'er a thing of clay,\nFirst read this secret of her breast,\n  Then gently robed her where she lay.\n\nThe dead dark hair, made white with snow,\n  A still stark face, two folded palms,\nAnd (mothers, breathe her secret low!)\n  An unborn infant--asking alms.\n\nGod kept her counsel; cold and mute\n  His steadfast mourners closed her eyes,\nHer head-stone was an old tree's root,\n  Be mine to utter,--\"Here she lies.\"\n\n\n\n\nSLAVERY, IN ITS PRINCIPLES, DEVELOPMENT, AND EXPEDIENTS.\n\n\nWithin the memory of men still in the vigor of life, American Slavery\nwas considered by a vast majority of the North, and by a large minority\nof the South, as an evil which should, at best, be tolerated, and not\na good which deserved to be extended and protected. A kind of\nlazy acquiescence in it as a local matter, to be managed by local\nlegislation, was the feeling of the Free States. In both the Slave and\nthe Free States, the discussion of the essential principles on which\nSlavery rests was confined to a few disappointed Nullifiers and a few\nuncompromising Abolitionists, and we can recollect the time when Calhoun\nand Garrison were both classed by practical statesmen of the South and\nNorth in one category of pestilent \"abstractionists.\" Negro Slavery\nwas considered simply as a fact; and general irritation among most\npoliticians of all sections was sure to follow any attempt to explore\nthe principles on which the fact reposed. That these principles had the\nmischievous vitality which events have proved them to possess, few of\nour wisest statesmen then dreamed, and we have drifted by degrees into\nthe present war without any clear perception of its animating causes.\n\nThe future historian will trace the steps by which the subject of\nSlavery was forced on the reluctant attention of the citizens of the\nFree States, so that at last the most cautious conservative could not\nignore its intrusive presence, could not banish its reality from his\neyes, or its image from his mind. He will show why Slavery, disdaining\nits old argument from expediency, challenged discussion on its\nprinciples. He will explain the process by which it became discontented\nwith toleration within its old limits, and demanded the championship\nor connivance of the National Government in a plan for its limitless\nextension. He will indicate the means by which it corrupted the Southern\nheart and Southern brain, so that at last the elemental principles of\nmorals and religion were boldly denied, and the people came to \"believe\na lie.\" He will, not unnaturally, indulge in a little sarcasm, when\nhe comes to consider the occupation of Southern professors of ethics,\ncompelled by their position to scoff at the \"rights\" of man, and\nSouthern professors of theology, compelled by their position to teach\nthat Christ came into the world, not so much to save sinners, as to\nenslave negroes. He will be forced to class these among the meanest\nand most abject slaves that the planters owned. In treating of the\nsubserviency of the North, he will be constrained to write many a page\nwhich will flush the cheeks of our descendants with indignation and\nshame. He will show the method by which Slavery, after vitiating the\nconscience and intelligence of the South, contrived to vitiate in part,\nand for a time, the conscience and intelligence of the North. It will\nbe his ungrateful task to point to many instances of compliance and\nconcession on the part of able Northern statesmen which will deeply\naffect their fame with posterity, though he will doubtless refuse to\nadopt to the full the contemporary clamor against their motives. He will\nunderstand, better than we, the amount of patriotism which entered\ninto their \"concessions,\" and the amount of fraternal good-will which\nprompted their fatal \"compromises.\" But he will also declare that the\nobject of the Slave Power was not attained. Vacillating statesmen and\ncorrupt politicians it might address, the first through their fears,\nthe second through their interests; but the intrepid and incorruptible\n\"people\" were but superficially affected. A few elections were gained,\nbut the victories were barren of results. From political defeat the free\npeople of the North came forth more earnest and more united than ever.\n\nThe insolent pretensions of the Slavocracy were repudiated; its\npolitical and ethical maxims were disowned; and after having stirred the\nnoblest impulses of the human heart by the spectacle of its tyranny, its\nattempt to extend that tyranny only roused an insurrection of the human\nunderstanding against the impudence of its logic. The historian can then\nonly say, that the Slave Power \"seceded,\" being determined to form a\npart of no government which it could not control. The present war is to\ndecide whether its real force corresponds to the political force it has\nexerted heretofore in our affairs.\n\nThat this war has been forced upon the Free States by the \"aggressions\"\nof the Slave Power is so plain that no argument is necessary to sustain\nthe proposition. It is not so universally understood that the Slave\nPower is aggressive by the necessities of the wretched system of labor\non which its existence is based. By a short exposition of the principles\nof Slavery, and the expedients it has practised during the last twenty\nor thirty years, we think that this proposition can be established.\n\nAnd first it must be always borne in mind, that Slavery, as a system,\nis based on the most audacious, inhuman, and self-evident of lies,--the\nassertion, namely, that property can be held in men. Property applies to\nthings. There is a meta-physical impossibility implied in the attempt to\nextend its application to persons. It is possible, we admit, to ordain\nby local law that four and four make ten, but such an exercise of\nlegislative wisdom could not overcome certain arithmetical prejudices\ninnate in our minds, or dethrone the stubborn eight from its accustomed\nposition in our thoughts. But you might as well ordain that four and\nfour make ten as ordain that a man has no right to himself, but can\nproperly be held as the chattel of another. Yet this arrogant falsehood\nof property in men has been organized into a colossal institution. The\nSouth calls it a \"peculiar\" institution; and herein perhaps consists\nits peculiarity, that it is an absurdity which has lied itself into a\nsubstantial form, and now argues its right to exist from the fact of its\nexistence. Doubtless, the fact that a thing exists proves that it has\nits roots in human nature; but before we accept this as decisive of\nits right to exist, it may be well to explore those qualities in human\nnature, \"peculiar\" and perverse as itself, from which it derives\nits poisonous vitality and strength. It is plain, we think, that an\ninstitution embodying an essential falsity, which equally affronts the\ncommon sense and the moral sense of mankind, and which, as respects\nchronology, was as repugnant to the instincts of Homer as it is to the\ninstincts of Whittier, must have sprung from the unblessed union of\nwilfulness and avarice, of avarice which knows no conscience, and of\nwilfulness that tramples on reason; and the marks of this parentage,\nthe signs of these its boasted roots in human nature, are, we are\nconstrained to concede, visible in every stage of its growth, in every\nargument for its existence, in every motive for its extension.\n\nIt is not, perhaps, surprising that some of the advocates of Slavery do\nnot relish the analysis which reveals the origin of their institution\nin those dispositions which connect man with the tiger and the wolf.\nAccordingly they discourage, with true democratic humility, all\ngenealogical inquiries into the ancestry of their system, substitute\ngeneralization for analysis, and, twisting the maxims of religion into\na philosophy of servitude, bear down all arguments with the sounding\nproposition, that Slavery is included in the plan of God's providence,\nand therefore cannot be wrong. Certain thinkers of our day have asserted\nthe universality of the religious element in human nature: and it must\nbe admitted that men become very pious when their minds are illuminated\nby the discernment of a Providential sanction for their darling sins,\nand by the discovery that God is on the side of their interests and\npassions. Napoleon's religious perceptions were somewhat obtuse, as\ntried by the standards of the Church, yet nothing could exceed the depth\nof his belief that God \"was with the heaviest column\"; and the most\nobdurate jobber in human flesh may well glow with apostolic fervor, as,\nfrom the height of philosophic contemplation to which this principle\nlifts him, he discerns the sublime import of his Providential mission.\nIt is true, he is now willing to concede, that a man's right to himself,\nbeing given by God, can only by God be taken away. \"But,\" he exultingly\nexclaims, \"it _has_ been taken away by God. The negro, having always\nbeen a slave, must have been so by divine appointment; and I, the mark\nof obloquy to a few fanatical enthusiasts, am really an humble agent in\ncarrying out the designs of a higher law even than that of the State, of\na higher will even than my own.\" This mode of baptizing man's sin and\ncalling it God's providence has not altogether lacked the aid of certain\nSouthern clergymen, who ostentatiously profess to preach Christ and Him\ncrucified, and by such arguments, we may fear, crucified _by them_.\nHere is Slavery's abhorred riot of vices and crimes, from whose\nsoul-sickening details the human imagination shrinks aghast,--and over\nall, to complete the picture, these theologians bring in the seraphic\ncountenance of the Saviour of mankind, smiling celestial approval of the\nmultitudinous miseries and infamies it serenely beholds!\n\nIt may be presumptuous to proffer counsel to such authorized expositors\nof religion, but one can hardly help insinuating the humble suggestion,\nthat it would be as well, if they must give up the principles of\nliberty, not to throw Christianity in. We may be permitted to doubt the\ntheory of Providence which teaches that a man never so much serves God\nas when he serves the Devil. Doubtless, Slavery, though opposed to God's\nlaws, is included in the plan of God's providence, but, in the long run,\nthe providence most terribly confirms the laws. The stream of events,\nhaving its fountains in iniquity, has its end in retribution. It is\nbecause God's laws are immutable that God's providence can be _foreseen_\nas well as seen. The mere fact that a thing exists, and persists in\nexisting, is of little importance in determining its right to exist,\nor its eventual destiny. These must be found in an inspection of the\nprinciples by which it exists; and from the nature of its principles,\nwe can predict its future history. The confidence of bad men and the\ndespair of good men proceed equally from a too fixed attention to the\nfacts and events before their eyes, to the exclusion of the principles\nwhich underlie and animate them; for no insight of principles, and of\nthe moral laws which govern human events, could ever cause tyrants to\nexult or philanthropists to despond.\n\nIf we go farther into this question, we shall commonly find that the\nfacts and events to which we give the name of Providence are the acts\nof human wills divinely overruled. There is iniquity and wrong in these\nfacts and events, because they are the work of free human wills. But\nwhen these free human wills organize falsehood, institute injustice, and\nestablish oppression, they have passed into that mental state where\nwill has been perverted into wilfulness, and self-direction has been\nexaggerated into self-worship. It is the essence of wilfulness that it\nexalts the impulses of its pride above the intuitions of conscience\nand intelligence, and puts force in the place of reason and right. The\nperson has thus emancipated himself from all restraints of a law higher\nthan his personality, and acts _from_ self, _for_ self, and in sole\nobedience _to_ self. But this is personality in its Satanic form; yet it\nis just here that some of our theologians have discovered in a person's\nactions the purposes of Providence, and discerned the Divine intention\nin the fact of guilt instead of in the certainty of retribution.\nThe tyrant element in man is found in this Satanic form of his\nindividuality. His will, self-released from restraint, preys upon and\ncrushes other wills. He asserts himself by enslaving others, and mimics\nDivinity on the stilts of diabolism. Like the barbarian who thought\nhimself enriched by the powers and gifts of the enemy he slew, he\naggrandizes his own personality, and heightens his own sense of freedom,\nthrough the subjection of feebler natures. Ruthless, rapacious, greedy\nof power, greedy of gain, it is in Slavery that he wantons in all\nthe luxury of injustice, for it is here that he tastes the exquisite\npleasure of depriving others of that which he most values in himself.\n\nThus, whether we examine this system in the light of conscience and\nintelligence, or in the light of history and experience, we come to but\none result,--that it has its source and sustenance in Satanic energy, in\nSatanic pride, and in Satanic greed. This is Slavery in itself, detached\nfrom the ameliorations it may receive from individual slaveholders.\nNow a bad system is not continued or extended by the virtues of any\nindividuals who are but partially corrupted by it, but by those who\nwork in the spirit and with the implements of its originators. Every\namelioration is a confession of the essential injustice of the thing\nameliorated, and a step towards its abolition; and the humane and\nChristian slaveholders owe their safety, and the security of what they\nare pleased to call their property, to the vices of the hard and stern\nspirits whom they profess to abhor. If they invest in stock of the\nDevil's corporation, they ought not to be severe on those who look out\nthat they punctually receive their dividends. The true slaveholder feels\nthat he is encamped among his slaves, that he holds them by the right of\nconquest, that the relation is one of war, and that there is no crime he\nmay not be compelled to commit in self-defence. Disdaining all cant,\nhe clearly perceives that the system, in its practical working, must\nconform to the principles on which it is based. He accordingly believes\nin the lash and the fear of the lash. If he is cruel and brutal, it may\nas often be from policy as from disposition, for brutality and cruelty\nare the means by which weaker races are best kept \"subordinated\" to\nstronger races; and the influence of his brutality and cruelty is felt\nas restraint and terror on the plantation of his less resolute neighbor.