{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20363/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20363","id":"gutenberg_20363","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20363","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - Modern (1750+)","Category: Journalism/Media/Writing","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Continental Monthly","Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals","United States -- Politics and government -- 19th century -- Periodicals"],"text":"Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Janet Blenkinship and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n(This file was produced from images generously made\navailable by Cornell University Digital Collections)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:\n\nDEVOTED TO LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.\n\n\nVOL. V.--JUNE, 1864.--NO. VI.\n\n\n\n\nERNEST RENAN'S THEORY.\n\n\nChristianity is a fact. We sometimes hear of men who are said to 'deny'\n'Christianity.' The expression is nonsense. Men cannot deny the sun.\nChristianity has been a visible thing, on this planet, for eighteen\nhundred years. It has done a heavy amount of work, which is very visible\ntoo. It is altogether too late in the day to '_deny_ Christianity.'\n\nThat is the first thing to be understood. There is no arguing against\nthe fact. You must take the fact and make the best of it. If your theory\nrequires the annihilation of the fact, it's a bad thing for your theory,\nfor the fact insists on staying. What an amount of fearfully laborious\nstupidity we would have been saved, if only that plain principle had\nbeen remembered!\n\nChristianity has stood face to face with the world, for ages, a hard,\nstern, uncompromising reality. With a pair of tremendous arms it has\nworked, fought, endured, conquered, destroyed, builded, all over the\nearth. It has burned its brand into time. It has stamped its footprints\nin fire and brightness on earth and sea. It so stands, a great,\nwonderful, triumphant, flaming fact, blazing through the ages, flaming\nto the stars, melting, moulding, enlightening humanity.\n\nThe first thing to be remembered, then, by Christian and unbeliever\nalike, when they come to speak of Christianity, is that these things are\nnot the matters in debate. They are the facts to be explained, to be\naccounted for. In all argument they themselves must first be taken for\ngranted.\n\nThat is to say, here is this religion, certainly to any thoughtful man\nthe most wonderful thing, take it all in all, that history has to tell\nabout. It starts in an obscure corner of an obscure province. Its\nfounder dies as a felon among felons. Its teachers are stupid peasants,\nfettered by a narrow dialect of an almost unknown tongue. Its whole\norigin is barbarous, ignorant, disgraceful by any worldly judgment. So\nit begins. As it spreads, imperial Rome takes alarm, and turns to crush\nthe barbarous fanaticism, in the pride of her learning, civilization,\nand power. She plants her iron heel on the neck of the creeping sect.\nShe presses it down with her gigantic weight. Time passes. The little\nsect that began in an obscure city of an obscure province, 'the number\nof the names together being an hundred and twenty,' in less than three\ncenturies masters the world's crowned mistress, and plants its standard\nin triumph, to remain forever, on the Seven Eternal Hills. Resistless\nRome is beaten to her knees, every national reverence, every national\ndivinity trampled on, and spit upon, and the barbarous and disgraceful\nsect sets its ignominious mark, _the cross of the condemned slave_, on\nevery monument of Roman reverence, on every trophy of Roman greatness.\n\nThere never was such an utter conquest. A pure idea, without a material\nhand or weapon, domineers over the greatest empire under the sun, in\nspite of the whole power of that empire armed to crush it.\n\nAnd, after Rome fell, the huge carcase beaten to the dust, and torn to\nfragments by the wild creatures that hung upon her borders, this\nwondrous mystery, this barbarous, obscure faith alone remained,\ninvincible among the powers of Rome. Roman civilization was crushed to\nthe earth, as the Roman legions were. Roman law was trampled out of\nsight, as Roman art and literature were; but Christianity stood up and\nfaced the Vandal and the Goth, the Frank and Saxon, as it had faced the\nCaesars before, and dragged the conquerors of the empire suppliants at\nthe feet of the church. It built a Christian Europe out of the savage\nhordes of Asia, and made an England, and a Germany, and at last an\nAmerica out of wild Goth and Ungar, out of bloody Frank and savage Dane.\n\nNow all this is simply _matter of fact_. My belief in Christianity does\nnot add one jot to these facts. My disbelief does not take one tittle\nfrom them. So far as they are concerned, every man is a believer in\nChristianity. He believes it exists. He believes it has existed, has had\nsuch and such a history, has produced such and such results. 'Christian'\nand 'infidel' alike, to be reasonable, to have any ground for reasonable\ndiscussion, go thus far together.\n\n_They may differ in their explanations of the facts._ That is the only\nground of difference. There is the point of separation. It is perfectly\nlogical too. _Prima facie_, we have no complaint to make that they do\ndiffer. And here lies the improvement in the modern type of\n'unbeliever.' He does not take the line of his older brethren, and\nrudely assail Christianity as a mere imposture with Voltaire and Paine.\nThat sort of work has had its day. He, on the other hand, freely admits\nits beneficent achievements. He has grown reasonable. He accepts\nChristianity, as the believer does, as a fruitful, beneficent, and\nconquering fact. He only holds that its existence and its achievements\nmay be accounted for in a far more satisfactory way than we 'believers'\nhave discovered.\n\nNow all this is comprehensible, and it is really, now, the ground of\ndifference between those who believe in Christianity as divine, and\nthose who hold it to be merely human. It is a clear and simple issue.\nChristianity accounts for itself and its work on a certain plain,\nstraightforward, and consistent theory. It holds that theory to be\nreasonable, complete, ample, for all the facts. A number of people join\nissue just here with Christianity. They admit its facts, but they deny\nits manner of explaining them. They claim to put forward other methods\nof explanation, which shall be more reasonable, more natural, and, at\nthe same time, just as ample for the facts. We have had a number of\nthese philosophers, with their theories, and they have had various\nfortunes. On the whole, the Christian world has gone on about as usual,\naccepting the old explanation, adopting the old theory, a hundred to\none, and has dropped the new theories one after another, after more or\nless investigation, into profound oblivion.\n\nNow we are free to admit the old theory has its difficulties. There are\n'things in it hard to be understood.' There are mysteries and wonders\nwhich it does not attempt to explain. There are 'hard sayings' which it\nleaves hard. And the new theories always claim to have no difficulties.\nThey blame the old one bitterly because it tolerates them. They\nthemselves claim to be 'reasonable,' they 'explain' everything.\n\nThey therefore challenge the trial. If they fail to be 'reasonable,' or\nif they can only be reasonable at the expense of some of the facts--that\nis to say, if they find no place for some of the authentic facts, and so\nhave to explain them away; or if, on the whole, they make too large\ndrafts on our credulity, and demand too great a power of faith--we have\nthe logical right to dismiss them out of our presence with scant\ncourtesy, and are bound to hold by the old explanation still.\n\nThe last man who has come forward with his theory of Christanity is\nMonsieur Ernest Renan, a Frenchman, a member of the Institute, and a\nSemitic scholar of some considerable pretensions. He broaches his theory\nin a book, which he calls 'The Life of Jesus.' He offers it to the\nworld, through that book, as an improvement on the accepted one. We\npropose here to look at M. Renan's theory, and see whether it has any\nadvantages to offer over that usually taught in churches in America, and\nwhich the present writer learned, some _lustra_ ago, while catechized at\nthe chancel veil, and which his children are learning now.\n\nIt makes the examination easier that M. Renan freely and fully admits\nthe achievements of Christianity. Indeed he glories over them. The\nbeneficence of Christianity, its hallowing and elevating power in the\nhistory of the world, its wondrous blessedness among men, the glory it\nhas cast over human life and human aims, the nobleness it has conferred\non human character, all these he takes a pride in confessing and\nappreciating. He will not be a whit behind the stanchest believer in\nacknowledging the power of these, or in the capacity of prizing these.\n\nBut he cannot accept the explanation Christianity gives of itself. He\nproposes another of his own. We may take his theory as the fruit and\nflower of all 'liberal' thought. Here, at last, is what unbelieving\nlearning and philosophy have to offer in lieu of the divine origin of\nChristianity. After a good deal of loud boasting, after a large amount\nof supercilious sneering, we have here the result of that 'profound\ncriticism' and that 'careful scholarship' which have been laboring for\nyears, in Europe, to destroy the supernatural bases of faith. We are\njustified, from M. Renan's position and character, in taking it for\ngranted, that his book is the best that modern unbelief has to offer,\nhis theory the most satisfactory that the deniers of the divine origin\nof Christianity can frame.\n\nIn examining that theory, at the first, a suspicious thing strikes a\ncalm observer. It is the reckless way in which M. Renan deals with his\nauthorities. For, be it remarked that, with only one or two outside\nhints in Josephus and Tacitus, the Four Gospels contain _all_ that we\nknow of the 'Life of Jesus.' They are formally and professedly His\nbiographies. They were expressly written to present the outlines of His\nlife and teaching in connected form. All that we know of Him, His birth,\nlife, and death, is contained in these four narrations. The utmost\nlearning and the utmost simplicity here stand side by side. The most\nunlearned reader of THE CONTINENTAL is just as well informed,\nwith the Four Gospels in his hand, as any 'member' of any 'Academy'\nunder the sun. Out of these Four Gospels, M. Renan has to construct his\n'Life of Jesus.' But he has _a theory_, and that theory does not seem to\nbe the one set forth in the Four Gospels; so he just rejects whatever\ngoes against his theory, garbles, clips, denies, assents, and colors,\nwith an assurance, amusing for its impudence, if it were not so criminal\nfor its recklessness.\n\nOn the very threshold he asserts, in the teeth of his sole authorities,\nthat Jesus was born in _Nazareth_! He refers his startled reader to a\nfootnote. That footnote informs him that the 'assessment under Quirinus,\nby which He is sought to be connected with Bethlehem,' took place ten\nyears after. We are to take this on M. Renan's sole authority. We are to\nfling the Gospels over on the strength of a footnote! Now it is simply\nimpossible that M. Renan can be ignorant that there are very\nsatisfactory ways of explaining this difficulty, otherwise than by\ncharging a _forgery_. Josephus, whom he cites to prove the _assessment_\nto be ten years after, would have informed him that the preliminary\n_enrolment_ took place at the time mentioned, and that it _did_ extend\nover Herod's dominions. Moreover, the authorities for this last fact are\n_not_ Christian _only_, as he says. They are Josephus, a Jew, and\nSuetonius, a pagan.\n\nThis is only an instance, on the threshold, of what occurs, a hundred\ntimes, in the book. Any statement which stands in the way of the\nwriter's hypothesis, is swept out of existence at one pen-stroke. Calm\nhistorical relations, evidently most essential portions of the writings,\nare treated as forgeries, or deceptions, without a condescending why or\nwherefore, if they embarrass the writer.\n\nThat large portion of the Gospels, the miracles, is scarcely worth a\nthought from M. Renan. He dismisses the whole question of miracles with\na _bon mot_. 'Many people followed Jesus into the desert. Thanks to\ntheir extreme frugality, they lived there. They naturally believed they\nsaw in that a miracle.' Now is not that wonderful! The circumstantial\nrelation of the miraculous feeding is supposed to be satisfactorily\nexplained by people 'naturally believing' that _frugality_ was 'a\nmiracle'! But the great miracle of all, the miracle which seals the\nstory, which gives ground of hope and faith to all Christian men, that\nmiracle, without which they have always felt the Gospel would be\npreached in vain, that grand consummating and awful miracle, which\nflashed brightness into the sepulchre, which shot the light of\nimmortality athwart the darkness of Death, and gave mortal man a sure\ngrasp on immortality, that great crowning miracle, the resurrection of\nour Lord, on which so much depended, which so many jealous eyes were\nwatching, which was so early asserted on the very spot where it claims\nto have occurred--this M. Renan treats as unworthy serious refutation.\nIt is not even necessary to try to disprove it. It is simply sufficient\nfor him to mention 'the strong _imagination_ of Mary Magdalene,' and to\nexclaim so _beautifully_!--'Divine power of love, sacred moments in\nwhich the passion of a hallucinated woman gives to the world a\nresurrected God!'\n\nThere it is! The _doctrine_ of the resurrection, and all that clings\naround it for humanity, the doctrine preached always as one of the\nfoundations of the faith ('because he preached unto them Jesus and the\nresurrection'), and the _fact_ of the resurrection, the fact always put\nforth as the clinching argument, the justification of the whole story,\nthrown into the face of Jew and Greek as a perpetual challenge--this\ndoctrine and this fact are disposed of by a bit of sickly sentiment!\n\nNow, this sort of thing may be very rhetorical, and very beautiful, when\ndone up in approved, sentimental French, but it is certainly neither\nlogical nor philosophical. We have a right to insist that M. Renan shall\ncome with no theory which compels him to reject half the facts\nunexamined, and to garble and misuse half the rest. Those facts stand on\nthe same ground as all the others. The same authority which tells us\nthat Christ lived at Nazareth, tells us also that He fed five thousand\nwith five loaves and two small fishes. M. Renan accepts the first\nstatement, without examination, and denies the second, without\nexamination. He does this because he has made up his mind beforehand\nthat _prima facie_ a miracle is impossible. But that carries us out of\nthe line of historical investigation altogether. That is a question of\nmetaphysics. M. Renan's decision of the question is not admitted by an\nmeans universally, not even frequently. The truer decision as well as\nthe more philosophical is that, _prima facie, all things are possible_,\nexcept contradictions.\n\nAt all events, we hold that the Four Evangelists stand on their own\nmerits. They are not to be declared impostors, either in whole or in\npart, beforehand, in order to save a metaphysical theory.\n\nThe same logical viciousness shows itself in M. Renan's treatment of the\nProphets. Daniel never could have written the book attributed to him, he\nsays, because that book contains statements of fact which occurred long\nafter Daniel! That is to say, M. Renan does not believe in such a thing\nas prophecy, and, by consequence, Daniel never wrote the book of Daniel!\nThis is taking things for granted with a witness.\n\nAnd, by the way, we may as well ease our minds just here concerning\nanother trick of the school to which M. Renan belongs, and of which he\nfurnishes many marked examples. We mean the trick of arbitrarily\ndeciding by what they are pleased to call 'philological criticism,' all\nabout all the books and nearly all the chapters in the Bible. 'Learned\nmen are agreed that such and such chapters were not written by Isaiah.'\n'It is clear, from internal evidence of style, that this book was made\nup of earlier scattered memoranda.' 'These chapters, it is evident, were\nnot written till such and such a time.' 'The best critics are agreed\nthat this narration was added long after the writing of the book.' This\nis the way they write, to the astonishment of the simple.\n\nWhen we were younger, this sort of talk seemed to our simplicity to be\nexceedingly imposing. We actually believed that there were a set of\npeople, in Germany, at least, who could look at a Hebrew chapter and\ntell you who wrote it, when he wrote it, how he wrote it, and why; and\nthe who, when, how, and why, should be each different from those\nmentioned by the author of the book himself. As years removed the\ncredulous simplicity of childhood, we found out that this was only a\ntrick of the trade. We discovered that no two of these doctors agreed\namong themselves, that the line of argument they followed would disprove\nthe authorship of any page ever written, that decisions from difference\nof style, wise as they might be, philologically, were, rationally and\nlogically, nonsensical; for Burns, no doubt, wrote his _letters_ as well\nas his _poems_, and Shakspeare's 'Sonnets' were written by the hand that\nwrote 'King Lear,' although, according to these wise doctors, it is\nassumed to be utterly impossible that the same man can use two styles,\nor that a man at seventy will write otherwise than he did at thirty. In\nshort, we discovered that there is nothing more arbitrary, more\nopinionated, and more unphilosophical than this 'philological\ncriticism.' Applied, as these wonderful German doctors apply it, to any\nbook ever penned, and it can be shown, 'as the result of high critical\nability,' that no author ever wrote his own book. It is the easiest\nthing in the world to prove that Shakspeare never wrote 'Shakspeare,'\nthat Milton never wrote 'Paradise Lost,' that 'Johnson's Dictionary'\njust 'growed' like Topsey, and was never made at all, and, to name small\nthings with great, that M. Renan never wrote the 'Life of Jesus.'\n\nWhen we read, then, that 'it is certain that Isaiah never wrote this\nchapter,' that 'St. John could not possibly have written the fourth\nGospel,' that 'this book is composed, undoubtedly, of fragments of\nearlier writings,' or that 'this' other 'is the growth of a certain\nschool,' we advise simple Christians to take it easy. They are to\nunderstand that the world goes on much as usual, and that their family\nBibles still contain the old Table of Contents. There has been no\nwonderful discovery made, no ancient book catalogues have come to light,\nno files of ancient documents have been dug up. There are still just the\nold facts and the old evidence on which Christians made up their minds\nsixteen or seventeen hundred years ago. The amount of all this talk is\nonly that 'the great Doctor Teufelsdroeck' or 'the learned Professor Von\nBaum' has hazarded a guess, and made an assertion, which every other\n'great doctor' and 'learned professor' will contradict, and displace\nwith another guess just as probable, in three months' time. There are\nmen just as learned and just as honest who have examined their guesses,\nand find them poor inventions indeed. And we have a right to deny point\nblank the assertions so flippantly made by men like M. Renan. 'It is\n_universally acknowledged_ that this book was never written by Daniel or\nIsaiah or Jeremiah,' '_It is certain_ this chapter is an addition of\nsuch and such a date,' etc. It is _not_ universally acknowledged. It is\n_not_ certain. The whole thing is pure guesswork. There is only one way\nto prove the authorship of a book, and that is by _testimony_. There is\nnothing under the sun more absurd, philologically, than that a common\nand very poor stock-actor should have written 'Hamlet.' We know he did\nwrite it, however, not by 'internal evidence,' or from 'philological\ncriticism,' but by plain human testimony to the _fact_. We cite that,\nand leave the 'internal' critics to their profound babble on vowels and\nconsonants, on long and short syllables, and let them do with the fact\nthe best they can.\n\nIn other words, there is no way by which I can determine whether St.\nJohn wrote his Gospel except by _testimony_. I do not know beforehand\n_how_ St. John would write. I can therefore judge nothing by 'style.'\nAll I can do is to ask of competent witnesses. I do ask. I am told by\nsuch witnesses, straight up to his own day, that he _did_ write this\nGospel, that this is the very one which we now have, for they cite it\nand mention its peculiarities. I accept the fact, as I do in the case of\nShakspeare, and let the wise 'critics' settle it among them.\n\nThe attempt, therefore, on the part of M. Renan, to get rid of those\nlarge portions of the Gospels which embarrass him in his theory, by\nattempting to discredit their authorship, while, at the same time, he\naccepts other parts, that stand on the same authority, and the\nsupercilious way in which he ignores that large part which the miracles\nfill, turning them off with a small witticism, or a smaller bit of\nsentiment, suggest, at the start, decided suspicions of the honesty of\nhis intentions and the sufficiency of his theory.\n\nWe only hint at these things here. They occur all through his book. They\nare not evidence of learning or critical skill. There are no _secrets_\nfor deciding such matters. The whole _data_ have been public for ages.\nAll the 'members of the Institute' together do not possess one grain of\nevidence that any ordinary scholar in America does not possess as well.\nM. Renan rejects, or discredits, or garbles, or slips over silently,\nbecause he finds it necessary for his theory. That is all. He pettifogs\nwith his witnesses to establish his theory.\n\nThat theory is, that He, whom all Christians have called Our Lord, was a\nmere man, of what race is uncertain, born in Galilee of a man named\nJoseph and of a woman named Mary; who taught in Galilee and a little in\nJudea, and who was at last killed and buried, and so an end of _Him_.\nThis theory M. Renan has to find in the Gospels, and there is, as we\nhave hinted, very little of the Gospels left when he gets through. It is\nso palpably against them that he has to get rid of the most of them to\nmake it stand.\n\nNow this theory, like all others, must be put to the test. Will it\nexplain the facts? We have seen how it is compelled to get rid of the\nGospels. But we put that aside. Will it explain the history of\nChristianity? Will it explain its place to-day? Will it account for its\neffects?\n\nThe Jesus of M. Renan is a strange character. He is more difficult of\ncomprehension than any mystery of orthodoxy. We ask where He gets His\nwondrous wisdom, this young carpenter, how _He_ learned to speak 'as man\nnever spoke?' and M. Renan sentimentalizes. We ask how He got this\nwondrous power over men, to lead them and control them, so that they\nfollowed Him and 'heard Him gladly,' and M. Renan goes off into\necstasies over the 'delicious climate' and 'the lovely villages,' and\nthe Arcadian simplicity of Galilee, as he fancies they once were, and\nexpects us to be answered. His influence over women is accounted for\nmore readily. M. Renan tells us, in his peculiar way, that 'this\nbeautiful young man' had great power over the 'nervous' susceptibilities\nof Mary Magdalene; and Pilate's wife, having once seen him, 'dreamed\nabout him' the next night, and sent to her husband to save him in\nconsequence!\n\nHowever, He begins His teaching. Where He learned it, how He learned it,\nwhy it took the form it did, how _He_ came to give moral law to the\nworld, where He found the words of wisdom and consolation--the divine\nwords of power--for all generations, there is positively not one\nsentence of explanation. Of all the young Jews of His day, how came He\nby these powers and this omnipotent wisdom? Now the Christian theory\n_does_ attempt an explanation. It gives an ample answer to the question.\nM. Renan gives no answer whatever. He flies to sentiment. We have all\nsorts of adjectives--'delicious,' 'enchanting, 'beautiful,' 'sweet,'\n'charming'--he beats a whole female seminary at the business, in\nattempting to describe how, like full-grown babes, everybody in Galilee\nlived, _so_ innocent, so simple, so Arcadian were they all--_and that is\nall_! What shall a man do, whom this fine style of novel writing doesn't\nanswer--to whom, in fact, it seems just a bit of disgusting nonsense? Is\nthis wonderful power, this omnipotent wisdom, a production of the\n'delicious' climate? Is this all 'philosophical criticism' has to offer,\nand is he to accept that as more reasonable than the Gospel theory that\nthey were supernatural and divine?\n\nIn this wonderful romantic dialect, M. Renan describes the beginning of\nour Lord's ministry. He is embarrassed, however, by the fact that, as\nJesus goes on, He Himself makes claims, and sets up pretensions, and\nexercises powers, which are totally at variance with the proposed\nexplanation. M. Renan cannot deny that He claimed to be the Son of God,\nthe Messiah, the Son of David, that He claimed to work 'miracles,' to\npossess supernatural powers, to be somewhat altogether different from\nthe amiable, sentimental, young carpenter of his modern biographer.\n\nHow is this to be got on with? Why, by declaring boldly that Jesus was\nhalf deceiver and half deceived! by accepting the difficulty, and\nconfessing that He cheated men for their good--that, as they wished to\nbe deceived, He stooped to deceive them, and at last half deceived\nHimself!\n\nWe know nothing more thoroughly _immoral_ than is M. Renan on this\nmatter. This Jesus of his, about whom he sentimentalizes, whom he\ndeclares a thousand times to be so 'charming,' and so 'divine,' and the\nrest, turns out to be a deliberate cheat and quack, putting out claims\nHe does not Himself believe, and acting in sham miracles which people\ncoax Him, according to his biographer, to perform.\n\nThe raising of Lazarus, for instance, which M. Renan would like to turn\nout of the Gospels, but which he is forced to confess must\nstay--according to him, was a deliberate, planned, stage performance, a\ngross piece of juggling imposition. Now we do not object _per se_ to M.\nRenan's taking that view of it. He has a perfect freedom of choice. We\n_do_ object to the immorality, the essential blindness to right and\nwrong, which lead him to apologize for the cheat, and try to prove it a\nperfectly innocent and justifiable thing. We protest against confounding\neternal distinctions, against debauching conscience by proving wrong\nright, and a cheat an innocent bit of acting, against claiming an\nimpostor and a liar as the high priest of the world's 'absolute\nreligion'!\n\nBut few of us, in this part of the world, can appreciate the\ntranscendental reasoning that makes an impostor half divine, or a cheat\nholy. 'Good faith and imposture,' to quote our author, 'are words which,\nin our rigid conscience, are opposed like two irreconcilable terms,'\nthough, he says, it is not so in 'the East,' from which our religion\ncame, and was certainly far from being so with our Teacher! We cannot\nadmire M. Renan here. The writing is very fine. He exhausts himself in\nhis 'charming' style to make it all right, and show us that we have\nprofound reason to admire this lying teacher, this cheating miracle\nmonger, whom he holds up between us and the pure 'Son of Mary.' But it\ndoes not answer. In this cold climate a lie is a lie, a cheat is a\ncheat, and a mountebank and impostor is not the teacher of 'the absolute\nreligion of humanity!'\n\nAs M. Renan writes His life, that is the way in which the Founder of\nChristianity develops Himself. First we have the young man, amiable,\nsweet, 'charming,' enacting a 'beautiful pastoral' in the 'delicious\nclimate of Galilee,' where it appears that nobody has anything to do\nsave to enact 'pastorals,' although we are told '_brigandage_ was common\nin Galilee,' which seems a strange accompaniment to 'pastorals.' Where\nHe got His wisdom, how He came by these 'transcendent utterances,'\nwhich, we are told, 'some few' only, even now, are lofty enough to\nappreciate, we are not informed. There they are. But, right in the midst\nof them, this wonderful young man, uttering these 'charming' lessons,\nand these 'delicious' sayings, sets to work miracle-mongering, trying\nHis hand at thaumaturgy and legerdemain, becomes an impostor and a\nmountebank, pretending, among other things, to raise a man who puts on a\nshroud, gets into a grave, and shams dead! At last He is taken, and\nthen, in view of death, becomes penitent, reforms, and recovers His\npurity!\n\nNow Thomas Paine was, in a way, an honest man. We can say that of him.\nVoltaire was, in his degree, honest too. Having said what M. Renan says,\nthey did not stultify themselves logically. They honestly pronounced\nChristianity a delusion. We have respect for their consistency. But our\nmodern man says that a cheat in religion is no cheat, a lie no lie, that\na true saving faith can be built on a foundation of deception and\ntrickery! He says it, and undertakes to prove it by _the convincing\nlogic of sentimentality!_\n\nM. Renan here is just _disgusting_. There are a few things in this world\nthat do not mix. Right and wrong have something of a ditch between them.\nA lie is not own brother to the truth. If he thinks it worth while to\nwrite the life of an impostor, very well; only, when he has declared him\nso, and insisted on his being so, we humbly beg he will not turn round\nand insist on it that the religion _he_ taught is divine!\n\nIf the credulity of believers is great, what shall we say of the\ncredulity of Messieurs the philosophers, the unbelievers? But what shall\nwe say of their _morality_?\n\nBut if this new theory fails to account for Christianity as a _true_\nsystem of religion, what shall we say of its coherence with\nChristianity as a _successful_ system in action? This sentimental\nimpostor conquers the civilized world. This 'charming' worker of sham\nwonders becomes a GOD to the millions who to-day lead mankind!\n\nHere is where M. Renan's theory utterly breaks down, where it becomes\nnot only utterly illogical and incoherent, but where it becomes too\ngross for any mortal credulity, and too blasphemously wicked for any\nordinary sinfulness.\n\nIt is utterly incoherent, for it requires us to believe that a system,\nbegun in fraud and deception, has proved itself the truest and most\nbeneficent and sacred treasure to the world. M. Renan insists on both.\nFrom such a premise he drags such a conclusion.\n\nIs there any plain Christian who dreads a sneer at Christian credulity?\nLet him be comforted. What credulity is like this? What miracle in the\n'Four Gospels' begins to be wonderful compared with this miracle of the\nmodern thaumaturge? The religion which has taught men truth--above all\nthings, _truth_--which teaches utter horror of a lie, which insists on\nthe bare, bald reality in heaven and earth, which has taught men hatred\nof the false as the meanest and most unmanly thing existing--this\nreligion took its rise in claptrap miracles, was puffed into popularity\nby boasting pretensions, was born in trickery and nurtured by\nlegerdemain! Its loftiest hopes, its deepest consolations are the\noffspring of clumsy jugglery and cheap prestidigitation!\n\nBut more: this religion, so born and nurtured, becomes the mistress of\nthe earth. It is of no consequence that only a minority of men accept\nit. That minority hold the world in their hands. In fact, it seems from\nhistory, that any number of men, with this religion in their hearts,\nbecome half omnipotent--that _twelve_ can take it and master humanity by\nits power. To-day the men who profess it can do what they will on the\nface of this planet. It has so seized temporal power, so moulded blind\nforce, so mastered strength--it has so conferred wisdom and valor and\nmight on men, that those who have accepted it have been crowned above\ntheir kind, that they go everywhere as the acknowledged leaders and\nlords of the race, the vanguard of humanity.\n\nAnd a deception has brought all this to pass, a delusion has produced\nthese stern realities! Here's where the wickedness stands out nakedly!\nIs there a true God in heaven, or is Ahriman rightful lord? Is the lying\ndevil, after all, supreme? Is a lie as good as the truth? Why, the very\nearth reels beneath us! _Is there any God at all?_ Are truth and good\nand God mere dreams, that a cunning fraud like this can so prosper and\nprevail under the white heavens!\n\nM. Renan's 'Life of Jesus' offers me that as a most reasonable theory!\nBelieving in a _true_ God and a _good_ God, being utterly incapable of\nbelieving in the lying devil it proposes to me, this pleasant theory,\nthat, beneath the face and eyes of that true God, a poor imposture, a\ncheap delusion becomes, not only the holiest thing, the purest thing,\nthe most sanctifying thing, but also the strongest thing, the most\nvictorious thing in all the world! If ever theory so played sleight of\nhand with cause and effect, if it ever so mingled and mixed right and\nwrong, and so taught that lies and truth were about the same, we have\nfailed to meet with it. And if ever any theory required power of\ngullibility like this last and newest, we have failed to hear of that.\n\nThe fact is there is no escaping the honest conclusion that, unless\nJESUS CHRIST is what He claimed to be, _divine_, 'GOD\nmanifest in the flesh,' 'the Son of the Father,' then He was simply an\n_impostor_. (He could not have been a self-deceived fanatic.) Now any\nman is free to accept the last horn of this dilemma, if he chooses. It\nis a free country. But if he takes that, we insist that he is _logically\nbound_ to call Christianity a _cheat_, a _delusion_, a _snare and a\ncurse to humanity_! He shall not ask us to swallow the monstrous and\nimmoral proposition, that this outrageous lie and imposture is the\nglory, the blessing and hope of humanity!\n\nAnd this is what M. Ernest Renan, in most melodious sentences, proposes.\nThis is his theory of Christianity, its origin and its success.\n\nThis is the best thing philosophic and philologic unbelief has to offer,\nthe most rational account it has to give in the year 1864. Surely\nunbelief must have large faith in human nature's capacity of spiritual\nswallow, if men are expected to take this down, as more reasonable than\nwhat they will hear in the next pulpit!\n\nNay, after all, the Christian theory of Christianity is the most\nrational yet. It has mysteries, but it calls them mysteries, things\nabove reason. It accepts them, and so escapes absurdity--ends with no\nmeans, effects from no causes, wonders that spring out of the ground,\ndivine teachers produced by a 'charming' climate, and impostures that\nare holy truths! Above all, it escapes moral idiocy, and holds there is\na line between right and wrong! On the whole, it is, as yet, the only\ntheory which explains all the facts, the only one of which the\nconsequences may be logically accepted, which makes Christ or His\nreligion reasonable or possible.\n\nM. Renan's 'beautiful' young Galilean carpenter, with such power over\n'hallucinated' Magdalens, conducting grand picnics in that 'charming'\nclimate, and making life a May day, is not the world's mighty Deliverer;\nand his miracle-mongering demagogue, claiming to be the Son of David in\nlying genealogies, and the Son of God in blasphemous audacity, is not\nthe world's Teacher of all Truth and Righteousness. The new Jesus is a\npoor substitute for the Divine Man whom we adore.\n\nWe cannot, therefore, accept the new theory. It is not logically\ncompetent to the facts. Established on garbled evidence with painful\nstruggles, it will not, when completed, fulfil the conditions. It is not\nreasonable. It is not moral. We have desired to present this view of it.\nThe details of criticism we leave to others, who can easily deal with M.\nRenan. We have aimed to show, what any plain reader can see, the\nunreasonableness and immorality of this theory of Christianity's origin.\n\nAs long as we have faith in a righteous God, so long can we never\nbelieve that the best, purest, and holiest religion is born in fraud and\ntrickery. M. Renan's theory declares the purity and the holiness of\nChristianity, and yet insists on the trickery and the fraud: therefore\nwe must reject his theory.\n\nSo long as we believe that a true God is _omnipotent_, we cannot believe\nthat fraud and deception are masters of the world. But M. Renan insists\nthat Christianity has mastered the world, and yet declares it founded\nupon fraud and deception. We must therefore reject M. Renan.\n\nThe fine writing, the sentiment, the abundant 'sweetness' of the book\ncannot make beautiful this monstrous perversion of reason, this\ninsidious attack on the very distinction between God and Satan.\n\nVoltaire's theory is comparatively honest, healthy, moral. Paine's is\nso. These men called things by their right names. They never undertook\nto upset the human conscience. Ernest Renan's theory is thoroughly\n_immoral_, and he only can accept it who denies that the world is\ngoverned by moral laws at all.\n\nWe reject his Jesus as a delusion and a dream. God never created such a\ncreature. He exists nowhere save in M. Renan's pages.\n\nIn this blind, reeling world, in this weary, painful time, while the\nsobs of a dumb creation break along the shores of heaven in prayer, we\ncannot spare the real Jesus, the world's strong Deliverer, its\nconquering Lord! The vision He exhibited, of a stainless humanity,\nomnipotent in purity, loyalty, and truth, has flashed and flamed before\nthe eyes of men, through the long night of the ages, their beacon fire\nof hope, their star of faith! We cannot spare Him _now_. In Him all is\nconsistent, all is reasonable, all is harmonious. The Divine Man\naccounts for His wisdom, vindicates the origin of His power. In the\nvision of His face, Christianity and all its results are the natural\nworks of His hand.\n\nWe turn to _His_ Life. We leave M. Renan's little novel, and turn to the\nGodlike life of the typal Man, the Omnipotent and Eternal Man, who\nredeemed humanity, and bought the world, and conquered hell and death:\nwe turn to _that_ life, that death, that awful resurrection, and take\nheart and hope. No mere amiable, sentimental, 'beautiful,' or 'charming'\nyoung man will do. The world cries for its Lord! The race He ransomed\nlooks to the 'Lion of Judah,' the 'Captain of the Lord's Host.' The mad,\nhalf-despairing struggle we have waged all these long centuries, can\nfind only in 'the Son of Man,' in the omnipotent 'Son of God,' its\nexplanation and its end: 'God was manifest in the Flesh, reconciling the\nWorld unto Himself!'\n\n\n\n\nAENONE:\n\nA TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nFor an instant only. When from AEnone's troubled gaze, the half-blinding\nfilm which the agitation of her apprehensive mind had gathered there,\npassed away, she no longer saw before her a proudly erect figure,\nflashing out from dark, wild eyes its defiant mastery, but a form again\nbent low in timorous supplication, and features once more overspread\nwith a mingled imprint of sorrowful resignation, trusting devotion, and\npleading humility.\n\nThat gleam of malicious triumph which had so brightened up the face of\nthe slave, had come and gone like the lightning flash, and, for the\nmoment, AEnone was almost inclined to believe that it was some\nbewildering waking dream. But her instinct told her that it was no mere\nimagination or fancy which could thus, at one instant, fill the heart\nwith dread and change her bright anticipations of coming joy into a\ndull, aching foreboding of misery. It was rather her inner nature\nwarning her not to be too easily ensnared, but to wait for coming evil\nwith unfaltering watchfulness, and, for the purpose of baffling enmity,\nto perform the hardest task that can be imposed upon a guileless\nnature--that of repressing all outward sign of distrust, hiding the\ntorture of the heart within, and meeting smile with smile.\n\nBut day after day passed on, and even to her watchful and strained\nattention there appeared no further sign of anything that could excite\nalarm. From morning until night there rested upon the face of the young\nGreek slave no expression other than that of tender, faithful, and\npleased obedience. At the morning toilet, at the forenoon task of\nembroidery, or at the afternoon promenade, there was ever the same\nserene gaze of earnest devotion, and the same delighted alacrity to\nanticipate the slightest wish. Until at last AEnone began again to think\nthat perhaps her perception of that one fleeting look might, after all,\nbe but a flickering dream. And when, at times, she sat and heard the\nyoung girl speak, not with apparent method, but rather as one who is\nunwittingly drawn into discursive prattle, about her cottage home in\nSamos, and the lowly lover from whom the invading armies had torn her,\nand watched the moistened eye and the trembling lip with which these\nmemories were dwelt upon, an inward pity and sympathy tempted her to\nforget her own distrust; until one day she was impelled to act as she\nhad once desired, and began to pour out her whole heart to the young\nslave as to a friend. The words seemed of themselves to flow to her\nlips, as, bidding the girl be comforted, she told, in one short\nsentence, how she too had once lived in a tranquil cottage home, away\nfrom the bustle and fever of that imperial Rome, and had had her lover\nof low degree, and that both were still innocently dear to her.\n\nAll the while that the story had been welling forth from her lips, that\ninner instinct which so seldom deceives, told her that she was doing\nwrong; and when she had ended, she would have given worlds not to have\nspoken. But the words were beyond recall, and she could only gaze\nstealthily at the listener, and, with a dull feeling of apprehension\nnestling at the bottom of her heart, endeavor to mark their effect, and\nto imagine the possible consequences of her indiscretion. But Leta sat\nbending over her embroidery, and apparently still thinking, with tearful\neye, upon her own exile from home. Perhaps she had not even heard all\nthat had been said to her; though, if the words had really caught her\near, where, after all, could be the harm? It was no secret in Rome that\nSergius Vanno had brought his spouse from a lowly home; and it was\nsurely no crime, that, during those years of poverty which AEnone had\npassed through before being called to fill her present station, she had\nonce suffered her girlish fancy to rest for a little while upon one of\nher own class. And fortunately she had not gone further in her story,\nbut at that point had left it to rest; making no mention of how that\nlong-forgotten lover had so lately reappeared and confronted her.\n\nStill there remained in her heart the irrepressible instinct that it\nwould have been better if she had not spoken. And now, as she silently\npondered upon her imprudence, it seemed as though her anxiety had\nsuddenly endowed her brain with new and keener faculties of perception,\nso many startling ideas began to crowd in upon her. More particularly,\nfull shape and tone seemed for the first time given to one terrible\nsuspicion, which she had hitherto known only in a misty, intangible, and\nseldom recurring form--the suspicion that, if the passive girl before\nher were really an enemy, it was not owing to any mere ordinary impulse\nof fear, or envy, or inexplicable womanish dislike, but rather to secret\nrivalry.\n\nThat, within the past few days, Sergius had more and more exhibited\ntoward her an indifference, which even his studied attempts to conduct\nhimself with an appearance of his former interest and affection did not\nfully hide, AEnone could not but feel. That within her breast lurked the\nterrible thought that perhaps the time had forever passed for her to\ncome to him as to a loving friend, and there fearlessly pour out her\ntribulations, her secret tears confessed. But throughout all this\nchange, though it became each day more strongly marked, she had tried to\ncheat herself into the belief that the romantic warmth of a first\nattachment could not in any case be expected to last for many\nyears--that in meeting indifference she was merely experiencing a common\nlot--that beneath his coolness there still lurked the old affection, as\nthe lava will flow beneath the hardened crust--and that, if she were\nindeed losing the appearance of his love, it was merely because the\nclaims of the court, the exigencies of the social world, or the demands\nof ambition had too much usurped his attention.\n\nBut now a thousand hitherto unregarded circumstances began to creep into\nher mind as so many evidences that his affection seemed passing from\nher; not simply because the claims of duty or ambition were stifling in\nhis heart all power to love, but because he had become secretly attached\nelsewhere. The interested gaze with which he followed the motions of the\nGreek girl--the solicitude which he seemed to feel that in all things\nshe should be treated, not only tenderly, but more luxuriously than ever\nfell to the lot of even the highest class of slaves--his newly acquired\nhabit of strolling into the room and throwing himself down where he\ncould lazily watch her--all these, and other circumstances, though\nindividually trivial, could not fail, when united, to give cogency to\nthe one terrible conviction of secret wrong. Whether Leta herself had\nany perception of all this, who could yet tell? It might be that she was\nclothed in innocent unconsciousness of her master's admiration, or that,\nby the force of native purity, she had resisted his advances. And, on\nthe other hand, it might be that not merely now, but long before she had\nbeen brought into the house, there had been a secret understanding\nbetween the two; and that, with undeviating and unrelenting cunning, she\nwas still ever drawing him still closer within the folds of her\nfascinations. Looking upon her, and noting the humble and almost\ntimorous air with which she moved about, as though seeking kindness and\nprotection, and the eloquence of mute appeal for sympathy which lay half\nhidden in her dark eyes beneath the scarcely raised lids, and rested in\nher trembling lips, who could doubt her? But marking the haughtiness of\npride with which at times she drew up her slight figure to its utmost\nheight, the ray of scorn and malice which flashed from those eyes, and\nthe lines of firm, unpitying determination which gathered about the\ncompressed corners of those lips, who could help fearing and distrusting\nher?