\nAnd when we speak of brutality and cruelty, we do not limit the\napplication of the words to those who scourge, but extend it to some of\nthose who preach,--who hold up heaven as the reward of those slaves who\nare sufficiently abject on earth, and threaten damnation in the next\nworld to all who dare to assert their manhood in this.\n\nIf, however, any one still doubts that this system develops itself\nlogically and naturally, and tramples down the resistance offered by the\nbetter sentiments of human nature, let him look at the legislation which\ndefines and protects it,--a legislation which, as expressing the average\nsense and purpose of the community, is to be quoted as conclusive\nagainst the testimony of any of its individual members. This legislation\nevinces the dominion of a malignant principle. You can hear the crack\nof the whip and the clank of the chain in all its enactments. Yet these\nlaws, which cannot be read in any civilized country without mingled\nhorror and derision, indicate a mastery of the whole theory and practice\nof oppression, are admirably adapted to the end they have in view, and\nbear the unmistakable marks of being the work of practical men,--of men\nwho know their sin, and \"knowing, dare maintain.\" They do not, it\nis true, enrich the science of jurisprudence with any large or wise\nadditions, but we do not look for such luxuries as justice, reason, and\nbeneficence in ordinances devised to prop up iniquity, falsehood, and\ntyranny. Ghastly caricatures of justice as these offshoots of Slavery\nare, they are still dictated by the nature and necessities of the\nsystem. They have the flavor of the rank soil whence they spring.\n\nIf we desire any stronger evidence that slaveholders constitute a\ngeneral Slave Power, that this Slave Power acts as a unit, the unity of\na great interest impelled by powerful passions, and that the virtues of\nindividual slaveholders have little effect in checking the vices of the\nsystem, we can find that evidence in the zeal and audacity with which\nthis power engaged in extending its dominion. Seemingly aggressive in\nthis, it was really acting on the defensive,--on the defensive, however,\nnot against the assaults of men, but against the immutable decrees of\nGod. The world is so constituted, that wrong and oppression are not, in\na large view, politic. They heavily mortgage the future, when they\nglut the avarice of the present. The avenging Providence, which the\nslaveholder cannot find in the New Testament, or in the teachings of\nconscience, he is at last compelled to find in political economy; and\nhowever indifferent to the Gospel according to Saint John, he must give\nheed to the gospel according to Adam Smith and Malthus. He discovers, no\ndoubt to his surprise, and somewhat to his indignation, that there is an\nintimate relation between industrial success and justice; and however\nmuch, as a practical man, he may despise the abstract principles which\ndeclare Slavery a nonsensical enormity, he cannot fail to read its\nnature, when it slowly, but legibly, writes itself out in curses on the\nland. He finds how true is the old proverb, that, \"if God moves with\nleaden feet, He strikes with iron hands.\" The law of Slavery is, that,\nto be lucrative, it must have a scanty population diffused over large\nareas. To limit it is therefore to doom it to come to an end by the laws\nof population. To limit it is to force the planters, in the end, to free\ntheir slaves, from an inability to support them, and to force the slaves\ninto more energy and intelligence in labor, in order that they may\nsubsist as freemen. People prattle about the necessity of compulsory\nlabor; but the true compulsory labor, the labor which has produced the\nmiracles of modern industry, is the labor to which a man is compelled by\nthe necessity of saving himself, and those who are dearer to him than\nself, from ignominy and want. It was by this policy of territorial\nlimitation, that Henry Clay, before the annexation of Texas, declared\nthat Slavery must eventually expire. The way was gradual, it was\nprudent, it was safe, it was distant, it was sure, it was according to\nthe nature of things. It would have been accepted, had there been any\ngeneral truth in the assertion that the slaveholders were honestly\ndesirous of reconverting, at any time, and on any practicable plan,\ntheir chattels into men. But true to the malignant principles of their\nsystem, they accepted the law of its existence, but determined to evade\nthe law of its extinction. As Slavery required large areas and scanty\npopulation, large areas and scanty population it should at all times\nhave. New markets should be opened for the surplus slave-population;\nto open new markets was to acquire new territory; and to acquire new\nterritory was to gain additional political strength. The expansive\ntendencies of freedom would thus be checked by the tendencies no less\nexpansive of bondage. To acquire Texas was not merely to acquire an\nadditional Slave State, but it was to keep up a demand for slaves which\nwould prevent Virginia, North Carolina, Maryland, and Kentucky from\nbecoming Free States. As soon as old soils were worn out, new soils were\nto be ready to receive the curse; and where slave-labor ceased to be\nprofitable, slave-breeding was to take its place.\n\nThis purpose was so diabolical, that, when first announced, it\nwas treated as a caprice of certain hot spirits, irritated by the\ndeclamations of the Abolitionists. But it is idle to refer to transient\nheat thoughts which bear all the signs of cool atrocity; and needless\nto seek for the causes of actions in extraneous sources, when they\nare plainly but steps in the development of principles already known.\nSlave-breeding and Slavery-extension are necessities of the system. Like\nRomulus and Remus, \"they are both suckled from one wolf.\"\n\nBut it was just here that the question became to the Free States a\npractical question. There could be no \"fanaticism\" in meeting it at this\nstage. What usually goes under the name of fanaticism is the habit of\nuncompromising assault on a thing because its principles are absurd\nor wicked; what usually goes under the name of common sense is the\ndisposition to assail it at that point where, in the development of its\nprinciples, it has become immediately and pressingly dangerous. Now by\nno sophistry could we of the Free States evade the responsibility of\nbeing the extenders of Slavery, if we allowed Slavery to be extended. If\nwe did not oppose it from a sense of right, we were bound to oppose it\nfrom a sense of decency. It may be said that we had nothing to do with\nSlavery at the South; but we had something to do with rescuing the\nnational character from infamy, and unhappily we could not have anything\nto do with rescuing the national character from infamy without having\nsomething to do with Slavery at the South. The question with us was,\nwhether we would allow the whole force of the National Government to be\nemployed in upholding, extending, and perpetuating this detestable and\nnonsensical enormity?--especially, whether we would be guilty of that\nlast and foulest atheism to free principles, the deliberate planting of\nslave institutions on virgin soil? If this question had been put to\nany despot of Europe,--we had almost said, to any despot of Asia,--his\nanswer would undoubtedly have been an indignant negative. Yet the South\nconfidently expected so to wheedle or bully us into dragging our common\nsense through the mud and mire of momentary expedients, that we should\nconnive at the commission of this execrable crime!\n\nThere can be no doubt, that, if the question had been fairly put to the\ninhabitants of the Free States, their answer would have been at once\ndecisive for freedom. Even the strongest conservatives would have been\n\"Free-Soilers,\"--not only those who are conservatives in virtue of\ntheir prudence, moderation, sagacity, and temper, but prejudiced\nconservatives, conservatives who are tolerant of all iniquity which is\ndecorous, inert, long-established, and disposed to die when its time\ncomes, conservatives as thorough in their hatred of change as Lamennais\nhimself. \"What a noise,\" says Paul Louis Courier, \"Lamennais would have\nmade on the day of creation, could he have witnessed it. His first cry\nto the Divinity would have been to respect that ancient chaos.\" But even\nto conservatives of this class, the attempt to extend Slavery, though\nreally in the order of its natural development, must still have appeared\na monstrous innovation, and they were bound to oppose the Marats and\nRobespierres of despotism who were busy in the bad work. Indeed, in our\ncountry, conservatism, through the presence of Slavery, has inverted\nits usual order. In other countries, the radical of one century is the\nconservative of the next; in ours, the conservative of one generation\nis the radical of the next. The American conservative of 1790 is the\nso-called fanatic of 1820; the conservative of 1820 is the fanatic\nof 1856. The American conservative, indeed, descended the stairs of\ncompromise until his descent into utter abnegation of all that civilized\nhumanity holds dear was arrested by the Rebellion. And the reason of\nthis strange inversion of conservative principles was, that the movement\nof Slavery is towards barbarism, while the movement of all countries\nin which labor is not positively chattellized is towards freedom and\ncivilization. True conservatism, it must never be forgotten, is the\nrefusal to give up a positive, though imperfect good, for a possible,\nbut uncertain improvement: in the United States it has been misused to\ndenote the cowardly surrender of a positive good from a fear to resist\nthe innovations of an advancing evil and wrong.\n\nThere was, therefore, little danger that Slavery would be extended\nthrough the conscious thought and will of the people, but there\nwas danger that its extension might, somehow or other, _occur_.\nMisconception of the question, devotion to party or the memory of\nparty, prejudice against the men who more immediately represented the\nAnti-Slavery principle, might make the people unconsciously slide into\nthis crime. And it must be said that for the divisions in the Free\nStates as to the mode in which the free sentiment of the people should\noperate the strictly Anti-Slavery men were to some extent responsible.\nIt is difficult to convince an ardent reformer that the principle\nfor which he contends, being impersonal, should be purified from the\npassions and whims of his own personality. The more fervid he is, the\nmore he is identified in the public mind with his cause; and, in a large\nview, he is bound not merely to defend his cause, but to see that the\ncause, through him, does not become offensive. Men are ever ready to\ndodge disagreeable duties by converting questions of principles into\ncriticisms on the men who represent principles; and the men who\nrepresent principles should therefore look to it that they make no\nneedless enemies and give no needless shock to public opinion for\nthe purpose of pushing pet opinions, wreaking personal grudges, or\ngratifying individual antipathies. The artillery of the North has\nheretofore played altogether too much on Northerners.\n\nBut to return. The South expected to fool the North into a compliance\nwith its designs, by availing itself of the divisions among its\nprofessed opponents, and by dazzling away the attention of the people\nfrom the real nature of the wickedness to be perpetrated. Slavery was to\nbe extended, and the North was to be an accomplice in the business; but\nthe Slave Power did not expect that we should be active and enthusiastic\nin this work of self-degradation. It did not ask us to extend Slavery,\nbut simply to allow its extension to occur; and in this appeal to our\nmoral timidity and moral laziness, it contemptuously tossed us a few\nfig-leaves of fallacy and false statement to save appearances.\n\nWe were informed, for instance, that by the equality of men is meant the\nequality of those whom Providence has made equal. But this is exactly\nthe sense in which no sane man ever understood the doctrine of equality;\nfor Providence has palpably made men unequal, white men as well as\nblack.\n\nThen we were told that the white and black races could dwell together\nonly in the relation of masters and slaves,--and, in the same breath,\nthat in this relation the slaves were steadily advancing in civilization\nand Christianity. But, if steadily advancing in civilization and\nChristianity, the time must inevitably come when they would not submit\nto be slaves; and then what becomes of the statement that the white\nand black races cannot dwell together as freemen? Why boast of their\nimprovement, when you are improving them only that you may exterminate\nthem, or they _you?_\n\nThen, with a composure of face which touches the exquisite in\neffrontery, we were assured that this antithesis of master and slave, of\ntyrant and abject natures, is really a perfect harmony. Slavery--so said\nthese logicians of liberticide--has solved the great social problem of\nthe working-classes, comfortably for capital, happily for labor; and has\neffected this by an ingenious expedient which could have occurred only\nto minds of the greatest depth and comprehension, the expedient, namely,\nof enslaving labor. Now doubtless there has always been a struggle\nbetween employers and employed, and this struggle will probably continue\nuntil the relations between the two are more humane and Christian. But\nSlavery exhibits this struggle in its earliest and most savage stage,\na stage answering to the rude energies and still ruder conceptions of\nbarbarians. The issue of the struggle, it is plain, will not be that\ncapital will own labor, but that labor will own capital, and no _man_ be\nowned.\n\nStill we were vehemently told, that, though the slaves, for their own\ngood, were deprived of their rights as men, they were in a fine state\nof physical comfort. This was not and could not be true; but even if it\nwere, it only represented the slaveholder as addressing his slave in\nsome such words of derisive scorn as Byron hurls at Duke Alphonso,--\n\n\"Thou! born to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the brutes that\nperish,\"--\n\nthough we doubt if he could truly add,--\n\n\"save that thou Hast a more splendid trough and wider sty.