\n\nTime or chance alone could resolve the question, and meanwhile, what\ncourse could AEnone take? Not that of sending the object of her suspicion\nto another place; for even if she had the power to do so, she might not\nbe able to accomplish it without such open disturbance that the whole\nsocial world of Rome would learn the degrading fact that she had been\njealous of her own slave. Not--as she was sometimes almost tempted--that\nof forgetting her pride, and humbling herself before her enemy, to beg\nthat she would not rob her of all that affection which had once been\nlavished upon herself; for, if the Greek girl were innocent, useless and\nfeeble pity would be the only result, while, if she were guilty, it\nwould but lead to further secret wiles and malicious triumph. Nor that\nof accusing her husband of his fault; for such a course, alas! could\nnever restore lost love. There could, indeed, be but one proper way to\nact. She must possess her soul in patience and prudent dissimulation;\nand, while affecting ignorance of what she saw and heard, must strive by\nkindness and attention to win back some, if not all, of the true\naffection of former days.\n\nThus sorrowfully reflecting, she left the room, not upon any especial\nintent, but simply to avoid the presence of the Greek, who, she could\nnot help feeling, was all the while, beneath the disguise of that demure\nexpression, closely watching her. Passing into another apartment, she\nsaw that Sergius had there sauntered in, and had thrown himself down\nupon a lounge at the open window, where, with one hand resting behind\nhis head, he lay half soothed into slumber by the gentle murmur of the\ncourtyard fountain. Stealing up gently behind him, with a strange\nmingling of affectionate desire to gain his attention, and a morbid\ndread of bringing rebuke upon herself by awakening him, AEnone stooped\ndown and lightly touched his forehead with her lips.\n\n'Ah, Leta!' he exclaimed, starting up as he felt the warm pressure.\nThen, perceiving his mistake, he lowered his eyes with some confusion,\nand perhaps a slight feeling of disappointment, and tried to force a\ncareless laugh; which died away, however, as he saw how AEnone stood pale\nand trembling at receiving a greeting so confirmatory of all her\napprehensions.\n\n'It is not Leta--it is only I,' she murmured at length, in a tone of\nplaintive sadness, which for the moment touched his heart. 'I am sorry\nthat I awakened you. But I will go away again.'\n\n'Nay, remain,' he exclaimed, restraining her by the folds of her dress,\nand, with a slight effort, seating her beside him upon the lounge. 'You\nare not--you must not feel offended at such a poor jest as that?'\n\n'Is it all a jest?' she inquired. 'Can you say that the greeting you\ngave me did not spring inadvertently from the real preoccupation of your\nmind?'\n\n'Of the mind? Preoccupation?' said Sergius. 'By the gods! but it is a\ndifficult question to answer. I might possibly, in some dreamy state,\nhave been thinking carelessly of that Greek girl whom you have so\nconstantly about you. Even you cannot but acknowledge that she has her\ntraits of beauty; and if so, it is hard for a man not to admire them.'\n\n'For mere admiration of her, I care but little,' she responded. 'But I\nwould not that she should learn to observe it. And what could I do, if\nshe, perceiving it, were to succeed in drawing your love from me? What\nthen would there be for me to do, except to die?'\n\n'To die? This is but foolish talk, AEnone,' he said; and he fastened an\ninquiring gaze upon her, as though wishing to search into her soul, and\nfind out how much of his actions she already knew. Evidently some\nfleeting expression upon her countenance deceived him into believing\nthat she had heard or seen more than he had previously supposed, for,\nwith another faint attempt at a careless laugh, he continued:\n\n'And if, at the most, there has been some senseless trifling between the\ngirl and myself--a pressure of the hand, or a pat upon the cheek, when\nmeeting by any chance in hall or garden--would you find such fault with\nthis as to call it a withdrawal of my love from you? To what, indeed,\ncould such poor, foolish pastime of the moment amount, that it should\nbring rebuke upon me?'\n\nTo nothing, indeed, if judged by itself alone, for that was not the age\nof the world when every trivial departure from correctness of conduct\nwas looked upon as a crime; and had this been all, and the real\naffection of his heart had remained with her, AEnone would have taken\ncomfort. But now she knew for certain that, in uncomplainingly enduring\nany familiarities, Leta could not, at all times, have maintained her\ncustomary mien of timorous retirement, and must, therefore, to some\nextent, have shown herself capable of acting a deceitful part; and that\neven though the deceit may have stopped short of further transgression,\nit was none the less certain that in future no further trust could be\nreposed in her. Gone forever was that frail hope to which, against all\nwarnings of instinct, AEnone had persisted in clinging--the hope that in\nthe Greek girl she might succeed in finding a true and honest friend.\n\nSeeing that she remained absorbed and speechless, Sergius believed that\nshe was merely jealously pondering upon these trivial transgressions,\nand endeavored, by kind and loving expressions, to remove the evil\neffects of his unguarded admission. Gathering her closer in his arms, he\nstrove once more, by exerting those fascinations which had hitherto so\noften prevailed, to calm her disturbed fancies, and bring back again her\nconfidence in him. But now he spoke almost in vain. Conscious, as AEnone\ncould not fail to be, of the apparent love and tenderness with which he\nbent his eyes upon her, and of the liquid melody of his impassioned\nintonations, and half inclined, as she felt, at each instant to yield to\nthe impulse which tempted her to throw her arms about his neck and\npromise from henceforth to believe unfalteringly all that he might say,\nwhatever opposing evidences might stand before her, there was all the\nwhile the restraining feeling that this show of affection was but a\npretence wherewith to quiet her inconvenient reproaches--that at heart\nhe was playing with deceit--that the husband was colluding with the\nslave to blind her eyes--and that the love and friendship of both lord\nand menial had forever failed her.\n\n'But hold to your own suspicions, if you will,' he said, at length, with\ntesty accent, as he saw how little all his efforts had moved her. 'I\nhave spoken in my defence all that I need to speak, even if excuse were\nnecessary; and it is an ill reward to receive only cold and forbidding\nresponses in return.'\n\n'Answer me this,' she exclaimed, suddenly rousing into action, and\nlooking him earnestly in the face; 'and as you now answer, I will\npromise to believe you, for I know that, whatever you may have done, you\nwill not, if appealed to upon your honor, tell me that which is not\ntrue. About the trivial actions which you have mentioned I care little;\nbut is there in your heart any real affection for that girl? If you say\nthat there is not, I will never more distrust you, but will go out from\nhere with a soul overflowing with peace and joy as when first you came\nto take me to your side. But if, on the contrary, you say that you love\nher, I will--'\n\n'Will do what?' he exclaimed, seeing that she hesitated, and almost\nhoping that she would utter some impatient threat which in turn would\ngive him an excuse for anger.\n\n'Will pass out from this room, sad and broken hearted, indeed--but not\ncomplaining of or chiding you; and will only pray to the gods that they\nmay, in their own time, make all things once more go aright, and so\nrestore your heart to me.'\n\nSergius hesitated. Never before had he been so tempted to utter an\nuntruth. If he now did so, he knew that he would be believed, and that\nnot only would she be made once more happy, but he would be left\nunwatched and unsuspected to carry on his own devices. But, on the other\nhand, he had been appealed to upon his honor, and, whatever his other\nfaults, he had too much nobility of soul to lie. And so, not daring to\nconfess the truth, he chose the middle path of refusing any direct\nresponse at all.\n\n'Now is not this a singular thing,' he exclaimed, 'that no man can ever\nlet his eyes rest upon a pretty face without being accused of love for\nit? While, if a woman does the same, no tongue can describe the clamor\nwith which she repels the insinuation of aught but friendly interest.\nCan you look me in the eye and tell me that mine is the only voice you\never listened to with love?'\n\n'Can you dare hint to me that I have ever been unfaithful to you, even\nin thought or word?' cried AEnone, stung with sudden anger by the\nimputation, and rendered desperate by her acute perception of the\nevasiveness of his answer. 'Do you not know that during the months which\nyou so lately passed far away from me, there was not one person admitted\nhere into society with me who would not have had your firm approval--and\nthat I kept your image so lovingly before my eyes, and your memory so\nconstant in my heart, as to become almost a reproach and a sarcasm to\nhalf who knew me?'\n\n'But before that--before I came to you--can you say that no other eyes\nhad ever looked lovingly into yours, and there met kindred response?'\n\n'Have you the right to inquire into what may have happened before you\nmet me? What young girl is there who, some time or other, has not\nmodestly let her thoughts dwell upon innocent love? Is there wrong in\nthis? Should there have been a spirit of prescience in my mind to\nforewarn me that I must keep my heart free and in vacant loneliness,\nbecause that, after many years, you were to come and lift me from my\nobscurity?'\n\n'Then, upon your own showing, you acknowledge that there was once\nanother upon whom your eyes loved to look?' he cried, half gladdened\nthat he had found even this poor excuse to transfer the charge of blame\nfrom himself. 'And how can I tell but that you have met with him since?'\n\n'I have met him since,' she quietly answered, driven to desperation by\nthe cruel insinuation.\n\nIn his heart attaching but little importance to such childish affections\nas she might once have cherished, and having had no other purpose in his\nsuggestion than that of shielding himself from further inquiry by\ninflicting some trifling wound upon her, Sergius had spoken\nhesitatingly, and with a shamefaced consciousness of meanness and\nself-contempt. But when he listened to her frank admission--fraught, as\nit seemed to him, with more meaning than the mere naked words would, of\nthemselves, imply, an angry flush of new-born jealousy overspread his\nfeatures.\n\n'Ha! You have met him since?' he exclaimed. 'And when, and where? And\nwho, then, is this fortunate one?'\n\nAEnone hesitated. Now, still more bitterly than ever before, she felt the\nsad consciousness of being unable to pour out to her husband her more\nsecret thoughts and feelings. If she could have told, with perfect\nassurance of being believed, that in so lately meeting the man whom she\nhad once imagined she loved, she had looked upon him with no other\nfeeling than the dread of recognition, joined to a friendly and sisterly\ndesire to procure his release from captivity and his restoration to his\nown home, she would have done so. But she felt too well that the\nonce-aroused jealousy of her lord might now prevent him from reposing\nfull and generous trust and confidence in her--that he would be far more\nlikely to interpret all her most innocent actions wrongly, and to\nsurround her with degrading espionage--and that, in the end, the\ninnocent captive would probably be subjected to the bitterest\npersecutions which spite and hatred could invent.\n\n'I have met him,' she said at length, 'but only by chance, and without\nbeing recognized or spoken to by him. Nor do I know whether I shall ever\nchance to meet him again. Is this a crime? Oh, my lord, what have I done\nthat you should thus strive to set your face against me? Do you not, in\nyour secret soul, know and believe that there is no other smile than\nyours for which I live, and that, without the love with which you once\ngladdened me, there can be no rest or peace for me on earth? Tell me,\nthen, that all this is but a cruel pleasantry to prove my heart, and\nthat there has nothing come between us--or else let me know the worst,\nin order that I may die.'\n\nSliding down, until her knees touched the floor, and then winding one\narm slowly about his neck, she hid her face in his breast, and, bursting\ninto tears, sobbed aloud. It was not merely the reactionary breaking\ndown of a nervous system strung to the highest point of undue\nexcitement. It was the half consciousness of a terrible fear lest the\nday might come in which, goaded by injustice and neglect, she might\nlearn no longer to love the man before her--the wail of a stricken soul\npleading that the one to whom her heart had bound her might not fail in\nhis duty to her, but, by a resumption of his former kindness and\naffection, might retain her steadfastly in the path of love.\n\nTouched by the spectacle of her strong agony--aroused for the moment to\nthe true realization of all the bitterness and baseness of his\nunkindness toward her--moved, perhaps, by memories of that time when\nbetween them there was pleasant and endearing confidence, and when it\nwas not she who was obliged to plead for love--Sergius drew his arm more\nclosely about her, and, bending over, pressed his lips upon her\nforehead. If at that moment the opportunity had not failed, who can tell\nwhat open and generous confessions might not have been uttered,\nunrestrained forgiveness sealed, and future miseries prevented? But at\nthe very moment when the words seemed trembling upon his lips, the door\nsoftly opened, and Leta entered.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOVE.\n\n    Upon the 'pallid bust of Pallas' sat\n    The Raven from the 'night's Plutonian shore;'\n    His burning glance withered my wasting life,\n    His ceaseless cry still tortured as before:\n    'Lenore! Lenore! ah! never--nevermore!'\n\n    The weary moments dragged their crimson sands\n    Slow through the life-blood of my sinking heart.\n    I counted not their flow; I only knew\n    Time and Eternity were of one hue;\n    That immortality were endless pain\n    To one who the long lost could ne'er regain--\n    There was no hope that Death would Love restore:\n    'Lenore! Lenore! ah! never--nevermore!'\n\n    Early one morn I left my sleepless couch,\n    Seeking in change of place a change of pain.\n    I leaned my head against the casement, where\n    The rose she planted wreathed its clustering flowers.\n    How could it bloom when she was in the grave?\n    The birds were carolling on every spray,\n    And every leaf glittered with perfumed dew;\n    Nature was full of joy, but, wretched man!\n    Does God indeed bless only birds and flowers?\n    As thus I stood--the glowing morn without,\n    Within, the Raven with its blighting cry,\n    All light the world, all gloom the hopeless heart--\n    I prayed in agony, if not in faith;\n    Yet still my saddened heart refused to soar,\n    And even summer winds the burden bore:\n    'Lenore! Lenore! ah! never--nevermore!'\n\n    With these wild accents ringing through my heart,\n    There was no hope in prayer! Sadly I rose,\n    Gazing on Nature with an envious eye,\n    When, lo! a snowy Dove, weaving her rings\n    In ever-lessening circles, near me came;\n    With whirring sound of fluttering wings, she passed\n    Into the cursed and stifling, haunted room,\n    Where sat the Raven with his voice of doom--\n    His ceaseless cry from the Plutonian shore:\n    'Lenore! Lenore! ah! never--nevermore!'\n\n    The waving of the whirring, snowy wings,\n    Cooled the hot air, diffusing mystic calm.\n    Again I shuddered as I marked the glare\n    Which shot from the fell Raven's fiendish eye,\n    The while he measured where his pall-like swoop\n    Might seize the Dove as Death had seized Lenore:\n    'Lenore!' he shrieked, 'ah, never--nevermore!'\n\n    Hovered the Dove around an antique cross,\n    Which long had stood afront the pallid bust\n    Of haughty Pallas o'er my chamber door:\n    Neglected it had been through all the storm\n    Of maddening doubts born from the demon cry\n    Reechoing from the night's Plutonian shore:\n    'Lenore! Lenore! ah! never--nevermore!'\n\n    I loved all heathen, antique, classic lore,\n    And thus the cross had paled before the brow\n    Of Pallas, radiant type of Reason's power.\n    But human reason fails in hours of woe,\n    And wisdom's goddess ne'er reopes the grave.\n    What knows chill Pallas of corruption's doom?\n    Upon her massive, rounded, glittering brow\n    The Bird of Doubt had chos'n a fitting place\n    To knell into my heart forever more:\n    'Ah I never, nevermore! Lenore! Lenore!'\n\n    The Raven's plumage, in the kindling rays,\n    Shone with metallic lustre, sombre fire;\n    His fiendish eye, so blue, and fierce, and cold,\n    Froze like th' hyena's when she tears the dead.\n    The sculptured beauty of the marble brow\n    Of Pallas glittered, as though diamond-strewn:\n    Haughty and dazzling, yet no voice of peace,\n    But words of dull negation darkly fell\n    From Reason's goddess in her brilliant sheen!\n    No secret bears she from the silent grave;\n    She stands appalled before its dark abyss,\n    And shudders at its gloom with all her lore,\n    All powerless to ope its grass-grown door.\n    Can Pallas e'er the loved and lost restore?\n    Hear her wild Raven shriek: 'Lenore! no more!'\n\n    With gloomy thoughts and thronging dreams oppressed,\n    I sank upon the 'violet velvet chair,\n    Which she shall press, ah, never, nevermore!'\n    And gazed, I know not why, upon the cross,\n    On which the Dove was resting its soft wings,\n    Glowing and rosy in the morn's warm light.\n    I cannot tell how long I dreaming lay,\n    When (as from some old picture, shadowy forms\n    Loom from a distant background as we gaze,\n    So bright they gleam, so soft they melt away,\n    We scarcely know whether 'tis fancy's play\n    Or artist's skill that wins them to the day)\n    There grew a band of angels on my sight,\n    Wreathing in love around the slighted cross.\n    One swung a censer, hung with bell-like flowers,\n    Whence tones and perfumes mingling charmed the air;\n    Thick clouds of incense veiled their shadowy forms,\n    Yet could I see their wings of rainbow light,\n    The wavings of their white arms, soft and bright.\n    Then she who swung the censer nearer drew--\n    The perfumed tones were silent--lowly bent\n    (The long curls pouring gold adown the wings),\n    She knelt in prayer before the crucifix.\n    Her eyes were deep as midnight's mystic stars,\n    Freighted with love they trembling gazed above,\n    As pleading for some mortal's bitter pain:\n    When answered--soft untwined the clasping hands,\n    The bright wings furled--my heart stood still to hear\n    'The footfalls tinkle on the tufted floor'--\n    The eyes met mine--O God! my lost Lenore!\n    Too deeply awed to clasp her to my heart,\n    I knelt and gasped--'Lenore! my lost Lenore!\n    Is there a home for Love beyond the skies?\n    In pity answer!--shall we meet again?'\n    Her eyes in rapture floated; solemn, calm,\n    Then softest music from her lips of balm\n    Fell, as she joined the angels in the air!\n    Her words forever charmed away despair!\n\n        'Above all pain,\n        We meet again!\n\n    'Kneel and worship humbly\n      Round the slighted cross!\n    Death is only seeming--\n      Love is never loss!\n    In the hour of sorrow\n      Calmly look above!\n    Trust the Holy Victim--\n      Heaven is in His love!\n\n    'Above all pain,\n        We meet again!\n\n    'Never heed the Raven--\n      Doubt was born in hell!\n    How can heathen Pallas\n      Faith of Christian tell?\n    With the faith of angels,\n      Led by Holy Dove,\n    Kneel and pray before Him--\n      Heaven is in His love!\n\n        'Above all pain,\n        We meet again!'\n\n    Then clouds of incense veiled the floating forms;\n    I only saw the gleams of starry wings,\n    The flash from lustrous eyes, the glittering hair,\n    As chanting still the _Sanctus_ of the skies,\n    Clear o'er the _Misereres_ of earth's graves,\n    Enveloped in the mist of perfumed haze,\n    In music's spell they faded from my gaze.\n    Gone--gone the vision! from my sight it bore\n    My lost, my found, my ever loved Lenore!\n\n    Forgotten scenes of happy infant years,\n    My mother's hymns around my cradle-bed,\n    Memories of vesper bell and matin chimes,\n    Of priests and incensed altars, dimly waked.\n    The fierce eye of the Raven dimmed and quailed,\n    His burnished plumage drooped, yet, full of hate,\n    Began he still his 'wildering shriek--'Lenore!'\n    When, lo! the Dove broke in upon his cry--\n    She, too, had found a voice for agony;\n    Calmly it fell from heaven's cerulean shore:\n    'Lenore! Lenore! forever--evermore!'\n\n    Soon as the Raven heard the silvery tones,\n    Lulling as gush of mountain-cradled stream,\n    With maddened plunge he fell to rise no more,\n    And, in the sweep of his Plutonian wings,\n    Dashed to the earth the bust of Pallas fair.\n    The haughty brow lay humbled in the dust,\n    O'ershadowed by the terror-woven wings\n    Of that wild Raven, as by some dark pall.\n    Lift up poor Pallas! bathe her fainting brow\n    With drops of dewy chrism! take the beak\n    Of the false Raven from her sinking soul!\n    Oh, let the Faith Dove nestle in her heart,\n    Her haughty reason low at Jesu's feet,\n    While humble as a child she cons the lore:\n    'The loved, the lost, forever--evermore!'\n\n    As if to win me to the crucifix,\n    The Dove would flutter there, then seek my breast.\n    The heart must feel its utter orphanage,\n    Before it makes the cross its dearest hope!\n    I knelt before the holy martyred form,\n    The perfect Victim given in perfect love,\n    The highest symbol of the highest Power,\n    _Self-abnegation perfected in God_!\n    Circling the brow like diadem, there shone\n    Each letter pierced with thorns and dyed in blood,\n    Yet dazzling vision with the hopes of heaven:\n    'I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE!'\n    Upon the outstretched hands, mangled and torn,\n    I found that mighty truth the heart divines,\n    Which strews our midnight thick with stars, solves doubts,\n    And makes the chasm of the yawning grave\n    The womb of higher life, in which the lost\n    Are gently rocked into their angel forms--\n    That truth of mystic rapture--'GOD IS LOVE!'\n\n    Still chants the snowy DOVE from heaven's shore:\n    'LENORE! LENORE! FOREVER! EVERMORE!'\n\n\n\n\nTHE MISSISSIPPI RIVER AND ITS PECULIARITIES.\n\nFew of the people of the North have ever inquisitively considered the\nMississippi River, and as a consequence its numerous peculiarities are\nnot generally known. Indeed, its only characteristic features are\nsupposed to be immensity of proportions rather than any specific\nvariation from the universal nature of rivers. Many there are that have\nnever seen the river, and have conceptions of its appearance merely in\nimagination; others have been more fortunate, have crossed its turbid\nflood, or have been borne upon its noble bosom the full breadth of the\nland, from beautiful Minnesota to its great reservoir in the South, the\nGulf of Mexico. As the result of this experience, great have been the\nsensations of satisfaction or disappointment. Many have turned away with\ntheir extravagant anticipations materially chagrined. This might be\nexpected in a casual observer. It is true, some portions of the\nMississippi do not present that vastness which a person would very\nnaturally expect, having previously accepted literally the figurative\nappellations that have been applied to it. The Mississippi is not\nsuperficially a great stream, but when it is recognized as the mighty\nconduit of the surplus waters of fifty large streams, some of which are\nas large as itself, besides receiving innumerable of less\npretensions--when we consider, too, the great physical phenomena which\nit presents in its turbid waters, its islands, its bars, and its bayous,\nits vast banks of alluvial deposit, its omnipotent force, and the signal\nfutility of all human endeavors to control it, in this phase is it truly\nthe 'Father of Waters,' and 'the most wonderful of rivers.'\n\nIn a commercial point of view is the Mississippi equally as remarkable\nas in its physical presentations. It is the aorta through which, from\nthe heart of the nation, flow the bountiful returns of industrious and\nproductive labor, which thus find an outlet to all parts of the world,\nopening an avenue of trade for millions of energetic men and fertile\nacres. Thus not only is it the life-supporting, but as well the\nlife-imparting artery of a great section of the republic.\n\nBut it is unnecessary to speak of the commercial importance of the\nriver. This is patent to everybody. Let us, however, unfold some of its\nremarkable and singular phenomena, which have never occurred to many,\nand may at this particular time be of interest to all, even those who\nhave given the subject some study. Let us first briefly glance at its\nhistory.\n\nIn 1539, Ferdinand de Soto, Governor of Cuba, leaving that island in\ncharge of his wife, set sail for Florida, where he soon safely\ndisembarked, and sent his ships back, in order to leave no opportunity\nfor relentment in the stern resolves of his followers. After a somewhat\nerratic journey, on his way passing through Georgia, Alabama, and\nNorthern Mississippi, he struck the 'Great River' at the Lower Chickasaw\nBluffs, as they are still called, and upon which now stands the city of\nMemphis. The expedition crossed the river at that point, and spent some\ntime in exploring the country beyond, until they found themselves upon\nthe White River, about two hundred miles from its entrance into the\nMississippi. From there a small expedition set out toward the Missouri,\nbut soon returned, bringing an unfavorable report. From the White the\nexpedition moved toward the hot springs and saline confluents of the\nWashita. In this neighborhood they wintered. In the spring of 1542, De\nSoto and his followers descended the Washita in canoes, but became\nentangled in the bayous and marshes of the Red River, to which the\nWashita, through the Black, is tributary. At length, however, they\nreached the Mississippi. Here a number of explorations were conducted,\nbut with no success as regards the object of the expedition, a search of\ngain. It was in the midst of these explorations, at the mouth of the\nRed, while surrounded by the most implacable Indian hostility, a\nmalignant fever seized the spirit and head of the enterprise, and on May\n21st, 1542, De Soto died. Amid the sorrows of the moment and fears of\nthe future, his body was wrapped in a mantle, and sunk in the middle of\nthe river. A requiem broke the midnight gloom, and the morning rose upon\nthe consternation of the survivors. It has indeed been aptly said, that\nDe Soto 'sought for gold, but found nothing so great as his burial\nplace.'\n\nThe men now looked about them for a new leader. Their choice fell upon\nLuis de Moscoso. This man was without enterprise or capacity. After\nenduring every calamity, the party built seven brigantines, and in\nseventeen days, July, 1543, passed out of the mouth of the river, and\nfollowed the coast toward the east. Out of six hundred, but few over\nthree hundred ever returned to Cuba.\n\nFrom the expedition of De Soto more than a century elapsed before any\nfurther discoveries were made. In May, 1673, Marquette, a priest, and\nJolliet, a trader, and five men, made some explorations of the river.\n\nThe great work of discovery was reserved for Robert Cavelier de la\nSalle, a Frenchman. By his commands, Father Louis Hennepin made the\ndiscovery of the Upper Mississippi, as far as the Falls of St. Anthony.\nIn January, 1682, La Salle himself, with twenty-three Frenchmen and\neighteen Indians, set out for the exploration of the Lower Mississippi,\nentering the river from the Illinois, and descending it until he\narrived at the Passes of the Delta. Here, to his surprise, he found the\nriver divided into three channels. A party was sent by each, La Salle\ntaking the western, and on April 9th the open sea was reached. The usual\nceremonies attendant upon any great discovery were repeated here.\n\nEnlivened by success, the party returned to Quebec. La Salle returned to\nFrance, and in 1684, aided by his Government, set sail with four\nvessels, for the discovery of the river from the sea. In this he was\nunsuccessful. After encountering several storms and losing one of his\nvessels, the expedition entered St. Louis Bay (St. Bernard) on the coast\nof Texas. The party disembarked, one of the vessels returned to France,\nand the others were lost on the coast. Thus cut off, La Salle made every\neffort to discover the river by land; but in every attempt he failed. At\nlength he was assassinated by one of his followers on the 19th of March,\n1687. Thus terminated the career of the explorer of the Mississippi.\n\nThe discovery of the mouth of the river from the sea, was an event of\nsome years later, and was consummated by Iberville, in 1699. This person\nspent some time in navigating the river and the waters adjacent to its\nmouth. His brother, Bienville, succeeded him in these enterprises. A few\nyears later, and we find settlements springing up upon the banks of the\nriver. Since that time it has attracted a numerous population, and\nto-day, though desolated in parts by the contentions of armies, there is\ncertainty in the belief that at some time these people of the great\nriver will wield a mighty power in the political and commercial destiny\nof the American continent.\n\nThe Mississippi proper rises in the State of Minnesota, about 47 deg. and\nsome minutes north latitude, and 94 deg. 54' longitude west, at an elevation\nof sixteen hundred and eighty feet above the level of the Gulf of\nMexico, and distant from it two thousand eight hundred and ninety-six\nmiles, its utmost length, upon the summit of Hauteurs de Terre, the\ndividing ridge between the rivulets confluent to itself and those to the\nRed River of the North. Its first appearance is a tiny pool, fed by\nwaters trickling from the neighboring hills. The surplus waters of this\nlittle pool are discharged by a small brook, threading its way among a\nmultitude of very small lakes, until it gathers sufficient water, and\nsoon forms a larger lake. From here a second rivulet, impelled along a\nrapid declination, rushes with violent impetuosity for some miles, and\nsubsides in Lake Itasca. Thence, with a more regular motion, until it\nreaches Lake Cass, from whence taking a mainly southeasterly course, a\ndistance of nearly seven hundred miles, it reaches the Falls of St.\nAnthony. Here the river makes in a few miles a descent of sixteen feet.\nFrom this point to the Gulf, navigation is without further interruption,\nand the wonders of the Mississippi begin.\n\nIt is not possible to give, with complete exactness, the outlines of the\nimmense valley drained by the Mississippi, yet, with the assistance of\naccurate surveys, we can make an approximation, to say the least, which\nwill convey some idea of the physical necessity of the river to the vast\narea through the centre of which it takes its course.\n\nWe will say:\n\n  From the highest point of land\n  between the mouth of the\n  Atchafalaya and Mississippi\n  Rivers, dividing the headwaters\n  of their confluents; thence\n  along the dividing ridge of tributaries\n  confluent to the Sabine\n  and other Texas streams from\n  those of the Red, in a north-westerly\n  course, to the Rocky\n  Mountains, thence taking a line\n  separating the headwaters of\n  the Red, Arkansas, and tributary\n  streams, on the east, from\n  the Rio Grande and tributaries\n  toward the south, and the Colorado   _Miles._\n  toward the west, say,                   1,300\n\n  Thence, pursuing the dividing\n  summit of the Rocky Mountains,\n  to the Marias, tributary\n  to the Missouri, in Dakota, say,         700\n\n  Thence, including the headwaters\n  of the Missouri, and taking\n  direction southeasterly,\n  dividing the tributaries of the\n  Red River of the North from\n  those of the Missouri to the\n  source of the Minnesota; thence\n  northeasterly, dividing the rivulets\n  of the head lakes, Itasca,\n  Cass, etc., from those confluent\n  to the Red River of the North,\n  separating the headwaters of\n  the St. Croix from currents tributary\n  to Lake Superior; thence\n  embracing the confluent streams\n  to the Mississippi in Wisconsin,\n  Northern Illinois, and Indiana,\n  to the Kankakee branch of the\n  Illinois, say,                          2,000\n\n  Thence, dividing the streams of\n  the Lakes from those emptying\n  into the Ohio as far as the extreme\n  source of the Alleghany,\n  say,                                       400\n\n  Thence along the dividing summit\n  of the Atlantic slope to the\n  source of the Tennessee; thence\n  dividing the streams tending\n  toward the Gulf, to the mouth\n  of the Mississippi, and thence\n  to starting point, say,                   1,700\n                                           ______\n  Making an aggregate circuit of           6,100\n\nWithin this extensive limit we find, from surveys, the following\naggregate area in square miles, estimated by valleys:\n\n                                         _Square Miles._\n\n  The valley of the Ohio,                   200,000\n\n  The valley of the Mississippi\n  proper,                                   180,000\n\n  The valley of the Missouri,               500,000\n\n  The valley of the Lower Mississippi,      330,000\n                                            _______\n                             Total area,    1,210,000\n\nAs a natural consequence of the drainage of this immense area, the\nMississippi receives into its waters a large amount of suspended earthy\nmatter. This, however, does not very strikingly appear on the upper\nriver, its own banks and those of its tributaries being more of a\ngravelly character and less friable than lower down. The gravity of\nparticles, therefore, worn from the bed and sides of the channel above,\nunless the current be exceedingly strong, is greater than the buoyant\ncapacity of the water, and falls to the bottom, along which, sometimes,\nit is forced by the abrasion of the water, until it meets some\nobstruction, which gathers the particles into shoal formations. This\nfact causes much inconvenience in the navigation of the upper rivers.\n\nIt is not until we reach the confluence of the streams of Southern\nIllinois and Missouri, that the sediment of the river becomes striking.\nThose streams, freighted with the rich loam and vegetable matter of the\nprairies of the east and west, soon change entirely the appearance of\nthe Mississippi. Above the Missouri, the river is but slightly tinged;\nand indeed, after that great current enters, for some distance the two\nrun side by side in the same channel, and yet are divided by a very\ndistinct line of demarcation. It is only after the frequent sinuosities\nof the channel, that the two waters are thrown into each other and\nfairly blend. The sedimentary condition of the Missouri is so great that\ndrift floating upon its muddy surface, by accretion becomes so heavily\nladen with earthy matter that it sinks to the bottom. This precipitation\nof drift has taken place to such an extent, that the bed of the Missouri\nis in many places completely covered to a great depth by immense fields\nof logs. Of all the silt thrown into the Mississippi, the Missouri\nfurnishes about one third.\n\nAfter receiving the Missouri, next enters the Ohio. The water of this\nriver is less impregnated than the Missouri, though not by any means\nfree from silt. The country through which it flows is mountainous, and\nthe soil hard, and does not afford the same facility of abrasive action\nas that of the other rivers.\n\nFrom the mouth of the Ohio, the Mississippi pursues a course of nearly\nfour hundred miles, when it receives the turbid waters of the White and\nArkansas Rivers. In the intervening distance a large number of small\ncurrents, more or less largely sedimentary, according to the character\nof the country through which they run, enter the Mississippi, in the\naggregate adding materially to the sediment of the receiving stream. The\nWhite and Arkansas carry in their waters a large amount of\nunprecipitated matter. In this vicinity, too, sets in that singular\nsystem of natural safeguards of the surrounding country, the bayous. The\ncountry here also changes its appearance, becoming flat and swampy, and\nin some parts attaining but a few feet above the flood of the river,\nwhereas in other parts, as we approach the Gulf, the country is even\nlower than the river.\n\nThe miasmatic and poisonous water of the Yazoo next enters, about ten\nmiles above Vicksburg. This river is more deeply impregnated with a\ncertain kind of impurities than any other tributary of the Mississippi.\nThe waters are green and slimy, and almost sticky with vegetable and\nanimal decomposition. During the hot season the water is certain\ndisease, if taken into the stomach. The name is of Indian origin, and\nsignifies 'River of Death.' The Yazoo receives its supply from bayous\nand swamps, though it has several considerable tributaries.\n\nBelow the Yazoo, on the west side, enters the Red. The name indicates\nthe peculiar caste of its water. This river carries with it the washings\nof an extensive area of prairies and swamps, and is the last of the\ngreat tributaries. Hence the tendency of streams is directly to the\nGulf, and that network of lateral branches, of which we will hereafter\nspeak, begins.\n\nWe have only considered the most prominent tributaries: the sediment\nalso brought down by the numerous smaller streams is very great, and\nmakes great additions to the immense buoyant matter of the Mississippi.\n\nThe river itself from its own banks scours the larger portion of the\nsediment it contains; and in so gigantic a scale is this carried on,\nthat it can be seen without the exercise of any very remarkable powers\nof sight. It is not by the imperceptible degrees usually at work in\nother streams, but often involves in its execution many acres of\nadjoining land. It will be interesting to consider this more fully.\n\nBy a curious freak of nature, the tendency of the channel of the\nMississippi is always toward one or the other of its banks, being\ninfluenced by the direction of its bends. The principle is one of nicely\nregulated refraction. If the river were perfectly straight, the gravity\nand inertia of its waters would move in a right line, with a velocity\nbeyond all control. But we find the river very sinuous, and the momentum\nof current consequently lessened. For example, striking in an arm of the\nriver, by the inertia of the moving volume, the water is thrown, and\nwith less velocity, upon the opposite bank, which it pursues until it\nmeets another repellent obstacle, from which it refracts, taking\ndirection again for the other side. Above the Missouri, the river is\nprincipally directed by the natural trough of the valley. Below this,\nhowever, the channel is purely the work of the river itself, shaped\naccording to the necessities of sudden changes or obstructions. This is\nproven by the large number of old and dry beds of the river frequently\nmet with, the channel having been diverted in a new direction by the\naccumulation of sediment and drift which it had not the momentum to\nforce out.\n\nWhere the gravity of the greatest volume and momentum of water falls\nupon the bed of the river, there is described the thread of the channel,\nand all submerged space outside of this, though in the river, acts as a\nkind of reservoir, where eddies the surplus water until taken up by the\ncurrent. And it always happens, where the channel takes one bend of the\nbed, a corresponding tongue of shallow water faces the indenture. Where\nthe river, by some inexplicable cause, has been thrown from its regular\nchannel, or its volume of water embarrassed by some difficulties along\nthe banks, the effect is immediately perceived upon the neighboring\nbank. The column of water thus impinged against it at once acts upon the\nbank, and, singularly enough, exerts its strongest abrasive action at\nthe bottom, undermining the bank, which soon gives way, and instead of\ntoppling forward, it noiselessly slides beneath the water and\ndisappears. Acres of land have thus been carried away in an incredibly\nshort time, and without the slightest disruption of the serene flow of\nthe mighty current.\n\nThis carrying away of the banks, immense as is the amount of earth\nthrown into the waters of the river, has no sensible effect in blocking\nor directing the current, though it imperceptibly raises the channel.\nThe force of the water does not permit its entire settlement in\nquantities at any one place, but distributes it along the bottom and\nshores below. Were this not the case, it is easily to be seen, the\nabrasion of the river banks would be greatly increased, and the\ndestruction of the bordering lands immense.\n\nA singular feature resulting from the above may here be mentioned. By\npursuing the course of the river, a short distance below, on the\nopposite bank, it will be seen that a large quantity of the earth\nintroduced into the current by the falling of the banks, has been thrown\nup in large masses, forming new land, which, in a few seasons, becomes\narable. That which is not thus deposited, as already stated, is\ntransported below, dropping here and there on the way, until what is\nleft reaches the Gulf, and is precipitated upon the 'bars' and 'delta,'\nat the mouth. It not unfrequently happens that planters along the river\nfind themselves suddenly deprived of some of their acres, while one\nalmost opposite finds himself as unexpectedly blessed with a bountiful\nincrease of his domain.\n\nFrom causes almost similar to those given to explain the sudden and\ndisastrous changes of the channel of the river, are also produced those\nsingular shortenings, known as 'cut-offs,' which are so frequently met\nwith on the Mississippi. At a certain point the force of the current is\nturned out of its path and impinged against a neck of land, that has,\nafter years of resistance, been worn down to an exceedingly small\nbreadth. Possibly the river has merely worn an arm in its side, leaving\nan extensive bulge standing out in the river, and connected with the\nmainland by an isthmus. The river striking in this arm, and not having\nsufficient scope to rebound toward the other bank, is thrown into a\nrotary motion, forming almost a whirlpool. The action of this motion\nupon the banks soon reduces the connecting neck, which separates and\nblocks the waters, until, at last, no longer able to cope with the great\nweight resting against it, it gives way, and the river divides itself\nbetween this new and the old channel.\n\nNor do these remarkable instances of abrasive action constitute the\nentire washing from the banks. The whole length of the river is subject\nto a continual deposit and taking up of the silt, according to the\nbuoyant capacity of the water. This, too, is so well regulated that the\nquantity of earthy matter held in solution is very nearly the same,\nbeing proportioned to the force of the current. For instance, if the\nriver receive more earth than it can sustain, the surplus sediment\ndrops upon the bottom or is forced up upon the sides. If the river be\nsubject to a rise, a proportionate quantity of the dropped sediment is\nagain taken up, and carried along or deposited again, according to the\ncapacity of the water. By this means a well-established average of silt\nis at all times found buoyant in the river.\n\nHaving briefly examined the sedimentary character of the Mississippi,\nsome investigations as to the proportion of sediment to water may be of\ninterest. And it is well to state here that a mean stage of flow is\ntaken as the basis upon which to start the experiments. The experiments\nand analysis of the water were made by Professor Riddell, at intervals\nof three days, from May 21st to August 13, 1846, and reported to the\nAssociation of American Geologists and Naturalists.\n\nThe water was taken in a pail from the river in front of the city of New\nOrleans, where the current is rather swift. That portion of the river\ncontains a fair average of sedimentary matter, and it is sufficiently\ndistant from the _embouchure_ of the last principal tributary to allow\nits water to mix well with that of the Mississippi.\n\n     'The temperature,' says the Professor, 'was observed at the time,\n     and the height of the river determined. Some minutes after, the\n     pail of water was agitated, and two samples of one pint each\n     measured out. The measure graduated by weighing at 60 degrees\n     Fahrenheit 7,295.581 grains of distilled water. After standing a\n     day or two, the matter mechanically suspended would subside to the\n     bottom. Nearly two thirds of the clear supernatant liquid was next\n     decanted, while the remaining water, along with the sediment, was\n     in each instance poured upon a double filter, the two parts of\n     which had previously been agitated, to be of equal weight. The\n     filters were numbered and laid aside, and ultimately dried in the\n     sunshine, under like circumstances, in two parcels, one embracing\n     the experiments from May 22 to July 15, the other from July 17 to\n     August 13. The difference in weight between the two parts of each\n     double filter was then carefully ascertained, and as to the inner\n     filter alone the sediment was attached, its excess of weight\n     indicated the amount of sediment.'\n\nAs the table may be interesting, showing the height and temperature of\nthe water as well as the result of the experiments at the different\ntimes, we introduce it complete:\n\nTABLE _showing the Quantity of Sediment contained in the Water\nof the Mississippi River_.\n\n  Date of      Height    Temperature.  Grains of Sediment\n  Experiment.  of River                in a Pint of\n               above                   Water.\n               Low\n               Water.\n\n  1846.       ft.  in.          deg.           A.  B.\n  May 21       10  11         72         6.66  7.00\n   \"  25       10  11         73         9.08  9.12\n   \"  27       10  10         78         7.80  9.00\n   \"  29       11   0         74         7.30  8.10\n  June 2       11   1         75         4.80  5.45\n   \"   4       11   1         75         7.87  6.10\n   \"   6       11   4         75         4.60  4.90\n   \"   8       11   4         75.5       5.48  5.60\n   \"  10       10   4         76         6.70  6.80\n   \"  12       10   8         76         6.50  6.30\n   \"  14       10   5         76.5       6.00  6.00\n   \"  16       10   4         76.5       6.47  6.15\n   \"  20       10   4         77         7.08  7.40\n   \"  22       10   2         77         9.88  9.00\n   \"  24        9   8         77         8.40  8.48\n   \"  26        8   9         77.5       8.25  8.78\n   \"  28        8   0         79         9.10  9.58\n  July 1        7   2         79.5       9.15  9.25\n  July 3        7   2         79.5       9.63  10.00\n   \"   6        6   2         81         8.20  7.57\n   \"   8        6   0         81         7.30  6.96\n   \"  10        6   1         81         6.12  6.28\n   \"  13        5   9         82         7.72  7.30\n   \"  15        5  10         82         6.67  6.60\n   \"  17        5  10         82         4.45  4.57\n   \"  20        5   4         82         6.07  5.75\n   \"  24        3  10         84         5.76  5.72\n   \"  27        3   1         84         4.77  4.60\n   \"  29        3  11         84.5       4.28  4.13\n  Aug. 1        2   6         85         4.40  4.44\n   \"   3        2   0         84         3.18  3.34\n   \"   5        1   9         83         3.56  3.40\n   \"   7        1   5         83         2.85  2.85\n   \"  10        1   6         83         3.03  2.92\n   \"  13        2   8         84         2.97  3.00\n\n  The mean average of column A. is 6.32.