\"\n\nThen we were solemnly warned of our patriotic duty to \"know no North and\nno South.\" This was the very impudence of ingratitude; for we had long\nknown no North, and unhappily had known altogether too much South.\n\nThen we were most plaintively adjured to to comply with the demands of\nthe Slave Power, in order to save the Union. But how save the Union?\nWhy, by violating the principles on which the Union was formed, and\nscouting the objects it was intended to serve.\n\nBut lastly came the question, on which the South confidently relied as\na decisive argument, \"What could we do with our slaves, provided we\nemancipated them?\" The peculiarity which distinguished this question\nfrom all other interrogatories ever addressed to human beings was this,\nthat it was asked for the purpose of not being answered. The moment a\nreply was begun, the ground was swiftly shifted, and we were overwhelmed\nwith a torrent of words about State Rights and the duty of minding our\nown business.\n\nBut it is needless to continue the examination of these substitutes and\napologies for fact and reason, especially as their chief characteristic\nconsisted in their having nothing to do with the practical question\nbefore the people. They were thrown out by the interested defenders of\nSlavery, North and South, to divert attention from the main issue. In\nthe fine felicity of their in appropriateness to the actual condition of\nthe struggle between the Free and Slave States, they were almost a match\nfor that renowned sermon, preached by a metropolitan bishop before an\nasylum for the blind, the halt, and the legless, on \"The Moral Dangers\nof Foreign Travel.\" But still they were infinitely mischievous,\nconsidered as pretences under which Northern men could skulk from their\nduties, and as sophistries to lull into a sleepy acquiescence the\nconsciences of those political adventurers who are always seeking\noccasions for being tempted and reasons for being rogues. They were all\nthe more influential from the circumstance that their show of argument\nwas backed by the solid substance of patronage. These false facts and\nbad reasons were the keys to many fat offices. The South had succeeded\nin instituting a new political test, namely, that no man is qualified\nserve the United States unless he is the champion or the sycophant of\nthe Slave Power. Proscription to the friends of American freedom, honors\nand emoluments to the friends of American slavery,--adopt that creed,\nor you did not belong to any \"healthy\" political organization! Now we\nhave heard of civil disabilities for opinion's sake before. In some\ncountries no Catholics are allowed to hold office, in others no\nProtestants, in others no Jews. But it is not, we believe, in Protestant\ncountries that Protestants are proscribed; it is not in Catholic\ncountries that Catholics are incompetent to serve the State. It was left\nfor a free country to establish, practically, civil disabilities against\nfreemen,--for Republican America to proscribe Republicans! Think of\nit,--that no American, whatever his worth, talents, or patriotism,--could\ntwo years ago serve his country in any branch of its executive\nadministration, unless he was unfortunate enough to agree with the\nslaveholders, or base enough to sham an agreement with them! The test,\nat Washington, of political orthodoxy was modelled on the pattern of\nthe test of religious orthodoxy established by Napoleon's minister of\npolice. \"You are not orthodox,\" he said to a priest \"In what,\" inquired\nthe astonished ecclesiastic, \"have I sinned against orthodoxy?\"\n\"You have not pronounced the eulogium of the Emperor, or proved the\nrighteousness of the conscription.\"\n\nNow we had been often warned of the danger of sectional parties, on\naccount of their tendency to break up the Government. The people gave\nheed to this warning; for here was a sectional party in possession\nof the Government. We had been often advised not to form political\ncombinations on one idea. The people gave heed to this advice; for here\nwas a triumphant political combination, formed not only on one idea, but\nthat the worst idea that ever animated any political combination. Here\nwas an association of three hundred and fifty thousand persons, spread\nover some nine hundred and fifty thousand square miles of territory, and\nwielding its whole political power, engaged in the work of turning the\nUnited States into a sort of slave plantation, of which they were to be\noverseers. We opposed them by argument, passion, and numerical power;\nand they read us long homilies on the beauty of law and order,--order\nsustained by Border Ruffians, law which was but the legalizing of\ncriminal instincts,--law and order which, judged by the code established\nfor Kansas, seemed based on legislative ideas imported from the Fegee\nIslands. We opposed them again, and they talked to us about the\nnecessity of preserving the Union;--as if, in the Free States, the love\nof the Union had not been a principle and a passion, proof against many\nlosses, and insensible to many humiliations; as if, with our teachers,\ndisunion had not been for half a century a stereotyped menace to scare\nus into compliance with their rascalities; as if it were not known that\nonly so long as they could wield the powers of the National Government\nto accomplish their designs, were they loyal to the Union! We opposed\nthem again, and they clamored about their Constitutional rights and our\nConstitutional obligations; but they adopted for themselves a theory of\nthe Constitution which made each State the judge of the Constitution in\nthe last resort, while they held us to that view of it which made the\nSupreme Court the judge in the last resort. Written constitutions, by a\nprocess of interpretation, are always made to follow the drift of great\nforces; they are twisted and tortured into conformity with the views\nof the power dominant in the State; and our Constitution, originally\na charter of freedom, was converted into an instrument which the\nslaveholders seemed to possess by right of squatter sovereignty and\neminent domain.\n\nDid any one suppose that we could retard the ever-onward movement of\ntheir unscrupulous force and defiant wills by timely compromises and\nconcessions? Every compromise we made with them only stimulated their\nrapacity, heightened their arrogance, increased their demands. Every\nconcession we made to their insolent threats was only a step downwards\nto a deeper abasement; and we parted with our most cherished convictions\nof duty to purchase, not their gratitude, but their contempt. Every\nconcession, too, weakened us and strengthened them for the inevitable\nstruggle, into which the Free States were eventually goaded, to preserve\nwhat remained of their dignity, their honor, and their self-respect. In\n1850 we conceded the application of the Wilmot Proviso; in 1856 we were\ncompelled to concede the principle of the Wilmot Proviso. In 1850 we had\nno fears that slaves would enter New Mexico; in 1861 we were threatened\nwith a view of the flag of the rattlesnake floating over Faneuil Hall.\nIf any principle has been established by events, with the certainty of\nmathematical demonstration, it is this, that concession to the Slave\nPower is the suicide of Freedom. We are purchasing this fact at the\nexpense of arming five hundred thousand men and spending a thousand\nmillions of dollars. More than this, if any concessions were to be made,\nthey ought, on all principles of concession, to have been made to the\nNorth. Concessions, historically, are not made by freedom to privilege,\nbut by privilege to freedom. Thus King John conceded Magna Charta; thus\nKing Charles conceded the Petition of Right; thus Protestant England\nconceded Catholic Emancipation to Ireland; thus aristocratic England\nconceded the Reform Bill to the English middle class. And had not we,\nthe misgoverned many, a right to demand from the slaveholders, the\ngoverning few, some concessions to our sense of justice and our\nprejudices for freedom? Concession indeed! If any class of men hold in\ntheir grasp one of the dear-bought chartered \"rights of man,\" it is\ninfamous to concede it.\n\n  \"Make it the darling of your precious eye!\n  _To lose or give 't away_ were such perdition\n  As nothing else could match.\"\n\nConsiderations so obvious as these could not, by any ingenuity of\nparty-contrivance, be prevented from forcing themselves by degrees into\nthe minds of the great body of the voters of the Free States. The common\nsense, the \"large roundabout common sense\" of the people, slowly, and\nsomewhat reluctantly, came up to the demands of the occasion. The\nsophistries and fallacies of the Northern defenders of the pretensions\nof the slave-holding sectional minority were gradually exposed, and were\nrepudiated in the lump. The conviction was implanted in the minds of the\npeople of the Free States, that the Slave Power, representing only a\nthirtieth part of the population of the Slave States, and a ninth part\nof the property of the country, was bent on governing the nation, and\non subordinating all principles and all interests to its own. Not being\nambitious of having the United States converted into a Western Congo,\nwith the traffic in \"niggers\" as its fundamental idea, the people\nelected Abraham Lincoln, in a perfectly Constitutional way, President.\nAs the majority of the House of Representatives, of the Senate, and of\nthe Supreme Court was still left, by this election, on the side of the\n\"rights of the South,\" (humorously so styled,) and as the President\ncould do little to advance Republican principles with all the other\nbranches of the Government opposed to him, the people naturally imagined\nthat the slaveholders would acquiesce in their decision.\n\nBut such was not the result. The election was in November. The new\nPresident could not assume office until March. The triumphs of the Slave\nPower had been heretofore owing to its willingness and readiness to\nperil everything on each question as it arose, and each event as it\noccurred. South Carolina, perhaps the only one of the Slave States that\nwas thoroughly in earnest, at once \"seceded.\" The \"Gulf States\" and\nothers followed its example, not so much from any fixed intention of\nforming a Southern Confederacy as for the purpose of intimidating the\nFree States into compliance with the extreme demands of the South. The\nBorder Slave States were avowedly neutral between the \"belligerents,\"\nbut indicated their purpose to stand by their \"Southern brethren,\" in\ncase the Government of the United States attempted to carry out the\nConstitution and the laws in the seceded States by the process of\n\"coercion.\"\n\nThe combination was perfect. The heart of the Rebellion was in South\nCarolina, a State whose free population was about equal to that of the\ncity of Brooklyn, and whose annual productions were exceeded by those\nof Essex County, in the State of Massachusetts. Around this centre was\ncongregated as base a set of politicians as ever disgraced human nature.\nA conspiracy was formed to compel a first-class power, representing\nthirty millions of people, to submit to the dictation of about three\nhundred thousand of its citizens. The conspirators did not dream of\nfailure. They were sure, as they thought, of the Gulf States and of the\nBorder States, of the whole Slave Power, in fact. They also felt sure\nof that large minority in the Free States which had formerly acted with\nthem, and obeyed their most humiliating behests. They therefore entered\nthe Congress of the nation with a confident front, knowing that\nPresident Buchanan and the majority of his Cabinet were practically on\ntheir side. Before Mr. Lincoln could be inaugurated they imagined they\ncould accomplish all their designs, and make the Government of the\nUnited States a Pro-Slavery power in the eyes of all the nations of the\nworld. Mr. Calhoun's paradoxes had heretofore been indorsed only by\nmajorities in the national legislature and by the Supreme Court. What a\nvictory it would be, if, by threatening rebellion, they could induce\nthe people of the United States to incorporate those paradoxes into\nthe fundamental law of the nation, dominant over both Congress and the\nCourt! All their previous \"compromises\" had been merely legislative\ncompromises, which, as their cause advanced, they had themselves\nannulled. They now seized the occasion, when the \"people\" had risen\nagainst them, to compel the people to sanction their most extreme\ndemands. They determined to convert defeat, sustained at the polls, into\na victory which would have far transcended any victory they might have\ngained by electing their candidate, Breckinridge, as President.\n\nA portion of the Republicans, seeing clearly the force arrayed against\nthem, and disbelieving that the population of the Free States would be\nwilling, _en masse_, to sustain the cause of free labor by force of\narms, tried to avert the blow by proposing a new compromise. Mr.\nSeward, the calmest, most moderate, and most obnoxious statesman of the\nRepublican party, offered to divide the existing territories of the\nUnited States by the Missouri line, all south of which should be open\nto slave labor. As he at the same time stated that by natural laws the\nSouth could obtain no material advantage by his seeming concession, the\nconcession only made him enemies among the uncompromising champions of\nthe Wilmot Proviso. The conspirators demanded that the Missouri line\nshould be the boundary, not only between the territories which the\nUnited States then possessed, but between the territories they might\nhereafter _acquire_. As the country north of the Missouri line was held\nby powerful European States which it would be madness to offend, and as\nthe country south of that line was held by feeble States which it would\nbe easy to conquer, no Northern or Western statesman could vote for such\na measure without proving himself a rogue or a simpleton. Hence all\nmeasures of \"compromise\" necessarily failed during the last days of the\nadministration of James Buchanan.\n\nIt is plain, that, when Mr. Lincoln--after having escaped assassination\nfrom the \"Chivalry\" of Maryland, and after having been subjected to a\nvirulence of invective such as no other President had incurred--arrived\nat Washington, his mind was utterly unaffected by the illusions of\npassion. His Inaugural Message was eminently moderate. The Slave\nPower, having failed to delude or bully Congress, or to intimidate the\npeople,--having failed to murder the elected President on his way to\nthe capital,--was at wits' end. It thought it could still rely on its\nNorthern supporters, as James II. of England thought he could rely\non the Church of England. While the nation, therefore, was busy in\nexpedients to call back the seceded States to their allegiance, the\nlatter suddenly bombarded Fort Sumter, trampled on the American flag,\nthreatened to wave the rattlesnake rag over Faneuil Hall, and to make\nthe Yankees \"smell Southern powder and feel Southern steel.\" All this\nwas done with the idea that the Northern \"Democracy\" would rally to the\nsupport of their \"Southern brethren.\" The result proved that the South\nwas, in the words of Mr. Davis's last and most melancholy Message, the\nvictim of \"misplaced confidence\" in its Northern \"associates.\" The\nmoment a gun was fired, the honest Democratic voters of the North were\neven more furious than the Republican voters; the leaders, including\nthose who had been the obedient servants of Slavery, were ravenous for\ncommands in the great army which was to \"coerce\" and \"subjugate\" the\nSouth; and the whole organization of the \"Democratic party\" of the North\nmelted away at once in the fierce fires of a reawakened patriotism. The\nslaveholders ventured everything on their last stake, and lost. A North,\nfor the first time, sprang into being; and it issued, like Minerva from\nthe brain of Jove, full-armed. The much-vaunted engineer, Beauregard,\nwas \"hoist with his own petard.\"\n\nNow that the slaveholders have been so foolish as to appeal to physical\nforce, abandoning their vantage-ground of political influence, they must\nbe not only politically overthrown, but physically humiliated. Their\narrogant sense of superiority must be beaten out of them by main force.\nThe feeling with which every Texan and Arkansas bully and assassin\nregarded a Northern mechanic--a feeling akin to that with which the old\nNorman robber looked on the sturdy Saxon laborer--must be changed, by\nshowing the bully that his bowie-knife is dangerous only to peaceful,\nand is imbecile before armed citizens. The Southerner has appealed to\nforce, and force he should have, until, by the laws of force, he is not\nonly beaten, but compelled to admit the humiliating fact. That he is not\ndisposed \"to die in the last ditch,\" that he has none of the practical\nheroism of desperation, is proved by the actual results of battles.\nWhen defeated, and his means of escape are such as only desperation can\nsurmount, he quickly surrenders, and is even disposed to take the oath\nof allegiance. The martial virtues of the common European soldier he has\ndisplayed in exceedingly scanty measure in the present conflict. He\nhas relied on engineers; and the moment his fortresses are turned or\nstormed, he retreats or becomes a prisoner of war. Let Mr. Davis's\nMessage to the Confederate Congress, and his order suspending Pillow\nand Floyd, testify to this unquestionable statement. Even if we grant\nmartial intrepidity to the members of the Slavocracy, the present war\nproves that the system of Slavery is not one which develops martial\nvirtues among the \"free whites\" it has cajoled or forced into its\nhateful service. Indeed, the armies of Jefferson Davis are weak on the\nsame principle on which the slave-system is weak. Everything depends on\nthe intelligence and courage of the commanders, and the moment these\nfail the soldiers become a mere mob.\n\nAmerican Slavery, by the laws which control its existence, first rose\nfrom a local power, dominant in certain States, to a national power,\nassuming to dominate over the United States. At the first faint fact\nwhich indicated the intention of the Free States to check its progress\nand overturn its insolent dominion, it rebelled. The rebellion now\npromises to be a failure; but it will cost the Free States the arming of\nhalf a million of men and the spending of a thousand millions of dollars\nto make it a failure. Can we afford to trifle with the cause which\nproduced it? We note that some of the representatives of the loyal Slave\nStates in Congress are furious to hang individual Rebels, but at the\nsame time are anxious to surround the system those Rebels represent\nwith new guaranties. When they speak of Jeff Davis and his crew, their\nfeeling is as fierce as that of Tilly and Pappenheim towards the\nProtestants of Germany. They would burn, destroy, confiscate, and kill\nwithout any mercy, and without any regard to the laws of civilized war;\nbut when they come to speak of Slavery, their whole tone is changed.\nThey wish us to do everything barbarous and inhuman, provided we do not\ngo to the last extent of barbarity and inhumanity, which, according to\ntheir notions, is, to inaugurate a system of freedom, equality, and\njustice. Provided the negro is held in bondage and denied the rights of\nhuman nature, they are willing that any severity should be exercised\ntowards his rebellious master. Now we have no revengeful feeling towards\nthe master at all. We think that he is a victim as well as an oppressor.\nWe wish to emancipate the master as well as the slave, and we think that\nthousands of masters are persons who merely submit to the conditions\nof labor established in their respective localities. Our opposition is\ndirected, not against Jefferson Davis, but against the system whose\ncumulative corruptions and enormities Jefferson Davis very fairly\nrepresents. As an individual, Jefferson Davis is not worse than many\npeople whom a general amnesty would preserve in their persons and\nproperty. To hang him, and at the same time guaranty Slavery, would be\nlike destroying a plant by a vain attempt to kill its most poisonous\nblossom. Our opposition is not to the blossom, but to the root.\n\nWe admit that to strike at the root is a very difficult operation. In\nthe present condition of the country it may present obstacles which will\npractically prove insuperable. But it is plain that we can strike lower\nthan the blossom; and it is also plain that we must, as practical\nmen, devise some method by which the existence of the Slavocracy as a\npolitical power may be annihilated. The President of the United States\nhas lately recommended that Congress offer the cooperation and financial\naid of the whole nation in a peaceful effort to abolish Slavery,--with\na significant hint, that, unless the loyal Slave States accept the\nproposition, the necessities of the war may dictate severer measures.\nEmancipation is the policy of the Government, and will soon be the\ndetermination of the people. Whether it shall be gradual or immediate\ndepends altogether on the slaveholders themselves. The prolongation of\nthe war for a year, and the operation of the internal tax bill, will\nconvert all the voters of the Free States, whether Republicans or\nDemocrats, into practical Emancipationists. The tax bill alone will\nteach the people important lessons which no politicians can gainsay.\nEvery person who buys a piece of broadcloth or calico,--every person who\ntakes a cup of tea or coffee,--every person who lives from day to day\non the energy he thinks he derives from patent medicines, or beer, or\nwhiskey,--every person who signs a note, or draws a bill of exchange, or\nsends a telegraphic despatch, or advertises in a newspaper, or makes a\nwill, or \"raises\" anything, or manufactures anything, will naturally\ninquire why he or she is compelled to submit to an irritating as well as\nan onerous tax. The only answer that can possibly be returned is this,--\nthat all these vexatious burdens are necessary because a comparatively\nfew persons out of an immense population have chosen to get up a civil\nwar in order to protect and foster their slave-property, and the\npolitical power it confers. As this property is but a small fraction of\nthe whole property of the country, and as its owners are not a hundredth\npart of the population of the country, does any sane man doubt that the\nslave-property will be relentlessly confiscated in order that the Slave\nPower may be forever crushed?\n\nThere are, we know, persons in the Free States who pretend to believe\nthat the war will leave Slavery where the war found it,--that our half\na million of soldiers have gone South on a sort of military picnic,\nand will return in a cordial mood towards their Southern brethren in\narms,--and that there is no real depth and earnestness of purpose in the\nFree States. Though one year has done the ordinary work of a century\nin effecting or confirming changes in the ideas and sentiments of the\npeople, these persons still sagely rely on the party-phrases current\nsome eighteen months ago to reconstruct the Union on the old basis of\nthe domination of the Slave Power, through the combination of a divided\nNorth with a united South. By the theory of these persons, there is\nsomething peculiarly sacred in property in men, distinguishing it from\nthe more vulgar form of property in things; and though the cost of\nputting down the Rebellion will nearly equal the value of the Southern\nslaves, considered as chattels, they suppose that the owners of property\nin things will cheerfully submit to be taxed for a thousand millions,--a\nfourth of the almost fabulous debt of England,--without any irritation\nagainst the chivalric owners of property in men, whose pride, caprice,\nand insubordination have made the taxation necessary. Such may possibly\nbe the fact, but as sane men we cannot but disbelieve it. Our conviction\nis, that, whether the war is ended in three months or in twelve months,\nthe Slave Power is sure to be undermined or overthrown.\n\nThe sooner the war is ended, the more favorable will be the terms\ngranted to the Slavocracy; but no terms will be granted which do not\nlook to its extinction. The slaveholders are impelled by their system to\ncomplete victory or utter ruin. If they obey the laws of their system,\nthey have, from present appearances, nothing but defeat, beggary, and\ndespair to expect. If they violate the laws of their system, they must\ntake their place in some one of the numerous degrees, orders, and ranks\nof the Abolitionists. It will be well for them, if the wilfulness\ndeveloped by their miserable system gives way to the plain reason and\nlogic of facts and events. It will be well for them, if they submit to a\nnecessity, not only inherent in the inevitable operation of divine laws,\nbut propelled by half a million of men in arms. Be it that God is on the\nside of the heaviest column,--there can be no doubt that the heaviest\ncolumn is now the column of Freedom.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE VOLUNTEER.\n\n\n  \"At dawn,\" he said, \"I bid them all farewell,\n    To go where bugles call and rifles gleam.\"\n  And with the restless thought asleep he fell,\n    And glided into dream.\n\n  A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread,--\n    Through it a level river slowly drawn.\n  He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head\n    Streamed banners like the dawn.\n\n  There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar,\n    And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay;\n  Blood trickled down the river's reedy shore,\n    And with the dead he lay.\n\n  The morn broke in upon his solemn dream;\n    And still, with steady pulse and deepening eye,\n  \"Where bugles call,\" he said, \"and rifles gleam,\n    I follow, though I die!\"\n\n  Wise youth! By few is glory's wreath attained;\n    But death or late or soon awaiteth all.\n  To fight in Freedom's cause is something gained,--\n    And nothing lost, to fall.\n\n\n\n\nSPEECH OF HON'BLE PRESERVED DOE IN SECRET CAUCUS.\n\n_To the Editors of the_ ATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\n\nJaalam, 12th April, 1862.\n\nGENTLEMEN,--As I cannot but hope that the ultimate, if not speedy,\nsuccess of the national arms is now sufficiently ascertained, sure as\nI am of the righteousness of our cause and its consequent claim on the\nblessing of God, (for I would not show a faith inferiour to that of the\npagan historian with his _Facile evenit quod Dis cordi est_,) it seems\nto me a suitable occasion to withdraw our minds a moment from the\nconfusing din of battle to objects of peaceful and permanent interest.\nLet us not neglect the monuments of preterite history because what\nshall be history is so diligently making under our eyes. _Cras ingens\niterabimus aequor_; to-morrow will be time enough for that stormy sea;\nto-day let me engage the attention of your readers with the Runick\ninscription to whose fortunate discovery I have heretofore alluded. Well\nmay we say with the poet, _Multa renascuntur quae jam cecidere_. And I\nwould premise, that, although I can no longer resist the evidence of my\nown senses from the stone before me to the ante-Columbian discovery of\nthis continent by the Northmen, _gens inclytissima_, as they are called\nin Palermitan inscription, written fortunately in a less debatable\ncharacter than that which I am about to decypher, yet I would by no\nmeans be understood as wishing to vilipend the merits of the great\nGenoese, whose name will never be forgotten so long as the inspiring\nstrains of \"Hail Columbia\" shall continue to be heard. Though he must\nbe stripped also of whatever praise may belong to the experiment of the\negg, which I find proverbially attributed by Castilian authours to a\ncertain Juanito or Jack, (perhaps an offshoot of our giant-killing my\nthus,) his name will still remain one of the most illustrious of modern\ntimes. But the impartial historian owes a duty likewise to obscure\nmerit, and my solicitude to render a tardy justice is perhaps quickened\nby my having known those who, had their own field of labour been less\nsecluded, might have found a readier acceptance with the reading\npublick. I could give an example, but I forbear: _forsitan nostris ex\nossibus oritur ultor_.