\n   \"   \"      \"     \"    \"   B. is 6.30.\n\n  Transcriber's note: This table has been reproduced exactly as in the\n  original.\n\n\n'By comparison with distilled water,' says the same, 'the specific\ngravity of the filtered river water we found to be 1.823; pint of such\nwater at 60 deg. weighs 7,297.40.' Engineer Forehay says the sediment is 1\nto 1,800 by weight, or 1 in 3,000 by volume.\n\nProfessor Riddell also comes to the following conclusions, after an\nanalytic investigation of the sediment. He took one hundred grains from\nthe river margin, dried it at 212 deg. Fahrenheit, before weighing, and\nfound it to contain:\n\n  _Grains._\n\n  Silica,         74.15\n  Alumina,         9.14\n  Oxide of iron,   4.56\n  Lime,            2.08\n  Magnesia,        1.52\n  Manganese,       0.04\n  Potassa,}        not determined\n  Soda,   }\n  Phosphoric acid, 0.44\n  Sulphuric acid,  0.07\n  Carbonic acid,   0.74\n  Chlorine,        0.01\n  Water,           3.12\n  Organic matter,  3.10\n                  -----\n  Total,          98.97\n\nThe existence of so large a quantity of sediment in the water of the\nMississippi, leads to divers formations in its bed. These formations are\nprincipally 'bars' and 'battures.' The banks are also much affected.\n\nWhen the water of the river, aided by the current, has attained its full\ncapacity of buoyant earth, as we have already said, the excess falls to\nthe bottom. Instead, however, of remaining permanently where it first\nlodged, which would soon fill up the channel and cause the river to\noverflow, the scouring of the water on the bottom forces a large portion\nalong with the current, though it be not suspended. Pursuing its course\nfor a while, some irregularity or obstruction falls in the way--a sunken\nlog, perhaps. This obstacle checks the progress of the moving earth--it\naccumulates; the next wave brings down more--the accumulation becomes\ngreater; until, in the course of a few years, there is a vast field of\ndeposit, and a 'bar' is formed. These 'bars' often divert the channel,\nand occasion the immense washings before alluded to.\n\nBars are generally found close to the banks, though there are examples\nin which they extend in a transverse direction to the current. Bars of\nthis kind very much embarrass and endanger navigation in low water. At\nHelena, Arkansas, there is an instance of a transverse bar, upon which,\nin October, the water is less than six feet. These bars are formed of\nsand, which seems to have been the heavier and less buoyant of the\ncomponents of the earth thrown into the current by abrasion, the lighter\nportions having been separated by the water and carried off.\n\nIt will not be necessary to consider further the subject of bars in the\nriver, but those at its mouth deserve some attention. The subject is one\nthat has led to much theorizing, study, and fear--the latter\nparticularly, from an ill-founded supposition that they threaten to cut\noff navigation into the Gulf.\n\nNear its entrance into the Gulf, the Mississippi distributes its waters\nthrough five outlets, termed passes, and consequently has as many\nmouths. These are termed Pass a l'Outre, Northeast, Southeast, South,\nand Southwest. They differ in length, ranging from three to nine miles.\nThey also all afford sufficient depth of water for commercial purposes,\nexcept at their mouths, which are obstructed by bars. The depth of water\nupon one of these is sufficient to pass large vessels; a second, vessels\nof less size; and the rest are not navigable at all, as regards\nsea-going vessels. These bars, too, are continually changing, according\nto the winds or the currents of the river. It is a rather singular fact\nthat when one of the navigable passes becomes blocked, the river is\ncertain to force a channel of navigable depth through one of the\nothers, previously not in use; so that at no one time are all the passes\nclosed.\n\nIn looking into the past, and noticing the changes, it is recorded that\nin 1720, of all the passes the South Pass was the only one navigable. In\n1730, there was a depth of from twelve to fifteen feet, according to the\nwinds, and at another time even seventeen feet was known. In 1804, upon\nthe statement of Major Stoddard, written at that date, the East Pass,\ncalled the Balize, had then about seventeen feet of water on the bar,\nand was the one usually navigated. The South Pass was formerly of equal\ndepth, but was then gradually filling up. (This pass, at present, 1864,\nis not at all navigated.) The Southwest Pass had from eleven to twelve\nfeet of water. The Northeast and Southeast Passes were traversed only by\nsmall craft. Since 1830 the Southwest Pass has been gaining depth. This\nand Pass a l'Outre are now the only two out of the five of sufficient\ndepth to admit the crossing of the larger class of vessels. The former,\nhowever, is the one in most general use. All the other passes, with the\nexception of the two mentioned, have been abandoned.\n\nIn regard to the changes and numerous singular formations at the mouths\nof the Mississippi, we give a statement made by William Talbot, for\ntwenty-five years a resident of the Balize. He says:\n\n     'The bars at the various passes change very often. The channel\n     sometimes changes two and three times in a season. Occasionally one\n     gale of wind will change the channel. The bars make to the seaward\n     every year. The Southwest Pass is now the main outlet used. It has\n     been so only for three years, as at that time there was as much\n     water in the Northeast Pass as in it. The Southeast Pass was the\n     main ship channel twenty years ago; there is only about six feet of\n     water in that pass now; and where it was deepest then, there are\n     only a few inches of water at this time. The visible shores of the\n     river have made out into the Gulf two or three miles within my\n     memory. Besides the deposits of mud and sand, which form the bars,\n     there frequently rise up bumps, or mounds, near the channel, which\n     divert its course. These bumps are supposed to be the production of\n     salt springs, and sometimes are formed in a very few days. They\n     sometimes rise four or five feet above the surface of the water.'\n     He 'knew one instance when some bricks, that were thrown overboard\n     from a vessel outside the bar, in three fathoms of water, were\n     raised above the surface by one of these banks, and were taken to\n     the Balize, and used in building chimneys. In another instance, an\n     anchor, which was lost from a vessel, was lifted out of the water,\n     so that it was taken ashore. About twenty years ago, a sloop, used\n     as a lighter, was lost outside the bar in a gale of wind; several\n     years afterward she was raised by one of these strange formations,\n     and her cargo was taken out of her.'\n\nWe may say the bumps of which Mr. Talbot speaks are termed 'mud bumps,'\nfrom the fact of being composed of sediment. They present a curious\nspectacle as seen from a passing steamer. They are undoubtedly the\nresult of subterranean pressure, but from what cause, whether volcanic,\nor the influence of the sea or river, or both, has not been determined.\nMany speculations have been entered into in regard to these phenomena,\nbut as yet without fruitful result.\n\nLeaving this digression, we proceed to notice that the theories set up\nto explain the causes of the bars at the mouth of the river, have been\nnumerous and various. Some suppose them to be the result of the water of\nthe river meeting the opposing force of the Gulf waves, checking the\ncurrent, and causing a precipitation of the suspended sediment. Others\nare of the opinion that the bars are entirely the effect of marine\naction, and endeavor to show that the immense inward flow of the Gulf\nwashes up from its bed the vast accumulations that are continually\nforming in the way of navigation.\n\nAfter a personal observation and investigation, and as well after\nfrequent and free consultation with others, we are persuaded to\ndiscredit the above-mentioned theories. The resistance of the Gulf does\nnot form the bars, though it exerts an influence. The immense volume and\nforce of water ejected from the river receives no immediate repellent\naction from the Gulf, but extends into it many miles without the least\nsigns of disturbance, as may be plainly discovered even in the most\ncasual observation. It is known as well that the water of the river\nremains perfectly palatable at a very close proximity to the sea. This\nis a very good evidence of the superior force of the river's current.\nThe two volumes of water mix a considerable distance out at sea.\n\nAn able engineer states that, upon examination, he found a column of\nfresh water seven feet deep and seven thousand feet wide, and discovered\nsalt water at eight feet below the surface. As the result of his\ninvestigations, he divides the water into three strata, as follows:\n\n1. Fresh water, running out at the top with a velocity of three miles an\nhour.\n\n2. Salt water, beneath the fresh, also running out at about the same\nvelocity.\n\n3. A reflex flow of salt water, running in slowly at the bottom.\n\nIt is this inward current, he thinks, that produces the deposit, and in\ndoing so carries with it no small degree of sea drift. The influx of the\nlower column flowing up stream, after it passes the dead point, is\nallowed time and opportunity for the sediment to deposit. The principle\nof the reflex current is somewhat that of an eddy, not only produced by\nthe conflict of two opposing bodies of water, but also is much\ninfluenced in the under currents by the multitude of estuaries presented\nby the irregular sea front of the coast.\n\nA gentleman, who seems to have taken a very statistical view of these\nbars, makes the following business-like and curious calculation as to\ntheir immensity: we introduce it on account of its originality. He says\nthe average quantity of water discharged per second is five hundred and\nten thousand cubic feet. The quantity of salt suspended, one in three\nthousand by volume. The quantity of mud discharged, one hundred and\nseventy cubic feet per second. Considering seventeen cubic feet equal to\none ton, the daily discharge of mud is eight hundred and sixty-four\nthousand tons, and would require a fleet of seventeen hundred and\ntwenty-eight ships, of five hundred tons each, to transport the average\ndaily discharge. And to lift this immense quantity of matter, it would\nrequire about seven hundred and seventy-one dredging machines, sixteen\nhorse power, with a capacity of labor amounting to one hundred and forty\ntons, working eight hours.\n\nAnother class of sedimentary formations met with along the banks of the\nMississippi are the battures. There is one remarkable instance of these\nin front of New Orleans, which has led to much private dispute, and even\npublic disturbance, as to ownership. Within sixty years, in front of the\nSecond Municipality of the city, the amount of alluvial formations\nsusceptible of private ownership were worth over five millions of\ndollars, that is, nearly one hundred thousand dollars per annum, and the\ncauses which have produced them are still at work, and will probably\nremain so. As far back as 1847 these remarks were made upon the subject:\n'The value of the annual alluvial deposits in front of the Second\nMunicipality now is not less than two hundred thousand dollars, and,\nwith the exception of the batture between the Faubourg St. Mary line and\nLacourse street, all belongs to this municipality.' 'Such a source of\nwealth was never possessed by any city before. In truth, it may be said\nthat nature is our taxgatherer, levying by her immutable laws tribute\nfrom the banks of rivers and from the summits of mountains thousands of\nmiles distant to enrich, improve, and adorn our favored city.' There are\nnumerous other examples of the kind going on elsewhere along the river.\n\nBut the greatest exhibition of the wonderful character of the\nMississippi, and in which all its singular effects are most distinctly\nshown, is in its Delta. For a long succession of years the immense\nquantities of sediment, of which we have already spoken, had gradually\nprecipitated upon this portion of the river until it reached the\nsurface. Drift now lodged upon it: the decomposition of drift and the\naccumulation of other vegetable matter soon furnished a suitable bed for\nthe growth of a marine vegetation, and now a vast area, a level expanse\nof waste land and marsh, is seen extending a great distance into the\nGulf, ramified here and there by the outlets of the river. Indeed, so\nrapid have been these formations, that upon the testimony of history,\nthe Mississippi River to-day is twenty-nine miles farther in the Gulf\nthan it was in 1754.\n\nMr. Forshey, an engineer, remarks that 'the superficial area of the true\nDelta formation of the Mississippi, or below Baton Rouge, where the last\nbluffs are found, is about fifteen thousand square miles, constituting a\nregion of mean width seventy-five miles, and mean length two hundred\nmiles. Probable depth of alluvion is about one fifth of a mile, by\ninference from the depth of the Gulf of Mexico.' In the vicinity of New\nOrleans, boring to a depth of two hundred feet, fossils, such as shells,\nbones, etc., have been found. And at thirty feet specimens of pottery\nand other evidences of Indian habitation have been discovered. The\nfoundation upon which rest the alluvial formations has been found to\nconsist of a hard blue silicious clay, closely resembling that met with\nin the bed of the Mississippi. The most recent of the alluvial fields of\nthe Delta have been constituted a parish, termed Plaquemine. In 1800,\naccording to one authority, there were but very few acres in cultivation\nin the entire parish. Since leveeing above, the deposit has been\nextremely rapid, until now we find some excellent plantations in\nPlaquemine. Fifty miles below New Orleans the tillable land is nearly a\nmile in width; below there, it becomes gradually less, until it is lost\nin the Gulf. Still the accumulations are going on, and it is impossible\neven to surmise what changes the great river may yet effect in the\nfuture geography of this section of the American continent.\n\nConsidering the multitude of streams and vastness of area drained by the\nMississippi, it is natural to suppose the river is much affected in the\nstage of its water by the seasons. We have seen that the meltings of the\nRocky Mountain snows, the mountain rills of the Alleghanies, the waters\nof the valleys of the upper river, of the Missouri, of the Ohio, the\nArkansas, the Yazoo, and the Red, all find outlet through this one\nstream. There are certain seasons in the year when all these widely\ndistant localities are subject to a gradual approach of warmth from the\nsouth, until they arrive at a sort of climatic average. This creates a\nmaximum of the supply of water. The inverse then takes place, and a\nminimum results. For instance, in the latter part of December, the lower\nlatitudes of the Mississippi begin to experience their annual rains.\nThese by degrees tend northward as the season advances. In March\ncommence the thaws of the southern borders of the zone of snow and ice;\nand during April, May, and June, it reaches to the most distant\ntributary fountain head. The river now is at its highest. The reverse\nthen sets in. All the tributaries have their excess, the heats of summer\nare at hand, drought and evaporation soon exhaust the surplus of the\nstreams, and the river is at its lowest.\n\nTo meet the great annual excess of water in the Mississippi, nature has\nprovided sure safeguards. These are termed bayous, and are found\neverywhere along the river, below the mouth of the Ohio. Additional\npreventives against inundation are the lagoons, or sea-water lakes, of\nthe coast. Into these bayous and lagoons, as the river becomes high, the\nexcess of water backs or flows. They are natural reservoirs, to ease the\nrise, and prevent the inevitable suddenness and danger which would\nresult without them. In these reservoirs the water rises or falls with\nthe river; and when the fall becomes permanent, the water in the\nbayous--the lagoons having outlet into the sea--falls with it, returning\ninto the main stream, and finding entrance into the Gulf, from which it\nhad been temporarily detained. Without the bayous the lands adjacent to\nthe Lower Mississippi would, with very few exceptions, be subject to an\nannual overflow, and be perfectly worthless for certain agricultural\npurposes. In summer the bayous in numerous instances become perfectly\ndry, and give a very singular effect to the appearance of the country.\n\nBelow the mouth of the Red River the tributaries of the Mississippi\ncease, and the entire volume of the river is attained. As a protection\nagainst serious consequences arising out of such an immense mass of\nwater, nature has again introduced a remedy. This consists in a number\nof lateral branches, which leave the river a short distance below the\nmouth of the Red, tending directly to the Gulf, through a continuous\nchain of conduits, lakes, and marshes.\n\nThe principal bayous, which exert so important a part in regulating the\nstage of this part of the river, are in length and distance from the\nGulf as follows:\n\n                                                       _Distance By River._\n                                                       _Miles._  _Miles._\n\n  Bayou La Fourche, from the Mississippi River to the Gulf,   100       180\n   \" Plaquemine,        \"               \"          \"           60       210\n   \" Manchac,           \"               \"          \"           50       220\n   \" Atchafalaya,       \"               \"          \"          110       300\n\nThe course of the bayous, it will be seen, have a more direct route than\nthe river. Their average width is one thousand feet, and fall twenty-two\nfeet. Their average velocity is about three and two tenths miles per\nhour. Though the rise of the river at Baton Rouge sometimes attains a\nheight of thirty feet, so great is the relieving capacity of these\nlateral branches, that at New Orleans the rise never exceeds twelve\nfeet. At Point a la Hache the difference between the highest and lowest\nstage is but six feet; at Fort Jackson, four feet, while it falls to low\nwater mark when it enters the sea.\n\nHaving briefly noted the peculiarities of the Mississippi, a few facts\nin recapitulation may place it in a more comprehensive attitude as\nregards its appearance and size. In the north, after leaving the Falls\nof St. Anthony, the river has but the characteristics of a single\nstream, but below the Ohio we find it combines the peculiarities of a\nnumber. The water here begins to show signs of almost a new nature and\ngreater density. The river develops into a much wider channel, and its\npeculiarities become more marked and impressive.\n\nStrange as it may seem, the greatest mean width of the Lower Mississippi\nis at the confluence of the Ohio, and from this point it gradually\nbecomes narrower, until it is but little more than half that width as it\ndraws near the Gulf. This gives the river a kind of funnel shape, and if\nit were not for the numerous bayous and lateral branches, which we have\nexplained, the most violent convulsion and devastation would arise. In\nthe United States Engineer Reports we find this statement:\n\n  The mean width of the Mississippi\n  River between the Ohio             _Feet._\n  and Arkansas Rivers,               4,500\n\n  Mean width between the Arkansas\n  and Red Rivers,                    4,100\n\n  Mean width between the Red\n  River and Donaldsonville,          3,000\n\n  Mean width between Donaldsonville\n  and the Gulf,                      2,500\n\nAbove the Red River the range between high and low water is about\nforty-five feet, and thence to the Gulf it gradually diminishes to zero.\n\nThe greatest velocity of current is about five and a half miles per hour\nduring floods, and about one and a half miles per hour during low water.\n\nThe river is above mean height from January to July, and below from\nAugust to December. The greatest height is attained from March to June,\nand the lowest from October to November.\n\nThe mud of the Mississippi is very yielding, insomuch that an allowance\nof several feet is often made where the draught of a vessel exceeds the\nclear depth of the water. We have heard of cases where steamers have\nploughed successfully through four feet of it.\n\nIt is singular, too, and exhibits still more clearly what we have said\nof deposits, that the lower river for the most part runs along the\nsummit of a ridge of its own formation, and annually this ridge is\nbecoming more elevated. The inland deposits are made by the bayous and\ntheir overflow. The lands close to the river are disproportionately\nhigher than those farther back. The average distance from the river to\nthe swamp is about two and a half miles. And the slope in some places\nsinks to a depression of eighteen feet to a mile. It is upon this strip\nof tillable earth that the river plantations are located. By a system of\ndrainage even much of the swamp lands now unconverted might soon be\nturned to profitable use.\n\nThe numerous islands and old channels of the Mississippi are also\nanother source of wonder to the traveller. The 'cut offs,' previously\nexplained, are mainly the cause of both. In the first instance, the\nriver forces its way by a new route, and joins the river below; this\nnecessarily detaches a certain amount of land from the main shore. As\nfor the second, after the river has taken this new route, its main\nabrasive action follows with it. The water in the old channel becomes\ncomparatively quiet, sediment is rapidly deposited, and in course of\ntime the old bed loses its identity, or becomes a beautiful lake,\nnumerous instances of which occur between the Ohio and the Red Rivers.\n\nAs the Mississippi reaches the neighborhood of the Balize the east banks\nslope to the sea level very rapidly, running off toward the end at a\ndeclination of three feet to a mile; after which, the land is soon lost\nin wet sea marsh, covered by tides. On the west side the land declines\nmore slowly, and in some places is deeply wooded. The chenieres begin\nwhere the declination ends, and the great reservoirs of the coast, the\nlakes and lagoons, begin.\n\nThe incessant changes in the channel and filling up of the Mississippi\npreclude the possibility of a table of distances mathematically\naccurate, yet we have taken from accepted authorities the number of\nmiles from the Gulf to the principal points along its banks. The table\nmay be of service to the many that are daily tending to the great Father\nof Rivers, and those at home may be able to form, perhaps, a better\nestimate of the immense length of the stream, by having before them\nthese figures:\n\nTABLE _of Distances and Altitudes on the Mississippi_.\n\n                                                           _Above level_\n  From the Gulf of Mexico                             _Miles.  of the sea_.\n  To New Orleans, La.,                                   110           10.5\n  \"  Donaldsonville, La.,                                188           ....\n  \"  Plaquemine, La.,                                    210           ....\n  \"  Baton Rouge, La.,                                   240           ....\n  \"  Port Hudson, La.,                                   263           ....\n  \"  Bayou Sara, La.,                                    275           ....\n  \"  Mouth of the Red River, La.,                        315             76\n  \"  Fort Adams, Miss.,                                  327           ....\n  \"  Natchez, Miss.,                                     387             86\n  \"  Grand Gulf, Miss.,                                  450           ....\n  \"  Warrenton, Miss.,                                   500           ....\n  \"  Vicksburg, Miss.,                                   512           ....\n  \"  Mouth of the Yazoo River, Miss.,                    522           ....\n  \"  Milliken's Bend, La.,                               538           ....\n  \"  Lake Providence, La.,                               588           ....\n  \"  Greenville, Miss.,                                  657           ....\n  \"  Napoleon, Ark., and mouth of the Arkansas River,    730           ....\n  \"  Mouth of White River, Ark.,                         756           ....\n  \"  Helena, Ark.,                                       838           ....\n  \"  Mouth of St. Francis River, Ark.,                   848           ....\n  \"  Memphis, Tenn.,                                     928           ....\n  \"  New Madrid, Mo.,                                  1,113           ....\n  \"  Columbus, Ky.,                                    1,167           ....\n  \"  Cairo, Ill., and mouth of Ohio River,             1,187            324\n  \"  Cape Girardeau, Mo.,                              1,237           ....\n  \"  St. Louis, Mo.,                                   1,388            382\n  \"  Mouth of the Illinois River,                      1,422           ....\n  \"  Upper Iowa River, Io.,                            1,984           ....\n  \"  Mouth of St. Peter's River, Minn.,                2,198            744\n  \"  Falls of St. Anthony, Minn.,                      2,206            856\n  \"  Lake Cass, Minn.,                                 2,761          1,402\n  \"  Itasca Lake, Minn.,                               2,890          1,575\n  \"  Springs on the summit of Hauteurs de Terre,       2,896          1,680\n\nThe Lower Mississippi presents another feature that should not be\nforgotten, and which sets forth a great design. Immense forests of\ncottonwood and ash are to be seen growing along its banks. These trees\nare of rapid growth, and afford excellent (in fact the best, with the\nexception of coal) fuel for steamers. Indeed, they constitute much the\ngreater portion of wood consumed in river navigation. So suitable is the\nrich alluvion of the river banks to the growth of these trees, that in\nten years they attain to a sufficient size for felling. Plantations\nlying uncultivated for a single year, in the second present a handsome\nyoung growth of cottonwood. This fact is now very well proven on the\nMississippi; the war has ruined agricultural labor almost entirely. No\napprehensions are ever felt by steamboat men on the subject of fuel; the\nsupply is inexhaustible and reproducing.\n\nThe other woods found upon the river, but not, let it be said, to the\nextent of the cottonwood or the ash, are the live and water oak, swamp\ndogwood, willow, myrtle, wild pecan, elm, and ash. The cypress tree is\nfound in extensive forests back from the river in the swamps. This tree\nattains an enormous height, and is without branches until attaining the\nvery top, and then they are short and crooked, presenting a very fine\nand sparse foliage. The wood of the cypress is very little used upon the\nriver, not, perhaps, in consequence of its inferiority of quality, but\nthe difficulty of access to it.\n\nIn conclusion, we cannot withhold a few words upon the singular typical\nsimilarity between the appearance of vegetation upon its banks and the\nriver itself. Gray forests of cypress, the blended foliage of the oak,\nthe cottonwood, and the ash, with a charming intermixture of that\nbeautiful parasitic evergreen, the mistletoe, above Vicksburg, suggest\nthe blooming grandeur of the stream. Below, the appearance of a new\nparasite, the Spanish moss, draping the trees with a cold, hoary-looking\nvegetation, casts a melancholy and matured dignity upon the scene. Like\nthe gray locks of age, it reminds the passer by of centuries gone, when\nthe red savage in his canoe toiled upon its turbid flood; it recalls the\nday of discovery, when De Soto and La Salle sought its mighty torrent in\nsearch of gain, and found death; and now looms before us the noblest\npicture of all, the existence of a maturing civilization upon its banks.\nAssociated thus with an ever-present suggestion of a remarkable and\never-forming antiquity, the Mississippi becomes indeed the wonder of\nwaters. Ponce de Leon, that most romantic of early Spanish explorers,\ntraversed the continent in search of a 'fountain of everlasting youth;'\nthe powerful republic of the West, has _found_ in the 'Father of Waters'\na fountain and a stream of everlasting, vigorous life, wealth, and\nconvenience.\n\n\n\n\nSKETCHES OF AMERICAN LIFE AND SCENERY.\n\nIV.--MOUNTAIN WAYS.\n\n\nLUCY D----. Aunt Sarah, did you ever read the Declaration of\nIndependence?\n\nMRS. GRUNDY. What a question! In my youth it was read\nregularly, once a year, at every Fourth of July celebration.\n\nLUCY D----. Did you ever, when listening to it, consider that\nyour interest in its enunciation of principles was merely incidental,\nnot direct?\n\nMRS. GRUNDY. How so?\n\nLUCY D----. The 'all men' that are born 'equal,' and with an\n'inalienable right to liberty,' does not include you, because, although\nyou are white, you are a woman.\n\nMRS. GRUNDY. What covert heresy is this, Lucy, with which you\nare endeavoring to mystify my old-fashioned notions?\n\nLUCY D----. I advocate no theory. I merely state a fact. My own\nbelief is, that men are born very _unequal_ (I do not mean _legally_,\nbut _really_, as they stand in the sight of God), and that they, as well\nas we, are free only to do what is right in the fulfilment of\n_inalienable duties_. 'Life' and the 'pursuit of happiness' must both\nyield to the exactions of such duties. I must confess, however, that,\nlet my abstract views be as they may, I have occasionally embraced in\ntheir widest extent the generalizations of the Declaration of\nIndependence; and nowhere has the right of 'Life, Liberty, and the\nPursuit of Happiness' seemed to me so precious and delightful a\npossession as, when seated on top of a stage coach, I have breathed the\nexhilarating atmosphere of some elevated mountain region. As to\nequality, I must also say, that _there_ especially do I feel my\ninferiority to, and dependence on the driver, who, in his sphere, reigns\na king.\n\nMRS. GRUNDY. In my day, _ladies_ were always expected to take\ninside seats.\n\nLUCY D----. Yes, and be shut up behind a great leather strap, so\nthat if anything happened, they would be the last to reach the door! I\nhave a few notes of a stage-coach journey, made last summer. If you\nlike, I will read it to you while you work on that interminable afghan.\nBy the way, Aunt Sarah, I do not think you have labored quite so\nenergetically since the late decision made by the Metropolitan Fair in\nregard to raffling. How is that?\n\nMRS. GRUNDY. My dear, I must acknowledge that my ardor is a\nlittle lessened since I began this piece of work, for then I had not\nonly a vision of the poor soldiers to be aided by my labor, but I also\nfancied that this warm wrapping, instead of adding a new lustre to the\ncarriage of some luxurious lady, might perchance fall to the share of\nsome poor widow; and these beautiful embroidered leaves and blossoms\nmight delight some sickly child, whose best covering had hitherto been a\nfaded blanket shawl, and whose mother was too poor to afford the\nindulgence of real flowers, purchased from some collection of exotics,\nor plucked by the pale fingers from some fragrant country wayside.\nHowever, I know that was an idle fancy, and the imagination is a\ndangerous guide. I surely would never call in question the soundness of\na decision made by so many excellent and respectable people. Read on, if\nyou please. You know me to be a patient listener.\n\nLUCY D----. Yes, dear aunt, and I know, too, that charity--that\ncrown of virtues--can warm and expand the primmest conventionality, and\nlend bright wings of beauty to the most commonplace conception. The same\nDivine Love that fringes dusty highways with delicate, fragrant\nblossoms, can cause even the arid soil of worldliness to teem with\nlovely growths and refreshing fruits. But, a truce to this digression,\nto which, as I foresaw, you give no heed; and now to my notes:\n\nOne cool, sunshiny morning in August, a lady traveller, bent for once on\ngratifying the whim of seeing what lay beyond the blue hills in the far\ndistance, left the Laurel House (Catskill Mountains), and took her way\ntoward Tannersville. Two ladies, charming companions, accompanied her as\nfar as the bridge over the mill stream, where she struck into a\nneglected byway, leading past a melancholy graveyard. The air was\ndelicious, the mountains were clear, but softened by a dreamy haze; each\ncottage garden was bright with phlox, bergamot, mallows, and\nnasturtiums, and the soul of the traveller was filled with gratitude\nthat this earth had been made so beautiful, and she had been given\nhealth, strength, opportunity, and a stout heart to enjoy it.\n\nTannersville reached, an outside seat was secured on the Lexington\nstage. The sharers of my lofty station were a gentleman on his way to\njoin wife and children at Hunter, and a tattered, greasy-looking\nCopperhead.\n\nThe 'sunny hill' (Clum's) was soon left behind; the opening of the\nPlattekill Clove, with its beautiful mountains and deep hollows (Mink\nand Wildcat), passed, and the distant peaks beyond Lexington loomed up\nfair as the enchanted borders of the land of Beulah. The hay was nearly\ngathered in, and the oats were golden on the hillsides. Men for\nfarmwork were evidently scarce, and the driver said they had nearly all\ngone to the war. The Copperhead remarked: 'I was always too smart for\nthat, I was.'\n\nThe driver told him his turn would come yet, for he would certainly be\ndrafted. Copperhead said he had the use of only one arm. Driver opined\nthat would make no difference; they took all, just as they came.\nCopperhead grumbled out: 'Yes; I know we ha'n't got no laws nohow!'\n\nAt Hunter, the wife and two ruddy little boys came out to meet the\nexpected head of the family. A bright and happy meeting! The Copperhead\nalso got down, and took seat inside the stage, where he was soon joined\nby a country lassie, whose merry voice speedily gave token of\nacquaintance and satisfaction with her fellow traveller.\n\nOpposite Hunter is the most beautiful view of the Stony Clove. The high\nand narrow cleft opens to the south, and I thought of loved ones miles\nand miles away.\n\nBeyond Hunter, a long, straggling village, with some neat houses, the\nroad becomes smoother, and gradually descends along the east bank of the\nSchoharie, which it rarely leaves. The meadow lands widen a little, and\nthe way is fringed by maples, beeches, alders, hemlocks, birches, and\noccasional chestnuts. The stream is rapid, clear, and, though without\nany noteworthy falls, a cheerful, agreeable companion. The mountains on\nthe left bank are steep and rugged; near Hunter, burnt over; afterward,\ngreen to the top, and, while occasionally curving back from the stream,\nand thus forming hollows or ravines, still presenting not a single cleft\nbetween Stony Clove and the clove containing the West Kill, and opening\nout from Lexington toward Shandaken. The West Kill enters the Schoharie\na little below Lexington, and the East Kill flows in above, near Jewett.\n\nEvery farm glittered with golden sunflowers. I saw one misguided blossom\nobstinately turning its face away from the great source of light and\nheat. Every petal was drooping, and I wondered if the dwellers in the\nneighboring cot heeded the lesson. The buckwheat fields were snowy\nwith blossoms and fragrant as the new honey the bees were industriously\ngathering.\n\nLexington is a lovely village, with pretty dwellings, soft meadows, and\nan infinite entanglement of mountains, great and small, green and blue,\nfor background in every direction. I had already been warned that the\nstage went no farther; and, as my destination that evening was\nPrattsville, some means of conveyance was of course necessary. The\ndriver feared the horses would all be engaged haying, and asked what I\nwould do in case no wagon could be found. I replied that, as the\ndistance from Lexington to Prattsville was only seven miles, and I had\nno luggage, it might readily be accomplished on foot. He opened his\neyes, and, perhaps, finding the Lexington hotel not likely to be\nbenefited by my delay, cast about for some way of obliging me. As we\ndrove up to the post office, the door was found locked, and Uncle\nSamuel's agent absent, which circumstance, taken in connection with the\nfact that the mail comes to Lexington only twice per week, struck me as\ndecidedly 'cool.'\n\nBy six o'clock I found myself seated in a comfortable buggy, behind a\nsleek, fleet pony, and beside an old gentleman, whose upright mien and\npleasant talk added no little to the enjoyment of the hour. The evening\nlights were charming, the hills wound in and out, the Schoharie rippled\nmerrily over the cobble stones or slate rocks forming its bed, and the\nclematis and elder bushes gently waved their treasures of white\nblossoms, silky seeds, or deepening berries, in the soft summer air. By\nand by the slate cliffs rose precipitously from the river shore, leaving\nonly room sufficient for the road, which, is in fact, sometimes\nimpassable, when the rains or melting snows have swollen the singing\nriver to an angry, foaming, roaring flood. My companion told me of the\nagriculture of the district, of the wild Bushnell Clove, of bees and\nhoney making, and of the Prattsville tanneries, which he stigmatized as\na curse to the country, cutting down all the trees, and leaving only\nbriers and brambles in their stead. He also told me of two brave sons in\nthe Union army, and of a married daughter far away. The oldest boy had\nbeen wounded at Gettysburg, and all three children had recently been\nhome on a short visit. 'Children,' said the old man, 'are a heap more\ntrouble when they are grown than when they are little; for then they all\ngo away, and keep one anxious the whole time.'\n\nWe drove under the steep ledges, the hills of Beulah were passed, and\nPrattsville reached.\n\nThe following morning was bright and clear, but warm. I rose early, and\nwent up on the high bluffs overlooking the town. Below was a pretty\npastoral view of stream, meadow, hop fields, pasture lands with cattle,\nsundry churches, and neat white houses, shut in by great hills, many\nbare, and a few still wooded. Passing beneath the highest ledge, I came\nupon an old man, a second Old Mortality, chipping away at the background\nfor a medallion of the eldest son of Colonel Zadoc Pratt, a gallant\nsoldier, who fell, I believe, at the second battle of Manassas. On a\ndark slab, about five hundred and fifty feet above the river, is a\nprofile in white stone of the great tanner himself. An honest countryman\nhad previously pointed it out to me, saying: 'A good man, Colonel\nPratt--but that looks sort of foolish; people will have their failings,\nand vanity is not one of the worst!' On the above-mentioned ledges are\nmany curious carvings, a record of 'one million sides of leather tanned\nwith hemlock bark at the Pratt tanneries in twenty years,' and other\ndevices, such as niches to sit in, a great sofa wrought from the solid\nrock, and a pretty spring.\n\nAt ten o'clock the stage came from Delhi, which place it had left at two\nin the morning. Seventy miles from Delhi to Catskill--a good day's\njourney! It was full, and our landlord put on an extra, giving me a seat\nbeside the driver, and filling the inside with men. Said driver was a\ncarpenter, and an excellent specimen of an American\nmechanic--intelligent and self-respecting. This is a great cattle and\ndairy region, and we passed several hundred lambs on their way to the\nNew York market. The driver pitied the poor creatures; and, when passing\nthrough a drove, endeavored to frighten them as little as possible.\n'Innocent things!' said he, 'they have just been taken from their\nmothers, and know not which way to turn. I hate to think of their being\nslaughtered, for what is so meek and so joyous as a young lamb!'\n\nI thought:\n\n    'Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis!\n    Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis!\n    Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem!'\n\n--the 'nobis' to include the poor lambs.\n\nAt the first turn in the road we passed a great bowlder, known\nthroughout the country as 'the big rock.' Beside the highway flows the\nRed Kill, a tributary of the Schoharie. There are some trout in it, but\na couple of cotton factories have frightened them nearly all away. A hot\npolitical discussion soon arose among the inside passengers. Our driver\nseemed to think loud and angry words quite out of place, and said: 'I am\na Democrat myself, but the other day I had a talk with the Republican\ntax collector of our place, and I concluded we both wanted about one\nthing--the good of our country. _Honest_ Republicans and _honest_\nDemocrats are not so far asunder as people usually think.'\n\nMountain after mountain stretched away to north, south, east, and west,\nblue or green, bright or dark, as distance or the shadows of the\nbeautiful cumulus clouds severally affected them. Up, up we wound, the\nmerry kill dancing beside us, and the air growing fresher and more\nelastic with every foot of ascent. The country is quite well settled,\nand we rose through Red Falls and Ashland to Windham, a long,\npeculiar-looking town, where we dined, and exchanged our two stages for\na large one seating eighteen persons (inside and out), and drawn by four\nfresh steeds. The mountains grew wilder, the air cooler, and finally\nWindham High Peak or Black Head, a great round-topped peak, appeared on\nthe right. A party from Albany had that day gone up. No water can be\nfound near the top. This is thought to be the loftiest summit of the\nrange (3,926 feet), but our new driver said there was another peak\ntoward the southwest, which he fancied higher.\n\nIn the cleft between Windham High Peak and the mountain to the north,\nruns the road, which suddenly emerges from the defile and overlooks the\nopen country. We here find no long cleft as in the Kauterskill,\nPlattekill, and Stony Cloves, but the highway descends along the face of\nthe mountain slope. The first view is toward the northeast, and, of a\nclear day, must be very fine. The distance was hazy, but the atmospheric\neffects on the near mountains only the more beautiful. The road is\ngenerally through cleared lands, so that the view is constantly visible,\nand continually opening out toward the south. Acra, Cairo, and Leeds\nwere all passed through, and Catskill reached about half past six in the\nevening. Kiskatom Round Top rose round and dark to the south of Cairo,\nwhence also the entire western slope of the Catskills was plainly\nvisible, a soft, flowing, and tender outline. Near Leeds, on the\nCatskill Creek, are some curious rocks. We had changed drivers at Cairo.\nThe new one was a jollier specimen of humanity than any I had yet seen;\nhe evidently loved good living, and would not refuse a glass of grog\nwhen off duty. His team was named Lightfoot, Ladybird, Vulture, and\nRowdy, and was coaxed along with gentle words, as: 'Go on, little ones!'\n'Get up, lambs!' and similar endearing appellations.\n\nThe sunset was glorious. Round Top and Overlook were bathed in purple\nred; crimson clouds hung over the North and South Mountains, while Black\nHead and the surrounding summits were partly obscured, partly thrown out\nby heavy storm clouds.\n\nThe night was sultry, and the succeeding morning opaque with an August\nfog. Rising early, I sat upon the upper gallery of the little Catskill\ninn, and watched the manners and customs of the street corners. An old,\none-armed man, with a younger and more stalwart, appeared at a sort of\nchest counter, covered by a bower of green boughs, and drew out two\ntables, which were then placed at the edge of the pavement. The chest\nwas unlocked, and forth came several bushels of potatoes, three or four\ndozen wilted ears of corn, two squashes (one white and one orange),\nthree half-decayed cabbage heads, a quantity of smoked sturgeon, a dish\nof blueberries, and a great pan of blackberries. These dainties were\narranged and rearranged upon the tables, to make them look as attractive\nas possible, and then left to the sun, the dust, and the flies, to\nimprove as they best might. Weary hours passed, and customers came\nslowly in. At one o'clock, when I left, about half the original stock\nremained. On the opposite corner was a group of children struggling for\nthe possession of two lively kittens: wrangling, coaxing, defying,\nyielding, and pouting, gave animation to a scene, in which a pretty,\nsaucy girl, and a lazy, lordly lad were the principal actors. Down came\nthe lawyer to the fat, sleek, clean-looking negro barber, to be shaved,\nand then away up to the court house, with a jaunty, swinging,\nself-satisfied air, that said plainly enough--'Find me a smarter man\nthan I, will you?' A tipsy porter came staggering under a load for the\ndown boat; a dusty miller wended his way to a flour store; a little\ncontraband carried home a fish as long as himself; an indignant, dirty,\nblack-bearded mulatto cursed at his recent employer, whom he accused of\nhaving defrauded him of his wages; a neat, trig damsel tripped by in\ncool morning dress; a buxom dame, unmistakeably English, in great round\nhat, brim about a foot radius, swept past the humble market stand; a\nnatty storekeeper came to his door, and looked out for customers; a\nservant lass, sent out with a pretty child in a little wagon to purchase\na newspaper, stopped at a milliner's to read some interesting item to\nthe shop girl; two young officers, in gay new uniforms, sauntered by; a\ncrippled soldier hobbled along on a crutch, stages rushed down from the\nmountains, parties in buggies and on horseback flew past, the dust\nthickened, the sun came out clear and burning, the din increased, and I\nwent down to the little parlor in search of shade and quiet.