\n\nTouching Runick inscriptions, I find that they may be classed under\nthree general heads: 1\u00b0. Those which are understood by the Danish Royal\nSociety of Northern Antiquaries, and Professor Rafn, their Secretary;\n2\u00b0. Those which are comprehensible only by Mr Rafn; and 3\u00ba. Those which\nneither the Society, Mr Rafn, nor anybody else can be said in any\ndefinite sense to understand, and which accordingly offer peculiar\ntemptations to enucleating sagacity. These last are naturally deemed the\nmost valuable by intelligent antiquaries, and to this class the stone\nnow in my possession fortunately belongs. Such give a picturesque\nvariety to ancient events, because susceptible oftentimes of as many\ninterpretations as there are individual archaeologists; and since facts\nare only the pulp in which the Idea or event-seed is softly imbedded\ntill it ripen, it is of little consequence what colour or flavour we\nattribute to them, provided it be agreeable. Availing myself of the\nobliging assistance of Mr. Arphaxad Bowers, an ingenious photographick\nartist, whose house-on-wheels has now stood for three years on our\nMeeting-House Green, with the somewhat contradictory inscription,--\"_Our\nmotto is onward_,\"--I have sent accurate copies of my treasure to many\nlearned men and societies, both native and European. I may hereafter\ncommunicate their different and (_me judice_) equally erroneous\nsolutions. I solicit also, Messrs. Editors, your own acceptance of the\ncopy herewith inclosed. I need only premise further, that the stone\nitself is a goodly block of metamorphick sandstone, and that the Runes\nresemble very nearly the ornithichnites or fossil bird-tracks of Dr.\nHitchcock, but with less regularity or apparent design than is displayed\nby those remarkable geological monuments. These are rather the _non bene\njunctarum discordia semina rerum_. Resolved to leave no door open to\ncavil, I first of all attempted the elucidation of this remarkable\nexample of lithick literature by the ordinary modes, but with no\nadequate return for my labour. I then considered myself amply justified\nin resorting to that heroick treatment the felicity of which, as applied\nby the great Bentley to Milton, had long ago enlisted my admiration.\nIndeed, I had already made up my mind, that, in case good-fortune should\nthrow any such invaluable record in my way, I would proceed with it\nin the following simple and satisfactory method. After a cursory\nexamination, merely sufficing for an approximative estimate of its\nlength, I would write down a hypothetical inscription based upon\nantecedent probabilities, and then proceed to extract from the\ncharacters engraven on the stone a meaning as nearly as possible\nconformed to this _a priori_ product of my own ingenuity. The result\nmore than justified my hopes, inasmuch as the two inscriptions were made\nwithout any great violence to tally in all essential particulars. I then\nproceeded, not without some anxiety, to my second test, which was, to\nread the Runick letters diagonally, and again with the same success.\nWith an excitement pardonable under the circumstances, yet tempered\nwith thankful humility, I now applied my last and severest trial, my\n_experimentum crucis_. I turned the stone, now doubly precious in my\neyes, with scrupulous exactness upside down. The physical exertion so\nfar displaced my spectacles as to derange for a moment the focus of\nvision. I confess that it was with some tremulousness that I readjusted\nthem upon my nose, and prepared my mind to bear with calmness any\ndisappointment that might ensue. But, _O albo dies notanda lapillo!_\nwhat was my delight to find that the change of position had effected\nnone in the sense of the writing, even by so much as a single letter!\nI was now, and justly, as I think, satisfied of the conscientious\nexactness of my interpretation. It is as follows:--\n\n\nHERE\n\nBJARNA GR\u00cdM\u00d3LFSSON\n\nFIRST DRANK CLOUD-BROTHER\n\nTHROUGH CHILD-OF-LAND-AND-WATER:\n\nthat is, drew smoke through a reed stem. In other words, we have here\na record of the first smoking of the herb _Nicotiana Tabacum_ by a\nEuropean on this continent. The probable results of this discovery are\nso vast as to baffle conjecture. If it be objected, that the smoking\nof a pipe would hardly justify the setting up of a memorial stone, I\nanswer, that even now the Moquis Indian, ere he takes his first whiff,\nbows reverently toward the four quarters of the sky in succession, and\nthat the loftiest monuments have been reared to perpetuate fame, which\nis the dream of the shadow of smoke. The _Saga_, it will be remembered,\nleaves this Bjarna to a fate something like that of Sir Humphrey\nGilbert, on board a sinking ship in the \"wormy sea,\" having generously\ngiven up his place in the boat to a certain Icelander. It is doubly\npleasant, therefore, to meet with this proof that the brave old man\narrived safely in Vinland, and that his declining years were cheered by\nthe respectful attentions of the dusky denizens of our then uninvaded\nforests. Most of all was I gratified, however, in thus linking forever\nthe name of my native town with one of the most momentous occurrences of\nmodern times. Hitherto Jaalam, though in soil, climate, and geographical\nposition as highly qualified to be the theatre of remarkable historical\nincidents as any spot on the earth's surface, has been, if I may say it\nwithout seeming to question the wisdom of Providence, almost maliciously\nneglected, as it might appear, by occurrences of world-wide interest in\nwant of a situation. And in matters of this nature it must be confessed\nthat adequate events are as necessary as the _vates sacer_ to record\nthem. Jaalam stood always modestly ready, but circumstances made no\nfitting response to her generous intentions. Now, however, she assumes\nher place on the historick roll. I have hitherto been a zealous opponent\nof the Circean herb, but I shall now reexamine the question without\nbias.\n\nI am aware that the Rev'd Jonas Tutchel, in a recent communication to\nthe Bogus Four Corners Weekly Meridian, has endeavoured to show that\nthis is the sepulchral inscription of Thorwald Eriksson, who, as is well\nknown, was slain in Vinland by the natives. But I think he has been\nmisled by a preconceived theory, and cannot but feel that he has thus\nmade an ungracious return for my allowing him to inspect the stone with\nthe aid of my own glasses (he having by accident left his at home)\nand in my own study. The heathen ancients might have instructed this\nChristian minister in the rites of hospitality; but much is to be\npardoned to the spirit of self-love. He must indeed be ingenious who can\nmake out the words _h\u00e8r hrilir_ from any characters in the inscription\nin question, which, whatever else it may be, is certainly not mortuary.\nAnd even should the reverend gentleman succeed in persuading some\nfantastical wits of the soundness of his views, I do not see what useful\nend he will have gained. For if the English Courts of Law hold the\ntestimony of grave-stones from the burial-grounds of Protestant\ndissenters to be questionable, even where it is essential in proving a\ndescent, I cannot conceive that the epitaphial assertions of heathens\nshould be esteemed of more authority by any man of orthodox sentiments.\n\nAt this moment, happening to cast my eyes upon the stone, on which a\ntransverse light from my southern window brings out the characters\nwith singular distinctness, another interpretation has occurred to me,\npromising even more interesting results. I hasten to close my letter in\norder to follow at once the clue thus providentially suggested.\n\nI inclose, as usual, a contribution from Mr. Biglow, and remain,\nGentlemen, with esteem and respect,\n\nYour Ob't Humble Servant,\n\nHOMER WILBUR. A.M.\n\n  I thank ye, my friens, for the warmth o' your greetin':\n  Ther' 's few airthly blessins but wut's vain an' fleetin';\n  But ef ther' is one thet hain't _no_ cracks an' flaws,\n  An' is wuth goin' in for, it's pop'lar applause;\n  It sends up the sperits ez lively ez rockets,\n  An' I feel it--wal, down to the eend o' my pockets.\n  Jes' lovin' the people is Canaan in view,\n  But it's Canaan paid quarterly t' hev 'em love you;\n  It's a blessin' thet's breakin' out ollus in fresh spots;\n  It's a-follerin' Moses 'thout losin' the flesh-pots.\n\n  But, Gennlemen,'scuse me, I ain't sech a raw cus\n  Ez to go luggin' ellerkence into a caucus,--\n  Thet is, into one where the call comprehens\n  Nut the People in person, but on'y their friens;\n  I'm so kin' o' used to convincin' the masses\n  Of th' edvantage o' bein' self-governin' asses,\n  I forgut thet _we_ 're all o' the sort thet pull wires\n  An' arrange for the public their wants an' desires,\n  An' thet wut we hed met for wuz jes' to agree\n  Wut the People's opinions in futur' should be.\n\n  But to come to the nuh, we've ben all disappinted,\n  An' our leadin' idees are a kind o' disjinted,--\n  Though, fur ez the nateral man could discern,\n  Things ough' to ha' took most an oppersite turn.\n  But The'ry is jes' like a train on the rail,\n  Thet, weather or no, puts her thru without fail,\n  While Fac's the ole stage thet gits sloughed in the ruts,\n  An' hez to allow for your darned efs an' buts,\n  An' so, nut intendin' no pers'nal reflections,\n  They don't--don't nut allus, thet is--make connections:\n  Sometimes, when it really doos seem thet they'd oughter\n  Combine jest ez kindly ez new rum an' water,\n  Both 'll be jest ez sot in their ways ez a bagnet,\n  Ez otherwise-minded ez th' eends of a magnet,\n  An' folks like you 'n me, thet ain't ept to be sold,\n  Git somehow or 'nother left out in the cold.\n\n  I expected 'fore this, 'thout no gret of a row,\n  Jeff D. would ha' ben where A. Lincoln is now,\n  With Taney to say 't wuz all legle an' fair,\n  An' a jury o' Deemocrats ready to swear\n  Thet the ingin o' State gut throwed into the ditch\n  By the fault o' the North in misplacin' the switch.\n  Things wuz ripenin' fust-rate with Buchanan to nuss 'em;\n  But the People they wouldn't be Mexicans, cuss 'em!\n  Ain't the safeguards o' freedom upsot, 'z you may say,\n  Ef the right o' rev'lution is took clean away?\n  An' doosn't the right primy-fashy include\n  The bein' entitled to nut be subdued?\n  The fact is, we'd gone for the Union so strong,\n  When Union meant South ollus right an' North wrong,\n  Thet the people gut fooled into thinkin' it might\n  Worry on middlin' wal with the North in the right.\n  We might ha' ben now jest ez prosp'rous ez France,\n  Where politikle enterprise hez a fair chance,\n  An' the people is heppy an' proud et this hour,\n  Long ez they hev the votes, to let Nap hev the power;\n  But _our_ folks they went an' believed wut we'd told 'em,\n  An', the flag once insulted, no mortle could hold 'em.\n  'T wuz pervokin' jest when we wuz cert'in to win,--\n  An' I, for one, wunt trust the masses agin:\n  For a people thet knows much ain't fit to be free\n  In the self-cockin', back-action style o' J.D.\n\n  I can't believe now but wut half on't is lies;\n  For who'd thought the North wuz a-goin' to rise,\n  Or take the pervokin'est kin' of a stump,\n  'Thout't wuz sunthin' ez pressin' ez Gabr'el's las' trump?\n  Or who'd ha' supposed, arter _sech_ swell an' bluster\n  'Bout the lick-ary-ten-on-ye fighters they'd muster,\n  Raised by hand on briled lightnin', ez op'lent 'z you please\n  In a primitive furrest o' femmily-trees,\n  Who'd ha' thought thet them Southerners ever 'ud show\n  Starns with pedigrees to 'em like theirn to the foe,\n  Or, when the vamosin' come, ever to find\n  Nat'ral masters in front an' mean white folks behind?\n  By ginger, ef I'd ha' known half I know now,\n  When I wuz to Congress, I wouldn't, I swow,\n  Hev let 'em cair on so high-minded an' sarsy,\n  'Thout _some_ show o' wut you may call vicy-varsy.\n  To be sure, we wuz under a contrac' jes' then\n  To be dreffle forbearin' towards Southun men;\n  We hed to go sheers in preservin' the bellance:\n  An' ez they seemed to feel they wuz wastin' their tellents\n  'Thout some un to kick, 't warn't more 'n proper, you know,\n  Each should funnish his part; an' sence they found the toe,\n  An' we wuzn't cherubs--wal, we found the buffer,\n  For fear thet the Compromise System should suffer.\n\n  I wun't say the plan hed n't onpleasant featurs,--\n  For men are perverse an' onreasonin' creaturs,\n  An' forgit thet in this life 't ain't likely to heppen\n  Their own privit fancy should oltus be cappen,--\n  But it worked jest ez smooth ez the key of a safe,\n  An' the gret Union bearins played free from all chafe.\n  They warn't hard to suit, ef they hed their own way;\n  An' we (thet is, some on us) made the thing pay:\n  'T wuz a fair give-an'-take out of Uncle Sam's heap;\n  Ef they took wut warn't theirn, wut we give come ez cheap;\n  The elect gut the offices down to tidewaiter,\n  The people took skinnin' ez mild ez a tater,\n  Seemed to choose who they wanted tu, footed the bills,\n  An' felt kind o' 'z though they wuz havin' their wills,\n  Which kep' 'em ez harmless an' clerfle ez crickets,\n  While all we invested wuz names on the tickets:\n  Wal, ther' 's nothin' for folks fond o' lib'ral consumption,\n  Free o' charge, like democ'acy tempered with gumption!\n\n  Now warn't thet a system wuth pains in presarvin',\n  Where the people found jints an' their friens done the carvin',--\n  Where the many done all o' their thinkin' by proxy,\n  An' were proud on't ez long ez't wuz christened Democ'cy,--\n  Where the few let us sap all o' Freedom's foundations,\n  Ef you called it reformin' with prudence an' patience,\n  An' were willin' Jeff's snake-egg should hetch with the rest,\n  Ef you writ \"Constitootional\" over the nest?\n  But it's all out o' kilter, ('t wuz too good to last,)\n  An' all jes' by J.D.'s perceedin' too fast;\n  Ef he'd on'y hung on for a month or two more,\n  We'd ha' gut things fixed nicer 'n they hed ben before:\n  Afore he drawed off an' lef all in confusion,\n  We wuz safely intrenched in the ole Constitootion,\n  With an outlyin', heavy-gun, casemated fort\n  To rake all assailants,--I mean th' S.J. Court.\n  Now I never 'II acknowledge (nut ef you should skin me)\n  'T wuz wise to abandon sech works to the in'my,\n  An' let him fin' out thet wut scared him so long,\n  Our whole line of argyments, lookin' so strong,\n  All our Scriptur' an' law, every the'ry an' fac',\n  Wuz Quaker-guns daubed with Pro-slavery black.\n  Why, ef the Republicans ever should git\n  Andy Johnson or some one to lend 'em the wit\n  An' the spunk jes' to mount Constitootion an' Court\n  With Columbiad guns, your real ekle-rights sort,\n  Or drill out the spike from the ole Declaration\n  Thet can kerry a solid shot clearn roun' creation,\n  We'd better take maysures for shettin' up shop,\n  An' put off our stock by a vendoo or swop.