\n\nAt one the stage for the Mountain House started. The passengers had\nalready waited three hours for the arrival of the down boat, delayed by\nthe fog. They were consequently in no very cheerful frame of mind, and\ngrumbled and growled all the way up the mountain. The day was very warm\n(94 deg. in the shade), the horses were wearied out by so many journeys up\nand down, and the five outside and two inside gentlemen seemed by no\nmeans willing to relieve their aching limbs and panting hearts. When we\nreached the steep portion of the ascent, not a single one offered to\nwalk. I felt ashamed--three were Germans, and four my own countrymen. Of\nthe inside ladies, one was German, and four were Americans. In vain did\nthe mountains, with alternate sun and shadow, shining slopes and\npassionate thunder clouds, don their loveliest aspect. Though never up\nbefore, the young German lady and one of the New Yorkers _read_ nearly\nthe whole way to the summit; another lady kept down her veil, and\nrefused to look out, because it was _so_ sunny; the German youth slept,\nand one only of the inside passengers seemed to feel any real interest\nin the beautiful and gradual unveiling of the mysteries of these noble\nhills. When about half a mile above the toll-gate, the horses stopped\nto rest, and I could no longer endure the idea of their straining up the\nsteep declivity under so heavy a load. I asked a gentleman to open the\ndoor for me, as I would walk a way, and thus relieve the poor animals of\nat least one hundred and ten pounds. Walk I did, but not a single\nindividual followed my example. Heavy drops began to fall, the thunder\nmuttered, and I reached Rip Van Winkle's fabled retreat barely in time\nto escape a wetting. As the stage came lumbering up with its load of\nstout, well-fed men, a young woman in the little hut called out: 'Just\nsee them _hogs_ on top of that coach!'\n\nWhether the gentlemen heard her, I know not, but the rain having ceased,\nall left the top of the vehicle and walked thence to the Mountain House.\n\nI reached the Laurel House in the early twilight, and thus happily ended\nmy three days' journey.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MARCH OF LIFE.\n\n    Less from evils borne we suffer\n      Than from those we apprehend,\n    And no path through life seems rougher\n      Than the one which we ascend.\n\n    But though Time delights in dealing\n      Wounds which he alone can heal,\n    And the sorrows wed to feeling\n      Make it misery to feel;\n\n    Nobler than the soulless Stoic,\n      He, who, like the Theban chief,\n    Till the fight is won, heroic\n      Hides the rankling dart of grief.\n\n    Lords of an immortal glory\n      Be the slaves of mortal shame!\n    No; though Martyrdom before ye\n      Rear a precipice of flame.\n\n    On the barriers that dismay us\n      Carve the charter of your birth;\n    True endurance, like Antaeus,\n      Strengthens with each cast to earth.\n\n    Wayward man too often fritters\n      Living destinies away,\n    Chasing a mirage that glitters\n      To bewilder and betray.\n\n    Then press upward in the vanguard;\n      Be not guided by the blind;\n    For when Vigor waves the standard\n      Triumph is not far behind.\n\n    It was that which led the marches\n      Through the Revolution's snows,\n    And through Jena's fiery arches\n      Rolled destruction on its foes.\n\n    Then if failure blunt your spirit,\n      Think of this before you swerve:\n    He has glory who has merit--\n      It is royal to deserve.\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS DE QUINCEY AND HIS WRITINGS.\n\n\nNo more signal service, during the last half century, has been rendered\nto the lovers of genuine books, than the collection and republication of\nthe fragmentary writings of Thomas de Quincey. Cast, for the most part,\nupon the swollen current of periodical literature, at the summons of\nchance or necessity, during a career protracted beyond the allotted\nthreescore years and ten, the shattered hand of the Opium Eater was\npowerless to arrest their flight to silence and forgetfulness;\nincreasing remoteness was daily throwing a deeper shadow upon ancient\nlandmarks, and consequently upon the possibility of their recovery. When\nMr. de Quincey was urged to attempt the collection himself, his emphatic\nreply was: 'Sir, the thing is absolutely, insuperably, and forever\nimpossible. Not the archangel Gabriel, nor his multipotent adversary,\ndurst attempt any such thing!' From that quarter, then, nothing could be\nexpected; but the intervention of other parties averted a catastrophe\nmelancholy to contemplate--restoring to us a vast body of literature,\nunique in character and supreme in kind. We do not pretend that De\nQuincey has yet been awarded by any very general suffrage the foremost\nposition among modern _litterateurs_; we expect that his popularity will\nbe of slow growth, and never universal. Universal popularity a writer of\nthe highest talent and genius can never secure, for his very loftiness\nof thought and impassioned eccentricity cut him off from the sympathy,\nand hence from the applause, of a vast section of humanity. But when\ncontemporary prejudice and indifference shall clear up, and the question\nbe summoned for final arbitration before the dispassionate tribunal of\nthe future, we suspect that the name of Thomas de Quincey will head the\nlist of English writers during the last seventy-five years. If we should\napply to our author the rule which he remorselessly enforces against Dr.\nParr, that the production of a complete, first-class work is the only\nabsolute test of first-class literary ability, our position would be\nuntenable, for it is notorious that De Quincey's writings are entirely\nfragmentary. But it will never do to lay down a canon of that sort as\nthe basis of calculation in estimating the intellectual altitude of\nliterary men. The wider the field the greater the scope for grandeur of\ndesign and the pomp of achievement; but it is seldom that a writer who\ncan produce an essay of the highest order cannot also meet successfully\nthe demands of a more protracted effort. Narrowness of bounds, want of\ncompass for complete elaboration, is often no slight obstacle. The more\nminute the mechanism, the more arduous the approach to perfection. The\nlimits of the essay are at best cramped, and the compression, the\nadjusting of the subject to those limits, so that its character and\nbearings may be naturally and perspicuously exhibited, imply no ordinary\nskill. Besides, the advisability, or rather the possibility of\nundertaking a literary work of the first magnitude is dependent not less\nupon circumstances beyond the range of individual control than upon\nintellectual capacity.\n\nIn asserting for De Quincey the leading position among the writers of\nthis century, we are clothing him with no ordinary honors--honors which\nno man can rightfully enjoy without mental endowments at once multiform\nand transcendent. Our age thus far has been prolific in genius,\ninferior, indeed, to no other, except, perhaps, the Elizabethan; and,\neven here, inferior only at two points, tragedy and that section of\npoetry in which alone is found the incarnation of the sublime--the\ndivine strains of John Milton. But in range of achievement our epoch has\nscarcely a rival. Mighty champions have arisen in almost every\ndepartment of letters, and it is plain that, amid merits so divergent\nand wide removed, we can justly ascribe absolute precedence to no man\nwithout establishing, at the outset, a standard of ideal excellence,\nand by that adjusting the claims of all competitors.\n\nWe may remark, then, in general, that few first-class writers have\nappeared who did not require as a condition of success varied and\nprofound learning. Kant, indeed, won immortality by the efforts of blank\npower. It is said that he never read a book; so wonderful was his\nsynthetical and logical power, that if he could once discover the\nstarting point, the initial principles of a writer, there was no\noccasion for his toiling through the intermediate argumentation to reach\nthe conclusions--he grasped them almost intuitively, provided, of\ncourse, the deductions were logical. But even Kant, had his acquaintance\nwith the literature of metaphysics been more extensive, would have\navoided many errors, as well as the trouble of discovering many truths\nin which he had been long anticipated. Herder thought that too much\nreading had hurt the spring and elasticity of his mind. Doubtless we may\ncarry our efforts to excess in this direction as well as any other, by\ncalling into unduly vigorous and persistent action the merely receptive\nenergies of the mind. Perhaps this was the case with Herder, as the\nrange of his reading was truly immense; but if so, it argues with fatal\neffect against his claims to the highest order of intellect; if the\nweight of his body was too great for his wings, there lurked somewhere a\nsad defect. In the vast plurality of cases success lies in, and is\ngraduated by, the intensity of mental reaction upon that which has been\nacquired from others. The achievements of the past are stepping stones\nto the conquests of the present. New truths, new discoveries, are old\ntruths, old discoveries remodelled and shifted so as to meet the view\nunder a different angle; new structures are in no proper sense\ncreations, but mainly the product of a judicious eclecticism. Sir\nWilliam Hamilton was a vast polyhistor long before he could be called a\nphilosopher, or even thought himself one. Researches the most persistent\nin nearly every department of letters were with him the indispensable\nprelude to his subsequent triumphs.\n\nBut all this is simply conditional. What, then, are the powers which\nnature alone can bestow? What must she have done before the highest\nresults can arise from literary effort, however immense the compass of\nour information? There must be powerful analytic and discursive ability,\ncombined with a commensurate reach of constructive and imaginative\ncapacity. An intellect thus endowed, approaches the perfection of our\nideal. If one of these elements is deficient, we shall lack either depth\nor brilliance, acuteness or fancy; our structures may be massive,\ntitanic, but hostile to the laws of a refined taste; colossal and\ndazzling, but too airy and unsubstantial except for the few who are\n\n  'With reason mad, and on phantoms fed.'\n\nBefore some such ideal tribunal as this let us summon the aspirants to\nthe dictatorial honors which seem to have slumbered since the day of Dr.\nJohnson, and arbitrate their claims.\n\nWho shall combat the succession of Thomas de Quincey to this vacant\nthrone? Shall it be Coleridge, 'the noticeable man with large, gray\neyes,' or the stately Macaulay, or Carlyle, with his Moorish dialect and\nsardonic glance, or hale old Walter Scott, or Lamb, or Hazlitt, or\nChristopher North? The time was when Coleridge's literary fame was\nsecond to that of no other man. But he has suffered a disastrous\neclipse; it has been articulately demonstrated that the vast body of his\nmost valuable speculations, both in the department of philosophy, and\nalso in that of poetry and of the fine arts generally, were so\nunblushingly pirated from Schelling and other German writers, that all\ndefence, even that which was merely palliative, has signally failed.\nThat fact silences absolutely and forever his claim. Nor can the\npretensions of Macaulay or Carlyle be tolerated; in neither of them is\nfound in any marked degree what has been aptly called 'double-headed'\npower--in neither are combined the antagonistic resources of profound\nthought and brilliant imagination. Macaulay, unapproachable in the\ndelineation of character and in the mastery of stately narrative, seems\nto be shorn of his wonted power in the presence of the higher\nphilosophical and moral questions--the flight that is elsewhere so bold\nand triumphant, droops and falters here. As for Carlyle, to say nothing\nof other faults, we vainly search his writings for anything positive; he\nis a blank destroyer, breathing out everlasting denunciation and regret.\nNo man can possess the highest order of talent or genius whose powers\nare essentially negative. Mere demolition--demolition which is not the\nfirst step in the advance of reform and reconstruction, the preliminary\nremoval of ancient rubbish for the erection of newer and nobler\nstructures--is worse than futile. But we will not pursue farther this\nphase of our subject. We take our stand upon the position, and think it\ncan be maintained against all comers, that these writers, and others\nwhich might be named, although supreme in certain departments, fail in\n_range_ of power; in other words, that they have specialities outside of\nwhich they attain no remarkable excellence. Scott, for instance, is\nunsurpassed in the drama of fiction; but in the more transcendent sphere\nof poetry his success is open to a very serious demur. But how is the\ncase with De Quincey? Did he ever write a poem? No; but he was\nnevertheless a poet of the first rank. Did he ever publish a treatise on\nmetaphysics? No. His great work 'De Emendatione Humani Intellectus,' was\nnever completed, but he was, notwithstanding, an acute philosopher. The\nauthor of no complete history, he was not the less a divine master of\nhistoric narration, grave or gay, sententious or impassioned. No one is\nmore profoundly convinced than ourselves that mere rhetorical\ndeclamation, and the sepulchral voice of fulsome eulogy can never\nestablish claims of such vast magnitude. What has Mr. de Quincey\nachieved, what range of capacity has he exhibited in the memorials he\nhas left behind, in the grand conceptions that have arisen upon his\nmind, whether completely projected into the sphere of tangible reality\nor not?--these are the crucial questions upon which hang for him the\ntrophies of renown or the dark drapery of oblivion.\n\nEvery person who is competent to form an opinion on the subject, very\nreadily allows that political economy, so infinite and subtile are the\nforces that enter into its shifting phenomena, is a science of no slight\ncomplexity, and that the successful unveiling of its disordered tissue\ndemands, in the first instance, the highest intellectual acuteness and\nprofundity. We here encounter the same obstacles as in metaphysics,\nexcept that in the one case the phenomena investigated are subjective,\nin the other objective. Both conditions have peculiar advantages; both\nare open to peculiar difficulties, which it is unnecessary to discuss at\npresent. But the power which can grapple successfully with the vexed\ncomplications of the one will be no less potent in piercing those of the\nother; acuteness of analysis, sleepless insight, subtile thought, ample\nconstructive or synthetic ability, these are the only endowments out of\nwhich any original success can arise in either case. What has Mr. de\nQuincey achieved for the science of political economy? We might answer\nby asking, What has Mr. Ricardo achieved in that department? Ricardo and\nDe Quincey had independently arrived at the same conclusions on the\nsubject at about the same time. The fact that Ricardo first proclaimed\nto the world his revolutionary doctrines of rent and value has won for\nhim the lion's share of the applause they compelled; but that rendered\nDe Quincey's independent conclusions none the less real discoveries,\nsubtracted nothing from the aggregate of his real merit. The vast\nobstacles which lay in the path of these discoveries can never be fully\nappreciated, until we apprehend, to some extent, the apparently hopeless\nand inextricable confusion with which the whole subject was at that time\ninvested: out of the blackness of darkness, out of the very heart of\nchaos and anarchy rose two mighty luminaries, that have been polar\nbeacons to all subsequent explorers. De Quincey's writings on political\neconomy are partially fragmentary; that is, they do not exhaust the\nsubject as a whole, although thoroughly probing several capital points\nupon which the entire subject turns. Sometimes he ostensibly limits\nhimself to elucidating and defending Ricardo's views; but the discussion\nis conducted with so much ease and force and fertility of resources,\ndisclosing at times a depth of insight far outstripping that of his\npretended master, that we cannot resist the conclusion that the\ndoctrines which he defends are in fact discoveries of his\nown--discoveries which, finding himself anticipated in their\npublication, he generously turns to the advantage of his fortunate\nrival. Although De Quincey gravely assures us that in his opinion\nRicardo is a 'model of perspicuity,' we suspect that few will agree with\nhim, as his thought is always subtile and sometimes perplexed; but De\nQuincey--while not at all inferior in acuteness and power of thought, in\nperception of shy differences and resemblances between contrasted\nobjects, winning at this point even the praise of John Stuart Mill--in\nelasticity, force, and elegance of style, infinitely surpasses the whole\nrace of political economists. We know of nothing throughout the vast\nrange of economic investigation more admirable, being at once clear and\nconclusive, simple and profound, culminating in the utter razing and\ndismantling of the Malthusian theory, than the discussion of value in\nthe 'Templars' Dialogues.' There is no faltering, no hesitation, no\ndiscursiveness; the arrow flies swiftly and fatally to the mark. It is\nnot possible, or desirable, at the present time, to discuss minutely De\nQuincey's achievements as exhibited in his 'Logic of Political Economy'\nand 'Templars' Dialogues:' in these works he laid the foundation of a\ncolossal structure, which the distraction of nervous misery never\nallowed him to complete. He had laboriously gathered the materials out\nof every nation and tongue; he had painfully perfected the vast design;\nbut, when standing on the very verge of triumph, he was doomed to see\nlife-long hopes extinguished forever, success slipped from his nerveless\ngrasp in the moment of victory. Surely he might join in the passionate\nlament:\n\n    'I feel it, I have heaped upon my brain\n    The gathered treasures of man's thought in vain.'\n\nThe subjects which De Quincey has critically investigated are very\nnumerous, and it cannot be expected that our limits will permit any\nexhaustive enumeration of them. We propose to select a few of the more\nprominent, which will serve as exponents of the whole.\n\nDe Quincey's views on war will doubtless be astounding to most persons\nwho have never given the subject any very particular attention. Deluded\nby the false doctrines of peace societies, they doubtless regard war as\nan evil, at once inhuman and unnecessary. Altogether hostile to this\nidea is the position of De Quincey; he solemnly declares that war\nneither can be abolished nor ought to be. 'Most heartily,' says he, 'and\nwith my profoundest sympathy, do I go along with Wordsworth in his grand\nlyrical proclamation of a truth not less divine than it is mysterious,\nnot less triumphant than it is sorrowful, namely, that among God's\nholiest instruments for the elevation of human nature is 'mutual\nslaughter' among men; yes, that 'Carnage is God's daughter.'' 'Any\nconfederation or compact of nations for abolishing war would be the\ninauguration of a downward path for man.' 'There is a mystery in\napproaching this aspect of the case which no man has read fully. War has\na deeper and more ineffable relation to hidden grandeurs in man than has\nas yet been deciphered. To execute judgments of retribution upon\noutrages offered to human rights or to human dignity, to vindicate the\nsanctities of the altar and the sanctities of the hearth--these are\nfunctions of human greatness which war has many times assumed, and many\ntimes faithfully discharged. But behind all these there towers dimly a\ngreater. The great phenomenon of war it is--this, and this only--which\nkeeps open in man a spiracle--an organ of respiration--for breathing a\ntranscendent atmosphere, and dealing with an idea that else would\nperish--viz., the idea of mixed crusade and martyrdom, doing and\nsuffering, that finds its realization in such a battle as that of\nWaterloo--viz., a battle fought for interests of the human race felt\neven where they are not understood; so that the tutelary angel of man,\nwhen he traverses such a dreadful field, when he reads the distorted\nfeatures, counts the ghastly ruins, sums the hidden anguish, and the\nharvests\n\n  'Of horror breathing from the silent ground,'\n\nnevertheless, speaking as God's messenger, blesses it, and calls it very\ngood.'\n\nStartling as these assertions may appear at first sight, they are,\nnotwithstanding, profoundly philosophical; all history proclaims their\nsolemn truth--is, in fact, totally inexplicable and confused on any\nother supposition. History is by no means merely biography condensed;\nfar from it; biography is concerned with the shifting and ephemeral\ncareer of individual men; but history, far transcending that lowly\nsphere, records the revolution and progress of principles; these succeed\neach other in everlasting succession, like the revolution of day and\nnight; and individuals rise into importance only as they stand related\nto, are the agents of, this progress. The future is forever supplanting\nthe present; the feud is immortal--the antagonism inevitable; if effete\nideas and principles, which have accomplished their mission, refuse to\nretire and peaceably give place to their legitimate successors, conflict\narises of necessity--a conflict in which the usurper must finally\ntriumph, or the wheels of human progress will be effectually blocked.\nWar, then, is necessary to the advance of humanity. Although De Quincey\ndiscerns the absolute extinction of war only at the 'infinite and starry\ndistance of the Millennium,' still, as its enginery is becoming more and\nmore destructive, its danger and expense increasing, as the progress of\ncivilization is gradually effacing the darker stains from human society,\nand luring it from the path of violence by the charm of luxurious\nrepose, the necessity of war will gradually disappear--its total decline\napproach. We would remark in passing that De Quincey is altogether too\ncaptious in his criticisms upon French ideas of war. So far as the\nmajority of men are concerned, whether Englishmen or Frenchmen, little\npain is taken to search out the philosophy of events. But Cousin, in his\n'Course of History,' has asserted, even more peremptorily than De\nQuincey himself, the divine mission of war. He essentially declares that\ncarnage is always and of necessity God's daughter: to this extreme\ndoctrine Mr. de Quincey would doubtless demur, averring that 'by\npossibility' such _might_ not be the case.\n\nStill profounder insight is disclosed in the article on 'Christianity as\nan Organ of Political Movement.' It was a chance perusal of this essay\nthat first turned our attention to De Quincey's writings, and we\ninvoluntarily exclaimed, as did he when first falling upon Ricardo's\nwork, 'Thou art the man!' The object in view is to distinguish\naccurately between the Christian and pagan idea of religion. There has\nbeen great confusion on this point. What is involved in the term\nreligion as used by a Christian? According to De Quincey there are four\nelements: 1st. A form of worship; 2d. An idea of God; 3d. The idea of a\nrelation subsisting between God and His creatures; 4th. A doctrinal\npart. Now, of these cardinal elements, only one, that of worship, was\npresent in pagan religions, and even this was so completely distorted,\narose from impulses so utterly despicable, as to be positively immoral\nin its tendencies. The gods were, to their worshippers, dreadful\nrealities--monsters of crime, at once powerful and vindictive--the very\nfootballs of unhallowed passion; hence worship was not the result of\nlove or reverence, or even of a regard to future interests, but it was\nsimply an expedient to shun danger immediately behind--a mock truce\nbetween immortal foes, which either party might violate at pleasure.\n'Because the gods were wicked, man was religious; because Olympus was\ncruel, earth trembled; because the divine beings were the most lawless\nof Thugs, the human being became the most abject of sycophants.' Even in\nthe most solemn mysteries no such thing as _instruction_ was known--'the\npriest did not address the people at all.' Hence all moral theories, all\ndoctrinal teaching was utterly disjoined from ancient religions--that\nwas resigned to nature--and, consequently, powerless alike to instruct\nmen or command their respect, they had no inherent, self-sustaining\nenergy, but were built upon a mere impulse, and that impulse was the\nmost abject terror. Where, then, lurks the transcendent power of\nChristianity as an organ of political movement? Simply in the fact that\nit brings men into the most tender and affecting relations with God,\nand, over and above this, that it rests upon a dogmatic or doctrinal\nbasis. These features were never suspected even as possible until\nChristianity revealed them. Hence Christianity 'carried along with\nitself its own authentication; since, while other religions introduced\nmen simply to ceremonies and usages, which could furnish no aliment or\nmaterial for their intellect, Christianity provided an eternal\n_palaestra_, or place of exercise, for the human understanding vitalized\nby human affections: for every problem whatever, interesting to the\nhuman intellect, provided only that it bears a moral aspect, immediately\npasses into the field of religious speculation. Religion had thus become\nthe great organ of human culture.' Of this profound distinction De\nQuincey was the original discoverer.\n\nIt is known, of course, to every literary person, that Bentley attempted\nto _amend_ Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and that, on the whole, he made a\nvery signal failure. It has been a matter of great surprise on the part\nof many, that one who is so confessedly superior in the criticism of\nclassical poetry, whose ear was so exquisitely sensitive and accurate\nwhen awakened by ancient lyres, should prove himself such a driveller in\nthe presence of the grandest cathedral-music of modern times. Coleridge\ntook occasion to observe that it was only our ignorance that prevented\nBentley's emendations and innovations from appearing as monstrous and\nunnatural in the poetry of the ancients as in that of John Milton. The\ncharge appears very plausible and damaging at first sight. We notice it\nin order to exhibit De Quincey's marvellous sagacity in detecting the\ntrue relation of things: he utterly dissipated the force of the cavil by\nsimply stating the actual bearings of the two classes of poetry. Ancient\npoetry was darkly austere and practical; the imagination was fettered by\na grim austerity; the merely passionate--that which proceeds from the\nsphere of the sensibilities alone--finds no resting place in its vast\ndomain; but in the poetry of Milton the element of passion is\ntriumphant; hence Bentley, with his icy, critical, matter-of-fact\ntemperament, could never appreciate Milton's majestic flights. We cannot\nrefrain from quoting, at this point, De Quincey's acute and beautiful\nparallel between Grecian and English tragedy:\n\n     'The kind of feeling which broods over the Grecian tragedy, and to\n     court which the tragic poets of Greece naturally spread all their\n     canvas, was more nearly allied to the atmosphere of death than of\n     life. This expresses rudely the character of awe and religious\n     horror investing the Greek theatre. But to my own feeling the\n     different principle of passion which governs the Greek conception\n     of tragedy, as compared with the English, is best conveyed by\n     saying that the Grecian is a breathing from the world of sculpture,\n     the English a breathing from the world of painting. What we read in\n     sculpture is not absolutely death, but still less is it the fulness\n     of life. We read there the abstraction of a life that reposes, the\n     sublimity of a life that aspires, the solemnity of a life that is\n     thrown to an infinite distance. This last is the feature of\n     sculpture which seems most characteristic: the form which presides\n     in the most commanding groups 'is not dead, but sleepeth:' true;\n     but it is the sleep of a life sequestrated, solemn, liberated from\n     the bonds of time and space, and (as to both alike) thrown (I\n     repeat the words) to a distance which is infinite. It affects us\n     profoundly, but not by agitation. Now, on the other hand, the\n     breathing life--life kindling, trembling, palpitating--that life\n     which speaks to us in painting--this is also the life that speaks\n     to us in English tragedy. Into an English tragedy even festivals of\n     joy may enter; marriages, and baptisms, or commemorations of\n     national trophies: which, or anything _like_ which, is incompatible\n     with the very being of the Greek. In that tragedy what uniformity\n     of gloom; in the English what light alternating with depths of\n     darkness! The Greek, how mournful; the English, how tumultuous!\n     Even the catastrophes how different! In the Greek we see a\n     breathless waiting for a doom that cannot be evaded; a waiting, as\n     it were, for the last shock of an earthquake, or the inexorable\n     rising of a deluge: in the English it is like a midnight of\n     shipwreck, from which, up to the last and until the final ruin\n     comes, there still survives the sort of hope that clings to human\n     energies.'\n\nIt is not to be expected that we can fully traverse and explore this\nvast section of De Quincey's writings; that would be a task beyond our\npresent resources; and, consequently, we are compelled to pass unnoticed\nkeen dissections of history; ingenious, although sometimes untenable,\ntheories regarding the Essenes, the supposed expressions for eternity in\nthe Scriptures, the character of Judas Iscariot, the doctrine of demons,\nthe principles of casuistry, style, and rhetoric; the discussions of\nvarious points in philosophy and logic; the prodigality of erudition\ndisplayed in the articles on Plato, Homer, Dinner Real and Reputed,\nBentley; the transcendent critical skill revealed in the little paper\nentitled 'The Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth,' in the essays on\nShakspeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Lamb, and others; the minute dissections\nof feeling and passion scattered broadcast throughout his writings. We\nshall content ourselves with merely adducing another illustration of our\nauthor's extremely speculative and metaphysical cast of mind, and then\nclose this section of the review. This is taken from that touchingly\nbeautiful chapter in the 'Autobiographic Sketches,' entitled 'The\nAfflictions of Childhood.' De Quincey, even in his childhood, was\nprofoundly sensitive, and capable of forming the most ardent\nattachments. Tender and absorbing was the love which had sprung up\nbetween himself and his sister Elizabeth; she was the joy of his\nlife--she was supreme in his affections. At the age of nine years she\nsuddenly sickened and died; De Quincey, although younger by three years,\nwas overwhelmed with unspeakable agony. When his sister had been dressed\nfor the grave, he stole silently and alone into her chamber to look once\nmore upon her beautiful face, to kiss once more her sweet lips: while\nstanding by the bedside he is suddenly struck down in a trance, and his\ndescription of the scene is one of the noblest prose poems in the\nEnglish language. But even here, amid the absorbing disclosures of a\nfrantic sorrow, when the mighty swell of passion had reached its\nculmination, and a solemn Memnonian wind, 'the saddest that ear ever\nheard,' began to arise, and the seals of a heavenly vision were about to\nbe unloosed--even here he pauses, philosophically to 'explain why death,\nother conditions being equal, is more profoundly affecting in summer\nthan in other parts of the year'!\n\nWe have said that De Quincey was an eminent master of the historic art.\nHis power in this direction is signally displayed in his account of 'The\nHousehold Wreck,' 'The Spanish Nun,' 'The First Rebellion,' and the\n'Flight of a Tartar Tribe.' 'The Household Wreck' is a powerful and\ndramatic narrative, but the plot is somewhat confused; on the whole, it\nis decidedly inferior to the 'Spanish Nun.' The nun is a _bona-fide_\nhistorical personage, and her career is delineated with surprising\neffect. She was the daughter of a Spanish hidalgo, who pitilessly\ncarried her in infancy to the Convent of St. Sebastian, where she\nremained until the age of fifteen; the quietude of that cloistered life\nher stormy spirit could no longer brook; she eloped, assumed male\nattire, became the page of a nobleman, at whose house she saw that 'old\ncrocodile,' her father, who was now searching with mock solicitude for\nhis absconded daughter; exposure was imminent; no safety remained until\nthe ocean divided her from Spain, and her plans were formed at once; the\nnun embarked for South America, doubled Cape Horn, was shipwrecked on\nthe coast of Peru; finally arrived at Paita; killed a man in a street\nencounter; escaped death only by promising to marry a lady who had\nfallen in love with her; once again there was no security but in flight;\nshe joined a cavalry regiment commanded by her own brother, to whom she\nwas unknown; him she unwittingly killed in a midnight duel; then follow\nthe terrific passage of the Andes, the fearful tragedies at Tucuman and\nCuzco, her return to Europe in compliance with royal and papal commands;\nshe approaches the port of Cadiz; myriads upon myriads line the shore\nand cover the houses to catch a glimpse of the martial nun; cardinals\nand kings and popes hasten to embrace her; the thunders of popular\nwelcome arise wherever she appears; but the nun finds no rest; terrific\nmemories rankle in her bosom, and blast her repose; again she embarks\nfor America; but then, how closed that career, so tragically\ntempestuous? The nun reached Vera Cruz; she took her seat in the boat to\ngo ashore; no more is known; her fate is concealed in impenetrable\nmystery; 'the sea was searched for her--the forests were ransacked. The\nsea made no answer--the forests gave up no sign.' These incidents, which\nare historical verities, are wrought up into a narrative of absorbing\npower.\n\nIn De Quincey's brief sketch of the 'First Rebellion' are found some\ngraphic historical paintings. The following is his description of the\npanic at Enniscorthy, at the moment when the rebels had carried the\nplace by assault:\n\n'Now came a scene, which swallowed up all distinct or separate features\nin its frantic confluence of horrors. All the loyalists of Enniscorthy,\nall the gentry for miles around, who had congregated in that town, as a\ncentre of security, were summoned at that moment, not to an orderly\nretreat, but to instant flight. At one end of the street were seen the\nrebel pikes and bayonets, and fierce faces already gleaming through the\nsmoke; at the other end, volumes of fire, surging and billowing from the\nthatched roofs and blazing rafters, beginning to block up the avenues of\nescape. Then began the agony and uttermost conflict of what is worst and\nwhat is best in human nature. Then was to be seen the very delirium of\nfear, and the very delirium of vindictive malice; private and ignoble\nhatred of ancient origin, shrouding itself in the mask of patriotic\nwrath; the tiger glare of just vengeance, fresh from intolerable wrongs,\nand the never-to-be-forgotten ignominy of stripes and personal\ndegradation; panic, self-palsied by its own excess; flight, eager or\nstealthy, according to the temper and means; volleying pursuit; the very\nfrenzy of agitation under every mode of excitement; and here and there,\ntowering aloft, the desperation of maternal love, victorious and supreme\nover all lower passions.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is a species of narrative in the 'Autobiographic Sketches,' of a\nsomewhat different cast from that which we have been contemplating, less\ngrand and passionate, perhaps, but more tender and exquisite--overspread\nwith a quieter and mellower humor. We refer to the account of his\nbrother William. He was a youth of the stormiest nature, a genuine\ncloud-compeller, forever raising storms and whirlwinds merely for the\npleasure of directing them; 'haughty he was, aspiring, immeasurably\nactive; fertile in resources as Robinson Crusoe; but also full of\nquarrel as it is possible to imagine; and in default of any other\nopponent, he would have fastened a quarrel upon his own shadow for\npresuming to run before him when going westward in the morning; whereas,\nin all reason, a shadow, like a dutiful child, ought to keep\ndeferentially in the rear of that majestic substance which is the author\nof its existence.' He hated books, except those which he chanced to\nwrite himself; he was especially great on the subject of necromancy; was\neven the author of a profound work, entitled 'How to Raise a Ghost, and\nwhen You have Got Him Down, how to Keep Him Down.' 'To which work, he\nassured us, that some most learned and enormous man, whose name was a\nfoot and a half long, had promised him an appendix, which appendix\ntreated of the Red Sea and Solomon's signet ring, with forms of\n_mittimus_ for ghosts that might be refractory, and probably a riot act\nfor any _emeute_ among ghosts;' for he often gravely affirmed that a\nconfederation, 'a solemn league and conspiracy, might take place among\nthe infinite generations of ghosts against the single generation of men\nat any one time composing the garrison of death.' Deeming this subject\ntoo recondite for his juvenile audience, he dropped it, and commenced a\ncourse of lectures upon physics. 'This undertaking arose from some one\nof us envying or admiring flies for their power of walking upon the\nceiling. 'Poh!' said he, 'they are impostors; they pretend to do it, but\nthey can't do it as it ought to be done. Ah! you should see _me_\nstanding upright on the ceiling, with my head downward, for half an hour\ntogether, and meditating profoundly.' My sister Mary remarked that we\nshould all be very glad to see him in that position. 'If that's the\ncase,' he replied, 'it's very well that all is ready except as to a\nstrap or two.' Being an excellent skater, he had first imagined that, if\nheld up till he had started, he might then, by taking a bold sweep\nahead, keep himself in position through the continued impetus of\nskating. But this he found not to answer; because, as he observed, 'the\nfriction was too retarding from the plaster of Paris; but the case would\nbe very different if the ceiling were covered with ice.' But as it was\n_not_, he changed his plan. The true secret, he now discovered, was\nthis: he would consider himself in the light of a humming top; he would\nmake an apparatus (and he made it) for having himself launched, like a\ntop, upon the ceiling, and regularly spun. Then the vertiginous motion\nof the human top would overcome the force of gravitation. He should, of\ncourse, spin upon his own axis, and sleep upon his own axis--perhaps he\nmight even dream upon it; and he laughed at 'those scoundrels, the\nflies,' that never improved in their pretended art, nor made anything of\nit. The principle was now discovered; 'and, of course,' he said, 'if a\nman can keep it up for five minutes, what's to hinder him from doing so\nfor five months?' 'Certainly, nothing that I can think of,' was the\nreply of my sister, whose scepticism, in fact, had not settled upon the\nfive months, but altogether upon the five minutes. The apparatus for\nspinning him, however, perhaps from its complexity, would not work--a\nfact evidently owing to the stupidity of the gardener. On reconsidering\nthe subject, he announced, to the disappointment of some among us, that,\nalthough the physical discovery was now complete, he saw a moral\ndifficulty. It was not a _humming_ top that was required, but a _peg_\ntop. Now, in order to keep up the _vertigo_ at full stretch, without\nwhich, to a certain extent, gravitation would prove too much for him, he\nneeded to be whipped incessantly. But that was what a gentleman ought\nnot to tolerate: to be scourged unintermittingly on the legs by any grub\nof a gardener, unless it were Father Adam himself, was a thing that he\ncould not bring his mind to face.' Attempted improvements in the art of\nflying, which, he alleged, was then 'in a condition disgraceful to\ncivilized society;' the composition and exhibition of that bloody\ntragedy, 'Sultan Amurath;' the conduct of a protracted war which arose\nout of a fancied insult from a factory boy, whom, surveying with intense\ndisdain, 'he bade draw near that he might 'give his flesh to the fowls\nof the air!'' the government of the imaginary kingdom of\n'Tigrosylvania'--occupied the attention of this hundred-handed youth\nuntil his death, at the age of sixteen--all of which is narrated with\nunequalled pathos and humor. But there is still another section of the\nnarrative art, yet more sublime and unapproachable, where De Quincey\nstands alone--the section in which are recorded his dreams. These are\nwithout a rival or even a precedent in the English language; nay, purely\nimpassioned prose as 'The Confessions' and 'Suspiria de Profundis' is\nscarcely to be found in any language; but the narration of dreams, while\nexposed to all its difficulties, is invested with superadded\ndifficulties, arising from the shifting, visionary character of the\nworld in which its scenes are laid, 'where a single false note, a single\nword in a wrong key, will ruin the whole music.' De Quincey's habit of\ndreaming was constitutional, and displayed itself even in infancy. He\nwas naturally extremely sensitive, and of a melancholy temperament; he\nwas so passionately fond of undisturbed repose, that he willingly\nsubmitted to any amount of contempt if he could only be let alone; he\nhad that weird faculty which is forever peopling the darkness with\nmyriads of phantoms; then came the afflictions of childhood--that night,\nwhich ran after his footsteps far into life--and finally came opium,\nwhich is a specific 'for exalting the dream scenery, for deepening its\nshadows, and, above all, for strengthening the sense of its fearful\nrealities:' all these allied characteristics and circumstances, combined\nwith his vast intellectual capacity, imparted to De Quincey's dreams a\nterrific grandeur. They were sometimes frightful, sometimes sublime, but\nalways accompanied by anxiety and melancholy gloom. 'I seemed,' says he,\n'every night to descend--not metaphorically, but literally to\ndescend--into chasms and sunless abysses, depths below depths, from\nwhich it seemed hopeless that I could ever reascend. Nor did I, by\nawaking, feel that I had reascended. This I do not dwell upon; because\nthe state of gloom which attended these gorgeous spectacles, amounting,\nat least, to utter darkness, as of some suicidal despondency, cannot be\napproached by words.' De Quincey's most elaborate dreams are: 'The\nDaughter of Lebanon,' 'Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow,' 'The Vision of\nSudden Death,' and 'Dream Fugue.' The last named is the most perfect in\nits conception, the most powerful in its execution. It is too long to\nquote, too sublime to be marred by abbreviation. If any one desires to\nsee what can be done with the English language in an 'effort to wrestle\nwith the utmost power of music,' let him read that dream. We shall,\nmeanwhile, present one from the year 1820, and leave the reader to\nform his own estimate of it:\n\n     'The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in\n     dreams--a music of preparation and of awakening suspense; a music\n     like the opening of the Coronation Anthem, and which, like _that_,\n     gave the feeling of a vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing\n     off, and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a\n     mighty day--a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature,\n     then suffering some mysterious eclipse, and laboring in some dread\n     extremity. Somewhere, I knew not where--somehow, I knew not how--by\n     some beings, I knew not whom--a battle, a strife, an agony, was\n     conducting--was evolving like a great drama, or piece of music,\n     with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion\n     as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I\n     had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide it. I had the\n     power, if I could raise myself to will it; and yet again I had not\n     the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the\n     oppression of inexpiable guilt. 'Deeper than ever plummit sounded,'\n     I lay inactive. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some\n     greater interest was at stake; some mightier cause than ever yet\n     the sword had pleaded, or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden\n     alarms; hurryings to and fro; trepidations of innumerable\n     fugitives. I knew not whether from the good cause or the bad;\n     darkness and lights; tempest and human faces; and, at last, with\n     the sense that all was lost, female forms and the features that\n     were worth all the world to me, and but a moment allowed--and\n     clasped hands, and heartbreaking partings, and then--everlasting\n     farewells! and, with a sigh, such as the caves of hell sighed when\n     the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of\n     death--everlasting farewells! and again, and yet again\n     reverberated--everlasting farewells!'\n\nO mighty magician!\n\nIn point of style and general method of treating subjects, De Quincey's\ngreatest faults are pedantry and discursiveness. Of the former we have\nno defence to make; we think that, in writing avowedly for the public,\nand not for any particular class, the use of technical terms merely\nbecause they are technical, and of learned terms merely because they are\nlearned, is a positive blemish. But still greater offence is given to\nmany readers by the _occasional_ practice of discursiveness; we employ\nthe epithet intentionally, for the habit is by no means so inveterate as\nmany seem to suppose. Yet even where it is most triumphant, there is,\nnevertheless, a goal to be reached--a goal which will finally be\nreached, despite interminable zigzags and 'harsh angles.' This\npeculiarity was, doubtless, in a great degree occasioned by the use of\nopium. Opium, even amid the very delirium of rapture it produces, nay,\nin consequence of that delirium, is hostile to strictly logical thought;\nthe excitation approaches the character of an intuition; the glance,\nhowever keen and farsighted, is not steady; it is restless, fitful,\nveering forever with the movements of an unnatural stimulation; but when\nthe exaltation has subsided, and the dread reaction and nervous\ndepression succeeded, this result is intensified a hundred fold, and\ngradually shapes itself into a confirmed habit. Even if the use of opium\nwas positively beneficial to the intellect, still its dreadful havoc\nwith the physical system would far more than outweigh its contributions\nin that direction. But, so far is that from being the truth in the case,\nthat opium, at best, has only a revealing, a disclosing power; it\ncannot, even in the lowest sense of the term, be called a creative\nlower. Let a man dream dreams as gorgeous as De Quincey's, it does not\nat all follow that he can write like De Quincey; as related to\nliterature, the grandeur of dreams depends absolutely upon the dreamer's\nmastery of the narrative art, which the dreaming faculty itself does not\neither presuppose or bestow. But, over and above all this, universal\nexperience has declared that the use of opium is fatally hostile to any\nvery protracted mental power. It ravages the mind no less fearfully than\nit does the body--precipitates both in one common ruin; by it ordinary\nmen are speedily degraded to hopeless impotence, and the most mighty\nshorn of half their power--a swift-pursuing shadow closes suddenly and\nforever over the transient gleam of unnatural splendor. These\nconsiderations account in part for De Quincey's discursiveness, but\nperhaps not wholly. Discursiveness is not without its beauties. We\nbelieve in logic, but still it is pleasant, at times, to see a writer\nsport with his subject, to see him gallop at will, unconfined by the\nring circle of strict severity. Nor is this all. Possibly the apparent\ndiscursiveness may be only the preliminary journeying by which we are to\nsecure some new and startling view of the subject. Perhaps you may\nconsider these initial movements needlessly protracted and fatiguing;\nbut trust your guide; whatever your private opinion, at the time, may\nbe, he will never miss the road, and when at last you are in the proper\nposition for observation, the thrill of unwonted pleasure will swallow\nup all memory of former efforts and former misgivings. Occasionally such\nis not the case; for instance, in the papers on Sir William Hamilton.\nThey are three in number. Nearly half of the first is taken up in\ndescribing the difficulties under which the writer suffers of\ncommunicating with his publishers; the nervous maladies that torment his\nhappiness; the limits of time and space so narrowly circumscribed. The\nsame strain is taken up in the second paper. We have short dissertations\non the deadly 'hiatus in the harness which should connect the\npre-revolutionary with the post-revolutionary commonwealths of England;'\non the adjective _old_, and the aged noun _civilation_; then comes a\ngeneral belaboring of athletes and gymnasts, at which point Sir William\nfairly emerges into view; suddenly our author seems to recollect that\nhis space is fast diminishing, and concludes to 'take a rise out of\nsomething or other' at once; sets down Sir William as a genuine\nlogician, and immediately commences the consideration of several ancient\nword puzzles, one of which is stated in a very business-like manner:\n'Vermin in account with the divine and long-legged Pelides.' Logic is\npretty uniformly the subject of the third paper, and no inferior\nacquaintance with the topic is displayed; but we see very little of Sir\nWilliam Hamilton in this miscellaneous collection. But unpardonable\nwandering is of extremely rare occurrence; and, on the whole, the evils\nof discursiveness are altogether outweighed by the positive advantages\nand beauties to which we have referred. To this characteristic trait\nmust be added another--the dramatic and cumulative manner in which the\nsubjects discussed are treated. That gives to De Quincey's style\nincreased power and increased beauty; artistic symmetry is superinduced\nupon solid excellence. This peculiarity is especially noticeable in\nnarratives where the element of horror is central, as in 'The Avenger.'\nThe gentle whisper rises, gradually and by insensible degrees, to the\nawful voice of the thunderbolt. The prelude is calm enough, sweet\nenough, but soon the music ascends to a fiercer key; the plot darkens;\nthe crisis gathers; louder and more tumultuous waxes the fiendish\ntumult, until all lesser passions are swallowed up, and the empire of a\nblank, rayless revenge is triumphant; we are spellbound amid the\nsuccessive stages of the demoniac tragedy; we start up convulsively, as\nfrom the horrors of nightmare, at its ghastly catastrophe. But, over and\nabove all this, in that melody, in that music of style, which exalts\nprose to the dignity of poetry, De Quincey is absolutely without a\nrival. Read the 'Confessions,' or the 'Autobiographic Sketches,' or the\ntouching tribute to the Maid of Orleans, and all doubt upon that point\nwill disappear. Besides, over the surface of his writings there ripples\na quaint, genial humor, which is, for the most part, kept within the\nlimits of propriety by an exquisite taste. In marked contrast to many of\nour most illustrious writers, De Quincey always exhibits a profound\nrespect for Christianity. Listen to his indignant rebuke of Kant, who,\nin his work on 'Religion within the Limits of Pure Reason,' had\nexpressed opinions so utterly atheistical as to draw forth severe\nmenaces from the reigning King of Prussia, Frederic William the Second:\n'Surely, gray hairs and irreligion make a monstrous union; and the\nspirit of proselytism carried into the service of infidelity--a youthful\nzeal put forth by a tottering, decrepid old man, to withdraw from\ndesponding and suffering human nature its most essential props, whether\nfor action or suffering, for conscience or for hope, is a spectacle too\ndisgusting to leave room for much sympathy with merit of another kind.'\nFinally, we love De Quincey for his abhorrence of all knavish or\nquackish men, and his deep respect for human nature. We suspect that but\nfew dignitaries of the past ever received so sound a 'knouting' as did\nthat 'accursed Jew' Josephus, at his hands; nor do Grotius and Dr. Parr\nfare much better. He believes Josephus to be a villain, Grotius and Dr.\nParr literary impostors, and he strips off their masks in a very summary\nmanner. But with the trials, the struggles, the miseries of humanity, no\nman more profoundly sympathizes than Thomas de Quincey. 'Oftentimes,'\nsays he, speaking of the daily police reports, 'oftentimes I stand\naghast at the revelations there made of human life and the human heart;\nat its colossal guilt, and its colossal misery; at the suffering which\noftentimes throws a shadow over palaces, and the grandeur of mute\nendurance which sometimes glorifies a cottage.' How touching is his\nmemorial of those forlorn twin sisters, who 'snatched convulsively at a\nloving smile, or loving gesture, from a child, as at some message of\nremembrance from God;' how tender his tribute to 'poor Pink;' how\naffecting his devotion to unhappy Ann, whom, in the strength of his\ngratitude, he could 'pursue into the darkness of a London brothel, or\ninto the deeper darkness of the grave'!\n\nBut we must close. We have found De Quincey a subtile philosopher, a\nmighty master of the historic art, a prose poet of unrivalled splendor.\nTo powers so versatile and extraordinary, combined with learning so\nprofound, and a style of such matchless brilliance, we believe that no\nother writer of the present age can lay any great claims. Still we take\nour leave of that eccentric, storm-tossed man of genius with feelings of\nprofound regret. Great as his contributions to literature are, he\n_might_ have done vastly more. But nervous maladies blasted his hopes,\noverthrew his colossal designs, and he evermore drifts down the ages a\nwreck--splendid, brilliant, the admiration of all beholders--but none\nthe less a wreck.\n\n\n\n\n'FEED MY LAMBS.'\n\nPART FIRST.\n\n\nHarry has crept to his little bed, shivering with childish dread of the\ndark. Ungentle hands have placed him there, guardians careless of his\ncomfort and chary of kind words and looks, and a coarse-voiced girl has\nsaid, as she took the light away, and banged the door behind her:\n\n'Cry out loud, you little imp, and I'll send the black bears to catch\nyou.'\n\nSo Harry is choking down his sobs, and crying silently, very silently.\nThe chill and melancholy night wind, as it comes moaning through the\ncasement and rustling the light leaves of the tall poplar as they rest\nagainst the window panes, and the great round tears as they fall with a\ndull, heavy drop, drop on his lonely pillow, are the only sounds that\nbreak the dismal stillness, excepting now and then, when a great sob,\ntoo mighty to be choked down, bursts from the little, overcharged heart.\nAnd then Harry fancies he feels, through the thin coverlet and torn\nnight dress, the huge black paws of these same bears grasping the tender\nround shoulder, blue with the cold, while the little boy lies there\nshivering and shuddering in an agony of apprehension. Darkness above and\naround him, terrible, black, silent darkness; darkness which enwraps and\nenfolds him and takes away his breath, like the heavy, stifling folds of\na hideous black mantle; darkness that the active imagination of the\ntimid child peoples with phantom shapes, grotesque and horrible--forms\nmade unnaturally visible by their own light, that mouth and leer, and\nstretch out distorted arms to seize him, whose appalling presence fills\nthe room from floor to ceiling, and which eddy and circle around him in\nhorrid demon dances, whirling gradually nearer and nearer, until myriads\nof hideous faces are thrust close to his own, or grin above him, while\nhe chokes for breath--forms that make the cold sweat stand on his baby\nforehead, and freeze the blood in his veins, that he watches night after\nnight, with his blue eyes starting from their sockets and his hair\nstanding on end, that make of the desolate nighttime a dread and a\nhorror! And there is no one to kneel beside his lonely bed and tell the\nfrightened child, sick with dread, that there are no such things as\nodious black dwarfs, who drag young children off to dark and dismal\ndungeons by the hair of their head, nor great giants, who grow always\nbigger as you look at them, and who eat up, at a mouthful, little boys\nwho cry in the dark. No tender mother bends low with all but divine\ncompassion to listen to his little sorrows, or soothe his childish\nfears--to teach him his simple prayers, or tell him sweet stories of a\nlittle child like himself, before whose lowly cradle wise men bowed as\nat a shrine, and to do whom reverence shining ones came from a\nfar-distant country. There is no one to pillow his curly head upon a\nloving bosom, and lull him to sleep with quaint old lullabies. Harry is\nworse than motherless.\n\nSo on the night in question, as on all other nights preceding, poor\nHarry, worn out with fright and weariness, is dropping to sleep from\nsheer exhaustion, closing his swollen eyes in troubled slumber, when,\nhalf unconsciously turning his curly head upon the pillow to find a dry\nplace for the wet cheek to rest against, something bright and shining\nmakes long lines of light in the tears still wet on Harry's lashes, and\nwakes him up again.\n\nSuch a bright, beautiful star it is. One that has been slowly rising,\nclimbing the blue outside, until it reaches a break in the foliage of\nthe tree before the window, and shines straight into Harry's eyes.\nSomething of that strange solemnity that fills minds of a maturer growth\nwhen gazing on the starry heavens, hushes that baby's soul into\nreverence as he looks upon it. The terrible shapes melt away into the\ngloom, he feels no dread of the dark now, and vaguely and gradually\nthere arises the first dim consciousness of the deep spiritual want\nwithin him--the first awakened desire of the finite soul to see and find\nthe Infinite Father and claim his protection. Fragments of childish\nhymns, parts of simple prayers, such poor and scattered crumbs of\nspiritual instruction as he has gleaned here and there somehow, and on\nwhich the infant soul has been but meagrely fed, crowd in upon him. Then\ncome wondering thoughts of that great good Being, that strange,\nunfathomable mystery, whose name is God, Who lives up in the blue\nsomewhere, and yet is everywhere. This problem of Omnipresence he has\npondered and pondered over, and reasoned upon, in his childish fashion,\nbut now it dawns with a newer and clearer light on Harry's mind. God is\neverywhere. To his awakened spiritual perception this holy, mysterious,\nand invisible presence seems pervading the sky, the air, the earth,\nfilling and enfolding all things. Night after night, as he had lain\nthere sobbing and crying and thought himself all alone in the darkness,\nthis great good God had been with him all the time, and he had never\nknown it, never felt it until now; and, overwhelmed by the mighty\nthought, powerfully felt, though imperfectly comprehended, awestruck\nHarry, tremulous with reverence, obedient to some childish fancy that\nthe name of father is not holy and reverent enough for such a Being,\nfolds his tiny hands, earnestly praying:\n\n'Our Grandfather which art in heaven, stay near poor Harry in the dark,\nand keep the bears away!'\n\nIs it faith or fancy, that soft, gentle, summery atmosphere that fills\nthe room, and makes the little, lonely heart thrill as with the pleasant\nconsciousness of a loving presence? It is real to Harry, with his\nchild's undoubting faith. Stretching forth his rounded arms, and\nclasping the dark, impalpable air in a joyous embrace, he nestles\nclosely to the wet pillow as if it were a loving bosom, and falls asleep\nwith a smile upon his lip. A childhood robbed of childish joys and\npleasures, the little, insignificant trifles which form its sum of\nhappiness, denied the sympathetic love and tenderness which is the life\nof little hearts, deprived of the pleasures suited to its state, yet too\nimmature to turn within itself for comfort in its need, its life without\nand within a dull, joyless, dreary blank--such was poor Harry's, for a\nshadow dark and terrible rested on his baby heart and home, a something\nthat darkened and deepened day by day, and grew more and more\ninsupportable as the weary time crept on. What it was, and how long it\nhad rested there before he became conscious of its presence, and whether\nhis miserable home had ever been free from it and ever been a happy one,\nlittle Harry never knew. All his brief life it had lain there. Its\nshadow had crept into the violet eyes with the first faint glimmer of\nintelligence, and when the new-born soul, mysterious breath of God,\nfirst woke from its mystic dreaming, and looked consciously out upon the\nworld into which it had come, its baleful presence crept into that holy\nsanctuary, and darkened what should have been cloudless as well as\nsinless. He had drawn it in with every breath from the atmosphere of the\nlittle world around him; it rested on all he came in contact with, and\ngradually and sadly there arose in the mind too immature to comprehend\nthe cause and the nature of this desolating power, yet feeling vaguely\nday by day its blighting effects, sorrowful and earnest\nquestionings--questionings like the following, to which there came back\nno answer to the little, suffering heart:\n\nWhy his home (if home it may be called in which the heart finds no\nresting place), the four walls that enclosed the place where he ate and\nslept, was such a dull, joyless, lonesome spot? What that dark something\nwas that shadowed its light and took from it all joy and comfort,\ncausing every face within it to wear a melancholy or forbidding aspect?\nWhy there was no glad smile even on his father's lips, when he came to\nseek the sad young creatures that crept silently to his knee and looked\nwistfully up into the care-worn face; and why, though loving and kind,\nhe was always kind with that sorrowful tenderness which makes sad hearts\nthe sadder? Why this craving that he feels within him, this\nhalf-undefined, insatiable longing for maternal love and sympathy? What\nhad sealed from the thirsting heart this purest fountain of earthly\ntenderness?\n\nA mother's form was present to him day by day, but where was the\nmaternal heart of love which should have beat within that bosom? 'Can a\nmother forget her children?' There is a fell and terrible destroyer,\nwhich murders peace in hearts and homes, whose very breath is a mildew\nand a blight, in whose desolating track follow woe, want, and ruin; a\nfierce, insatiable appetite, trebly cursed, that makes of life a\nloathsome degradation, and fills dishonored graves, blighting all that\nis divine and godlike in human nature, sealing the gushing fountain of\nmaternal tenderness, and teaching even a mother's heart forgetfulness. O\nGod! of what punishment shall thy justice deem those worthy, who, by\ncold neglect, cruelty, or shameful slavery to such a passion, shut out\nthe light, and check the rich and limitless expansion of all that is\ndivine in the souls committed to their charge? Ah! what did it matter\nthat there were honorable titles affixed to the name so disgraced, that\nin the home thus blighted were all the luxuries and appliances of\nwealth, that rare pictures hung against its walls, carpets covered the\nfloors whose velvet surface muffled the footfalls, costly curtains shut\nout the too garish light, that servants were at command, well paid to\ntake care of the neglected children, paid to care for the house, and all\nfine things within it, and--paid to keep its secrets! What did all this\nmatter to the miserable possessor of wealth and name, the disgraced\nhusband, the heart-broken father? He could comprehend this woe in all\nits bearings, could measure the length, the breadth, the depth of the\ncurse that had lighted upon him? Homes there were whose walls and floors\nwere bare, whose windows were shaded by no costly curtains, but from\nwhich happy faces looked--lowly homes, poor in this world's wealth, but\nrich in domestic peace and love; and for the blessed quiet of their\nlowly hearthstones, he would joyfully have bartered wealth and fame, and\nall such dross as men call happiness. And Harry saw them too. The\nlittle, lonely heart, saddened by a shadow it could not comprehend, from\nits own gloomy home turned longingly to their homely cheerfulness, as\nflowers turn to the light.\n\nOne in particular had attracted his childish notice. It was just across\nthe road; he could see it from the window of the nursery where he\nplayed, and he used to leave his play to watch it. Such glimpses of a\nhappy home had streamed through its opening portals and fallen on the\nheart of the little solitary watcher like a benison. What hasty peeps he\ntook at its homely brightness as the door opened and closed, and what\nlong, long looks he bestowed upon it, when it stood open for hours\ntogether, as it did now in the fine June weather! It was only a simple\ncottage. Too unpretending for hall or entry, the little parlor opened\ninto the street, and from the window where he stood, Harry could see\nstraight into it. There it was, with its bright papered walls, and gay\nred carpet, its deep low window seat looking like a garden, where\nflowers bloomed and frail exotics stretched forth their delicate leaves\nto bathe in the sunlight that came streaming in, and cunning little\nyellow birds, in quaint, tiny cages, sang the long day through. And\nthere--oh, busy fingers! making neat and bright the little home--heart\nof love, shedding blessed sunlight around it--there, so busy and blithe,\nso happy and gay, sat the presiding genius of the place, with a face so\nbright and good--just such a face as you would expect to see in such a\nhome; one that sad and disappointed mortals, meeting in the street,\nwould turn to for a second look, and bless it as it passed; a face to\nwhich childhood cleaves instinctively, sure of ready sympathy with its\nlittle joys and sorrows; one that would never be disfigured by envy or\nmalice; never grow black with passion, and oh! never, never look\nsenseless, idiotic, and drivelling, as another face on which he looked\nso often did; but to Harry's fancy, it was like the sky on a calm\nsummer's day, always pure and bright, and always the same. It was\nbrighter and happier and better altogether when, in the fresh morning\ntime, the little lady went tripping by on the pavement beneath the\nwindow with a small market basket on her arm. Then Harry, clambering to\nthe sill, and leaning out, could see straight into it; and sometimes it\nhappened that, attracted by that fixed gaze of earnest admiration, that\nhappy face would be turned upward, and break into a beaming smile, as\nthe sunny eyes met the large, blue, mournful orbs looking down upon\nthem. Then there would be a smile on the lip and a song in the heart of\nthe little watcher for the rest of the day. Cheering and dear as that\nface had ever been to him since he had first had the happiness of\nbeholding it, much as he had watched and loved it, it had drawn him with\na more potent attraction still and grown doubly dear of late. He had\nbeen within the sacred precincts of a true home; he had breathed that\natmosphere of heaven; he knew how that small, snug, cosy room looked to\nits inmates now. Yes, he had been there, and his going in chanced in the\nfollowing manner:\n\nThis lady, whose cheerful presence was fast becoming a benison to Harry,\nhad, among her other bright possessions, a rosy-cheeked, laughing-eyed,\nfrolicsome mischief, about Harry's age, and he had recently come from\nthe country happier, merrier, and fresher than ever, having still, as it\nwere, about him the fragrant breath of the wood-violets, the purity of\nthe unvitiated air, the freedom of the broad, green fields, the fragrant\natmosphere of all the delightful things with which he had been so\nrecently in contact.\n\nOne morning, not long after his coming, the cross girl who put Harry to\nbed at night, marshalled him and his brother out (as was her wont in\nfine weather) for a dreary promenade, which usually agreeable exercise\nconsisted in the present instance in marching down a dusty stone\npavement, by a long, unbroken line of brick buildings, up one street,\nand down another (for they always went the same way), until they came to\na huge, dreary-looking schoolhouse, where they left Charley, and came\nback more drearily than they went. Well, on this particular morning,\nCharley had forgotten his slate, and he and the girl returning to search\nfor it left Harry at the gate to await their return. The little urchin,\njust at that precise moment, spying Harry solus, and impelled by the\nagreeable prospect of a playfellow, rushed across the street, at the\nimminent danger of being run over, to scrape acquaintance.\n\n'Come, and play with me,' cried the little fellow, bounding up to Harry\nin all the ardor of a glowing anticipation, eagerly folding one thin\nhand in both his dimpled ones, and flashing a whole flood of sunlight\ninto the sad young eyes that so timidly met his sunny ones. 'Come, and\nplay with me, _do!_ and we'll play at horse and build mud houses, and\nma'll give us lots of candy and raisins, and a great big doughnut, ever\nso big, as big as my hands and your hands, and all our hands put\ntogether.'\n\n'I can't,' said Harry, sadly resigning all thought of these rare\ndainties. 'Betty'll scold so!'\n\n'We'll sit on the bank under the willow at the back of the house,'\npursued the tempter, folding the hand he held still tighter within his\nown, 'where she can't see us; and when she comes to take you away, I'll\nbite her.'\n\nThe youthful pleader had unconsciously used the most potent argument\npossible. Harry wavered. To sit on a green bank under a willow, with\nsuch a sunny-faced companion as that, and listen to the birds singing in\nthe branches, and the rustling of the leaves--to look up through the\ngreen, and see patches of blue sky through breaks in the foliage--and\nthen, too, oh, blessed hope! to see the lady whom he regarded with such\nenthusiastic and reverent devotion, and to whose love he clung with all\nthe wild tenacity of a desolate heart--to see her smile, and hear her\nspeak--to _him_, perhaps; all this rose like a glorious vision before\nHarry, and the possibility of its realization sent the light to his eyes\nand the color to his face.\n\nThe contemplated walk in the hot, dusty streets, with the cross\nBetty--(which tyrannical young female, having brought the children, as\nit were, under military rule, and being a rigid disciplinarian, seldom\nfailed to punish some fancied dereliction of duty by sundry shakes and\npinches as they went along)--this prospect, placed beside the bright,\ncool picture his fancy had conjured up, seemed more unendurable than\never. With one quick glance toward the house, to see if that ogre,\nhaving in custody that form a little taller and face a little older and\nsadder than his own, was making her appearance, Harry, seized by an\nirresistible impulse, and still holding fast the chubby hand that had\ntaken his so confidingly, bounded from the pavement, dashed across the\nroad, and both dashed through the garden and into the cosy parlor in a\ntrice, panting like young racehorses. And there, in the brightest spot\nof the snug, bright room, by that bower of a window, sat the sunny-faced\nlady whom Harry's childish imagination had exalted into a superior\nbeing. Abashed at having so rudely rushed into that revered presence,\nHarry stood shyly by the door, trembling with embarrassment, while his\nmore active companion, releasing his hand, bounded across the room, and,\nclambering up into his mother's lap and putting his arms around her neck\nand his rosebud of a mouth close to her ear, commenced a whispered\nexplanation.\n\nThere was something strangely attractive in that mother's face, as she\npushed back the clustering hair, after smilingly listening to the story,\nand pressed a fervent kiss upon that baby brow--a look which had never\nbeen on any face for him, but which he had dreamed of at night, and\nlonged for by day, with a strange, undefined, half-conscious longing. It\nwas as if he had found something he had been blindly searching,\nsomething for which the solitary heart had vaguely felt an ever-present\nneed; and the timid child, forgetting his timidity, his awe of the\npresence into which he had come--forgetting all but his heart's great\nneed--in a burst of pathetic longing, more sorrowful than tears, cried:\n\n'Give _me_ a kiss, too, just one!'\n\nHe was across the room and in her arms in a moment. Blessings on the\ntrue mother's heart! it gave not one kiss, but a dozen. Ah! feeling the\nblessing of those tears upon his head, pressed close against the breast\nthrobbing with pure maternal sympathy, his own starved heart eagerly\ndrinking from that overflowing fountain, the word _mother_ rose\nnaturally to his lips _then_.--Alas for her from whom alone that beating\nheart, throbbing with a new delight, should have received that\nrevelation! Alas for the heart thus robbed of its lawful heritage, to\nwhom the highest and holiest of earth's affection had manifested itself\nbut as a brutish instinct, which, in fits of maudlin tenderness, could\nfold the little form in a loathsome embrace, and smother the pure breath\nwith drunken kisses! No other love, however high and pure it may be, can\natone to the wronged heart that has been cruelly robbed of this.\n\nIn this new-found joy all heavy sorrows were forgotten. Pressed close\nagainst that sympathetic bosom, he was happy _now_, happier than he had\never been before; and when at last she wiped her tears away, and,\nlifting the hand on which his grateful tears were falling (for Harry\ncried too), and smilingly up-turning the tear-wet face to meet her own,\nthat face was so changed by joy that she hardly knew it, and Harry\nwondered why it was that she laughed and cried together when she looked\nat it, and kissed him over and over again more times than he could\ncount. Laughing and chatting gayly until she saw her own smiles\nreflected on the little, sorrowful features, she, with a tender mother's\ncare, bathed the flushed face, combed out the bright silky hair,\nsmoothed and arranged the rumpled dress, and, taking the small hand,\nwent out to the garden gate to meet the expedition sent in search of\nHarry.\n\nNow this was his red-letter day. Harry was in luck. Therefore it was not\none of the many servants of the establishment, or any straggling\nacquaintance that had joined in the search. Luckily, it was not one of\nthese, or the cross Betty, who first espied Harry and the lady:\notherwise he would have been borne away from his friend and his recently\ndiscovered Eden in triumph, in spite of all cries and protestations. It\nwas Harry's own papa; and it did not take many words, when the\nbright-faced lady was the pleader (backed by that little face, with that\nstrange flush of joy upon it, that spoke more eloquently to the father's\nheart than any words could have done), to induce that gentleman to allow\nHarry to remain where he was all day; likewise to extort a promise that\nhe might come to see the lady whenever and as often as she chose to\ntrouble herself with the care of him: and this being nicely arranged,\nHarry's papa went his way and they went theirs. And Harry did that day\nwhat is seldom done in this world of disappointment--more than realized\nhis anticipations. He sat on the bank and heard the birds sing; he\nplayed at horse until he was tired; and though he did not build mud\nhouses, he ate sugar ones, which was, in every respect, a vast\nimprovement on the original design; and, what was more than all, his\nlittle playfellow, whose temper was as sunny as his face, never gave\nhim a cross word or look the whole day through. They had supper, when\nthe time came, under the rustling leaves of a huge green tree; and there\nwere raisins and nuts and candy, cakes grotesquely cut and twisted into\nevery conceivable shape, and every imaginable dainty. All through that\nmemorable day, Harry was the happiest of the happy. Other days succeeded\nthis that were but a thought less bright. A time had come when the rough\npath seemed smooth to the little pilgrim's feet, and flowers sprang up\nby the lonely wayside, and golden sunlight fell through the rifted\nclouds and crowned the little head with its blessing, and light and\nwarmth crept into the chilled and desolate life, and made existence\nbeautiful: a brief and joyful time, on which was written, as on all\nbright things of earth, those words of mournfulness unutterable:\n'Passing away!'\n\n\nPART SECOND.\n\nIt is that hour of day's decline when the turbulent roar from the city's\nbusy mart is hushed into a lazy hum, when a peaceful, quiet calm\nbreathes through the atmosphere and settles on the noisy earth, as if\nall things were hushed into tranquil silence at thought of the coming\ntwilight's holy hour. The sun's red, slanting rays fall on the dusty\npavement in front of that gloomy, stately mansion which Harry calls his\nhome, enter a richly furnished room where the blinds are thrown open and\nthe curtains looped back, and with their fervent glow rest\ncompassionately upon a drooping female figure, upon a bent head bowed in\nshame, a head still young, whose wealth of rich black tresses passion\nand remorse have already marked with gray. Sin-stricken, woe-stricken,\nand remorseful, feeling how inefficient is even her mother's love, how\npowerless every earthly consideration to hold her back from ruin;\nstretching out palsied hands to Heaven for help; racked by the fierce\nfires of repentance, her tortured soul corroded by remorse, she mourns\npassionately but unavailingly.\n\nOh! there are hours like this in the hidden history of every fallen and\ndegraded son of Adam, when the scales are removed from the spiritual\neyes, and the sin-stained soul shiveringly beholds the depth to which it\nhas fallen, and shrinks back appalled at the sight; when the demon has\ndeparted for a season, and evil thoughts and evil influences are cast\nout, and, feeling their power returning with repentance, angels come to\nminister unto the sorrowing one. Gentle guardians are there, who have\nwatched it all its life through, striven with all the means that lie\nwithin the grasp of a spirit's power to stay it on its downward course\nand bring the lost soul back. Ah! 'Love's labor lost.' Ineffectual these\noft-repeated efforts _may_ be, ineffectual through all time they\ndoubtless will be; but who shall say in the 'land of the undying' that\nthe work of ministering love shall not continue? What man is that, that\nin an hour like this can look upon his brother, prostrate in spirit,\nracked with remorse, no matter how vile and polluted, and can say\nanguish like this shall be that soul's undying portion in the long\nhereafter; that God's justice requires infinite punishment for a finite\ncrime; that, when freed from its earthly body, the ears of the\nAll-Compassionate shut out that soul's despairing cry for pardon? Who\nshall limit infinite mercy? Who shall set bounds to Divine compassion,\nor think that, toiling painfully and slowly up the endless heights of\nprogression, there shall not be a time away onward in the solemn future,\nhidden in the dim mists of ages yet to come, when that soul shall be\ncleansed from its pollution, freed from its mourning, sin entirely cast\nout, and God shall be all and in all?\n\nThe light breeze, as it sways the loose heavy tresses, wafts to her ear\na strain of distant music. All the drowsy afternoon it has been playing,\nlost almost entirely at first in the busy hum of the streets and in the\nlong lull of the lazy wind--a strain only caught at rare intervals when\nthe breeze is strong enough to bear it to her. It has been slowly\napproaching as the hours creep on, advancing a few steps at a time.\nBallads and simple ditties, dances, waltzes, grand old marches! with\nthat unaccountable attraction for trifles which the mind often\nexperiences in its hours of suffering, mechanically, one after another,\nshe has traced them all. Now the varied tones cease to pervade the\natmosphere, and there is a long resting pause. When the music begins\nagain, it is on the pavement, almost beneath the window, and the old\nmusician, perhaps unconsciously wrought upon by the silent influence of\nthe hour, has merged from the gay to the pathetic, and plays only sad\nlittle pieces in the minor key. Presently from the multitude of sweet\nsounds there arises on the air a song lower and sadder than the\nothers--a strange, pathetic melody, falling on the ear like a low,\nplaintive wail, broken by keen throbs of agony: her whole nature beats\nin responsive echo. O God! gone so far down the dreary road which has\ndarkly led her from that time of purity and peace when that song was\nnightly sung to her; after so many weary years of sin and suffering, to\nhear those notes again! It is but a simple thing which has the power so\nto move her, a mere nothing; half dirge, half hymn, familiar to her\nlong-forgotten childhood, once sung by her mother as a cradle song! With\nher wretched face buried in her hands, she hears it, and clearly the\npast rises before her: her childhood in its innocence; her girlhood in\nits purity; her womanhood, her motherhood in its degradation! All the\nholier part of what was once herself; all that was true and noble,\nwomanly and pure, from the deep waters of oblivion to which that damning\nappetite has consigned them, rise to haunt her now, pale, wan, and\nspectre-like. Oh! to sit down, side by side with her former self; to see\nherself as she used to be before the tempter crept into the Eden of her\nheart; to look despairingly up to the height whence she had fallen, so\nwrecked in moral strength that she had not the power to retrace a single\nstep! Peace departed, virtue lost, health undermined, affection\nsquandered, ruthlessly murdering the peace of one whose life through all\nthe time of its sad earth-sojourning is linked with hers; cursing the\nhome she should have blessed and brightened, making of that fair garden,\nwherein sweet domestic graces should have bloomed and blossomed as the\nrose, but a desolate and barren waste, knowing that hearts, little\nhearts, that had drawn their life-beat from her own, had starved and\nsickened for the love which is their rightful food;--with senses bleared\nand deadened, she had heard them piteously wailing but for a morsel of\nthat bread of life without which even the footsteps of the self-reliant,\nthe strong and brave of heart, faint and falter by the way, and she had\ncruelly denied them that precious nutriment; she had given them life,\nbut had robbed them of all that makes life endurable. Life's duties\nunfulfilled, life's high and holy aims trampled under the foot of\nsensual indulgence, living to blight instead of to bless! O woman, wife,\nand mother, thy life when lived aright a crucifixion of the flesh, a\nsublime self-sacrifice--not for thee the pleasures of sense and time,\nnot for thee may peal earth's songs of triumph! Fainting oft beneath the\nburden of the cross, we trace thy way by bloody footprints, suffering as\na saint;--falling from thy estate, how terrible will be thy retribution\nas a sinner!\n\nHark! There is the patter of little feet ascending the staircase, coming\ndown the long upper hall. To the repentant mother's ears what music so\nsweet as that? She listens breathlessly. Was it thought of her that had\nimpelled them thither? Would they approach her room? Since she had grown\nmore and more repulsive day by day, since those fits of drunken passion\nhad become a thing of fearful frequency, and those little ones had\nsuffered from their violence, and learned to fear her, they had come but\nseldom--never alone; but they are approaching now, shyly, hesitatingly,\nas if afraid to come, but still approaching--pausing at the very\nthreshold. The burning tears force their way through the clenched\nfingers--the sound of the little feet has given her power to pray.\nThough angels fail in the work of redemption, there may yet be power in\nthe little hands to hold her back. She does not rise to open the door,\nbut sits choking down her sobs, and listening to the turning, twisting,\nshaking of the door knob, to a dozen failures in unskilful attempts to\nenter, every movement of the little hand sending a strange thrill of\nmingled pain and pleasure through the overburdened heart.\n\nIt opens at last, and Harry stands upon the threshold, looking timidly\nin. Ah! no maudlin sorrow, no senseless, idiotic mirth, no disgusting\nstupor disfigures the face on which he gazes. Its depth of hopeless,\ndespairing tenderness, so eloquently accompanied by the pathetic\nmovement of the outstretched hands, almost frightens him by its\nintensity; but, in obedience to the motion, he comes forward,\nhalf-fearfully proffering the flower he holds in his hand.\n\n'A flower sent to her by a lady who was so kind,' he tremblingly\nexplains, 'one that he loves so dearly!'\n\nIt is the lily, the emblem of purity. She takes it from him, lays it on\nthe table behind her, out of sight, a sullen glow of resentment at the\ngift mingling with the sorrow of her face as she does so. What mother\nhad fathomed her shameful secret, and dared to send her child to her\nwith a gift like that? Some one that is fast gaining the place she\nshould have occupied in his heart! One that is fast winning away from\nher the love she so much needs to aid her in the desired reformation.\nShe notes how the little face softens and brightens when he speaks of\nher, and a sharp pang of jealousy shoots through her heart. The fact\nthat she has never sought to win that heart to herself by kindness, that\nshe has forfeited her child's respect, and never deserved its love, only\nincreases her resentment and adds poignancy to the pang. She feels the\nslight form start and shiver with a strange, fearful repulsion as she\nplaces it on her lap. Would the strong natural affection nature had\nimplanted there, so cruelly crushed out, now nearly if not quite dead,\narise anew to life, and grow stronger than this repulsion? That is the\nquestion to be answered _now_. Ah! if there were but a spark remaining,\nwere it only a poor, feeble, smouldering flame, it would have the power,\nshe felt, to light her to higher and better things. With a thrill of\npure maternal love, a stranger to her heart, whose holiest impulses,\ndeadened by reckless indulgence, have degenerated into instincts, she\nfolds the little form closer to her, in spite of its shuddering, and,\nlooking into the upturned face (O mother, miserably blind), reads\nunderstandingly for the first time the hunger of heart so legibly\nwritten on every speaking feature. With the sharp arrow of conviction\nthat pierces her soul at the sight, comes a voice appealing to its\ninmost recesses, a voice speaking those words spoken by the great heart\nof Divine Compassion, eighteen hundred years ago; those words of\ntenderest pleading: _'Feed my lambs!_' How had she fed those committed\nto her charge? The wan, thin, sorrowful face, the little heart finding\nno joy in life, grown weary before its time, best answer that question.\nAided by her aroused spiritual perceptions, she reads now all too\ntruthfully the sad, sad record of the heart-breaking loneliness of the\nlife she has made desolate; and, pressing the wronged heart close\nagainst her own, the keen remorse of her soul bursts forth in a low moan\nof irrepressible anguish:\n\n'Oh, my child! my little, little, little child!'\n\nStudying the face bent over him as children learn to study the faces of\nthose whom they have reason to fear, whose kindness is at best\ncapricious, and finding nothing but sorrow and tenderness in it, he\nbegan to fear it less: thankful even for a brief season of kindness, the\nsolitary child laid the pale cheek close against his mother's, and\ntwined the thin arms about her neck. It was a strange and blissful\nsensation for that mother to feel them clinging there. In her softened\nmood it made the tears fall hot and fast, to think how strange it was.\n\n'What made Harry think of coming to see ma to-day?' she said at last,\nbrushing them hurriedly away.\n\n'A lady gave me that flower, mamma, and told me to bring it to you.'\n\nA pause and a closer pressure--then she questioned nervously:\n\n'What lady is it, Harry? Where does she live? How came you to know her,\ndarling?'\n\nHarry hesitated. He noticed the dark shadow that swept across her face\nat every reference to his new-found friend, and, with a child's\nintuitive perception, he saw the subject gave her pain. Striving with\nready tact to draw her attention from it to himself, he went back to the\nbeginning, to give her a sort of history of how he came to form the\nacquaintance.\n\n'Mamma,' he said timidly, twining his arms still closer around her neck,\nand speaking in a slow, hesitating way, as if he feared that this would\ngive her pain also, 'our house, you know, is a very lonesome place. Oh,\nso _very_ lonesome!--just like a day when the sun won't shine, and the\nrain comes dark and slow. Well, ma, it was always bad enough, but when\nCharley went away to school, and you stayed up here more than ever, and\nBetty got crosser than ever, you can't think _how_ lonesome it was! Pa\nused to bring me playthings at first, but I felt so bad I couldn't play\nwith them. I felt all the time as if I wanted something, and,' glancing\npiteously up into his mother's face, and laying his little hand upon his\nheart, 'as if I was _so hungry here_. Well, I used to climb up at the\nwindow and watch the people going by, and wonder and wonder what the\nmatter was.' He waited as if half expecting an answer; but a stifled sob\nwas the only reply. 'Looking out the window and seeing other people, I\nfound out after a while that we were different from everybody else.\nOther mothers who had little boys like me, always took their little boys\nwith them when they went to walk. All the sunshiny days they went\nwalking up and down--walking up and down; and the mothers were not cross\nlike Betty, and the little boys were not lonesome like me, but had such\nred, chubby cheeks, and looked happy 'most all the time. The first day I\nfound this out, when Betty took me away from the window, and stood me up\nbefore the glass to comb my hair, and I looked in and saw what a face I\nhad, I cried and cried. Then the mothers would smile and look pleased\nwhenever their little boys spoke to them, and seemed to love them so\nmuch, that I wanted them to love me too; and I used to throw little\nthings out of the window sometimes, so that they would look up and smile\nat me.'\n\nAh! the young, tender heart, living, as yet, only by the affections,\nthat required such a wealth of love to fill it! The little outcast heart\ndepending on casual passers by for a stray word or look of comfort,\nstriving to feed itself on such poor, miserable crumbs as these! It made\nthe mother's face grow white with anguish to think of _that_.\n\n'Well, about just such a time every morning, when Charley had gone to\nschool, and I sat by the window as lonesome as lonesome could be, on the\nsidewalk under the window there always came a lady who was kinder to me\nthan the other ladies, who _always_ looked up and smiled. Such a\nbeautiful lady, ma, with a face as kind as pa's, and a great deal more\nsmiling; you'd love her if you saw her; I know you would--you couldn't\nhelp it. And ma,' and here Harry's enthusiasm died out, and his voice\ntook a sadder tone, 'she's got a little boy, just about as big as I am,\nand she always takes him with her when she goes out, just like the other\nladies. And--and ma'--the low voice had a frightened tone in it, as if\nthe little one feared he was venturing too far.\n\n'Yes, Harry.'\n\n'I thought--that--that--'\n\n'What, darling?'\n\n'That if you would go out to walk yourself sometimes, and take us with\nyou, Charley and me, that we shouldn't be so different from everybody\nelse, and it wouldn't be quite so lonesome here.'\n\nA long pause followed--a frightened pause on Harry's part. Venturing,\nafter a little while, to look into his mother's face, its sadness,\nunmixed with anger reassured him, and he proceeded:\n\n'That was the lady who sent you the flower. She lives in a little white\nhouse just across the road. One day, when Betty took me out for a walk,\nI ran away and went there; and I have been there a good many times\nsince. It's a little house, ma, a very little house. There are no bright\npictures or beautiful carpets in it; but they are never lonesome there.\nShe is as kind to her little boy every day as you are to me now. It's a\nlong time, ma, since you kissed me and held me on your lap, and acted as\nif you loved me! Oh, mamma!' He laid the pale cheek, wet with grateful\ntears, close against her own. 'Why a'n't you good to me always? I love\nyou _now_, but I don't love you always; I _can't_ love you always, ma.\nThat day when you frightened me so, when you pulled my hair, threw me\ndown on the floor, and whipped me till the blood ran, I didn't like you\nfor a long time _then_, you hurt me so.'\n\nThe grief of the wretched mother burst forth anew in sobs and tears.\n\n'Oh, Harry! oh, my poor, poor child! Did ma do that?'\n\n'Don't cry, ma, oh, don't cry; I don't think you meant to do it. There\nis something that changes you, that makes you cross and strange. And\nma'--the timid voice sank away to a low, frightened whisper, broken and\ntremulous with tears.\n\n'Yes, dearest.'\n\n'You won't be angry, dear mamma?'\n\n'No, love, no.'\n\nHe hid his face on her shoulder, sobbing:\n\n'It's something that you drink. They never have it there, in that little\nhouse,' pursued Harry in a voice choked with rushing tears. 'They never\nhave it anywhere where they are happy. Oh, mamma! If you'd only send it\naway, if you'd throw it away, if you would put it out of sight; oh, my\ndear, dear mamma, if you would never look at it, never taste it, never,\nnever drink it any more!' In the energy of his supplication he twined\nthe little arms still closer and closer about her neck--his tears fell\nlike rain upon her bosom. That baby face, eloquent with entreaty and wet\nwith tears! She could not bear to see it. Crimson with shame, she hid\nher own in her outstretched hands. 'She never drinks it. I've watched\nher; she drinks coffee sometimes, water sometimes, _tea_ 'most always.\nMa, if you must drink something, why wouldn't _tea_ do just as well?'