\n\n  But they wun't never dare tu; you 'll see 'em in Edom\n  'Fore they ventur' to go where their doctrines 'ud lead 'em:\n  They 've ben takin' our princerples up ez we dropt 'em,\n  An' thought it wuz terrible 'cute to adopt 'em;\n  But they'll fin' out 'fore long thet their hope 's ben deceivin' 'em,\n  An' thet princerples ain't o' no good, ef you b'lieve in 'em;\n  It makes 'em tu stiff for a party to use,\n  Where they'd ough' to be easy 'z an ole pair o' shoes.\n  Ef _we_ say 'n our pletform thet all men are brothers,\n  We don't mean thet some folks ain't more so 'n some others;\n  An' it's wal understood thet we make a selection,\n  An' thet brotherhood kin' o' subsides arter 'lection.\n  The fust thing for sound politicians to larn is,\n  Thet Truth, to dror kindly in all sorts o' harness,\n  Mus' be kep' in the abstract,--for, 'come to apply it,\n  You're ept to hurt some folks's interists by it.\n  Wal, these 'ere Republicans (some on 'em) acs\n  Ez though gineral mexims 'ud suit speshle facs;\n  An' there's where we 'll nick 'em, there 's where they 'll be lost:\n  For applyin' your princerple's wut makes it cost,\n  An' folks don't want Fourth o' July t' interfere\n  With the business-consarns o' the rest o' the year,\n  No more 'n they want Sunday to pry an' to peek\n  Into wut they are doin' the rest o' the week.\n\n  A ginooine statesman should be on his guard,\n  Ef he _must_ hev beliefs, nut to b'lieve 'em tu hard;\n  For, ez sure ez he doos, he'll be blartin' 'em out\n  'Thout regardin' the natur' o' man more 'n a spout,\n  Nor it don't ask much gumption to pick out a flaw\n  In a party whose leaders are loose in the jaw:\n  An' so in our own case I ventur' to hint\n  Thet we'd better nut air our perceedins in print,\n  Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your arm\n  Thet may, ez things heppen to turn, do us harm;\n  For when you've done all your real meanin' to smother,\n  The darned things'll up an' mean sunthin' or 'nother.\n  Jeff'son prob'ly meant wal with his \"born free an' ekle,\"\n  But it's turned out a real crooked stick in the sekle;\n  It's taken full eighty-odd year--don't you see?--\n  From the pop'lar belief to root out thet idee,\n  An', arter all, sprouts on 't keep on buddin' forth\n  In the nat'lly onprincipled mind o' the North.\n  No, never say nothin' without you're compelled tu,\n  An' then don't say nothin' thet you can be held tu,\n  Nor don't leave no friction-idees layin' loose\n  For the ign'ant to put to incend'ary use.\n\n  You know I'm a feller thet keeps a skinned eye\n  On the leetle events thet go skurryin' by,\n  Coz it's of'ner by them than by gret ones you'll see\n  Wut the p'litickle weather is likely to be.\n  Now I don't think the South's more 'n begun to be licked,\n  But I _du_ think, ez Jeff says, the wind-bag's gut pricked;\n  It'll blow for a spell an' keep puffin' an' wheezin',\n  The tighter our army an' navy keep squeezin',--\n  For they can't help spread-eaglein' long 'z ther's a mouth\n  To blow Enfield's Speaker thru lef' at the South.\n  But it's high time for us to be settin' our faces\n  Towards reconstructin' the national basis,\n  With an eye to beginnin' agin on the jolly ticks\n  We used to chalk up 'hind the back-door o' politics;\n  An' the fus' thing's to save wut of Slav'ry ther's lef'\n  Arter this (I mus' call it) imprudence o' Jeff:\n  For a real good Abuse, with its roots fur an' wide,\n  Is the kin' o' thing _I_ like to hev on my side;\n  A Scriptur' name makes it ez sweet ez a rose,\n  An' it's tougher the older an' uglier it grows--\n  (I ain't speakin' now o' the righteousness of it,\n  But the p'litickle purchase it gives, an' the profit).\n\n  Things looks pooty squally, it must be allowed,\n  An' I don't see much signs of a bow in the cloud:\n  Ther' 's too many Decmocrats--leaders, wut's wuss--\n  Thet go for the Union 'thout carin' a cuss\n  Ef it helps ary party thet ever wuz heard on,\n  So our eagle ain't made a split Austrian bird on.\n  But ther' 's still some conservative signs to be found\n  Thet shows the gret heart o' the People is sound:\n  (Excuse me for usin' a stump-phrase agin,\n  But, once in the way on 't, they _will_ stick like sin:)\n  There's Phillips, for instance, hez jes' ketched a Tartar\n  In the Law-'n'-Order Party of ole Cincinnater;\n  An' the Compromise System ain't gone out o' reach,\n  Long 'z you keep the right limits on freedom o' speech;\n  'T warn't none too late, neither, to put on the gag,\n  For he's dangerous now he goes in for the flag:\n  Nut thet I altogether approve o' bad eggs,\n  They're mos' gin'lly argymunt on its las' legs,--\n  An' their logic is ept to be tu indiscriminate,\n  Nor don't ollus wait the right objecs to 'liminate;\n  But there is a variety on 'em, you 'll find,\n  Jest ez usefie an' more, besides bein' refined,--\n  I mean o' the sort thet are laid by the dictionary,\n  Sech ez sophisms an' cant thet'll kerry conviction ary\n  Way thet you want to the right class o' men,\n  An' are staler than all't ever come from a hen:\n  \"Disunion\" done wal till our resh Soutlun friends\n  Took the savor all out on't for national ends;\n  But I guess \"Abolition\" 'll work a spell yit,\n  When the war's done, an' so will \"Forgive-an'-forgit.\"\n  Times mus' be pooty thoroughly out o' all jint,\n  Ef we can't make a good constitootional pint;\n  An' the good time 'll come to be grindin' our exes,\n  When the war goes to seed in the nettle o' texes:\n  Ef Jon'than don't squirm, with sech helps to assist him,\n  I give up my faith in the free-suffrage system;\n  Democ'cy wun't be nut a mite interestin',\n  Nor p'litikle capital much wuth investin';\n  An' my notion is, to keep dark an' lay low\n  Till we see the right minute to put in our blow.--\n\n  But I've talked longer now 'n I hed any idee,\n  An' ther's others you want to hear more 'n you du me;\n  So I'll set down an' give thet 'ere bottle a skrimmage,\n  For I've spoke till I'm dry ez a real graven image.\n\n\n\n\nREVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n_Record of an Obscure Man. Tragedy of Errors_, Parts I. and II. Boston:\nTicknor and Fields. 1861, 1862.\n\nAmong the marked literary productions long to be associated with our\npresent struggle--among them, yet not of them--are the volumes whose\ntitles we have quoted. They differ from the recent electric messages of\nHolmes, Whittier, and Mrs. Howe, in not being obvious results of vivid\nevents. \"Bread and the Newspaper,\" \"The Song of the Negro Boatmen,\" and\n\"Our Orders\" will reproduce for another generation the fervid feelings\nof to-day. But the pathetic warnings exquisitely breathed in the\nwritings before us will then come to their place as a deep and tender\nprelude to the voices heard in this passing tragedy.\n\nThe \"Record of an Obscure Man\" is the modest introduction to a dramatic\npoem of singular pathos and beauty. A New-Englander of culture and\nsensibility, naturalized at the South, is supposed to communicate the\nresults of his study and observation of that outcast race which has been\nthe easy contempt of ignorance in both sections of the country. Our\ninstructor has not only a clear judgment Of the value of different\ntestimonies, and the scholarly instinct of arrangement and\nclassification, but also that divine gift of sympathy, which alone, in\nthis world given for our observation, can tell us what to observe.\nThe illustrations of the negro's character, and the answers to vulgar\ndepreciation of his tendencies and capacities, are given with the simple\ndirectness of real comprehension. It is the privilege of one acquainted\nin no common degree with languages and their history to expose that\ndreary joke of the dialect of the oppressed, which superficial people\nhave so long found funny or contemptible. The simplicity and earnestness\nwhich give dignity to any phraseology come from the humanity behind it.\nWe are well reminded that divergences from the common use of language,\nnever held to degrade the meaning in Milton or Shakespeare, need not\nrender thought despicable when the negro uses identical forms. If he\ncalls a leopard a \"libbard,\" he only imitates the most sublime of\nEnglish poets; and the first word of his petition, \"_Gib_ us this day\nour daily bread,\" is pronounced as it rose from the lips of Luther.\nThe highest truths the faith of man may reach are symbolized more\ndefinitely, and often more picturesquely, by the warm imagination of the\nAfrican than by the cultivated genius of the Caucasian. Also it is shown\nhow the laziness and ferocity with which the negro is sometimes charged\nmay be more than matched in the history of his assumed superior.\nYet, while acknowledging how well-considered is the matter of this\nintroductory volume, we regret what seems to be an imperfection in\nthe form in which it is presented. There is too much _story_, or too\nlittle,--too little to command the assistance of fiction, too much to\nprevent a feeling of disappointment that romance is attempted at\nall. The concluding autobiography of the friend of Colvil is hardly\nconsistent with his character as previously suggested; it seems\nunnecessary to the author's purpose, and is not drawn with the\nminuteness or power which might justify its introduction. We notice this\ncircumstance as explaining why this Introduction may possibly fail of a\npopularity more extended than that which its tenderness of thought and\nstyle at once claimed from the best readers.\n\nThe \"Tragedy of Errors\" presents, with the vivid idealization of\nart, some of the results of American Slavery. Travellers, novelists,\nethnologists have spoken with various ability of the laborers of the\nSouth; and now the poet breaks through the hard monotony of their\nexternal lives, and lends the plasticity of a cultivated mind to take\nimpress of feeling to which the gift of utterance is denied. And it is\noften only through the imagination of another that the human bosom can\nbe delivered \"of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart.\" For\nit is a very common error to estimate mental activity by a command\nof the arts of expression; whereas, at its best estate, speech is an\nimperfect sign of perception, and one which without special cultivation\nmust be wholly inadequate. Thus it will be seen that an employment of\nthe dialect and limited vocabulary of the negro would be obviously\nunsuitable to the purpose of the poem; and these have been wisely\ndiscarded. In doing this, however, the common license of dramatists\nis not exceeded; and the critical censure we have read about \"the\nextravagant idealization of the negro\" merely amounts to saying that the\nwriter has been bold enough to stem the current of traditional opinion,\nand find a poetic view of humanity at the present time and in its most\ndespised portion. The end of dramatic writing is not to reproduce\nNature, but to idealize it; a literal copying of the same, as everybody\nknows, is the merit of the photographer, not of the artist. Again, it\nshould be remembered that the highly wrought characters among the slaves\nare whites, or whites slightly tinged with African blood. With the\ncommonest allowance for the exigencies of poetic presentation, we find\nno individual character unnatural or improbable; though the particular\ngrouping of these characters is necessarily improbable. For grace of\nposition and arrangement every dramatist must claim. If the poet will\nbut take observations from real persons, however widely scattered,\ndiscretion may be exercised in the conjunction of those persons, and\nin the sequence of incidents by which they are affected. An aesthetic\ninvention may be as _natural_ as a mechanical one, although the\nmaterials for each are collected from a wide surface, and placed in new\nrelations. Thus much we say as expressing dissent from objections which\nhave been hastily made to this poem.\n\nOf the plot of the \"Tragedy of Errors\" we have only space to say that\nthe writer has cut a channel for very delicate verses through the heart\nof a Southern plantation. Here, at length, seems to be one of those\nthoroughly national subjects for which critics have long been clamorous.\nThe deepest passion is expressed without touching the tawdry properties\nof the \"intense\" school of poetry. The language passes from the ease of\nperfect simplicity to the conciseness of power, while the relation of\nemotion to character is admirably preserved. The moral--which, let us\nobserve in passing, is decently covered with artistic beauty--relates,\nnot to the most obvious, but to the most dangerous mischiefs of Slavery.\nIndeed, the story is only saved from being too painful by a fine\nappreciation of the medicinal quality of all wretchedness that the\nwriter everywhere displays. In the First Part, the nice intelligence\nshown in the rough contrast between Hermann and Stanley, and in the\nfinished contrast between Alice and Helen, will claim the reader's\nattention. The sketches of American life and tendencies, both Northern\nand Southern, are given with discrimination and truth. The dying scene,\nwhich closes the First Part, seems to us nobly wrought. The \"death-bed\nhymn\" of the slaves sounds a pathetic wail over an abortive life\nshivering on the brink of the Unknown. In the Second Part we find less\nof the color and music of a poem, and more of the rapid movement of a\ndrama. The doom of Slavery upon the master now comes into full relief.\nThe characters of Herbert and his father are favorable specimens of\nwell-meaning, even honorable, Southern gentlemen,--only not endowed\nwith such exceptional moral heroism as to offer the pride of life to be\ncrushed before hideous laws. The connection between lyric and tragic\npower is shown in the \"Tragedy of Errors.\" The songs and chants of the\nslaves mingle with the higher dialogue like the chorus of the Greek\nstage; they mediate with gentle authority between the worlds of natural\nfeeling and barbarous usage. Let us also say that the _sentiment_\nthroughout this drama is sound and sweet; for it is that mature\nsentiment, born again of discipline, which is the pledge of fidelity to\nthe highest business of life.