\n\nShe folded her arms about the little form, and clasped it to her bosom.\nHer face was lighted with a high resolve, the heart against which her\nchild's was pressed was throbbing with a lofty impulse.\n\n'It would, my darling, it would; with God's help, it shall. Here in His\nholy presence, I solemnly promise, if there is any strength in good\nresolutions, if there is any power of good left within me, if God will\nnot utterly forsake one who has so long forsaken her better nature,\nnever, never, from this time, henceforth and forever, to touch, taste,\nor look upon the accursed thing.'\n\nThat night, at the foot of the tall poplar, the flickering sunlight\nfalling through the leaves on his head, making the brown hair golden\nwhere it fell, Harry sat watching the coming of his brother. He had not\nlong to wait; in a little while the red, slanting rays fell on that\nother head of darker brown. The well-known form appeared at the gateway,\nand Harry went bounding down the gravel walk to meet him.\n\n'Ma wants to see you,' panted the little brother. 'She wanted you to\ncome up to her room as soon as ever you got home. She sent me to tell\nyou so.'\n\nThe message was such an unusual one, he was so flushed and excited, so\n_proud_ to give it, and the look of joy shining in the pale face was\nsuch a stranger to it, that the great brown eyes of the elder brother\nopened wide in silent wonder, and the excited Harry had caught him by\nboth hands, and was dragging him by main force toward the house before\nhe had recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to speak.\n\n'I don't want to go,' cried the unwilling Charley, ruefully drawing\nback. 'I don't _want_ to go, Harry. _Why_ does she want to see me? What\n_makes_ her want to see me? I a'n't done nothing to be whipped for!'\n\n'Oh! it isn't _that_,' returned the little fellow eagerly. 'We a'n't\ngoing to be whipped any more, unless we're real naughty, and then not\nvery hard; and ma is going to send Betty away, and we a'n't going to be\nscolded any more; and she's going to take us to walk and ride with her\nsometimes, as the other mothers do. Why,' cried the eager child, all\nglowing at the delightful prospect, 'Why, Charley, we're going to be\nhappy now.'\n\n'Oh, I don't believe we are,' sadly sighed the more experienced Charley,\nscratching his curls disconsolately, and looking at his brother in a\nmaze of perplexity and doubt. 'I've thought we were going to be happy a\ngreat many times, but we a'n't been never, and I don't believe we ever\nwill be. The first thing I remember was being lonesome, and I've been as\nlonesome as could be ever since. No, no; we shall never be happy. Ta'n't\nno use thinking about being happy,' and the forlorn child threw himself\nupon the grass in a hopeless and dejected manner. 'But they _do_ say,\nHarry,' he continued, looking up through the leaves at the blue vault\nabove him, 'that there's a place up yonder somewhere where good people\ngo when they die, and where _everybody_ is happy. I've thought, since I\nheard about it, that perhaps some people went there without dying. If\nthey _do_, Harry, and I can only find out the way, I'd leave this mean\nold place, and go there straight, this very minute. I'd like to have you\nand pa come, Harry; but ma is always scolding or whipping us for\nsomething. I don't like ma, and I don't care whether she ever gets there\nor not. Come to think of it,' pursued Charley, as a new thought seemed\nto strike him, 'I had a good deal rather she wouldn't come; for if she\n_did_ find out the way, and come up there after a while, like as any way\nshe'd bring a switch with her.'\n\n'You shouldn't talk so about ma, Charley,' said his meek-eyed brother.\n'She isn't cross _always_. She has been kind to me to-day, so kind,'\nsaid the little fellow, stemming with his fingers two great round drops\nthat were slowly running down his cheeks, 'that it makes the tears come\nto think about it. I was with her a great long while, and she didn't\nscold or speak cross once. Why, only think, Charley,' he proceeded,\nopening his eyes, as if the fact about to be communicated could never be\nsufficiently wondered at, 'we were all alone together for ever so long,\nand she might have got angry and whipped me just as well as not, and pa\nwould never know anything about it.'\n\n'It's a wonder she didn't,' scornfully returned his brother; 'it would\nhave been such a nice chance. She don't get such a chance as _that_\nevery day. There wouldn't have been any fun in it if she had, though;\nfor I tell you what it is,' he continued, looking about on his hands for\nsundry marks and dents left thereon by the nails of his mother, 'I tell\nyou what it is, Harry, when she gets hold of a feller, she digs right\nin. She pounds us more than half the time for just nothing at all, only\nbecause she gets mad and likes to do it. To be sure, I get mad myself\nsometimes, and say ugly words, and ought to be whipped; but you, _you_\nnever do anything to be whipped for, and _she_,' proceeded the indignant\nlittle fellow, with an emphasis of immeasurable scorn on that personal\npronoun, '_she_ to go to work and pound a little, pale fellow like you!\nWhy, she ought to be ashamed of herself. I get so mad sometimes when she\ngets to whipping us, and pa comes to take us away, that I think if he\nwould pound her just as hard as she pounds us, and just long enough to\nlet us see how good it feels, I wouldn't care a bit--I'd just like it:\nbut he don't never; he only trembles all over and gets very white, sets\nher down in a chair, and takes us out of the room--buys us playthings,\nor tells us stories to stop our crying, and that's the end of it until\nnext time.'\n\nPoor Harry! the color had faded from his face, the light from his eyes.\nThat deep shadow of inexpressible mournfulness had again crept into\nthem. Memory of such scenes, as are never garnered up in the breasts of\nhappy childhood, shadowed his face and heart. His short-lived happiness\nwas over. He made no reply to his brother, but sat motionless, gazing at\nthe sky with a searching, yearning, far-off gaze. Looking at the two\nyoung faces turned upward, it would have been hard to say which was the\nsaddest. Young as they were, traces of the working of the curse which\nhad blighted their lives, were plainly visible in both. Both were\nequally pale and thoughtful, both robbed of the brightness and gayety\nbelonging to their years, only varying in expression as they varied in\ntemperament. The look of meek and patient endurance on the face of the\nyounger spoke of a nature that wrong and suffering might crush, but\ncould never rouse to anger or resentment--of a heart that would break,\nif must be, but would patiently lie down and die. The scornful defiance\nflashing ever and anon in the face of the elder brother, the\nimmeasurable bitterness mingling with its sadness, showed a proud and\nfiery temperament that could be goaded to desperation.\n\n'But she shall never strike me many times more,' continued Charley, with\nsuppressed indignation. After a pause, during which, with compressed lip\nand clouded brow, he had been resentfully dwelling upon the pain and\nhumiliation consequent upon the blows he had received: 'Never! never!\nfor I don't care if it _is_ wrong, if pa _does_ tell me not to do it, I\ndon't care if she is my mother; after I get just a little bigger, when\nshe strikes me, I'm going to strike back again.'\n\nThese vengeful threats exciting no answering comments from his brother,\nCharley turned to look at him. A strange prophetic chill swept across\nthe intuitional soul, and filled it with vague, shuddering apprehension.\n\n'Harry, don't look that way; Harry, come back to yourself! Oh, Harry!\ntake your eyes from the sky and look at me. You frighten me so!' cried\nCharley, in a voice tremulous with agitation.\n\nThe consciousness of his surroundings had dawned so slowly on the rapt\nsoul, the patient face had turned toward his brother's so calmly, he was\nso meek and quiet, so undemonstrative usually, that he was totally\nunprepared for the wild burst of passionate weeping with which Harry\nthrew himself upon his neck.\n\n'Oh! Charley, Charley, I cannot find it, I cannot see the land you talk\nof. I know it must be there, where the sky is clear and the sun is\nshining; but I've been looking, and I can't see it anywhere. Oh!\nCharley, where is it? Where is the place up yonder where they are good\nand happy? Show me the way there, show me the way. I don't want to stay\n_here_,' sobbed Harry, coming back to his own hopeless self again; 'I\nwant to go somewhere where folks don't have to be lonesome all the time;\nI don't know what dying is, but if dying will do it, I want dying to\ntake me there.'\n\nHe had drawn his brother toward him, wiped his tears away with his own\nlittle apron, and soothed him as well as his agitation would permit,\nstriving, amid the tumult of his thoughts, to gather up such meagre\nscraps of information as he had gleaned upon the subject, and put it\ninto intelligible words, when, from a window almost hidden by the leaves\nof the tree under which they were sitting, they heard a voice calling\nto them, a familiar voice, but with a new tone in it, which quickens\ntheir pulse-beat, and makes their hearts throb with a sweet joy. Dimly\nvisible through the foliage, a familiar face is looking down upon them,\nloving and tender as any mother's face should be; and with that look,\nthe strong instinctive love for her which nature had implanted in their\nhearts awoke in all its strength. Pride, anger, sorrow, were all alike\nforgotten. To her loving call there came from eager lips the ready\nresponse:\n\n'Yes, mamma; we are coming, dear mamma.'\n\nThose who are blessed with golden memories of a happy childhood,\nperchance but lightly prize Heaven's brightest, choicest gift. Those who\nhave never felt the hungering and thirsting of a heart deprived of\nsympathy and kindness, the desolate pining of that state more sorrowful\nthan orphanage, can but feebly, faintly guess how tender tones and soft\ncaresses, loving words and looks, such common blessings as awaken in the\nhappy thought of gratitude, were treasured up in these lonely hearts as\ngifts of priceless value, or measure the deep thankfulness which\nthrilled them as they knelt side by side at their mother's knee, and\nsaid their prayers in the deepening twilight that summer night.\n\nThey had a table spread before the open window, and had their supper in\ntheir mother's room, and, as the light sank into darkness, with an arm\nthrown around each little form caressingly, and a brown head resting on\neach shoulder, they sat beside her on the sofa, and listened as she told\nthem, in language suited to their childish comprehension, of the coming\njoys in store for them, of what a happy home their future home should\nbe, now that she had resolutely parted from the curse that had destroyed\ntheir peace, and forever turned her back against it;--listened as she\ndrew glowing pictures of the walks and rides they would take, of the\nvaried pleasures they would enjoy together, pleasures it should be her\npleasing task to plan. They had nothing to damp their enjoyment, for she\nhad dismissed Betty, and with her own hands undressed and bathed them,\nand robed them for the night; and they enjoyed it all, not with the keen\nzest, the careless hilarity of childhood, but with the subdued and\nthoughtful gravity seen in beings of maturer years, to whose lot has\nfallen more of the sorrows than the joys of life, and who receive\nhappiness, when at rare intervals it comes to them, with a tremulous\nthankfulness, as if fearful of entertaining so strange a guest; and when\nat last it ended, as all happy seasons must, and both tired heads rested\non one pillow, Harry whispered to his brother:\n\n'There is nothing to be sorry for _now_, Charley. She will never drink\nthat dark stuff any more--I know she never will; she will never forget\nthe promise she has made.'\n\nThen the drowsy eyes, ere they closed, sought the dim night sky for that\nstar, the brightest in the blue above him, which had revealed itself\nthrough his tears, when alone in the darkness he had first learned to\npray, and, gazing on it, and on the sky beyond, where a happier home\nthan any earthly one is proffered, murmured to himself, with a peaceful\nsmile:\n\n'Oh! we shall be so happy, so very, very, very happy!'\n\n\nPART THIRD.\n\nShe promised. Oh, frail and sandy foundation, on which to build bright\nhopes of earthly happiness! Only for four brief weeks, one happy month,\nthat solemn promise was faithfully remembered. Of the effort that even\nthis short period of abstinence had cost her, of the burning thirst\nwhich tortured her by day and night, the fierce desire that battled with\nand almost overcame her feeble resolution when the enthusiasm that had\nat first upheld her died away, of the suffering of those weary weeks of\nconflict, only those can tell who, heroes every one, like her, have\nbattled with this fierce spiritual Apollyon, and who, unlike her, have\novercome. Hour by hour the maddening desire of gratification wasted\nlittle by little her moral strength. The thirst grew stronger, the will\nweaker.\n\nThe thought of the home she had brightened by her self-denial, the heart\nshe had gladdened, the little ones who had drawn their life from hers,\nwhose trust in her was growing stronger day by day, as evening came and\nshowed the valued promise still remembered, and morning dawned and found\nher faithful, held her back at first; but gradually this also lost its\npower. Then that torturing, burning, maddening thirst swept over the\ndoomed soul like a fierce simoom, drying up the fountains of maternal\ntenderness, bearing away all sense of duty, all tenderness and sympathy,\nthe blessed hope of heaven itself, in its desolating track. One wretched\nday, when this thirst was so strong upon her that her priceless soul\ngrew worthless in her eyes, and she would smilingly have bartered it but\nfor a single draught; one well-remembered, miserable day, when the\nlittle faces were raised to hers, and found upon it no trace of motherly\naffection, only that dark foreboding look, and grew pale with fright\nwhen desire had reached that relentless climax which leaves the victim\nno choice but of madness or gratification, she had fiercely summoned her\nusual messenger, sent for her usual drink, and sat grimly waiting for\nit. In vain that trusty messenger, to whose care the wretched father had\nconfided that pitiful remnant of family honor, the shame of public\nexposure, boldly setting fear of her aside, earnestly besought her to\nwrestle with the demon yet a little longer, were it but a single day;\nand implored her with tears to remember the little ones on whom this\nblow would fall so heavily. There was no tone of motherly affection\nwithin that raging breast to respond to that appeal. With parched,\ncracked lips, and burning eyes and bloated face fierce with desire, she\nhad driven her from her presence. Fear lest the lack of this great need\nwould drive her to distraction quite, and some worse evil yet befall\nthem, she had gone her way, weeping as she went. She came back\npresently. There was enough of that terrible poison in the bottle she\nbrought to make her mistress drunk a score of times. She may get drunk\n_now_, dead drunk; in a little while she may lie upon the floor a\nsenseless, idiotic, disgusting creature. She almost prays it may be so,\nas she hands her the glass which she angrily calls for, for there is yet\na greater evil to be dreaded. The liquor so long untasted, acting upon\nher naturally high temper, may arouse within her a wild tempest of\npassion; in her frenzy she may fall upon those little ones, beat,\nbruise, maim, murder them perhaps. It is not the first time their lives\nhave been endangered by her violence. To get them from the room without\nexciting her opposition, so quietly and naturally that it shall hardly\nattract her observation, is her first care; hence, under pretence of\narranging the window curtain, she says to Charley, who is standing near\nit:\n\n'Charley, say you want some cakes--a drink of water--anything that's\ndown stairs, and follow me out of this room.'\n\n'I can't go, Maggie,' returned the child, in the same cautious whisper,\nglancing toward his mother with his large dark eyes wildly dilated, and\nhis small face bleached with fright. 'Harry won't go, and I can't leave\nHarry.'\n\n'Harry shall go,' energetically repeated the resolute Maggie, putting\nher head out of the window to say her say. 'He is not going to stay here\nto be mauled! Harry,' she continued, in the most insinuating tone\nimaginable, 'come down stairs with Maggie. There's a darling.'\n\nHe was leaning out of the window, apparently looking at something in the\nstreet below, and did not move as she addressed him.\n\n'Harry, Harry,' she called again, in an excited whisper, 'do you hear\nme? quick, child, quick!'\n\nHe turned toward her his face covered with tears.\n\n'Don't cry, for heaven's sake, child; don't cry _here_,' returned\nMaggie, with a suppressed groan, 'or that mother of yours will pounce\nupon you in spite of me.'\n\nAt the mention of that word, what little self-possession he retained\ngave way, and he sobbed outright. It was a sob so passionate and long\nsuppressed, and it burst forth in spite of him with such vehemence, that\nit shook the little form from head to foot, and sounded through the\nstill room so miserably hopeless, so heart-broken, that it even aroused\nthe stupefied being nodding in her chair, whom he had the misery to call\nby the name of mother. It awakened within her some vague thought of\nmotherly sympathy; and, stupidly striving to comprehend what it meant,\nand idly muttering to her miserable self, she poured out a third glass,\nheld it in her hand as well as she was able, and came tottering forward,\nswaying to and fro in maudlin efforts to keep her feet. She took up her\nposition directly behind Harry, and looked vacantly out. She was trying\nto ask what was the matter, with a tongue whose palsied utterance made\nlanguage incomprehensible, when Harry's friend, whom he had been\nwatching, and whose figure he had, with love's delicate discrimination,\npicked out from a score of similar figures, and known to be hers, when\nit was but a mere speck in the distance, passed directly under the open\nwindow, and, startled by that sob and by that drunken voice in answer,\nlooked wonderingly up. Oh, heavens! she read that fearful secret in one\nblank, horrified glance. She read it in the despairing hopelessness of\nthe little face turned toward hers--that look so terrible in a face so\nyoung. She read it still more clearly in that fiery, bloated, senseless\nvisage looking down upon her with a dull stare, in the swaying form\nfeebly holding the tell-tale glass. She knew now why that delicate\nchild, nursed in the lap of affluence, having all that wealth could\npurchase, had come so timidly to her lowly dwelling, and earnestly\nbesought her for a single kiss; what had made the little face sorrowful\nand wan, and set that seal of suffering upon it. She saw it all, and,\nunder the sudden weight of that astounding revelation, she literally\nstaggered as under the weight of a blow. Looking down through his\ntear-dimmed eyes at the face he loved so well, Harry saw upon it no look\nof sympathy or recognition for him--only that blank, amazed,\nhorror-stricken look at that something behind him, a look which embraced\nevery item of the shameful scene, and showed all too clearly how plainly\nit did so. Then, without a word or glance of kindness, she gathered her\nveil closely about her pallid visage, and quickly hurried away. Alas for\nHarry! he feels that the truth has turned her heart from his, and she\nhas gone forever. The anguish of that thought was too great for\nsuppression, and he stretched forth his hands toward the retreating\nfigure with a forlorn wail of supplication. That look of horror, that\nlow, plaintive, heart-broken cry, like a child forsaken of its mother,\nhad sobered her a little. She had been a proud woman once, and a remnant\nof the nobler pride which had once uplifted her was still left within\nher soul. To have eyes from which shone forth the pure, unsullied spirit\nof womanhood, discover her secret, and look upon her in her shame; to\nbehold in a rival, whom unseen she hated, womanhood enthroned in\nexcellence; to see its image in herself fallen and defaced, sunken in\ndegradation; to know that a few kind and well-bestowed caresses had won\nher child's love from her, that on that strange maternal bosom the\nlittle head rested more tranquilly and peacefully than on her own; to\nowe her a double grudge as discoverer and supplanter--this aroused the\nsmouldering and now perverted pride yet alive within her bosom, and\nfanned it to a flame. She clinched her hands convulsively, her teeth\nshut together with a dull, grating sound, the unsteady form swayed to\nand fro, like a lithe tree shaken in the wind of a coming tempest, and\nthe bloated face, dark with wrath, was terrible to look upon. It was a\nfearful thing to be alone with that half-drunken creature, and see wave\nafter wave of passion rolling over her tempest-tossed soul, lashing it\ninto fury. Maggie felt it to be so _now_. As a trusty confidant and able\nprotector, one who, by some strange means, had gained an ascendency over\nher mistress that no other possessed, and wisely exercised this\ncontrolling power, she had been with these poor children through many\nsimilar scenes, sheltering them under the broad wing of her protection,\nbut she had never beheld the gathering of so dark a storm, never felt\nthe vague, shuddering dread, the chill apprehension which seized on her\nnow. One glance at that terrible being showed her power lost, her\nprotection insufficient, impotent. To stay with them and endeavor to\nbreast the coming storm would be madness--to try to get the children\nfrom the room now would be both impolitic and dangerous; at the least\ndemonstration of the kind that storm would be sure to burst upon them in\nall its resistless fury, and before its raging power she felt her\nstrength would be utter weakness. She must fly for aid. Perhaps even now\nsome invisible being, conscious of their danger, might be impelling\ntheir father to the rescue.\n\n'Harry,' said Maggie, turning very pale, as she glanced at the dreadful\nfigure rocking to and fro in fearful communing with itself, and bending\ndown to whisper a parting injunction as she tied on her bonnet, 'don't\nspeak to her, don't look toward her. Don't cross her in any way. She's\nthe devil's own, now.'\n\nA word, a look, a gesture of entreaty to Charley, placing in dumb show\nhis brother in his charge, and she passed from the room hastily and\nnoiselessly, but not unperceived. As she vanished, an evil smile of\ntriumph at thus being so easily rid of an able antagonist, flashed\nacross the terrible face, giving it almost the look of a demon. In\npassing out, Maggie has left the door ajar, which perceiving, the\nwretched woman totters across the room, shuts the door, locks it, throws\nthe key upon the floor, and, tottering back to her seat, again takes a\nlong, deep draught from the glass upon the table. Fixing her fiery eyes\nfull on Harry, she calls out imperiously:\n\n'Come here, sir!'\n\nThe tone in which the command is given is cruel, stern, and cold,\nunsoftened by maternal tenderness, untouched by womanly gentleness, and\nthe bloated face has the same evil look upon it. Harry shrinks back\naffrighted.\n\n'Are you deaf, you adder? Come here, I say, come here.'\n\nThere is a fierceness in the tone now which shows a longer delay will be\ndangerous; and so Charley, pale and trembling, comes forth from the\ncorner in which he has been crouching, and, taking his smaller brother\nby the hand, they come forward together.\n\n'What made you bawl after that woman--that woman in the street?' she\nsays, viciously grasping the little shoulder, and giving it a shake.\n'Answer me this minute. Speak, sir, speak!'\n\n'I--I can't help loving her, ma,' falters the poor child deprecatingly,\nwhile the blue eyes fill, and the tears fall slowly down his face.\n\n'There, none of your snivelling,' she cries fiercely, giving him another\nshake. 'Come up here; come closer. Here! Stand back, you,' pushing\nCharley from her with a force that makes him stagger. 'Now then,' she\nfuriously demands, 'did you ever cry after _me_ when _I_ went away and\nleft you?'\n\nHe is so faint with fright that he can hardly find his voice to answer,\nand the words are almost inarticulate as he falters forth:\n\n'Sometimes, ma; sometimes, when you are kind to me.'\n\n'You never did; you know you never did, you little liar,' shrieks the\ncrazed creature, savagely dealing him a heavy blow which sends him\nreeling from her.\n\n'Oh, ma! Oh, ma!' gasps the poor child, crouching down in the extremity\nof terror as the terrible figure comes flying toward him. '_Don't_ kill\nme, oh, don't kill _me_; I'm such a little boy!'\n\nShe pounces upon him like a tigress, lifting the fragile form high in\nthe air, and dashing it down to the floor again with all her cruel\nforce. She shakes, she bites him, she rains blows upon the poor,\ndefenceless child, leaving prints of her vicious fingers all over the\npoor little body wherever she touches the tender skin, marks of her\ncruel nails on the delicate arms and hands, long, deep scratches from\nwhich the blood exudes slowly. One last cruel blow hushes the suppressed\ncries of pain and terror, the low moans for mercy, and lays the bruised\nand quivering form senseless at her feet. Then the mad creature, crazed\nwith drink and passion, goes careering up and down the room, snatching\nfrom table and bureau the costly trinkets with which they are adorned,\nand wildly trampling them beneath her feet as she hurries to and fro.\nShe is so terrible to look upon, with that scarlet, bloated face,\ndistorted by passion, and the long, thick hair unbound hanging wildly\nabout it, and that baleful light in her bloodshot eyes, so terrible in\nthe frenzied excitement of look and motion, that Charley, who has crept\nto the side of his prostrate brother, and is tenderly holding the\nunconscious head, has no power to cry or move, but sits half frozen with\nhorror, with his great brown eyes wildly dilated, fixed in a species of\nfascination upon the strange motions of that dreadful figure, and merely\nin obedience to the instinct of self-preservation endeavors to shield\nhimself and his insensible charge from the heavy blows aimed at them as\nshe comes flying past. A few brief moments pass in this way, moments\nwhich to that poor child, alone with that wild being, seem dreadful\nhours of torturing length. Then the blessed sounds of coming relief fall\non his ear, footsteps are approaching, a man's firm, hurried tread and\nwoman's lighter but no less rapid step are heard through the hall below,\nup the staircase--on, on they come, crossing the long upper hall,\npausing at the threshold. Then they try the door; swift, crushing blows\nare rained upon it, the door is burst open, and they come rushing\ndistractedly in.\n\n'Oh, pa! pa!' The tongue is loosed whose utterance fear has palsied, and\nCharley stretches forth his hands to the strong arm of his earthly\nsaviour. One hasty glance around the room strewn with fragments of\ncostly toys, one look at the maniacal form in the centre with wildly\ndishevelled hair, and leering, vacant face, then the anguished eyes fall\non _that_ for which they are searching, see the outstretched arms of the\nlittle figure cowering in a corner half hid by the window curtain, see\nthat other figure lying at its feet, so livid and motionless, so\nbreathless, with the deathly face upturned, and the long brown lashes,\nstill wet with tears, resting on the marble cheeks.\n\n'O God! too late! too late!' The strong agony of that father's heart\nbursts forth from his bleached lips in that wild, irrepressible cry. He\nseizes the tottering form. He shakes it fiercely: 'Woman! fiend! blot on\nthe name of mother! you have _killed_ my boy!'\n\nThat momentary burst of passion past, he leaves the hapless creature to\nher witless mumbling, and, with great waves of anguish rolling over his\nsoul, the broken-hearted father kneels beside his boy.\n\n'Not dead! oh, thank God! not dead.'\n\nThere is a slight throbbing motion of the heart, a faint, scarcely\nperceptible pulsation at the wrist. They raise the senseless form from\noff the floor. Up to his room they bear him; softly on his little bed\nthey lay him--that little bed from which he is never more to rise.\nGentle footsteps glide noiselessly about the room, loving eyes are bent\nabove him, and tears fall upon the upturned face. Long days go and come,\nfragrant sunny days, bright with the bloom of summer, each day one less\nof earth, one nearer heaven. The loving watchers know it, and ever and\nanon there are sounds of smothered weeping there. But there are no\nanswering tears from eyes soon to look on immortal things, for on the\npassing soul dawns a vision of a home beyond the shadow and the blight,\nwhere, in meadows fragrant with immortal flowers, the _Great Shepherd\nfeedeth His sheep_, and, as He tenderly leads them beside the still\nwaters, gathers the _lambs_ to His bosom. In that clime glows the glory\nof unfading light, the bloom of undying beauty. Henceforth the beauty\nand the light of this transitory sphere seem wan and cold, and the\nfading things of earth grow worthless in the dying eyes, and the tranced\nsoul longs to be gone, yet bides its time with patient sweetness.\nPatient amid all his pain, no groan escapes the parched lips, no\ncomplaining murmur. Bearing all his sufferings with meek endurance,\nquiet and very thoughtful he lies upon his little bed, smiling placidly\nupon those about him--grateful, very grateful for their love and care;\nwatching with musing eyes the long hours through the changes of the day\non the sky as seen from his window--gray dawn melting into morning,\nmorning into mellow day, day, with its varied changes, sinking into\nnight. The heaven beyond on which he muses as he gazes, the home for\nwhich he longs, baptizes him with its light beforetime. On the sinless\nbrow the seal of a perfect peace is set, and the air about the child\ngrows holy. A hush falls on the room mysterious and solemn, and they\nknow that white-robed immortals are treading earthly courts, mingling in\nearthly company; for he murmurs in his dreams of radiant faces that bend\nabove him; and the wan face, as they watch it in its slumbers, grows\nbright with the look of heaven. A few more hours of earth, a little\nlonger tarrying of the immortal with the mortal part where it has lived\nand loved, suffered and rejoiced; a few more moans of pain, and the blue\neyes open and look upon the day whose silent light will dawn upon us\nall. They had not thought the end so near at hand; and, worn out with\ngrief and watching, the father and his faithful nurses had one by one\nretired to rest, leaving Charley, at his earnest solicitation, to sit\nbeside the bed and watch his brother's fitful slumbers. Since that fatal\nday, a dread and horror of his mother had seized upon the child. Though\nsurrounded by those he loved, her near approach would cause strong\nnervous chills, and her kiss or touch would throw him into frightful\nspasms, from which they could with difficulty recover him; hence, by the\ndoctor's orders, she was forbidden the room, and it was only when utter\nexhaustion had steeped his refined spiritual sense into perfect oblivion\nof surrounding objects, that she was permitted to enter there and gaze\nfor a little on the wan features of her sleeping child. That day,\nknowing his time on earth was short, and possessed by a restless and\nuncontrollable desire to be near him, even though she could not look\nupon his face, into the room of her dying boy she had stolen like a\nculprit, and noiselessly shrank into the farthest corner of the room,\nscreened from his observation by the heavy window-curtain and the high\nhead-board of the bed. They had discovered her there after a time, but\nshe, in terms which would have moved the coldest heart to pity, implored\nthem with tears to allow her to remain; and they, seeing that the demon\nhad departed from her for a season, and compassionating the forlorn\nbeing, had gone away and left her there. She sits motionless in the\nsilent room, her despairing eyes fixed on the serene heaven to which her\ndarling will soon be gone, and from which the stern justice of an\naccusing conscience tells her she may be forever excluded.\n\nAnd oh! if this be truth, if in the world beyond there is no hope for\nsinful souls that have gone astray in this, and this parting _is_\neternal, then, oh then, through the long, dark ages of suffering which\nmay be her future portion, never to look upon her darling more, never\nmore to kiss the sweet lips that have called her mother, never more to\nlook upon him here till the silken lashes droop toward the marble cheek\nand the half-veiled eyes have lost their lustre, and they lead her in\nfor a last look ere the little face is shut out from mortal gaze\nforever!--oh! the unutterable anguish of that thought, and the remorse\nwhich mingles with it! Not for that last dreadful act, for she never\nknew that she had killed him. No clear remembrance of that day lives\nwithin to curse her memory, but she knows that a strange and\nunaccountable dread of her has seized upon the child, that she is\nbanished from his dying presence; and an undefined and vague\nremembrance, a misty horror, has fallen on her life, rests on her like\nan incubus, pursues her in a thousand phantom shapes through the long,\ndark watches of the terror-laden night, and through burdened days of\nceaseless suffering. She knows, for they have told her, that when his\nconsciousness returned, his first cry had been for the mother of his\nheart; that she had left everything and come to him; that she had taken\nher place beside his bed, a dearer place than she had ever occupied in\nhis heart; that no hands like those chill, magnetic ones could soothe\nhim in his pain, or charm him to his fitful slumbers; that on no bosom\ncould the throbbing head rest so tranquilly as on her own. What the\nmother's heart suffered in that knowledge when her better nature\nprevailed, only the Being knows Who framed it. The hours of the long day\nwore heavily on. The sun, that had paused awhile in mid-heaven, was now\nsinking slowly toward the west. Yet, unmindful of food or rest, seated\nin the same corner into which she had shrunk on entering the room, ever\nand anon rocking herself to and fro, or wringing her hands in silent\nagony, there sits the wretched mother, hidden watcher by the bedside of\nher dying boy. The room has been chosen for its retired situation, and\nis removed from the noise of household occupations; and the bustle of\nthe crowded street, even in its busiest hours, falls on the ear in a\ndistant hum. It is quiet now, very quiet. Harry has awakened once from\nhis slumbers, asked to be moved nearer the front of the bed, that they\nmay be very near each other while he sleeps again, and, when that was\ndone, has smiled lovingly upon the little, sorrowful watcher, and, with\nhis wasted hand tightly clasped in his, has fallen into sounder\nslumbers. In the deathlike stillness which has fallen on the room, she\ncan hear his breathing, and has ventured twice or thrice, while he slept\nthus, to steal softly to the bedside and look upon his face; but as at\neach successive attempt he has seemed almost immediately to feel the\ndreaded atmosphere, and his slumbers have become broken and uneasy, with\na heavy heart she has crept silently back again. Charley has waited\nuntil the thin hand of the sick child has relaxed its clasp on his own,\nthen, moved by a loving impulse, noiselessly busies himself in removing\na littered mass of vials, cups, and glasses, which have accumulated on\nthe stand near the bed, to a table just at hand, and taxes his childish\ningenuity in arranging thereon, in the prettiest possible form, a\nmultitude of toys and trinkets, gifts sent by the servants of the house\nto his brother, putting the new ones in front, so that his eye may fall\non them first when he wakes again. This done, he creeps back to his seat\nby the bedside, and silently watches his slumbers as before.\n\nA ray of sunlight, bright and warm, creeps through the lattice and falls\non the veined lids; the eyes open, and instinctively moving from the too\ndazzling light, rest placidly on a fragment of blue sky just visible\nthrough the half-closed window. With eyes fixed intently on that hazy\ndistance, moment after moment, silent and motionless he lies, and the\nblue orbs grow lustrous as he gazes with the mystic beauty of eyes whose\ninner vision rests on unutterable things, and gradually there comes upon\nthe little face the look that never comes on any face but once. Oh,\nmystic change! Oh, strange solemnity of death! The little watcher by the\nbedside, face to face with its mysterious presence for the first time,\nignorant of its processes, feels a dread, half-defined idea of what it\nmay be, and, with a piteous effort to recall his dying brother back to\nhis old look and seeming, tremulously falters:\n\n'See all the nice things they've sent you, Harry, all the pretty toys\nyou've got! Here they are, spread out upon the table. Look, brother,\nlook!'\n\nThe eyes are bright and clear, the shadow of death has not yet dimmed\ntheir light. They turn slowly, very slowly, and, just glancing at the\ntoy-strewn table, rest upon his brother's face. Oh! what is that look\nwithin them that chills the warm life-current, and makes him cold and\nshivering in the heat of that summer day, as the sick child feebly says:\n\n'You may have them all, _all_, Charley; I sha'n't never want them any\nmore.'\n\n'You've hardly looked at them at all, Harry,' quavers the young voice in\nreply, bravely trying to continue the subject. 'You don't know how\nhandsome they are. The nicest ones, the very nicest ones Betty bought\nyou! Poor Betty! she has done nothing but cry since you've been\nsick--cry, and buy you presents. She says when you get well, Harry--'\nand here the brave little voice, that has been tremulous and tear-laden\nall along, breaks down entirely, and he puts up his hand to check the\ntears that are running down his face. There are no tears in those other\neyes looking into his; the mists of death are gathering within them. He\ncannot see the tear-wet face so plainly now, but he feebly strokes the\nhand that lies against his own, and says, in a weaker voice, pausing now\nand then for breath:\n\n'Poor brother, dear brother! Don't cry, Charley, don't cry! You must\ntell Betty not to cry. Poor Betty! I haven't seen her once since I've\nbeen sick. And poor mamma'--the faint voice, forgetful of its weakness,\ngrows stronger for a moment, and dwells on that name with measureless\ncompassion--'poor, poor, _poor_ mamma! I don't feel afraid of ma any\nmore, and I want to see her. I DO so _much_ want to see her!\nWhere _is_ ma, Charley?'\n\nThere is a movement in the lower part of the room, and a bent form comes\ntottering forward, with hair hanging wildly about a haggard, despairing,\nwoeworn face. Her hands are outstretched in piteous supplication.\n\n'Here I am,' a voice choked with sobs makes answer, 'Here's your poor,\nmiserable, guilty mother, Harry. O Harry! my sins have barred me out\nfrom the heaven you are entering; say you forgive me before we part\nforever. Oh! my darling, it is the last time I shall ever ask it; give\nme one kiss before you go!' He smiled as only the dying _can_ smile, and\nstretched out his feeble arms. 'He smiles upon me, he forgives!'\nshrieked the half-demented creature. 'O God! most merciful! Thou hast\nnot quite forsaken me!' and with a step forward, and a gesture of\nembrace, the hapless being falls heavily upon the floor.\n\n'Raise me up, raise me up,' pleads the sick child, after partially\nrecovering from the shock the fall had given him; and, as he gazes upon\nthe prostrate form, the white, haggard, insensible features, an angel's\npity and compassion shine in the dying face. 'Oh, I can't kiss _her_,\nCharley. Tell poor mamma I _couldn't_ kiss her,' he faintly moans. Then\nthe fitful strength gives way again, and the tired head droops wearily\non his brother's shoulder. The chilled form creeps closer to a warm\nembrace. A little while they hold each other thus--these little ones,\nbrothers by the ties of blood, bound nearer to each other than any tie\nof blood can bind, by the sacred bond of suffering! Then the arm around\npoor Charley's neck relaxes its hold, and falls with a dull, lifeless\nsound back upon the pillow. The little form grows colder, colder yet. He\nhas no power to lay it down, no power to cry for help, but sits holding\nit, half paralyzed, as he hears them rushing up the stairs, urged wildly\non by the dreadful fear that they have come too late.\n\nThere is a piteous supplication in the large, dilated eyes, a mute\nprayer for help in the white face he turns upon them as they enter. To\nthe hurried questions which come pouring forth, the bleached, white lips\nmake answer:\n\n'He got cold, and went to sleep again; and he has been getting colder\never since.'\n\nThen the father, stooping, looks into the little face lying on Charley's\nshoulder, and, staggering back as if a blow had struck him, cries out:\n'Dead!' and the friend that Harry had loved so well raises the curly\nhead and lays it back upon the pillow. There are no tears in her gentle\neyes for him, for she knows the little, weary heart is resting now on\nthe great heart of Infinite Love--that he is gone to One who, with\noutstretched arms, stood ready to receive him--_One_ who said long ago:\n'Suffer little children to come unto Me!'\n\n\n\n\nAN HOUR IN THE GALLERY OF THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.\n\nTHIRTY-NINTH ANNUAL EXHIBITION.\n\n\nGreat is the variety in the different classes of men to be found in\npicture galleries. First in importance stand the artists, oftentimes\noracular personages, dangerous of approach by outsiders having opinions\n(_such_ must generally expect a direct snubbing, polite indifference, or\nsilent scorn), knowing much but not everything, no single one\ninfallible, highly honorable as members of a guild, secretive as doctors\nor lawyers, chary of talking shop to the uninitiated, hardworking,\nconscientious, half luring, half scoffing at the glorious visions of the\ncreative imagination granted them chiefly of all men, wonder workers,\nworld reformers, recorders of the past and prophets of the future,\ncomforters of prose-ridden humanity, stewards of some of God's best\ngifts, openers of the gates of the beautiful, and hence ushers into the\nvestibule of the glorious 'Land of the Hereafter.' May they _all_\nremember their lofty calling, and never diminish their usefulness by\nunworthy contests among themselves, or by sacrificing their own better\njudgment to the exigencies of popular requirement!\n\nNext in order come the connoisseurs. Unmistakably one is that young man\nwith near-sighted eyeglass, with Dundreary whiskers and jaunty air, who\ntalks of breadth, handling, foreshortening, perspective, etc.; who\nperhaps quotes Ruskin, has seen galleries abroad, is devoted to _genre_\npictures, and, after rattling through an exhibition for a half hour,\npronounces definitely upon the merits of the entire collection, singly\nand _en masse_.\n\nEqually recognizable is the older picture-fancier. He talks, if\npossible, even more learnedly, discoursing of balance, tone,\nchiaroscuro; he despises innovations, judges in accordance with _names_;\nis of course convinced the present can bear no comparison with the past;\nwill look through a whole gallery, and finally be captivated by some\nwell-executed conceit--a sun shining through a hole--three different\nsorts of light, of fire, candle, and moon, mixed in with monstrous\nshadows and commonplace figures--some meaningless countenance\nsurmounting a satin whose every shining thread is distinguishable, and\nthe pattern of whose lace trimming could be copied for a fashion plate;\nhe is, in short, a fussy, loud individual, with money to buy and some\nout-of-the-way place to hang pictures.\n\nThen there is the man who knows but one, or at most two or three\nartists, and will look at the works of none other; who sees, as\ntravellers generally do, not that which _is_, but that which he had made\nup his mind to see before he left his own threshold. There are those\nattracted by nothing except brilliant color, and others who have heard\nso much of the vulgarity of 'high lights' and gaudy hues, that they will\ntolerate nothing but brown trees, russet grass, gray skies, slate rocks,\ndrab gowns, copper skins, and shadows so deep that the discovery of the\nobjects represented becomes a real game of 'hide and go seek.' There are\nalso the timidly modest, who, although aware of their own preferences,\nare yet afraid to admire any new name until some recognized authority\nhas given permission. Another division of this class consists of those\nwho, knowing their own inability to draw or to color the simplest\nobject, hesitate to refuse admiration to any art production that is even\nbarely tolerable. Let us concede to this class our respect, as humility\nis the only solid basis for any human acquirement.\n\nWe also find the pretty young lady, who says 'lovely,' 'charming,' or\n'horrid,' 'abominable,' in a very attractive, but most indiscriminating\nmanner;--the individual who cares only for the design (to whom real\ndepth or pathos and affected prettiness are too often one and the same),\nand the other, who looks only at the technical execution. Rare, indeed,\nare the imaginative analysts who, while considering the design, can\ncomprehend its philosophy, tell why it pleases or displeases, why they\nlike or dislike; and still rarer are they who add to impartiality,\nobservation, common sense, imaginative perception, and analytic power, a\nsufficiency of technical knowledge to render their criticism useful, not\nonly to outsiders, but even to artists themselves. Such a guide would\nindeed be an invaluable companion in any gallery of art. In default of\nhim, let us do the best we can, and come to a consideration of some of\nthe works offered us in this, the thirty-ninth annual exhibition of the\nNational Academy of Design.\n\nBefore we begin, however, let us make a passing remark upon a custom\nthat seems lately to have come in vogue, namely, to publish in the daily\npapers damaging criticisms upon pictures offered for sale at auction,\nsuch criticisms generally appearing one, or at most two days before the\nsale. The want of good taste, or even of abstract justice, in such a\nproceeding, must be apparent to every one who will pause a moment to\nconsider. To compare small things with great, for the sake of\nillustration, if our neighbor has made his purchase of spring drygoods,\nand spreads them upon the counter of his store, we may or may not admire\nhis taste in the selection of patterns, but we surely should not think\nourselves called upon to rush to the newspapers and blazon forth an\nopinion to his detriment, especially if our assertions were mere\nguesses, perhaps even untrue, or if we were ourselves concerned in the\nselling of similar wares. Among the public are many tastes to be\ngratified, and each man can judge for himself of that which pleases him.\nA case of impudent pretension or actual imposition will of course\nrequire honest people to give in their testimony, but the facts adduced\nin such a case must be susceptible of proof, and not mere matters of\nindividual taste or opinion; neither must they be advanced at so late an\nhour as to render their refutation difficult, or indeed impossible. A\nregular exhibition, such as that of the Academy, offers fair ground for\ndiscussion, as all sides have a chance of obtaining a hearing; but even\nthere, the scales of justice should be nicely poised, and great care\ntaken that neither rashness, flippancy, nor prejudice be permitted any\nshare in their adjustment, and 'good will toward men' be the only extra\nweight ever added to either side.\n\nTo begin with the landscapes, one of the most remarkable, and, to our\nindividual taste, the most attractive in the whole collection, is No.\n147, 'The Woods and Fields in Autumn,' by Jervis McEntee, N. A. The fine\ntree-drawing and the exquisite harmony of color in this poetic\nrepresentation of autumn scenery are worthy of _all praise_. The clouds\nare gathering for dark winter days, a few pleasant hours are yet left to\nthe dying year, the atmosphere is saturated with moist exhalations, with\ntender mists softening but not obscuring the beautiful forms of the\nleafless trees and shrubs. The springs are filling, the low grounds\nmarshy, the leaves on the woodpaths crisp and of a golden brown. Far\naway in the west is a band of gray light, that tells of clearer skies\nand brighter seasons one day to come, of new hopes to dawn, when the\nearth, and the soul, shall have been purified by adverse blasts, by the\nbaring of their nakedness to the unimpeded, searching light of heaven.\nNo. 124, 'The Wanderer,' is a picture of similar character by the same\nskilful hand. Thoughtful, refined, and discriminating lovers of art\ncannot fail to find instruction and delight in these noble conceptions,\nand indeed it is chiefly in the possession of such persons that we find\nthe truthful, conscientious, tenderly conceived, and poetical pictures\nof Jervis McEntee.\n\nS. R. Gifford, N. A., exhibits two works, differing widely from each\nother, but both worthy of his reputation. Let the names now longer and\nmore widely established in the estimation of the general public look to\ntheir laurels, for here is one who is destined successfully to enter an\nhonorable contest for the possession of the very highest honors. Unity\nof design, and warmth as well as vividness of light, positive\natmosphere, characterize the works of this artist, and render each one a\nsatisfactorily completed poem. No. 226, 'South Mountain, Catskills,'\npresents a view doubtless well known to many of our readers. The\nfar-away horizon, the winding Hudson with its tiny sails, the square\ndent where lies the lake in the Shawangunk range, the serrated ridges of\nthe lower hills, the smoke from the lowlands outside the Clove, the\nshadowed, ridgy sides of the Round Top Mountain, the stunted pines of\nthe South Mountain, so characteristically represented, the great rock\noverhanging the cliffs, and the whortleberry bushes and other low growth\nclustering about its base--all speak to us unmistakably of that very\nspot, and tell the story of the place as we scarcely thought it could\nhave been told, yet so simply, so naturally, that the art of the artist\nis almost forgotten in actual enjoyment of the scene portrayed. No. 250,\n'A Twilight in the Adirondacs,' glows with an intensity of light\nsuggestive of some secret art, and not of ordinary paint and canvas. A\nfew brilliant cloud-specks float in a golden sky, which is reflected\nfrom the surface of a placid lake, high up among the hills, whose\nhaze-flooded and light-crowned tops fade away into the far distance. To\nmany this picture will prove more attractive than the view from the\nSouth Mountain: perhaps it is our familiarity with and love for the\noriginal of the last-mentioned view, which induce us to give to it our\npersonal preference.\n\nNo. 158, 'The Old Hunting Grounds,' is by W. Whittredge, N. A. It gives\na charming insight into the mysteries of the woods. The characteristic\nwhite birches, with their reflection in the quiet pool, the dark trunk\nand spreading branches of the great tree in the foreground, the tender\nfoliage, and soft, hazy gleams into the depths of the forest, afford the\nmaterials for a delightful picture, the more precious in our sight that\nit is so truly a representation of our native land, so thoroughly\nAmerican. The broken birch canoe adds to the beauty of nature a most\neffective and pathetic touch, by briefly figuring the melancholy history\nof a fast-departing race. Gone forever are the moccasoned feet that\npressed _that_ mossy soil, and the dusky forms that flitted to and fro\namong the white trunks that catch and hold the light so lovingly. That\nbroken canoe has a stranger tale to tell than any ruined arch or fallen\ncolumn of the Old World: the one speaks of some empire passed away, the\nother of the gradual extinction of an entire type of human beings, a\nrace of men who seem to have accomplished the work assigned them, and\nwho die rather than abandon their native instincts and habits of thought\nand life. The fortunate possessor of the 'Old Hunting Grounds,' when\nshut up within the confined streets and dreary walls of a city, need\nonly lift his eyes to the picture to dream dreams of the freshness and\nfreedom of the wild woods, of the scented breeze snuffed by the browsing\ndeer, of the rocking branches glimmering gold and green against the\nclear summer sky. Mr. Whittredge's picture is suggestive and harmonious\nas nature itself, and one could never weary of it, as one infallibly\nmust of weaker and more conventional productions, often highly prized by\nfrequenters of galleries.\n\nNo. 153, 'The Iron-Bound Coast of Maine,' by W. S. Haseltine, N. A., has\nthe freshness, brightness, and mistiness of such a shore. We have heard\nMr. Haseltine's rocks complained of as too yellow; but, in the absence\nof knowledge, are content to presume he painted them as he saw them. The\naction of the dashing surf in washing away the lower strata, and\nstrewing the beach with fragments, is one token, among many, of an\nactual observation of facts.\n\nNo. 236, 'An Artist's Studio,' and No. 131, 'Christmas Eve,' are by J.\nF. Weir. Both are well conceived and executed, the latter being\nespecially interesting. The old wall, the great bell, the moonlight, and\nthe elves set the fancy musing over many things in heaven and earth\nrarely dreamed of in our philosophy.\n\nNo. 12, 'The Argument,' is one of W. H. Beard's excellent fables. The\nattitudes of the two bears in discussion, of the sober-minded listener\nleaning with crossed paws upon the tree, and of the self-sufficient old\nfellow with his paw upon his breast, may read to many a good lesson,\nespecially during the coming Presidential struggle, when the charities\nand _bienseances_ of life will doubtless be but too often outraged. We\nhave been surprised and pained to see attacks upon the works of this\ngentleman, coming from opposite quarters, said strictures being, in our\nopinion, unjust and uncalled for. If behind the animal form we see\nproof of more than animal intellect, let us not quarrel with the\naddition. It is an evil mind that will go out of its way to fasten evil\nintentions upon the work of a man of genius. If human faults and follies\nso ill beseem the brute creation, should not such representation render\nus heartily ashamed of their existence among ourselves. Love and pity\nfor the animal world, and a proper holding up to ridicule and scorn of\nthe brutish propensities, too prominent, alas! in the composition of the\nhuman race, have been the lessons taught us by all the works of this\nartist we have thus far seen.\n\nNo. 204, 'Out All Night,' by J. H. Beard, is an excellent warning to\nnaughty puppies to keep good hours and shun bad company.\n\nNo. 114, 'A Buckwheat Field on Thomas Cole's Farm,' and No. 143, 'The\nCatskills from the Village,' are by Thomas C. Farrer, a representative\nof a school which professes to paint precisely what it sees. To\nrepresent nature is the aim of all our best modern landscapists. Of\ncourse, no painting can give all that is in any scene, but every painter\nmust select the means best adapted to convey the idea he has himself\nreceived. Now, in the ultra ideal school (to use a slang word which we\ndetest) we recognize but little known to us in nature; and in the ultra\nmatter-of-fact (pre-Raphaelite) school of this country, we find the same\nabsence of abstract truth, together with a painful stiffness, and the\nwant of a sense for beauty. We are not sufficiently practical artists to\nfathom the difficulty, but it seems to us to arise from the absence of\none of the most prominent elements of beauty and interest to be found in\nthe universe, namely, mystery. If, in the metaphysical world, with our\nlimited means, we attempt an _exhaustive_ explanation of any of the\nattributes of the Infinite Being, the result must be unsatisfactory; we\nwill always feel that there is something beyond, which we have failed to\ngrasp, a something which makes our best effort appear shallow and crude.\nNow, the material mystery of actual landscape arises from the presence\nof an appreciable atmosphere, softening forms, etherealizing distances,\nmodifying color, and lending the glow of variously refracted light to\nevery object falling under its influence. In these pictures of Mr.\nFarrer we fail to find any trace of atmosphere, and hence they strike us\nas bald, hard, cold, and unnatural.\n\nNo. 213, 'The Awe and Mystery of Death,' by Eugene Benson, is an able\ntreatment of a repulsive subject. As we gaze, we cannot but admire the\ngenius that has so far overcome the intrinsic difficulties of the\nsituation; and, while congratulating the artist upon his success, must\nadd that the Victor Hugo style of morbid horrors, however popular in\nsome species of literature, can never, we hope, become so in the purer\ndomain of visible fine art.\n\nNo. 246, 'Portrait,' William O. Stone, N. A., is a charming portrayal of\na charming subject.\n\nNo. 283, 'A Child,' by George A. Baker, N. A., has lovely brown eyes,\nand a beautiful, thoughtful expression.\n\nNo. 253, 'A Portrait,' by W. H. Furness, jr., strikes us as a picture\ncarefully disfigured. The _part_ in the hair is singularly continued in\nthe part between the wings of the golden butterfly ornamenting the head,\nthe eyes are just sufficiently turned aside to give them the appearance\nof avoiding a direct gaze, and the tight-fitting gown is of white\n_moire_, a material of stiff texture and chaotic pattern. The shimmer of\nwaves in sun or moonlight is beautiful because restless, but the\nwatering of a silk is a rude attempt to fix the ever variable in form,\nlight, and color, and hence is always unsatisfactory.\n\nWe are glad to see that the women in our community are beginning to make\nsome serious efforts in the way of good painting. They are by nature\nsubtile colorists, and there is surely no reason why they should not\nconquer form, attain to technical excellence, and be inspired by noble\nideas. They must remember that excellence is attainable solely through\nhard study and patient assiduity, and small things must be well\naccomplished before great ones can be expected to succeed. With the\ngeneral development of what we may call 'out-door' faculties, a taste\nfor mere sentimental prettiness will vanish, and a healthy vigor, united\nto refined and acute perception, will, we hope, characterize the labors\nof the rising aspirants to artistic honors.\n\nNo. 91, 'The Sword and the Wreath,' by Miss A. E. Rose, is a poetical\nconception, beautifully elaborated. The flowers have no appearance of\nhaving been copied from wax or colored stucco, but are faithful\nrepresentations of the actual, fragile, delicate texture of the lovely\nchildren of the garden. The method of presentation suggests a memory of\nLa Farge, but Miss Rose is too talented and original ever to fall into\nservile imitation.\n\nNo. 132, 'On the Kaaterskill Creek,' and No. 64, 'Head of the Catskill\nClove from the South Mountain,' are by Miss Edith W. Cook. The first\noffers some fine delineations of foliage, intermingled hemlock, and\ndeciduous trees, and the latter is a spirited and truthful\nrepresentation of a beautiful bit of Catskill scenery. The Hunter and\nPlattekill Mountains, Haines's Fall, the Clove Road and intervening\nravines, the winding woodpath, and burnt trees, are close records of\nfact, set in a far-away sky and a real atmosphere.\n\nMiss Virginia Granbery's 'Basket of Cherries' (No. 81) and\n'Strawberries' (No. 73) are tempting specimens of fruit.\n\nNo. 202, 'The Seamstress,' by Miss C. W. Conant, gives proof of future\nexcellence in the truthful pathos of its conception and the energetic\nrendering of the idea.\n\nBut our hour has come to an end, and we have only space left to mention\nthe names of Bierstadt, Constant Mayer, Hennessy, May, Durand, Griswold,\nSuydam, Bradford, Brevoort, Cropsey, Colman, Cranch, De Haas, Hart,\nHomer, Hubbard, Huntington, Vedder, and White, who are all\ncharacteristically represented, and to counsel such of our readers as\nare fortunate enough to have the opportunity, to go and see for\nthemselves. Americans are beginning to comprehend the full value of the\narts, and to appreciate their own artists accordingly.\n\n\n\n\nAPHORISMS.\n\nNO. V.\n\n\nWith us it may not be the actual suffering of death, as it was with our\nLord; but that we may truly follow Him, and do what we can for the good\nof others, we must hold life, with all its endearments, subject to any\ncall for sacrifice that may be made on us; and actually give up, from\nday to day, just as much of the present life, its pleasures or\ninterests, as may be necessary, that we may render the best possible\nservice in the kingdom of Christ. We have the privilege of daily\nmartyrdom, to be followed by its honors and blessedness, in whatsoever\ncircumstances we may be placed: how much of the sufferings that\nsometimes accompany the spirit and the act, we need not concern\nourselves to inquire.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNKIND WORD.\n\n    Ay--far in the feeling heart\n      Cast the unkind word till it smiteth,\n    Till deep in the flesh like a poisoned dart\n      It stingeth--and ruthlessly biteth!\n          What need that the blood\n          In a crimson flood\n    Flow fast from the throbbing veins--\n          What need--if a sob\n          Or the heart's wild throb\n    Betoken the horrible pains?\n\n    The tears are forced from the mournful eyes\n      As the angry word proceedeth;\n    Little it cares for the stifled sighs,\n      Little recks if the sad heart bleedeth;--\n          But onward it goes\n          While the life-blood flows\n        Fast--fast on its terrible path;\n          It laughs at the moan,\n          And the low subdued groan,\n        As it cuts so deep in its wrath.\n\n        *       *       *       *       *\n\n            But soft on its track,\n            And calling it back,\n        Soothing the wound it has made,\n            A Spirit of Love\n            Comes down from above,\n        In heavenly beauty arrayed--\n\n            An angel of peace\n            Who bids the tears cease,\n        And stops the red life-blood's flow,\n            And the poisoned dart\n            Draws out of the heart,\n        That dart that had torn it so,\n            And heals o'er the skin--\n            But look then within,\n        There still is a _scar_ below!\n\n\n\n\nLANGUAGE A TYPE OF THE UNIVERSE.\n\n\nIn a preceding paper, published in the May number of THE\nCONTINENTAL, the possibility, the necessity, and the\ncharacteristics of a Scientific Universal Language were considered. In\nthe present paper it is proposed to examine more at large the relations\nof Language to the total Universe; not merely in respect to Elements or\nthe Alphabetic Domain of Language, and that which corresponds with it in\nthe Universe; but in respect equally to all that rises above these\nfoundations of the two edifices in question which are to be compared.\n\nThe term Edifice or Structure will be found to be alike applicable to\neach. It will be found, likewise, that both arise in parallel\ndevelopment through a succession of stages or stories (French, _etages_,\nESTAGES, STAGES), and that this and other similar repetitions,\nin the development of _the one_, of all the facts and features of the\ndevelopment of THE OTHER, is what is meant by the Analogy of\none with the other, and by the affirmation implied in the title of this\narticle, that Language is a Type of the Universe.\n\nWe shall begin, therefore, by a general distribution of these two\nDomains or Spheres or Structures--for the facts of the analogy will\njustify the occasional use and interchange of all these terms--and shall\npursue the relationship between them into so much of detail as space\nwill allow.\n\nWhat the Universe is in itself we have no other means of knowing than as\nit _impresses_ itself upon our minds, modified as it may be by the\nreactive or reflectional element supplied by the mind itself. In\npreponderance, then, or primarily, the Universe is for each of us, what\nthe totality of _Impression_ made by the Universe is within each of us;\nand the Universe in that larger and generalized sense in which we speak\nof it as one, and not as many individual conceptions, is the mean\naggregate or general average of the _Impression_ made upon all minds, in\nso far as it has a general or common character.\n\nThe whole of what man individually or collectively puts forth, as the\nproduct of his mind or of all minds, is the totality of _Expression_, in\na sense which exactly counterparts the totality of _Impression_.\nImpression is related to Nature, external to man, and acting on him.\nExpression has relation to Art, externalized from within man, and taken\nin that large sense which means all human performance whatsoever.\nScience is _systematized knowing_, and is a middle term, or stands and\nfunctionates mediatorially between Impression or Nature and Expression\nor Art.\n\nNature or the external world impresses itself upon mind, primarily,\nthrough the Senses, and predominantly stands related with the sense of\nFeeling, of which all the other special senses are merely modified forms\nor differentiations. Feeling as a sense (the sense of Touch), is allied\nagain with Affection, the internal counterpart of the mere external\nsensation, as testified to etymologically by the use of the same word to\nexpress both; namely, Feeling as the synonyme of Touch, and Feeling as\nthe synonyme of Affection. _Conation_, from the Latin _conari_, TO\nEXERT ONESELF, TO PUT FORTH EFFORT, is the term employed by\nmetaphysicians to signify both _Desire_ and _Will_, the last being the\ndetermination of the mind which results in action. Conation is therefore\nrelated to action, which is again _Expression_, and is also Art, in the\nlarge definition of the term above given.\n\nThe grand primary distribution of the Mind made by Kant, followed by Sir\nWilliam Hamilton, and now concurred in by the students of the mind\ngenerally, is into: 1. FEELING; 2. KNOWING; and 3.\nCONATION (or Will and Desire). In accordance with this is Comte's\nfamous epitome of the business of life: AGIR PAR AFFECTION, ET\nPENSER POUR AGIR; the three terms here being again, 1. Affection\n(or Feeling); 2. Knowledge (or Reflection); and 3. Action (or\nPerformance).\n\nIf now, instead of distributing the Mind, we enlarge the sphere of our\nthinking, and distribute upon the same principle the total Universe (_as\nif it_ were a mind or a mirror of the mind), for Feeling or Affection we\nshall put Impression or Nature; for Knowing or Reflection we shall put\nScience or Systematized Knowledge; and for Conation or Action we shall\nput Art.\n\nThe following table will exhibit the two series of distribution, that of\nthe Universe at large, and that of the Human Mind, in their parallelism,\nreading the two columns from below upward:\n\n  I. _Universe_.                                 II. _Mind_.\n\n  3. ART (_or Expression_).          3. CONATION (or Will and Desire).\n  2. SCIENCE.                             2. KNOWING.\n  1. NATURE (_or Impression_).       1. FEELING (_or Affection_).\n\nThe point of present importance in the use of these discriminations is\nto make clear to the mind of the reader what perhaps is sufficiently\nimplied in the very terms themselves, namely: that _Impression_ and\n_Expression_ are correlative to, and, in a sense, exactly reflect each\nother; that the totality of _Impression_, or the Universe which enters\nthe mind through the senses, is repeated--with a modification, it is\ntrue, but still with traceable identity, or with a definite and unbroken\nrelationship--in the totality of _Expression_, or in the Universe of\nArt, taken as the entirety of what man does or creates. It is by the\nmediation of Science or Knowledge, that one of these worlds is converted\ninto the other. Nature or _Impression_ is the aggregate of the Rays of\nIncidence falling upon a mirror; Science is the Reflecting Mirror; and\nArt or Human Performance is the aggregate of the Reflected Rays, whose\nangles can be exactly calculated by the knowledge of the angle of\nincidence. Science or Knowledge is not only the mirror which makes the\nReflection, but it is the plane or level which is to furnish us the\nmeans of adjusting the angles; of knowing their correspondence or\nrelation to each other; and of translating the one into the other.\nScience must, therefore, as it develops, be the instrument of informing\nus of the exact analogy between Nature and Art; and must enable us so to\napply the Laws of Nature, or the Laws of God as exhibited in Nature,\nthat they shall become a perfect canon of life and action, in all our\nattempted performances and constructions, whatsoever they may be; or,\n_vice versa_, it must enable us from the knowledge of the laws of our\nown actions to reveal the secrets of Nature, and to know, by the\nanalogy, in what manner she acts. It will then perhaps be found that the\nMoral Code, as dictated by inspiration, is only the forecast, through\nthat method, of what is destined to be more perfectly revealed to the\nintellect, when the veil is rent by the millennial perfection of man.\n\nIt will be perceived by the reader that the term Art is here employed in\na larger than its usual sense, although the analogy in question has a\nspecial intensification when we confine the term to mean, as it\nordinarily does, the _choicest performances_ of man. The term Science\nhas also a larger and a smaller extension. In the larger sense it means\nthe totality of knowledge _extracted from Impression_ or the observation\nof Nature, and distinguished _from mere Impression_ or Nature on the one\nhand, and from _Expression_, Action, Performance, or Art--the\nreprojection of the knowledge into new forms of being--on the other\nhand. In the more restricted sense, Science means systematized\nknowledge, or, still more specifically, the Body of Principles or Laws\nin accordance with which knowledge becomes systematized in the mind.\n\nThe larger and the smaller Art-Performances of Humanity--first, all the\nWork or Product of the Creative Power of Man; and, secondly, Grand and\nFine Art, as the Choice Product of that faculty--are again epitomized in\nLANGUAGE or SPEECH. This last is the Sense-Bearing\nProduct of the Lips and Cooeperative Organs, put representatively for the\nproduct of the hands and of all the other instrumentalities of action.\n\n_It is in this representative sense that_ LANGUAGE _is\npreeminently and distinctively denominated_ EXPRESSION. But, as\nwe have seen, _Expression_ is the Equivalent and exact Reflect of\n_Impression_; Art, of Nature; through the mediation of Science, meaning\nthereby the Laws of Knowing. _These Laws of Knowing thus hold an exact\nrelation to the Laws of Doing_; or, in other words, _Scientific Laws to\nCreative and Vital Laws_, which last are the Laws of Administration,\nhuman and divine. _As an epitome or miniature, then, the Laws of\nLanguage must be an exact reproduction of the Laws of the Universe._\nLanguage itself, in other words, must be an epitome or miniature image,\nin all its perfection, of the Universe at large; as the image formed\nupon the retina of the eye, though infinitely small in the comparison,\nis an exact epitome or image, inversely, of the external world presented\nto the vision.\n\nLet the reader guard himself well against supposing that what is here\nmeant is the mere commonplace truth that Language is the equivalent of\nour _Impression_ of the Universe, in the fact that we can, through the\nmedium of Language, describe, and in that sense _express_, what we think\nand feel of and about the Universe. What is here intended is something\nfar more recondite than this superficial relation between Speech,\nThought, and the World thought _about_. It is this--That, in the\nPhenomena, the Laws, and the Indications of the Structure of\nLanguage--considered as a fabric, or Word-World--_there is an exact\nimage or reproduction, in a miniature way, of the Phenomena, the Laws,\nand the Indications of the entire Universe; in so definite and traceable\na manner as to furnish to us, when the analogy is understood, a complete\nmodel and illustration of the Science of the Universe as a whole_.\n\nIf this be true, the immense importance of the discovery can hardly be\nover-estimated. We are furnished by means of it with a simple object,\nof manageable dimensions, as the subject of our direct investigations;\nwhich, when mastered, will, by reflection, and a definite law of\nrelation and proportion, enable us to master the Plan of the Universe;\nand so to constitute a one Science out of the many Sciences by\nrecognizing the Domains which they cover as parts of a larger domain,\nwhich is equivalent to the whole.\n\nHolding fast, then, to this thought, let us proceed to the endeavor so\nto distribute the totality of the aspects of Language as to exhaust the\nsubject; and, by a concurrent projection of the analogies into the\nlarger domain of the Universe as a whole, to establish a valid\nscientific _nexus_ between the minor and the major spheres of our\ninvestigation.\n\nFirst recurring to the preceding table, and translating the Abstract\nConceptions, NATURE, SCIENCE, and ART, into their\nConcrete Equivalents or Analogies, they will stand thus:\n\n     _Abstract._             _Concrete._\n  3. ART.             3. HUMAN PRODUCTION. (Art Creation.)\n  2. SCIENCE.         2. MAN.\n  1. NATURE.          1. THE WORLD. (The Natural Universe.)\n\nThis is to say, that the World or the Natural Universe is put for the\nNatural Impression which it makes of itself on the mind of the knowing\nsubject; that the Knowing Subject is put in the place of Knowledge; and\nthat the Product of Activity--the Thing Created--is put for the Activity\nitself or the Act of Creation.\n\nIt is clear enough that this distribution is exhaustive, thus: 1. The\nWorld, including, in a sense, all things; but here contrasted with, and\nin that sense _excluding_, two of its own minor domains; 2. Man,\nincluding Spirit, and God, in so far as human (not seeking to compass or\nbring within our scientific classification whatsoever is divine in a\nsense absolutely supernatural or transcending the Universe as such); 3.\nThe Collective or Aggregate Product of Human Activity; including,\nespecially, as norm or sample, Grand and Fine Art, the Choice Product of\nHuman Activity; and, in a _more_ especial sense, Language, as the\nSpecial or Typical EXPRESSION, which exactly counterparts and\nrepresents the totality of IMPRESSION made by _Primitive_\nNature or The World, upon Man or the Human Mind.\n\nNature has again, therefore, like both Science and Art, as shown above,\na double significance, in the former and larger of which it includes and\ncovers or envelops the two other departments of Being; in the latter and\nsmaller of which it excludes them, and makes Nature, or the World, to\nstand over against them, as that which is to be compared with Man and\nthe Product of the Labor of Man; and in an especial sense with that\nparticular product called Speech. The easy transition from the minor to\nthe larger conception of Nature or the World is what renders Language a\ntype, not only of the Universe as distinguished from Man and the Product\nof his Activity, _but equally a type of the Universe in that larger\nsense in which it embraces them both_.\n\nHence the two terms of our comparison are: 1. LANGUAGE, as the\nminiature and image of the whole, with, 2. The World or Universe, in\nthat larger sense in which it _is_ the whole, and, as such, includes\nLanguage and all else.\n\nObserve, in the next place, that Art, whether in the larger or in the\nsmaller sense which we have assigned to it, is the Product of the\nCombination and Blending of Science with Nature (reflective knowledge\nwith natural impression); or, speaking in the concrete, of the\nconjunction of man with the outside world; man as the Agent or Actor,\nand the World or Nature as the Object wrought upon.\n\nIn the production of Speech, the _phonos_ or mere sound is the natural,\nunwrought material, which corresponds with the Reality of Nature; and\nthe Meaning or Minding which acts on, articulates and organizes the\nSound into Speech, and which _measures_ the sound quantitatively, as in\nMusic, is the Scientific Attribute corresponding with Knowledge. The\nresult of these two in combination is the Art of Speech, generally, and\nImprovisation or Song as the Fine Art of this Lingual Domain.\n\nBut passing from the Abstract to the Concrete Domain, Unwrought Natural\nSound, bearing its proportion of meaning, furnishes the great basic\ndepartment of language, which, for the reason that it is basic, is\nusually regarded as the whole of language, namely, ORAL SPEECH,\nor SPEECH LANGUAGE, as distinguished from MUSIC AND\nSONG.\n\nMusic, on the other hand, is _wrought_ or _measured_ Sound, bearing also\nits proportion of meaning; a superior language, corresponding with\n_Science_, from its relation to _measure_, to _numbers_, to _fixed\nlaws_; as Oral Speech corresponds, in its freedom and unconstraint, with\nNature.\n\nMusic and Oral Language united or married to each other constitute\nSONG, which is then the analogue or type, or Nature's\nhieroglyph, in this Domain, of Art.\n\nWe say instinctively the _Art_ of Speech; the _Science_ of Music, and\nthe Art of Singing. In the first instance, Art is used for Natural\nPerformance or Nature; but the whole of speech falling within the domain\nof art or performance, its lowest or natural division still has some\nclaim to the distinction of an art. The first step of this series,\nNature, and the third step, Art, repeat each other by overstepping the\nsecond, which is Science, as _Do_ is accordant with _Mi_, but\ndisharmonic with _Re_. It is, therefore, from the instinctual perception\nof this harmony, that Oral Speech, the basis of Language, the true\nNature-department of Language, is still denominated the _Art_ of Speech.\n\nAdhering, however, to the Concrete Domain, and seeking our analogies\nthere, oral speech, a Concrete Thing, does not directly correspond with\nNature, an Abstract Conception, but with The World, a concrete thing;\nnor does Music, a Concrete Thing, correspond with Science, an Abstract\nConception, but with Man (the Mind-being, Knowledge-being, the\nScience-being), a concrete thing; nor, again, does Song, a Concrete\nThing, correspond with Art, an Abstract Conception, but with Human\nProduct or Doing, a concrete thing. Song is again but the lowest and\nsimple expression for that combination of Music and Oral Expression,\naided by Action, to which the Italians, full of instinct for Art, have\ngiven the name OPERA, THE WORK _par excellence_, the\nculmination of Art in Movement and Sound. This word, from the Latin,\n_opus, operari_, work, to work, connects in idea with the Greek [Greek:\npoiheo], and the whole with Action and Art. This last relationship\naccounts beautifully for the fact that the words _poetry_, _poesy_, and\n_poet_ should be derived from the Greek word [Greek: poiheo], which\nsignifies simply TO DO.\n\nThe first threefold division of Language and of The Universe, both\nbrought into a parallelism in the Concrete--the three ascending Stories\nof each Edifice, so to speak, when compared with each other--appear then\nas shown in the table below:\n\n          _Language._        _The Universe._\n  3. SONG.            3. HUMAN ACHIEVEMENT.\n  2. MUSIC.           2. MAN.\n  1. ORAL SPEECH.     1. THE WORLD.\n\nOral Speech is the agglomerism of Sound, conceived of as roundish or _in\nthe lump_, as an undifferentiated Oneness or mass; and, when wholly\nunarticulated, it is the _Bawl_, a mere orthographical variation of\n_Ball_; that is to say, it is, to the imagination, Globe-shaped, or\n_World_-shaped. It is the concrete or massive world of Language or\nSpeech.\n\nMusic is the _Strain_ or the Abstractism of Sound. _To strain_ means\nTO DRAW. _Ab-stract_ is from the Latin _ab_, FROM, and\n_strahere_, TO DRAW. The idea is not here _roundish_, as in the\nother case, but _elongate_; sound made into a _strain_, a _cord_, or a\n_string_, equivalent to a _line_, which is the subject of\n_measure_-ment, by _notes_ (or points) and _intervals_. The line, with\nits _twoness_ of determination and extremity, has a relation to the\nnumber TWO, like that which the _ball_ or _globe_ has to the\nnumber ONE. The _line_ is at the same time the type of The\nAbstract, the Domain of Science, and hence of Science, and of\n_Knowledge_, and again, in the concrete, of _Man_, the\n_Knowledge-being_. The _ball_ (bawl) is at the same time the type of The\nConcrete (_con_, WITH, _crescere_, TO GROW; THE GROWN\nTOGETHER, or AGGLOMERATE-world), and hence of Nature, and\nagain _in_ The Concrete, of The World, as contrasted with Man.\n\nSong is the _measure of the strain_ and the _mingle of the bawl_ again\ncommingled with each other, in a composite blending of _The Measured_\nand _The Free_. As the Composity of that which has for its numerical\ntype Two, with that which has for its numerical type One, the proper\nnumerical type of Song is Three; or thus:\n\n  _Language._         _Number._\n  3. Song,            THREE.\n  2. Music,           TWO.\n  1. Oral Speech,     ONE.\n\nThese numerical analogues can only be adverted to here, and their\nmeaning may not be very distinctly perceived. Their full exposition and\nthat of their immense importance as principles and guides in the domain\nof analogy must be treated of elsewhere.\n\nRhythm is the _measure_ of the _strain_. Music is the _mingled measure_\nof _many strains_. Song is the higher mingling of _music_ with the\n_bawl_ (the phonos, or the material of Oral Speech).\n\n_Measure_ is the analogue of _Science_, and hence Music is another such\nanalogue. _Men_-s, MIND, and _men_-sura, MEASURE, are\netymologically cognate words; so the English words MEAN-ing,\nTHE MIND _that is in a thing_, and MEAN, the average\nor measure, or the dia-_meter_, or through-_measure_ of a thing. Again,\nthe concrete analogue of Science (_Knowledge_, _Mind_, _The Abstract,_\netc.) is, as we have seen, Man. MEN-s, MAN,\n_hu_-MAN-us, are again, probably, etymologically cognate to\n_homo_, _hominis_, _hoc men_-s, as _hodie_ is to _hoc_ or _haec dies_.\n\nThe Line or Cord is the instrument of _measuring_, and as such is again\nthe type of Science, as the Ball or Globe is the type of Nature; the\nLine, the type of _strictness_, _straightness_, _stretchedness_,\n_exactness_; and the lump or aggregative form, that of Freedom from\nConstraint, Solution, as of the water-drop, and of Absolute-ness (_ab_,\nFROM, and _solvere_, TO FREE). THE RELATIVE\nrepeats THE ABSTRACT; and THE ABSOLUTE, in Philosophy,\nrepeats THE CONCRETE. The Relative has for its type _Two_, or\n_di-termination_ (_dis_ or _di_, _Two_, and _termini_, ENDS);\nand the Absolute has for its type _One_, [Greek: to hen] of the Greeks.\nEXISTENCE, embodying The Absolute _and_ The Relative; the _one_\nand the _two_; has for its type Three; and the all-sided aspect of\nUniversal Being which distinguishes and yet combines these _three_\naspects of Being, is TRI-UNITY, OR THE THREE IN ONE.\n\nThe Trinism, or third story of ascension in the constitution of things,\nagain divides into Two Branches, the first of which accords with Duism\n(_music_, _line_, _science_, _mind_, _man_), and the second with Unism\n(_oral speech_, _globe_, _nature_, _world_).\n\nIn respect to Language, the division here made distributes Song (as the\nhigher type, including all music) into two great departments; as, 1.\nCOMPOSITION, and 2. PERFORMANCE, or _the Song_as a\n_Thing_, and _Singing_ as an _Act_. Song as a whole is the analogue in\nlanguage of the totality of _Human Achievement_, in the distribution of\nthe total Universe, as shown above. The same division applied here\ndistinguishes the _permanent product_ of human activity, the book or the\nstatue, from the performance of man--the action of the author or\nsculptor. It is the distinction of the Latins between 1. _Res_, and 2.\n_Res gestae_.\n\nDismissing for the present the higher domain of Language, which is Song,\nwe reduce the scope of investigation to the lower and middle divisions,\nnamely: 1. To Oral Speech, and 2. To Music; and, in the distribution of\nthe Universe at large, to the corresponding lower and middle divisions,\nnamely: 1. The World (Nature), and 2. Man (Mind).\n\nOral Speech, the Nature-department of language, separates,\ngrammatically, into two grand Subdivisions, as follows: 1. Analysis, The\nElements of Language, namely, The Alphabetic and Syllabic distribution\nof Language, culminating in Word-Building;--The Word in Language being\nTHE INDIVIDUAL in that Domain; and, 2. Synthesis, Construction,\nthe Grammatical Domain proper, including the Parts of Speech and their\nSyntax, or their _putting together_ in a Structure or Lingual\nConstruction.\n\nThe first of these is the Domain of the Elementality of Language, and\ncorresponds with and illustrates what Kant denominates QUALITY;\nas the name of one of the groups of three in his table of the twelve\nCategories of the Understanding. This group of Quality includes 1.\nAFFIRMATION; 2. NEGATION; and 3. LIMITATION.\nBy Affirmation is meant the Positive Element or Factor of Being; by\nNegation, the Negative Element; and by Limitation is meant the\nArticulation, that is to say, the _jointing_ or _joining_ of the\nPositive and Negative Elements, in a _seam_ or _ridge_, which is the\n_existential_ reality, arising from the positive (quasi-negative) and\nthe negative grounds of Being.\n\nThe Positive Element or Factor of Oral Speech, the Absolute Reality or\n'Affirmation' of Language, is Vocal Utterance, or, specifically, the\nkind of Sound called VOWEL.\n\nThe Negative Element or Factor of Oral Speech, the 'Negation' of Kant,\nas illustrated in the Speech Domain, is SILENCE; the Silences\nor Intervals of Rest which intervene between Sounds (and, by repetition,\nbetween Syllables, Words, Sentences, and the still larger divisions of\nSpeech).\n\nThe Limitational Element of Oral Speech is CONSONANTISM, or,\nspecifically, the Consonant Sounds, which for that reason are otherwise\ndenominated Articulations, or _jointings_; as they are the breaks of the\notherwise continuous vocal utterance of Vowel Sound, and, at the same\ntime, the joinings between the fragments of Vowel Sound, namely, the\nVowels, and the surrounding and intervening medium of Silence. The\nConsonants thus become, in a sense, the Bony Structure, or Skeleton of\nSpeech, the most prominent part, that which furnishes the fossil remains\nof Language, which are investigated by the Comparative Philologists.\n\nSound, the Positive Element or Factor, the Affirmation, the Eternal Yea,\nthe Absolute _Reality_, is the SOMETHING of Speech.\n\nSilence, the Negative Element or Factor, the Negation, the Eternal Nay,\nthe Absolute Unreality, is the NOTHING of Speech.\n\nArticulate Sound, the Resultant Element, the _Limitation_ or\nArticulation, the Eternal Transition, the Arriving and Departing, is the\nEXISTENTIAL REALITY, which comes up between and out of the\nAbsolute Vocality (quasi-negative), and the Absolute Silence.\n\nBut the Vowel Absolute, the continuous, unbroken, unarticulated,\nundifferentiated, monotonous Vowel-Sound, would be precisely equivalent\nto Silence. This, then, illustrates the famous fundamental aphorism of\nthe Philosophy of Hegel: SOMETHING = (equal to)\nNOTHING; and the seemingly absurd Hegelian affirmation that the\n_real Something_ is the resultant of the conjunction of two Nothings.\n\nWhat Kant denominates Quality, would be, for some uses, better\ndenominated Elementism or Elementality, and the Domain in which this\nprinciple dominates might then be called the Elementismus of such larger\nDomain as may be under consideration. Thus the Elementismus (or\nElementary Domain) of Language would include _Sounds_, or _the\nAlphabet_, _Syllables_, and _Root-Words_. These are three _powers_ or\ngradations of the Roots of Language. This same domain might therefore be\ncalled the Radicismus or Root-Domain of Language. Typically, one-letter,\ntwo-letter, and three-letter roots, again, represent these three powers.\n\nThe Elementismus or Radicismus of the Universe, correspondential with\nthat of Language, consists of the Metaphysical, the Scientific, and the\nDescriptive Principles of Being. The parallelism is exhibited throughout\nin the following table:\n\n  _Language_.                                             _Universe_.\n\n  _3d Power_. ROOT-WORDS                           3. DESCRIPTIVE GENERALIZATIONS.\n  (Three-letter Syllables).                                    (Averages).\n  _2d Power_. SYLLABLES                            2. SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES.\n  (Two-letter Syllables).                                      (Force, Attraction, etc.)\n                                    {3. ARTICULATIONS.                                 {3. CATEGORIES.\n  _1st Power_.  THE ALPHABET {2. SILENCE.       1. METAPHYSICAL PRINCIPLES. {2. NOTHING.\n  (One-letter Syllables).           {1. SOUND.                                         {1. SOMETHING.\n\nIt results from this table that the deep Metaphysical Domain, wherein\nAristotle and Kant were laboring to categorize the Universe, is the\nAlphabetic Domain of Universal Being; and that their profound effort\nwas, so to speak, to discover The Alphabet of the Universe. It also\nappears that the Syllabarium of the Universe, and typically the open\ntwo-letter syllables of Language, as _bi, be, ba_, correspond as\nanalogues with the Physical Principles which lie at the basis of the\nSciences; and finally, that the completed Root-Words, typically the\nclosed three-letter syllables, or usual monosyllabic root-words, as\n_min, men, man_, correspond with the descriptive generalizations or\ngeneral averages of Natural Science, as _Universe itself, Matter, Mind,\nMovement_, etc.\n\nThese analogies need further elaboration and confirmation to render them\nperfectly clear and to establish them beyond cavil--such as space here\ndoes not admit of. Let us hurry on, therefore, to the _Relational_ or\nConstructive Domains of Language and the Universe, where the analogies\nare more obvious.\n\nThe second of Kant's groups of Categories, in the order in which it is\nmost appropriate now to consider them, he denominates RELATION.\nRelation is _that which intervenes between the_ PARTS _of a_\nWHOLE.\n\n_Prepositions_ are especially defined in Grammar as words denoting\n_relations_. Our attention is thus turned in the Domain of Language to\nthe _Parts_ of Speech; and to the Syntax (putting together), or\nConstruction of these Parts into the wholeness of Discourse. This is\nmore specifically the Department of Grammar. Conjointly these are what\nmay be denominated the Relationismus of Language. This is the Domain\nimmediately above the Elementismus. In the same way the division of the\nhuman body or any other object into Parts, Limbs, Members, etc., and the\nrecombination of these into a structural whole, arises in the scale of\ncreation above the Domain of Elements (Ultimate, Proximate, Chemical,\netc.), this last embracing only the _qualitative_ nature of the\n_substances_ entering into the structure. In the Universe at large,\ntherefore, this Relational Domain is that in which we shall find Things,\nProperties, Actions, and, specifically, the Relations between such, and\ntheir Combinations into Structures and Departments, Branches, or Limbs\nof Being, and finally into the total Universe itself, which is the\nanalogue of the totality of Language.\n\nRelation has a threefold aspect: first, in respect to Space; second, in\nrespect to Time; and third, in respect to _Instance_ or Present Being,\nthe conjunction of the _Here_ and the _Now_.\n\nThe first of these aspects subdivides into what Kant denominates, 1.\nSUBSTANCE, and 2. INHERENCE.\n\nThe second of these aspects subdivides into what Kant denominates, 1.\nCAUSE, and 2. DEPENDENCE.\n\nThe third of these aspects of Relation Kant sums up in the term\nRECIPROCAL ACTION.\n\nCommencing with the first of these three subdivisions of Relation, and\nmaking our application within the Domain of Language, it is obvious that\nit refers to the Substantive and Adjective region of Grammar; Substance\nrelating to Substantives, and Inherence (or Attributes) to Adjectives;\nor otherwise stated, thus:\n\n  SUBSTANTIVES = THINGS   (= Substance.--_Kant_).\n\n  ADJECTIVES = PROPERTIES (= Inherence.--_Kant_).\n\nThe one Thing inclusive of all minor Things is the Universe. The\nUniverse as Thing, or the concrete domain of Being, subdivides into the\nworld of Things proper as distinguished from the Personal world, or the\nHuman world or Man. This first division of the _substantive_ Universe\ncorresponds with the first grand grammatical division of Nouns\nSubstantive into 1. Common Nouns Substantive, and 2. Proper Nouns\nSubstantive.\n\nCommon Nouns Substantive correspond with Things proper, not aspiring to\nthe rank of Personality; Things put in contrast with Persons; Things in\nthat sense in which we speak of a person derogatorily as _a mere thing_;\nhence, _common_ or _ordinary_, and as a common, undistinguished herd of\nobjects, only named and discriminated by the class-name of the class of\nobjects to which they belong.\n\nProper Nouns Substantive are the individual and distinctive names of\nMen, Women, and Children. Hence they belong to and correspond with the\ndomain of Personality, or to that of Man as against the world of mere\nThings. Some objects, lower in the scale of Being than man, are treated\nwith that respect and consideration which ordinarily attach to Human\nBeings, and are then dignified by applying to them Proper Names. These\nare especially the Domestic Animals immediately associated with man;\nMountains, Rivers, Lakes, etc. Restated, this discrimination is as\nfollows:\n\n\n1. COMMON NOUNS SUBSTANTIVE = THINGS, THE WORLD.\n\n2. PROPER NOUNS SUBSTANTIVE = PERSONALITY, MAN.\n\n\nIt is to be borne in mind that, as a minor proportion of mere Things are\nraised to the dignity of wearing Proper Names, so, on the other hand,\nMen, though appropriately distinguished by prenomens and cognomens, may\nalso sink to the character of Things, and be mentioned by class-names.