\n\nBefore concluding, we take the liberty to remove a mask, not\nimpenetrable to the careful reader, by saying that the writer is a\nwoman. And let us be thankful that a woman so representative of the best\nculture and instinct of New England cannot wholly conceal herself by the\nmodesty of a pseudonyme. In no way has the Northern spirit roused to\noppose the usurpations of Slavery more truly vindicated its high quality\nthan by giving development to that feminine element which has mingled\nwith our national life an influence of genuine power. And to-day there\nare few men justly claiming the much-abused title of thinkers who do\nnot perceive that the opportunity of our regenerated republic cannot be\nfully realized, until we cease to press into factitious conformity\nthe faculties, tastes, and--let us not shrink from the odious\nword--_missions_ of women. The merely literary privilege accorded a\ngeneration or two ago is in itself of slight value. Since the success of\n\"Evelina,\" women have been freely permitted to jingle pretty verses for\nfamily newspapers, and to _novelize_ morbid sentiments of the feebler\nsort. And we see one legitimate result in that flightiness of the\nfeminine mind which, in a lower stratum of current literature, displays\ninaccurate opinions, feeble prejudices, and finally blossoms into pert\nvulgarity. But instances of perverted license increase our obligation to\nMrs. Child, Mrs. Stowe and to others whose eloquence is only in deeds.\nOf such as these, and of her whom we may now associate with them, it is\nnot impossible some unborn historian may write, that in certain great\nperils of American liberty, when the best men could only offer rhetoric,\nwomen came forward with demonstration. Yet, after all, our deepest\nindebtedness to the present series of volumes seems to be this: they\nbear gentle testimony to what the wise ever believed, that the delicacy\nof spirit we love to characterize by the dear word \"womanly\" is not\ninconsistent with varied and exact information, independent opinion, and\nthe insights of genius.\n\nFinally, we venture to mention, what has been in the minds of many\nNew-England readers, that these books are indissolubly associated with a\nyoung life offered in the nation's great necessity. At the time when the\nfirst of the series was made public, a shudder ran through our homes, as\na regiment, rich in historic names, stood face to face with death. Among\nthe fallen was the only son of her whose writings have been given us.\nLet us think without bitterness of the sacrifice of one influenced and\nformed by the rare nature we find in these poems. What better result of\nculture than to dissipate intellectual mists and uncertainties, and to\nfix the grasp firmly upon some great practical good? There is nothing\nwasted in one who lived long enough to show that the refinement acquired\nand inherited was of the noble kind which could prefer the roughest\naction for humanity to elegant allurements of gratified taste. The best\ngift of scholarship is the power it gives a man to descend with all the\nforce of his acquired position, and come into effective union with the\nworld of facts. For it is the crucial test of brave qualities that they\nare truer and more practical for being filtered through libraries. In\nreading the \"Theages\" of Plato we feel a certain respect for the young\nseeker of wisdom whose only wish is to associate with Socrates; and\nthere is a certain admiration for the father, Demodocus, who joyfully\nresigns his son, if the teacher will admit him to his friendship and\nimpart all that he can. But it is a higher result of a higher order of\nsociety, when a young man with aptitude to follow science and assimilate\nknowledge sees in the most perilous service of civilization a rarer\nillumination of mind and heart. In the great scheme of things, where all\ngrades of human worthiness are shown for the benefit of man, this costly\ninstruction shall not fail of fruit. And so the deepest moral that comes\nto us from the \"Tragedy of Errors\" seems a prophetic memorial of the\nsoldier for constitutional liberty with whom it will be long connected.\nThe wealth of life--so we read the final meaning of these verses--is in\nits discipline; and the graceful dreams of the poet, and the quickened\nintellect of the scholar, are but humble instruments for the helping of\nmankind.\n\n\n_A Discourse on the Life, Character, and Policy of Count Cavour_.\nDelivered in the Hall of the New York Historical Society, February 20,\n1862. By VINCENZO BOTTA, Ph.D., Professor of Italian Literature in the\nNew York University, late Member of the Parliament, and Professor of\nPhilosophy in the Colleges of Sardinia. New York: G.P. Putnam. 8vo. pp.\n108.\n\nThis is a most admirable tribute to one of the greatest men of our age,\nby a writer singularly well qualified in all respects to do justice\nto his rich and comprehensive theme. Professor Botta is a native of\nNorthern Italy, in the first place, and thus by inheritance and natural\ntransmission is heir to a great deal of knowledge as to the important\nmovements of which Cavour was the mainspring, which a foreigner could\nacquire only by diligent study and inquiry. In the next place, he has\nnot been exclusively a secluded student, but he has taken part in the\ngreat political drama which he commemorates, and has been brought into\npersonal relations with the illustrious man whose worth he here sets\nforth with such ample knowledge, such generous devotion, such patriotic\nfervor. And lastly, he is a man of distinguished literary ability,\nwielding the language of his adopted country with an ease and grace\nwhich hardly leave a suspicion that he was not writing his vernacular\ntongue. A namesake of his--whether a relation or not, we are not\ninformed--has written \"in very choice Italian\" a history of the American\nRevolution; and the work before us, relating in such excellent English\nthe leading events of a glorious Italian revolution, is a partial\npayment of the debt of gratitude contracted by the publication of that\nclassical production.\n\nBut a writer of inferior opportunities and inferior capacity to\nProfessor Botta could hardly have failed to produce an attractive and\ninteresting work, with such a subject. There never was a life which\nstood less in need of the embellishments of rhetoric, which could rest\nmore confidently and securely upon its plain, unvarnished truth, than\nthat of Count Cavour. He was a man of the highest order of greatness;\nand when we have said that, we have also said that he was a man of\nsimplicity, directness, and transparency. A man of the first class is\nalways easily interpreted and understood. The biographer of Cavour has\nnothing to do but to recount simply and consecutively what he said and\nwhat he did, and his task is accomplished: no great statesman has less\nneed of apology or justification; no one's name is less associated with\ndoubtful acts or questionable policy. His ends were not more noble than\nwas the path in which he moved towards them direct. Professor Botta\nhas fully comprehended the advantages derived from the nature of his\nsubject, and has confined himself to the task of relating in simple\nand vigorous English the life and acts of Cavour from his birth to his\ndeath. He has given us a rapid and condensed summary, but nothing of\nimportance is omitted, and surely enough is told to vindicate for Cavour\nthe highest rank which the enthusiastic admiration and gratitude of his\ncountrymen have accorded to him. Where can we find a nobler life? And,\ntake him all in all, whom shall we pronounce to have been a greater\nstatesman? What variety of power he showed, and what wealth of resources\nhe had at command! Without the pride and coldness of Pitt, the private\nvices of Fox, the tempestuous and ill-regulated sensibility of Burke, he\nhad the useful and commanding intellectual qualities of all the three,\nexcept the splendid and imaginative eloquence of the last.\n\nThis life of Cavour, and the incidental sketches of his associates which\nit includes, will have a tendency to correct some of the erroneous\nimpressions current among us as to the intellectual qualities and\ntemperament of the Italian people. The common, or, at least, a very\nprevalent, notion concerning them is that they are an impassioned,\nimaginative, excitable, visionary race, capable of brilliant individual\nefforts, but deficient in the power of organization and combination,\nand in patience and practical sagacity. Some of us go, or have gone,\nfarther, and have supposed that the Austrian domination in Italy was the\nnecessary consequence of want of manliness and persistency in the people\nof Italy, and was perhaps as much for their good as the dangerous boon\nof independence would have been. All such prejudices will be removed by\na candid perusal of this memoir. Cavour himself, as a statesman and a\nman, was of exactly that stamp which we flatter ourselves to be the\nexclusive growth of America and England. He was nothing of a visionary,\nnothing of a political pedant, nothing of a _doctrinaire_. Franklin\nhimself had not a more practical understanding, or more of large, plain,\nroundabout sense. He had, too, Franklin's shrewdness, his love of humor,\nand his relish for the natural pleasures of life. He had a large amount\nof patience, the least showy, but perhaps the most important, of the\nqualifications of a great statesman. And in his glorious career he was\nwarmly and generously sustained, not merely by the king, and by the\nfavored classes, but by the people, whose efforts and sacrifices have\nshown how worthy they were of the freedom they have won. We speak here\nmore particularly of the people of the kingdom of Sardinia; but what we\nsay in praise of them may be extended to the people of Italy generally.\nThe history of Italy for the last fifteen years is a glorious chapter\nin the history of the world. Whatever of active courage and passive\nendurance has in times past made the name of Roman illustrious, the\nevents of these years have proved to belong equally to the name of\nItalian.\n\nBut we are wandering from Count Cavour and Professor Botta. We have to\nthank the latter for enriching the literature of his adopted country\nwith a memoir which in the lucid beauty and transparent flow of its\nstyle reminds the Italian scholar of the charm of Boccaccio's limpid\nnarrative, and is besides animated with a patriot's enthusiasm and\nelevated by a statesman's comprehension. A more cordial, heart-warming\nbook we have not for a long time read.\n\n\n_A Treatise on Some of the Insects Injurious to Vegetation_. By THADDEUS\nWILLIAM HARRIS, M.D. A New Edition, enlarged and improved, with\nAdditions from the Author's Manuscripts, and Original Notes. Illustrated\nby Engravings drawn from Nature under the Supervision of Professor\nAgassiz. Edited by Charles L. Flint, Secretary of the Massachusetts\nState Board of Agriculture. 8vo.\n\nThis handsome octavo, prepared with such scientific care, is for\nthe special benefit of Agriculture; and the order, method, and\ncomprehensiveness so evident throughout the Treatise compel the\nadmiration of all who study its beautifully illustrated pages. The\ncommunity is largely benefited by such an aid to the improvement of\npursuits in which so many are concerned; and no cultivator of the soil\ncan safely be ignorant of what Dr. Harris has studied and put on record\nfor the use of those whose honorable occupation it is to till the earth.\n\nAs a work of Art we cannot refrain from special praise of the book\nbefore us. Turning over its leaves is like a spring or summer ramble in\nthe country. All creeping and flying things seem harmlessly swarming in\nvivid beauty of color over its pages. Such gorgeous moths we never\nsaw before out of the flower-beds, and there are some butterflies and\ncaterpillars reposing here and there between the leaves that must have\nslipped in and gone to sleep on a fine warm day in July.\n\nThe printing of the volume reaches the highest rank of excellence.\nMessrs. Welch, Bigelow, & Company may take their place among the\nTypographical Masters of this or any other century.\n\n\n_Pictures of Old England_. By DR. REINHOLD PAULI, Author of \"History of\nAlfred the Great,\" etc. Translated, with the Author's Sanction, by E.C.\nOTT\u00c9. Cambridge [England]: Macmillan & Co. Small 8vo. pp. xii., 457.\n\nDr. Pauli is already known on both sides of the Atlantic as the author\nof two works of acknowledged learning and ability,--a \"History of\nEngland during the Middle Ages,\" and a \"History of Alfred the Great.\"\nIn his new volume he furnishes some further fruits of his profound\nresearches into the social and political history of England in the\nMiddle Ages; and if the book will add little or nothing to his present\nreputation, it affords at least new evidence of his large acquaintance\nwith English literature. It comprises twelve descriptive essays on as\nmany different topics, closely connected with his previous studies.\nAmong the best of these are the papers entitled \"Monks and Mendicant\nFriars,\" which give a brief and interesting account of monastic\ninstitutions in England; \"The Hanseatic Steel-Yard in London,\"\ncomprising a history of that famous company of merchant-adventurers,\nwith a description of the buildings occupied by them, and a sketch of\ntheir domestic life; and \"London in the Middle Ages,\" which presents an\nexcellent description of the topography and general condition of the\ncity during that period, and is illustrated by a small and carefully\ndrawn plan. There are also several elaborate essays on the early\nrelations of England with the Continent, besides papers on \"The\nParliament in the Fourteenth Century,\" \"Two Poets, Gower and Chaucer,\"\n\"John Wiclif,\" (as Dr. Pauli spells the name,) and some other topics.\nAll the papers show an adequate familiarity with the original sources of\ninformation, and are marked by the same candor and impartiality which\nhave hitherto characterized Dr. Pauli's labors. The translation, without\nbeing distinguished by any special graces of style, is free from the\nadmixture of foreign idioms, and, so far as one may judge from the\ninternal evidence, appears to be faithfully executed. As a collection of\npopular essays, the volume is worthy of much praise.\n\n\n_The Correspondence of Leigh Hunt_. Edited by his Eldest Son. London:\nSmith, Elder, & Co. 1862. 2 vols. 12mo.\n\nIn Lamb's famous controversy with Southey in 1823, (the only controversy\n\"Elia\" ever indulged in,) he says of the author of \"Rimini,\" \"He is one\nof the most cordial-minded men I ever knew, and matchless as a fireside\ncompanion.\"\n\nFew authors have had warmer admirers of their writings, or more sincere\npersonal friends, than Leigh Hunt. He seemed always to inspire earnestly\nand lovingly every one who came into friendly relations with him. When\nShelley inscribed his \"Cenci\" to him in 1819, he expressed in this\nsentence of the Dedication what all have felt who have known Leigh Hunt\nintimately:--\n\n\"Had I known a person more highly endowed than yourself with all that it\nbecomes a man to possess, I had solicited for this work the ornament of\nhis name. One more gentle, honorable, innocent, and brave,--one of more\nexalted toleration for all who do and think evil, and yet himself more\nfree from evil,--one who knows better how to receive and how to confer a\nbenefit, though he must ever confer far more than he can receive,--one\nof simpler, and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer life and\nmanners, I never knew; and I had already been fortunate in friendship\nwhen your name was added to the list.\"\n\nWith this immortal record of his excellence made by Shelley's hand,\nLeigh Hunt cannot be forgotten. Counting among his friends the best men\nand women of his time, his name and fame are embalmed in their books\nas they were in their hearts. Charles Lamb, Keats, Shelley, and Mrs.\nBrowning knew his worth, and prized it far above praising him; and there\nare those still living who held him very dear, and loved the sound of\nhis voice like the tones of a father or a son.\n\nA man's letters betray his heart,--both those he sends and those he\nreceives. Leigh Hunt's correspondence, as here collected by his son, is\nfull of the wine of life in the best sense of _spirit_.\n\n\n_The Works of Charles Dickens_. Household Edition. _Martin Chuzzlewit_.\nNew York: Sheldon & Company.\n\nIt is not our intention, at the present writing, to enter into any\ndiscussion concerning the characteristics or the value of the novels of\nCharles Dickens: we have neither time nor space for it. Besides, to few\nof our readers do these books need introduction or recommendation from\nus. They have long been accepted by the world as worthy to rank among\nthose works of genius which harmonize alike with the thoughtful mind of\nthe cultivated and the simple feelings of the unlearned,--which discover\nin every class and condition of men some truth or beauty for all\nhumanity. They are, in the full sense of the word, _household_ books, as\nindispensable as Shakspeare or Milton, Scott or Irving.\n\nWe may fairly say of the various editions of Dickens's writings, that\ntheir \"name is Legion.\" None of them all, however, is better adapted to\ncommon libraries than the new edition now publishing in New York. It\nwill be comprised in fifty volumes, to be published in instalments\nat intervals of six or eight weeks. The mechanical execution is most\ncommendable in every respect: clear, pleasantly tinted paper; typography\nin the best style of the Riverside Press; binding novel and tasteful. A\nvignette, designed either by Darley or Gilbert, and engraved upon steel,\nis prefixed to each volume. We have to congratulate the publishers that\nthey have so successfully fulfilled the promises of their prospectus,\nand the public that an edition at once elegant and inexpensive is now\nprovided.\n\n\n\n\nFOREIGN LITERATURE.\n\n\n_Die Schweizerische Literatur des achzehnten Jahrhunderts_. Von T.C.\nM\u00d6RIKOFER. Leipzig: Verlag von S. Hirzel. 8vo. pp. 536.\n\nIn the early part of the Middle Ages Switzerland contributed\ncomparatively little to the literary glory of Germany. Beyond Conrad\nof W\u00fcrzburg, who is claimed as a native of Basel, no Swiss name can be\nfound among the poets of the Hohenstaufen period. In a later age it is\nrather the practical than the romantic character of the Swiss that is\nmanifested in their productions. The Reformation brought them in closer\ncontact with German culture. There was need of this; for in no country\nwas the gap wider between the language of the people and that of the\nlearned. Scholars like Zwinglius and Bullinger were almost helpless,\nwhen they sought to express themselves in German. Little appeal could,\ntherefore, be made to the masses in their own tongue by such writers.\nDuring the whole of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the\nvernacular was even more neglected than before. It was not until the\nbeginning of the eighteenth that Latin and French ceased to be the only\nlanguages deemed worthy of use in literary composition. In 1715 Johannes\nMuralt wrote his \"Eidgn\u00f6szischen Lustgarten,\" and later several other\nworks, mostly scientific, in German. Political causes came in to help\nthe reaction, and from that time the Protestant portion of the Helvetic\nConfederation may be said to have had a literature of its own.\n\nIt is the history of the literature of German Switzerland during the\neighteenth century that M\u00f6rikofer has essayed to write. He has chosen a\nsubject hitherto but little studied, and his work deserves to stand by\nthe side of the best German literary histories of our time.\n\nThe author begins with the first signs of the reaction against the\ninfluence of France, agreeably portraying the awakening of Swiss\nconsciousness, and the gradual development of the enlightened patriotism\nthat impelled Swiss writers to lay aside mere courtly elegance of\ndiction for their own more terse and vigorous idiom.\n\nThis awakening was not confined to letters. Formerly the Swiss, instead\nof appreciating the beauties of their own land, rather considered them\nas impediments to the progress of civilization. It seems incredible to\nus now that there ever could have been a time when mountain-scenery,\ninstead of being sought, was shunned,--when princes possessing the most\nbeautiful lands among the Rhine hills should, with great trouble\nand expense, have transported their seats to some flat, uninviting\nlocality,--when, for instance, the dull, flat, prosy, wearisome gardens\nof Schwetzingen should have been deemed more beautiful than the\nimmediate environs of Heidelberg. Yet such were the sentiments that\nprevailed in Switzerland until a comparatively late date. It is only\nsince the days of Scheuchzer that Swiss scenery has been appreciated,\nand in this appreciation were the germs of a new culture.\n\nAs in Germany societies had been established \"for the practice of\nGerman\" at Leipsic and Hamburg, so in various Swiss cities associations\nwere formed with the avowed purpose of discouraging the imitation of\nFrench models. Thus, at Z\u00fcrich several literary young men, among them\nHagenbuch and Lavater, met at the house of the poet Bodmer. The example\nwas followed in other cities. Though these clubs and their periodical\norgans soon fell into an unwarrantable admiration of all that was\nEnglish, the result was a gradual development of the national taste.\nSince then the literary efforts of the Swiss have been characterized by\nan ardent love of country. A direct popular influence may be felt in\ntheir best productions; hence the nature of their many beauties, as well\nas of their faults. To the same influence also we owe that phalanx of\nreformers and philanthropists, Hirzel, Iselin, Lavater, and Pestalozzi.\n\nA great portion of the work under consideration is devoted to the lives\nand labors of these benefactors of their people. The book is, therefore,\nnot a literary history in the strict sense of the term. It gives a\ncomprehensive view of the culture of German Switzerland during the\neighteenth century. To Bodmer alone one hundred and seventy-five pages\nare devoted. In this essay, as well as in that on the historian M\u00fcller,\na vast amount of information is presented, and many facts collated by\nthe author are now given, we believe, for the first time.\n\n\n_Literaturbilder.--Darstellungen deutscher Literatur aus den Werken der\nvorz\u00fcglichsten Literarhistoriker_, etc. Herausgegeben von J.W. SCHAEFER.\nLeipzig: Friedrich Brandstetter. 8vo. pp. 409.\n\nThere is no lack of German literary histories. While English letters\nhave not yet found an historian, there are scores of works upon every\nbranch of German literature. Of these, many possess rare merits, and are\ncharacterized by a depth, a comprehensiveness of criticism not to be\nfound in the similar productions of any other nation. Whoever has once\nbeen guided by the master-minds of Germany will bear witness that the\nguidance cannot be replaced by that of any other class of writers.\nNowhere can such universality, such freedom from national prejudice, be\nfound,--and this united to a love of truth, earnestness of labor, and\nperseverance of research that may be looked for in vain elsewhere.\n\nThe difficulty for the student of German literary history lies, then, in\nthe selection. A new work, the \"Literaturbilder\" of J.W. Schaefer, will\ngreatly tend to facilitate the choice. This is a representation of\nthe chief points of the literature of Germany by means of well-chosen\nselections from the principal historians of letters. The editor\nintroduces these by an essay upon the \"Epochs of German Literature.\"\nThen follow, with due regard to chronological order, extracts from the\nworks of Vilmar, Gervinus, Wackernagel, Schlosser, Julian Schmidt, and\nothers. These extracts are of such length as to give a fair idea of the\nwriters, and so arranged as to form a connected history. Thus, under\nthe third division, comprising the eighteenth century until Herder and\nGoethe, we find the following articles following each other: \"State of\nLiterature in the Eighteenth Century\"; \"Johann Christian Gottsched,\" by\nF.C. Schlosser; \"Gottsched's Attempts at Dramatic Reform,\" by R. Prutz;\n\"Hagedorn and Haller,\" by J.W. Schaefer; \"Bodmer and Breitinger,\" by\nA. Koberstein; \"The Leipsic Association of Poets and the Bremen\nContributions,\" by Chr. F. Weisse; \"German Literature in the Middle of\nthe Eighteenth Century,\" by Goethe; \"Gottlieb Wilhelm Rabener,\" by H.\nGelzer; \"Gellert's Fables,\" by H. Prutz. Those who do not possess the\ncomprehensive works of Gervinus, Cholerius, Wackernagel, etc., may thus\nin one volume find enough to be able to form a fair opinion of the\nnature of their labors.\n\nThe \"Literaturbilder,\" though perhaps lacking in unity, is one of the\nmost attractive of literary histories. A few important names are missed,\nas that of Menzel, from whom nothing is quoted. The omission seems the\nmore unwarrantable, as this writer, whatever we may think of his views,\nstill enjoys the highest consideration among a numerous class of German\nreaders. The contributions of the editor himself form no inconsiderable\npart of the volume. Those quoted from his \"Life of Goethe\" deserve\nspecial mention. The work does not extend beyond the first years of the\npresent century, and closes with Jean Paul.\n\n\n\n\nRECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS\n\nRECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\n\nThe Works of Charles Dickens. Household Edition. Illustrated from\nDrawings by F.O.C. Darley and John Gilbert. Martin Chuzzlewit. In Four\nVolumes. New York. Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 322, 299, 292, 322. $3.00.\n\nThe Earl's Heirs. A Tale of Domestic Life. By the Author of \"East\nLynne,\" etc. Philadelphia. T.B. Peterson & Brothers. 8vo. paper, pp.\n200. 50 cts.\n\nThe Spirit of Military Institutions; or, Essential Principles of the Art\nof War. By Marshal Marmont, Duke of Ragusa. Translated from the Latest\nEdition, revised and corrected by the Author; with Illustrative Notes\nby Henry Copp\u00e9e, Professor of English Literature in the University of\nPennsylvania, late an Officer of Artillery in the Service of the United\nStates. Philadelphia. Lippincott & Co. 12mo. pp. 272. $1.00.\n\nMaxims, Advice, and Instructions on the Art of War; or, A Practical\nMilitary Guide for the Use of Soldiers of all Arms and of all Countries.\nTranslated from the French by Captain Lendy, Director of the Practical\nMilitary College, late of the French Staff, etc. New York. D. Van\nNostrand. 18mo. pp. 212. 75 cts.\n\nRhymed Tactics. By \"Gov.\" New York. D. Van Nostrand. 18mo. paper, pp.\n144. 25 cts.\n\nOfficial Army Register, for 1862. From the Copy issued by the\nAdjutant-General U.S. Army. New York. D. Van Nostrand. 8vo. paper, pp.\n108. 50 cts.\n\nWater: Its History, Characteristics, Hygienic and Therapeutic Uses. By\nSamuel W. Francis, A.M., M.D., Physician to the Northern Dispensary, New\nYork. New York. S.S. & W. Wood. 8vo. paper, pp. 47. 25 cts.\n\nAn Exposition of Modern Spiritualism, showing its Tendency to a Total\nAnnihilation of Christianity. With other Miscellaneous Remarks and\nCriticisms, in Support of the Fundamental Principles of the Christian\nReligion. By Samuel Post. New York. Printed by James Egbert. 8vo. paper,\npp. 86. 25 cts.\n\nSybelle, and other Poems. By L. New York. G.W. Carleton. 12mo. pp. 192.\n50 cts.\n\nAids to Faith: A Series of Theological Essays. By Several Writers. Being\na Reply to \"Essays and Reviews.\" Edited by William Thomson, D.D., Lord\nBishop of Gloucester and Bristol. New York. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp.\n538. $1.50.\n\nA Popular Treatise on Deafness: Its Causes and Prevention, by Drs.\nLighthill. Edited by E. Bunford Lighthill, M.D. With Illustrations. New\nYork. G.W. Carleton. 12mo. pp. 133. 50 cts.\n\nCadet Life at West Point. By an Officer of the United States Army.\nWith a Descriptive Sketch of West Point, by Benson J. Lossing. Boston.\nT.O.H.P. Burnham. 12mo. pp. xviii., 367. $1.00.\n\nCan Wrong be Right? By Mrs. S.C. Hall Boston. T.O.H.P. Burnham. 8vo.\npaper. pp. 143. 38 cts.\n\nThe Old Lieutenant and his Son. By Norman Macleod. Boston. T.O.H.P.\nBurnham, 8vo. paper, pp. 130. 30 cts.\n\nEighth Annual Report of the Superintendent of Public Instruction of\nthe State of New York. Transmitted to the Legislature January 8,1882.\nAlbany. C. Van Benthuysen, Printer. 8vo. pp. 133.\n\nNolan's System for Training Cavalry Horses. By Kenner Garrard, Captain\nFifth Cavalry, U.S.A. With Twenty-Four Lithographed Illustrations. New\nYork. D. Van Nostrand. 12mo. pp. 114. $1.50.\n\nThe Koran; commonly called the Alcoran of Mohammed. Translated into\nEnglish immediately from the Original Arabic. By George Sale, Gent. To\nwhich is prefixed The Life of Mohammed; or, The History of that Doctrine\nwhich was begun, carried on, and finally established by him in Arabia,\nand which has subjugated a Larger Portion of the Globe than the Religion\nof Jesus has set at Liberty. Boston. T.O.H.P. Burnham. 12mo. pp. 472.\n$1,00.\n\nA Strange Story. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. With Engravings on Steel by\nF.O. Freeman, after Drawings by J.N. Hyde, from Designs by Gardner A.\nFuller. Boston. Gardner A. Fuller. 12mo. pp. 387. paper, 25 cts. muslin,\n$1.00.","title":"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 55, May, 1862: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":84032}