\nThus it is that throughout Nature one domain overlaps another domain,\nand all of our discriminations, though made in terms as if absolute,\nsignify, in fact, merely the _preponderance_; thus, when we say, that\nProper Names apply to the Human Domain, that is true _in preponderance_,\nbut not absolutely or exclusively; and when we say that Common Names\napply to Things below Persons, the statement is true _in preponderance_,\nbut not absolutely or exclusively.\n\nProper Names--The Human World in Language--are, in the next place,\ndistinguished by Gender, as that word itself is distinguished by Sex. By\nthe principle of Overlapping, above explained, this distinction of\nGender or Sex descends in a minor degree into the Thing World; in a\nlarge degree to the Animal World below man: in less degree to the\nVegetable World; and in the least degree to the Mineral and Abstract\nWorld. But characteristically and predominatingly, Sex is predicated of\nHumanity, where it is developed in its highest perfection; and in the\nsame degree Gender in Grammar is, in predominance, confined to the\nProper Nouns Substantive. Masculine and Feminine are the only Proper\nGenders. Neuter Gender means of _neither_ Gender, and includes the great\nmass of Common Nouns, or the Thing World, as distinguished from\nPersonality.\n\nReversing the order, and resuming the above discriminations in the two\ndomains, Language and the Universe, they are as follows:\n\n  _Language.                                 Universe._\n\n                          {MASCULINE.               {MALE.\n  PROPER-NOUN-DOM{               PERSON-DOM{\n                          {Feminine.                         {Female.\n\n  COMMON-NOUN-DOM.                        THING-DOM.\n\nAgain, in this Concrete World, the world of Persons and Things, Number\nreappears, and guides the next great Grammatical division of Nouns\nSubstantive; and the ruling numbers are, again, One, Two, Three.\n\nThe Number One corresponds with the Singular Number in Grammar, and with\nthe Individual or Single Person (or Thing) in the Universe at large. The\nNumber Two corresponds with the Dual Number in Grammar, and with the\nCouple or Pair in the World of Persons (and Things); and finally the\nNumber Three corresponds with the Plural Number in Grammar and with\nSociety or the many among Persons (and Things); or in tabular form,\nthus:\n\n  1. SINGULAR NUMBER,       THE NUMBER ONE (1).\n\n  2. DUAL NUMBER,      THE NUMBER TWO (2).\n\n  3. PLURAL NUMBER,    THE NUMBER THREE (3).\n\nThe Number Three, as the first Plural Number above the Dual, is the Head\nand Type of Plurality in the grammatical discrimination, and stands\nrepresentatively for all Plurality.\n\n_One_, _Two,_ and _Three_, are the Representative Numbers and Heads of\nthe whole Cardinal Series of Number.\n\n_First_, _Second_, and _Third_ are the corresponding Representatives and\nHeads of the Corresponding Ordinal Series of Number. These latter\nnumerals find _their_ representation, grammatically, in the next Grand\nGrammatical Distribution of the Proper Nouns Substantive, namely,\nPERSON, so called, or, specifically, the\n\n  1st PERSON,\n  2d PERSON, and\n  3d PERSON (of Proper Nouns).\n\nThis distribution represents properly the Rank or Degree of Persons in\nthe Hierarchy of Personality; the Ego ranking _naturally_ as 'Number\nOne.' Deference or Grace teaches us afterward to defer to the\npersonality of others, and _converts_ our primitive notions of rank into\nopposites, in a way which is indicated by the _honorific_ use of _Thou_\nin addressing the Supreme, etc.\n\nThis idea of Personal Rank, the Hierarchical Ascension of Individuality\nor Personality in Society, abstracted from the particular Individuals,\nand rendered purely official, becomes nominally a new Part of Speech,\nand is the whole, substantially, of what we denominate the _Pronouns_.\n\nThe Pronoun, as a Part of Speech, is, therefore, the Analogue, within\nthe Lingual Domain, of The State or the Constitution, governmentally, of\nHuman Society, the ascending and descending rank of individuals in the\nsocial organization, the Heraldic Schedule of Man.\n\nFinally we arrive at the consideration of the _Casus_ or _Case_ of Nouns\nSubstantive.\n\nThe _Accidents_ of Life or Being, the occasional _states_ of Men or\nThings, as acting or being acted upon, or simply as _related_ to each\nother in Space, or otherwise, are here represented. It is this which is\nmeant by CASE, from the Latin _casus_, itself from the Latin\n_cadere_, TO FALL, or to FALL OUT or HAPPEN.\nIn the old Grammars, the Cases of the Nouns are denominated _Accidents_.\nAc-_cid_-ent, is from _ad_, TO, and _cadere_ (cid), TO\nFALL; and the same root with _ob_ (_oc_), gives us\nOC-CAS-ion, OC-CAS-_ionally_, etc.\n\nThe Accidents of Being are a special kind of _Inherence_ to the\n_Substance_ of Being; the _Relational_ kind _par excellence_, as\ndistinguished from the _Qualitative_ kind; which last is denoted by the\nproper Adjectives. The Oblique Case of a Noun Substantive, whether\nformed by an Inflexion or by a Preposition, is therefore nothing else\nthan a special kind of Adjective, destitute of the property of\nComparison, because it denotes the Accident instead of the Quality of\nBeing, and because Accidents or Relations between Things do not vary by\ndegrees of Intensity as Qualities do.\n\nThe above description of the Cases of Nouns applies especially to the\nOblique Cases; that is to say, to all except the Nominative Case.\n\nThe Nominative Case is itself susceptible of being regarded as an\nAccident; but its more important office is that of the SUBJECT\nof the Proposition, which takes it out of the minor category of an\naccident, or at least subordinates this latter view of its character.\n\nThe Accidents of Being in the Universe at large are therefore the\nanalogues of the oblique cases of Nouns Substantive in the Domain of\nLanguage; the Nominative Case representing, on the contrary, the central\nfigure in the particular member of discourse, and that which the\naccidents or _falls_ (_casus_) are perceived to relate to or affect.\n\nSubstantives and Adjectives were both formerly included under the term\nNouns or Names; and we have still to distinguish, when they are under\nspecial consideration, as they are here, Nouns Substantive, and Nouns\nAdjective.\n\nBy regarding all the Oblique Cases of Nouns Substantive as a species or\nvariety of Nouns Adjective, and so classifying them along with the\nAdjectives proper, _the Nominative Case_ alone remains to represent _the\nSubstantive_, in the higher and exclusive sense of the term. This is\nthen, at the same time, _The Subject_. The terms employed to designate\nthem sufficiently indicate this identity: _Substantive_, from _sub_,\nUNDER, and _stans_, STANDING; and _Subject_, from _SUB_,\nUNDER, and _jectus_, THROWN or CAST. These are,\ntherefore, nearly etymological equivalents.\n\nBefore passing to the consideration of the Subject and the Proposition,\nlet us finish with the Nouns Adjective, to which we have only given an\nincidental attention.\n\nThese are the representatives of Incidence or Attribution; and\ncorrespond to the entire adjectivity pertaining to the substantiality of\nthe real or concrete Universe; both Substance and Incidence falling as\nparts of one domain within the larger domain of RELATION, which\nin Language is the domain of Grammar proper, including Etymology and\nSyntax.\n\nIt may now be shown that this Adjective World is so much a world by\nitself that Kant's _namings_ for the _four_ groups of the Categories of\nthe Understanding, which we are here enlarging to be the Categories of\nAll Being, are precisely the most appropriate namings for the\nsubdivisions of the Adjective World. These are:\n\n  1. Adjectives of QUALITY.\n  2. Adjectives of RELATION.\n  3. Adjectives of QUANTITY.\n  4. Adjectives of MODE.\n\n1. Adjectives of Quality are those which designate the qualities of\nthings as _good_ or _bad_, etc. They are susceptible of three Degrees of\nComparison; and are, without due consideration, usually regarded by\nGrammarians as if they constituted the whole of the Adjective World.\n\n2. Adjectives of Relation are, as we have seen, (chiefly) the Oblique\nCases of the Noun Substantive. They admit of no Degrees of Comparison.\nThese have not heretofore been regarded as Adjectives; but broadly and\nphilosophically considered, they are so.\n\n3. Adjectives of Quantity are the Numerals, which always instinctively\nfind their way among the Adjectives in the Grammar Books, without their\npresence there being duly accounted for, that part of speech having been\nusually defined as relating exclusively to the _Quality_ of Things.\nThese numeral Adjectives subdivide into Ordinal Numerals and Cardinal\nNumerals; and, like Adjectives of Relation, they are not susceptible of\nbeing varied by the Degrees of Comparison.\n\n4. Adjectives of Mode relate to the Conditions of Existence, as\n_necessary_ and _unnecessary_, _important_ and _unimportant_, etc. They\nare somewhat ambiguous as to their susceptibility to comparison. It is\nover this class of Adjectives that the Grammarians dispute. If a thing\nis _necessary_, then, it is said, it cannot be _more necessary_, or\n_most necessary_, the Positive Case being itself Absolute or\nSuperlative. In some cases this rule is not so clear, and there is doubt\nwhether it is proper to apply the signs of Comparison or not. We may\ncorrectly say _more important_ and _most important_; and on the whole\nthe Adjectives of Mode, or Modal Adjectives, are to be classed as\ncapable of Comparison.\n\nThese four classes of Adjectives again classify in respect to their\nusual susceptibility to comparison, as follows:\n\n  Adjectives of Quality,  }\n  Adjectives of Mode      }    Capable of Comparison.\n  Adjectives of Quantity, }    Incapable of Comparison.\n  Adjectives of Relation, }\n\nThe _Principle_ of Comparison is itself _hierarchical_, or pertaining to\ngradation or rank divinely ordained; or as the mere scientist might\nprefer to say, naturally existent. It repeats, therefore, in an echo, or\ncorrespondentially, THE PERSON (First, Second, Third) of Nouns\nSubstantive and Pronouns; and has relation to the Three Heads of the\nOrdinal Series of Number, 1st, 2d, 3d; as THE NUMBER of Nouns\nSubstantive (Singular, Dual, and Plural) has relation to the Three Heads\nof the Cardinal Series of Number, 1, 2, 3.\n\nThe Qualities, the Relations, the Numerical Character, and the Modal\nCondition of Things, are conjointly an Adjunct World to the Real World\nof Persons and Things, in the Universe at Large; and taken collectively,\nit is that domain or aspect of the total Universe which is the\nscientific echo to or analogue of the Part of Speech called Adjective in\nthe Grammar of Language. The Substantivity and the Adjectivity, taken\nagain collectively with each other, are the totality of the _Concrete_\nUniverse considered in a state of Rest. The _Movement_ of the Universe\nis expressed by the verbal department of Language, and will receive our\nsubsequent attention. It is, therefore, from within this department that\nour concrete analogues of the larger Abstractions of the Universe,\nNature, Science, and Art, namely, The World, Man, and the Product of\nMan's labor, were taken. They belong to the Substantivity (Kant's\nSubstance) of the Universe, and their qualities, relations, number, and\nmode of being belong to the Adjectivity of the Universe (Kant's\nInherence); and these two departments of Universal Being or of the\npossible aspects of Universal Being are the Scientific Analogues, in the\nUniverse at large, of Nouns Substantive and Nouns Adjective, in the\nGrammar Department of the total distribution of the little Universe of\nLanguage; which is the point to be here specially illustrated and\ninsisted upon.\n\nWe pass now to the consideration of the Verb and Participle, related to\nMovement. The Great Noun Class of Words, including the Nominative Noun\nSubstantive, not yet brought into action and made to functionate as\nSubject or Agent, together with the whole Adjective Family of Words as\nabove defined, is _without Action_. These words, and\ncorrespondentially, the Things and their Attributes which they represent\nin the Universe at large, are _static_ or _immovable_. The Universe,\nviewed in the light of them solely, is a Universe _at rest_, or, as it\nwere, _arrested_ in its progression through Time, and existing only in\nSpace; _for_ TIME _has relation to_ MOTION, _as_\nSPACE _has relation to_ POSITION _or_ REST.\nThis aspect of the Universe or of Language may therefore be\nappropriately denominated _Statoid_ (or Spaceoid). The relations between\nthe Parts of this Aspect, denoted by the Prepositions and Conjunctions,\nare inert or _static_ relations, concerning predominantly Position in\nSpace, as _above_, _below_, etc.\n\nWhen the Substantive proper (the Nominative Case) passes over and\nbecomes functionally a SUBJECT (we will consider, first, the\ncase where the Verb is Active Transitive, and the Subject therefore an\nAgent), we pass from _Statism_ to _Motism_; or from Rest to Movement.\nThis is, at the same time, to pass from the Domain or Kingdom of _Space_\nto the Kingdom or Domain of _Time_ (or Tense).\n\nNoun-dom (in its largest extension, including Nouns Substantive and\nNouns Adjective, together with their Words of Relation, Prepositions and\nConjunctions) constitutes, therefore, the STATISMUS (or Domain\nof the Principle of Rest) within the RELATIONISMUS (or Domain\nof Parts and their Construction, or _Syntaxis_ into a whole) of the\nlarger Domain of Language, which might then be properly denominated the\nLinguismus of the Universe. (Every new Science has to have its new\nnomenclature. Let the reader not be repelled, therefore, by these\ninnovations upon the speech usages of our Language; their great\nconvenience, and their actual necessity even for the right discussion of\nthe subject, furnishing their sufficient apology.)\n\nTo determine what the limits of the corresponding Domain are in the\nUniverse at large, and its proper technical designation, it is only\nnecessary to go back upon the analogues already indicated. We have,\nthen, the Statismus of the Relationismus of the Universe; which is the\nStructural Universe, viewed in respect to the relationship between the\nparts and the whole, and as if arrested in Space, or, what is the same\nthing, abstracted from Movement in Time.\n\nIn going over to the new Domain in Language,--the Grammar of the Verb\nand Participle,--we pass then, technically speaking, to the\nMOTISMUS of the RELATIONISMUS of Language; and in\ngoing over to the corresponding Domain of the Universe at large, we pass\nto the MOTISMUS of the RELATIONISMUS of the\n_Universe_, in which action and the relations between actions are\nconcerned.\n\nSince Motion and Action involve the idea of Force or Power, for which\nthe Greek word is _dynamis_, furnishing the English words _Dynamic_ and\n_Dynamics_, our Philosophers have chosen the distinction _Static_ and\n_Dynamic_, instead of _Static_ and _Motic_, the true distinction, and\nhave in that way obscured and disguised from themselves even the\nfundamental and all-important relationship of these two great Aspects of\nBeing, with the two great negative Grounds or Containers of all Being;\n_namely, with_ SPACE _and with_ TIME _respectively_.\n\nIt is here, in the Domain of Movement and Time, the Motismus of\nLanguage, and especially of Grammar,--the Relationismus of\nLanguage,--that the Grand Lingual Illustration or Type of the Second\nSubdivision of Kant's Group of Relation occurs;--the subdivision which\nhe _should_ have denominated _Tempic_, as distinguished from the former\nSubdivision (of Substance and Inherence), which _should_ then have been\ncalled _Spacic_.\n\nThis Tempic Sub-Group of Relation again subdivides, as already stated,\ninto 1. CAUSE, and 2. DEPENDENCE.\n\nThe Subject of a Proposition, in the Active Voice, which is the Typical\nor Direct Expression of Action, is the AGENT or _Actor_ in the\nperformance of the given Action. To be an agent is _to act_; and _to\nact_ is to exhibit an effect, the _Cause_ of which resides in the Agent.\n_Agent_ and _Cause_ are thus identified. In other words, the Nominative\nCase, in the Active Transitive Locution, is the type and illustration of\nthe Sub-Category, _Cause_, in the Group of Relation, as conceived by the\ngreat German metaphysician. His Correlative Sub-Category, _Dependence_,\nis the Action itself, resulting from the Activity of the Agent, and\nexpressed by the Verb and _its_ dependencies.\n\n_The Cause_ and _Dependence_ of Kant, as a Sub-Group of Relation, are\ntherefore, when translated into their typical expression in Language,\nsimply _The Nominative_ and _The Verb_; and belong to the Domain of\nMovement, and hence to that of Time.\n\nIt is only, however, when the Verb is Active that the Nominative is\nAgent or Cause. In the Passive Locution or Voice, a Conversion into\nOpposites occurs;--the Direct is exchanged for the Inverse Order of the\nAction. The Nominative then names the Object which receives, suffers, or\nendures the _force of the Action_, and the Agent is then thrown into the\nCategory of an Accident, and expressed in an Oblique Case; thus,\n_Charles is struck by John_.\n\nThe term _Subject_, applied to the Nominative Case, is made, by a happy\n_equivoque_, to cover both these aspects; that in which the Nominative\nis Agent or Cause, and that in which it is not so. It is only in the\nlatter instance that it is really or literally a _subject_, that is to\nsay, subjected to, or made to suffer the force of the action of the\nVerb; but _action_ is a _reaction_ from such invasion or infliction of\nsuffering or impression upon the person (or thing); and the term\n_Subject_, changing its meaning, accompanies the person _nominated_ or\nnamed by the Nominative Case over into this new positive relation to the\naction. It is interesting to observe that precisely the same doubleness\nof meaning arises, in the same way, in respect to the word _Passion_,\nfrom Latin _patior_, to suffer. When we speak of the _passion_ of\nChrist, we retain the primitive and etymological meaning of the word;\nbut, ordinarily, _passion_ means just the opposite; that violent\n_reaction_ of the feeling side of the mind from _Impression_ (or passion\nin the first sense), which is nearly allied to _Rage_.\n\nIntermediate between the Active and the Passive Locutions is a compound\nActive and Reactive state--the action put forth by the agent, and yet\nterminating upon himself--which is expressed lingually by what is\nappropriately called in Greek the Middle Voice (Sanscrit, _At mane\npada_), and in our modern Grammars, as the French, The Reflective Verb.\n\nThis last, the Reflective or Reciprocal Locution, is the grammatical\ntype and illustration of Kant's third subdivision of the Group of\nRelation, that, namely, which he denominates RECIPROCAL ACTION.\n\nThe correspondences between Language and the Universe at large are here\ntoo obvious to require to be enlarged or insisted upon. The Active Voice\nin Grammar repeats the World of Direct Actions; the Passive Voice, the\nWorld of Inverse Actions; and the Middle Voice the World of Reciprocal\nActions, in the Universe at large. The Nominative Case (in the first and\nleading of these Locutions) is the Analogue of Cause, and the Verb, of\nDependence, or the Chain of Effects resulting from the Cause.\n\nThe I, the Me, the EGO, as Subject, in the domain of\nPhilosophy, is first Subject (-ed) under Impression from the world\nwithout, and afterward becomes Cause (in Expression); and the term\nSubject has here, therefore, precisely the same ambiguity as in Grammar,\nand stands contrasted in the same way with the word Object; the\nAccusative Case of the old Grammarians being now called the _Objective_\nCase, and denoting that upon which the force of the (direct) action is\nexpended.\n\nThe Middle Voice becomes, by an elision, the Neuter Verb. I walk, means,\nI walk _myself_. Neuter Verbs fall, then, into the Category of\nReciprocal Action.\n\nThe Typical Neuter Verb, the Typical Verb, in fine, of all verbs, is the\nSubstantive or Copula Verb TO BE, the Verb of Existence or\nBeing. _I am_, means, I am _myself_, or, I keep or hold myself in being.\n\nIn strictness, the verb _to be_ is the ONLY VERB. Every other\nVerb is capable of Solution into this one, accompanied by a Participle;\nthus, _I walk_, becomes, _I am_ WALKING, etc.\n\nBy this analysis, the Verb, as such, falls back among words of Relation,\nor mere Connectives. It may then be classed with Prepositions and\nConjunctions; its office of Connection being still peculiar, however,\nnamely, to intervene between the Subject and the Predicate. Participles,\ninto which all other verbs than this _Copula_, are so resolved, then\nfall back in like manner into the Class of Adjectives. The Tempic and\nMotic Word-Kingdom is thus carried back to its dependence upon the\nSpacic and Static Word-Kingdom, as basis; in the same manner as, in\nNature, Time and Motion have Space and Rest for their perpetual\nbackground.\n\nReduced to this degree of simplicity, there are but three Parts of\nSpeech: 1. Substantives; 2. Attributes; and 3. Words of Relation; which\ncorrespond with 1. Things; 2. Properties of Things; and 3. The\nInterrelationship of Things, of Properties, and of Things and their\nProperties, in the Universe at large.\n\nThe Adverb has not been mentioned. Analysis reduces it in every instance\nto an Oblique Case of the Substantive, or, what is the same thing, to a\nSubstantive governed by a Preposition; and hence, by a second transfer,\nas shown above, to the class of Adjectives of Relation: thus, _happily_\nmeans _in a happy manner_; _now_ means _in the present time_, etc.\n\nIn the Grammatical Motismus the Three Tenses,--for there are but three\nstrictly, or in the first great natural Division of Time,--namely, the\nPast, the Present, and the Future, correspond with the Grand Three-fold\nDivision of The Tempismus, the Universal Ongoing or Procession of\nEvents, the _Grandis Ordo Naturae;_ namely, the Past, the Present, and\nthe Future, as the Three-fold Aspect of Time and of the Universe of _Res\nGestae_, or Things Done, and Contained in Time, as distinguished from the\nother equal Aspect of the total Universe, namely, the Static Expansion\nof the Universe in Space.\n\nMode, which is subsequently developed in Music as a Distinct Grouping of\nCategories, finds here, in the domain of Relation, a subordinate\ndevelopment, in connection with the Verb.\n\nKant's Subdivision of Mode, as a group of Categories is, 1.\nPOSSIBILITY and IMPOSSIBILITY; 2. BEING and\nNOT-BEING; and 3. NECESSITY and ACCIDENCE.\n\nIt is obvious that POSSIBILITY is that Category which is\nexpressed grammatically by the _Potential_ Mode (from _potentia_,\nPOWER, POSSIBILITY); otherwise called the Conditional Mode. _I\nshould do so and so if_--The Negative Form of this Mode expresses\nIMPOSSIBILITY: _I should or could not do so and so unless_,\netc.\n\nBEING and NOT-BEING, direct Assertion and Denial, find\ntheir grammatical representation in the Indicative Mode: _I do_ or _I do\nnot_; and in an _Un-fin-it-ed_ or _In-defi-nite_ way, as a mere naming\nof the idea, in The Infinitive Mode, _to do_, etc.\n\nNECESSITY and ACCIDENCE are expressed in the\nImperative Mode for the former and in the Subjunctive Mode for the\nlatter. _Necessary_ and _Imperative_ are synonymes. To command\nabsolutely, is _to require_, and _The Required_ or _The Requisite_ is\nagain _The Necessary_.\n\n_Accidence_ is that which is _under a condition, sub-joined,\nSub-junctive_; which may or may not happen, hence introduced by an _if_,\nequal to _gif_, _give_, _grant_, _provided it so happen_.\n\nELEMENTALITY (Kant's QUALITY of Being) reappears in\nthis domain of Relation in Connection with the Verb:\nAFFIRMATION, in the Affirmative Propositions, as, _I love_;\nNEGATION, in Negative Propositions, as, _I do not Love_; and\nLimitation, _wavering as between two_, in the Dubitative or Questioning\nForms of the Proposition, as, _Do I love? Do I not love?_ The Celtic\ntongues have special modal forms to express these modifications of the\nVerb.\n\nNUMBER, the remaining one of Kant's Groups of the Categories,\nfinds also its minor representative in this domain in the Numbers,\nSingular, Dual, and Plural, incorporated into the Conjugation of the\nVerb. This leads us to the consideration of Grammatical Agreement and\nGovernment; carries us over into Syntax, Prosody, Logic, and Rhetoric;\nback to Lexicology, the domain of the Dictionary or mere Vocabulary in\nLanguage; and thence upward to Music, and finally again to Song, the\nculmination of Speech.\n\nThe subject grows upon us, and it is impossible to complete it in a\nsingle paper.\n\nThe Portions of Language which we have been considering belong to the\ntwo Departments: 1. ELEMENTISMUS (Kant's QUALITY), and\n2. RELATION (Grammar more properly). The treatment of these is\nnot fully exhausted, and must be recurred to hereafter.\n\nThe two remaining ones of Kant's Groups of the Categories of the\nUnderstanding (here extended to be the Categories of all Being) are, 3.\nQUANTITY, and 4. MODE. The proper domain of these two\nis Music. The mere mention of the musical terms Unison, Discord (duism,\ndiversity), the Spirit of One and the Spirit of Two; and of the Major\nand the Minor Mode, suggest QUANTITY and MODALITY as\nthe reigning principles in that domain. The appearance of Number and\nMode in the domain of Relation (Grammar), is, as already stated, a\nsubordinate one, and has respect to the principle of\nOVERLAPPING, already adverted to, by which all the domains of\nNature are _intricated_ or _con-creted_ with each other.\n\nQUANTITY and MODE, in their own independent and\nseparate development, will, therefore, be the special subjects of a\nsubsequent treatment.\n\n\n\n\nAPHORISMS.--NO. VI.\n\n\nMind is a thing that we partly have by nature, and partly have to create\nby mental discipline and exercise. Or, as Horace says:\n\n    'Ego nec studium sine divite vena,\n    Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium.'\n\n    _De Arte Poetica_, 409, 410.\n\nIn English:\n\n    'What can our studies yield, where mind is weak;\n    Or what a genius do, that's not with discipline prepared?'\n\nNor is it yet clear, on which, supposing a well-organized and healthy\nbody, most will depend--upon the native endowment, or upon the labor of\ndeveloping and applying the inborn power.\n\nDistinguishing, however, between genius and talent, we may safely admit\nthat no discipline, without 'the gift and faculty divine,' will produce\nthe one; and hold that well-directed industry, in almost any case of a\nnaturally sound mind, will surely develop the other. The half-made and\noften ill-tutored efforts of the usual processes of learning, are not to\nbe allowed a decisive voice against the supposition that vigorous mental\nlife might be the common portion of educated men.\n\n\n\n\nAN ARMY: ITS ORGANIZATION AND MOVEMENTS.\n\n\nThe immense military operations of our civil war have familiarized, to a\nconsiderable extent, not only those connected with the armies, but the\npeople generally with the systems on which military forces are organized\nand the methods of conducting war. Much has been learned in the past\nthree years, and much accomplished in the improvement of tactics,\ninternal organization, and the construction of all kinds of material.\nCivilians, who were well read in the history of former wars, and even\nprofessional military officers, were comparatively ignorant of all the\nnumerous details necessarily incident to the formation and movement of\narmies. On account of the deficiency of practical information on these\nmatters, the difficulties which arose at the commencement of the war,\nwere, as it is well known, immense; but they were overcome with a\ncelerity and energy absolutely unparalleled in the history of the world,\nand to-day we are able to assure ourselves with justifiable pride that\nin all essential particulars our armies are fully and properly\norganized, equipped, and provided for. We propose to exhibit in a few\narticles the methods by which these results have been accomplished--to\npresent to readers generally the system of organization and the\nprinciples of operation existing in our armies--giving them such\ninformation as can be obtained only from actual thorough acquaintance\nwith military life, or extended perusal of works on military art, as now\nunderstood among the leading civilized nations.\n\nThat such information would be desirable, we were led to believe from\nthe surprise expressed by an intelligent friend at the definition given\nhim of the phrase 'line of battle.' He was greatly astonished on\nlearning that battles are fought, mostly, by lines of only two ranks in\ndepth. The history of the 'line of battle' is of great interest, and\nindeed contains an exposition of the principles on which a great portion\nof modern warfare is founded. While the chief principles of strategy, of\nthe movement of armies, of attack and defence, and to some extent of\ntactics, are the same now as in the earliest ages, the mode of arraying\nmen for battle has undergone an entire change, attributable to the\nimprovement in the weapons of warfare. We are not superior to the\nancients so much in the science of war, as in the character of our arms.\nThey undoubtedly fought in the manner most appropriate to the means\nwhich they possessed. The great change which has taken place in the\nmethod of battle, consists chiefly in this--that formerly men were\narrayed in masses, now in lines. The Grecian phalanx was composed of\n32,000 men arranged as follows: 16,000 spearmen placed in sixteen ranks\nof a thousand men each, forming the centre; on each wing, 4,000 light\nspearmen in eight ranks; 4,000 men armed with bows and slings, who\nperformed the part of skirmishers; 4,000 cavalry. The Roman legion\ncontained 4,500 men, of which 1,200 were light infantry or skirmishers\narmed with bows and slings. The main body consisted of 1,200 spearmen,\nwho were formed into ten rectangular bodies of twelve men front by ten\ndeep; behind them were ten other rectangles of the second line; and\nbehind these a third line of 600 in rectangles of six men front by ten\ndeep. To the legion was attached 300 cavalry.\n\nIn the middle ages, infantry was considered of little importance, the\ncombat being principally among the knights and cavaliers. The\nintroduction of gunpowder caused a change in the method of fighting, but\nit was effected gradually. For a long time only clumsy cannon were\nused, which, however, made great havoc among the formations in mass\nstill retained. Rude arquebuses were then introduced, and improvements\nmade from time to time; but even so late as the 17th century the ancient\narms were retained in a large proportion. They did not disappear\nentirely until the invention of the bayonet in the 18th century. This\ncontributed as much as the use of firearms to change the formations of\nbattle. In the 16th century the number of ranks had been reduced from\nten to six; at the end of the reign of Louis XIV. the number was four;\nFrederick the Great reduced it to three. With this number the wars of\nthe French Republic and Empire were conducted, until at Leipsic, in\n1813, Napoleon's army being greatly diminished, he directed the\nformation in two ranks, saying that the enemy being accustomed to see it\nin three, and not aware of the change, would be deceived in regard to\nits numbers. He stated also that the fire of the rear rank was dangerous\nto those in front, and that there was no reason for the triple\nformation. In this judgment military authorities have since concurred,\nand the two-rank formation is almost universally adopted. Russia is the\nonly civilized power which places men in masses on the battle field.\nFormations in column are used when necessary to carry a particular local\nposition, even at a great expenditure of life. But the usual mode of\ncombat is that adopted by Napoleon. Our battles have been almost\nuniversally fought in this manner. The rebels have probably used the\nformation in column more frequently than the Northern troops. The\nnon-military reader can easily perceive that formations in mass are more\nsubject to loss from the fire of artillery and from that of small arms\neven at considerable distances, and are less able to deliver their own\nfire.\n\nOur old regular army consisted of ten regiments of infantry, two of\ncavalry, two of dragoons, and one of mounted rifles, of ten companies\neach, and four artillery regiments of twelve companies each. Two\ncompanies each of the latter served as light artillery--the companies\nalternating in this service. There was also a battalion of engineers.\n\nAt the commencement of the war our force of light artillery was very\ninadequate, and rifled ordnance had scarcely been introduced. Our\npresent immense force of the former has been almost entirely created\nsince the commencement of the war; the splendid achievements in rifled\nartillery have been entirely accomplished within the last three years.\nAlthough it had been applied some years previously in Europe, it was not\nformally introduced into our service until needed to assist in\nsuppressing the gigantic rebellion. The Ordnance Department had,\nhowever, given attention to the matter, and boards of officers were\nengaged in making experiments. A report had been made that 'the era of\nsmooth-bore field artillery has passed away, and the period of the\nadoption of rifled cannon, for siege and garrison service, is not\nremote. The superiority of elongated projectiles, whether solid or\nhollow, with the rifle rotation, as regards economy of ammunition,\nextent of range, and uniformity and accuracy of effect, over the present\nsystem, is decided and unquestionable.'[A] We shall see, in discussing\nartillery, how far these expectations have been realized.\n\nThe regular army was increased in 1861 by the addition of nine regiments\nof infantry, one of cavalry, and one of artillery. The Mounted Rifles\nwere changed into the 3d Cavalry, and the two dragoon regiments into the\n1st and 2d Cavalry. The old 1st and 2d Cavalry became the 4th and 5th.\nAll cavalry regiments have now twelve companies, and the new infantry\nregiments are formed on the latest French system of three battalions, of\neight companies each, with a colonel, lieutenant-colonel, and three\nmajors. Each of the 24 companies has 82 privates.\n\n[Footnote A: Scott's _Military Dictionary_.]\n\nThe old regular army comprised, when full, about 18,000 officers and\nmen. As increased, the total complement is over 43,600, including five\nmajor-generals, nine brigadier-generals, thirty-three aides-de-camp,\nbesides the field officers of the various regiments and the company\nofficers. In addition to these officers (but included in the aggregate\nabove given) are the various staff departments, as follows:\n\n     _Adjutant-Generals._--1 brigadier-general, 2 colonels, 4\n     lieutenant-colonels, 13 majors.\n\n     _Judge-Advocates._--1 colonel.\n\n     _Inspector Generals._--14 colonels, 5 majors.\n\n     _Signal Corps._--1 colonel, 1 lieutenant-colonel, 2 majors.\n\n     _Quartermaster's Department._--1 brigadier-general, 3 colonels, 4\n     lieutenant-colonels, 11 majors, 48 captains, 12 military\n     storekeepers.\n\n     _Subsistence Department._--1 brigadier-general, 2 colonels, 2\n     lieutenant-colonels, 8 majors, 16 captains.\n\n     _Medical Department._--1 brigadier-general, 2 colonels, 16\n     lieutenant-colonels, 50 majors, 5 captains, 109 first lieutenants,\n     6 storekeepers, 119 hospital chaplains, 70 medical cadets.\n\n     _Pay Department._--1 colonel, 2 lieutenant-colonels, 25 majors.\n\n     _Corps of Engineers._--1 brigadier-general, 4 colonels, 10\n     lieutenant-colonels, 20 majors, 30 captains, 30 first lieutenants,\n     10 second lieutenants. The battalion of engineers comprises a total\n     of 805.\n\n     _Ordnance Department._--1 brigadier-general, 2 colonels, 3\n     lieutenant-colonels, 6 majors, 20 captains, 20 first lieutenants,\n     12 second lieutenants, 15 storekeepers, and a battalion of 905 men.\n\nThese figures all pertain to the _regular army_. A considerable number\nof the officers in the regiments have been appointed from civil life;\nbut in the staff departments the officers are almost exclusively\ngraduates from the Military Academy at West Point.\n\nThe raising of the immense volunteer force necessitated a great increase\nin the staff departments, and large numbers of persons from civil life\nhave been appointed into the volunteer staff in the Adjutant-General's,\nJudge-Advocate's, Quartermaster's, Commissary, Medical, and Pay\nDepartments. The ordnance duties are performed by officers detailed from\nthe line, and engineer duties by regiments assigned for that purpose. A\nlarge number of additional aides-de-camp were also authorized, forming\nthat branch of duty into a department. Aides-de-camp are also detailed\nfrom the line. The highest rank yet created for volunteer staff officers\nis that of colonel in the aides-de-camp. The heads of staff departments\nat corps headquarters are lieutenant-colonels, including an assistant\nadjutant-general, assistant inspector-general, a chief quartermaster,\nand chief commissary. Many regular officers hold these volunteer staff\nappointments, gaining in this manner additional rank during the\nwar--still retaining their positions in the regular service; in the same\nmanner as many regular officers are field officers in volunteer\nregiments.\n\nThe aggregate _militia_ force of the United States (including seceded\nportions), according to the last returns, was 3,214,769. The reports of\nthe last census increase this to about 5,600,000, which exceeds to some\nextent the number actually _fit_ to bear arms. The computed proportion\nin Europe of the number of men who can be called into the field is about\none-fifth or one-sixth of the population. If the population of the\nentire United States be assumed to be 23,000,000, the number of men\nliable, according to this computation, would be about 4,000,000, which\nis sufficiently approximate. The European computation of the force to be\nkept as a _standing army_ is a hundredth part of the population--varied\nsomewhat by circumstances. This would give the United States a force of\n230,000. It will be seen how greatly inferior our regular force has\nbeen and still is to the computations adopted in Europe. But the United\nStates will probably never require such a large force to be permanently\norganized; for we have not, like the European powers, frontiers to\nprotect against nations with whom we may at any time be at war, nor\noppressed nationalities to retain in subjugation by force. Our frontiers\non Canada and Mexico have good natural defences--the first by the St.\nLawrence river and lakes, and the second by the great distance to be\ntraversed by an invading army before it could reach any important\ncommercial position. Our vulnerability is in our extensive seacoast. The\nprincipal requirement for an army is a large framework, which can be\nrapidly filled by volunteers in expectation of war. With such a military\nconstitution and a system of military education and drill in the\ndifferent States, large and effective armies could be rapidly organized.\n\nOur staff corps and regular army are insignificant, compared with those\nof European nations, in which the average strength of the standing\narmies is from 250,000 to 300,000 men on the peace footing, and 400,000\nto 600,000 on the war footing, with immense magazines of equipage and\nmaterial, numerous military schools, and extensive organizations in all\nthe departments incident to an army. Our own army has hitherto been\nmodelled to a great extent on the English system--the most aristocratic\nof all in Europe, and consequently the least adapted to a republic. To\nthis is attributable much of the jealousy hitherto felt in regard to the\narmy and all pertaining to it. We are now, however, conforming more to\nthe French system, and from it will probably be adopted any changes that\nmay be introduced.\n\nThe French army, since Napoleon gave it the impress of his genius, has\nin many characteristics been well adapted to the peculiarities of\nrepublican institutions. A soldier can rise from the ranks to the\nhighest command, by the exhibition of valor and ability, more easily, in\nfact, than he can in our own army, with which political favoritism has\nmuch to do in promotions and appointments. By a recent policy of our War\nDepartment, however, vacancies have been left in the subordinate\ncommissioned officers of the regular army, which are to be filled\nexclusively from the ranks. Many deserving officers in the army have\nbeen private soldiers.\n\nNo system will be effective for providing an adequate military\norganization that does not include thorough instruction for officers.\nThe prevailing feeling in our country, as remarked above, has rather\nbeen to underrate the army, and to look with some jealousy on the West\nPoint Military Academy and its graduates. The present war has effected a\nchange in this respect. The country owes too much to the educated\nregular officers for the organization and conduct of the volunteer\nforces, to be insensible of the merits of the system which produced\nthem. A capable civilian can undoubtedly become just as good an officer\nof any rank as a graduate of West Point; but it must be through a course\nof study similar to that there pursued. No natural ability can supply\nthe want of the scientific training in the military, more than in any\nother profession. Military science is only the result of all the\nexperience of the past, embodied in the most comprehensive and practical\nform. Napoleon was a profound student of military history. In his\nMemoirs he observes: 'Alexander made 8 campaigns, Hannibal 17 (of which\n1 was in Spain, 15 in Italy, and 1 in Africa), Caesar made 15 (of which 8\nwere against the Gauls, and 5 against the legions of Pompey), Gustavus\nAdolphus 5, Turenne 18, the Prince Eugene of Savoy 18, and Frederic 11\n(in Bohemia, Silesia, and upon the Elbe.) The history of these 87\ncampaigns, made with care, would be a complete treatise on the art of\nwar. The principles one should follow, in both offensive and defensive\nwar, flow from them as a source.'\n\nTo one familiar with the gradual progress in the organization of our\narmies, it is interesting to recur to the time when the first levies of\nvolunteers were raised. Regiments were hurried into Washington half\naccoutred and indifferently armed. Officers and men were for the most\npart equally ignorant of the details, a knowledge of which enables a\nsoldier to take care of himself in all circumstances. Staff officers\nknew nothing of the various departments and the methods of obtaining\nsupplies. The Government had not been able to provide barrack\naccommodations for the immense irruption of 'Northern barbarians,' and\nthe men were stowed like sheep in any unoccupied buildings that could be\nobtained. These were generally storehouses, without any cooking\narrangements, so that when provisions were procured, no one knew what to\ndo with them. Hundreds of men, who previously scarcely knew but that\nbeef-steaks and potatoes grew already cooked and seasoned, could be seen\nevery day sitting disconsolately on the curbstones cooking their pork on\nramrods over little fires made with twigs gathered from the trees. Those\nwho happened to be the lucky possessors of a few spare dimes, straggled\noff to restaurants. Washington, in those days, was only a great\ncountry-town, and not the immense city which the war has made it. The\nvague and laughable attempts of officers to assume military dignity and\nenforce discipline, with the careless insubordination of the men,\nfurnished many amusing scenes. It was not easy for officer and man, who\nhad gone to the same school, worked in the same shop, sung in the same\nchoir, and belonged to the same base-ball club, to assume their new\nrelations.\n\nPrivates would address their officer, 'I say, Bill, have you got any\ntobacco?' Officers would reply, 'Do you not know, sir, the proper method\nof addressing me?' Private would exclaim, 'Well, I guess now you're\nputtin' on airs, a'n't you?' Pompous colonels strutted about in a blaze\nof new uniforms, and even line officers then considered themselves of\nsome consequence; while a brigadier-general was a sort of a demigod--a\nman to be revered as something infallible. Now-a-days old veterans care\nvery little for even the two stars of a major-general, unless they know\nthat the wearer has some other claims to respect than his shoulder\nstraps.\n\nAs matters gradually became arranged, the troops were provided with\ntents, and encamped in the vicinity. Never was guard duty more\nvigilantly performed than in those camps around Washington. Every one of\nus came to the capital with the expectation of being immediately\ndespatched to Virginia, and ordered to pitch into a miscellaneous fight\nwith the rebels. Rebel guerillas and spies were supposed to be lurking\nin the surroundings of the capital, and 'taking notes' in all the camps.\nWoe betide the unsuspicious stranger who might loiter curiously around\nthe encampments. With half a dozen bayonets at his breast he was hurried\noff in utter amazement to the guard house. At night the sentinels saw\n'in every bush' a lurking rebel. Shots were pattering all night in every\ndirection. Unfortunate straggling cows were frequently reduced to beeves\nby the bullets of the wary guardians. The colonel's horse broke loose\none night, and, while browsing around, his long, flowing tail, the\ncolonel's pride, was reduced to an ignominious 'bob' by a bullet, which\nneatly severed it near the root. Many was the trigger pulled at me, many\nthe bullet sent whizzing at my head, as I returned to camp after an\nevening in the city. Fortunately, the person fired at was usually\nsafe--any one within the circle of a hundred feet diameter was likely to\nreceive the ball. One evening, about dusk, going into camp, I took a\nrunning jump over a ditch, and this rapid motion so frightened an\nhonest German sentinel--probably a little muddled with lager--that he\nactually forgot to fire, and came at me in a more natural way with his\nmusket clubbed. I escaped a broken head at the expense of a severely\nbruised arm. The rule for challenging, it used to be said, was to 'fire\nthree times, and then cry 'halt!' instead of the reverse, as prescribed\nin the regulations.\n\nWhen the order--long anticipated--for actually invading Virginia\narrived, then was there excitement. Every man felt the premonition of\nbattle, and nerved himself for conflict. As we marched down to Long\nBridge, at midnight, perfect silence prevailed. Breaths were suspended,\nfootfalls were as light as snowflakes, orders were given in hollow\nwhispers. We placed our feet on the 'sacred soil' with more emotion than\nthe Normans felt when landing in England, or the Pilgrims at Plymouth.\nThis was war--the real, genuine thing. But our expectations were not\nrealized. As the 'grand army' advanced, the scattered rebel pickets\nwithdrew. The only fatality of the campaign was the death of the gallant\nbut indiscreet Ellsworth. We had our first experience of lying out doors\nin our blankets. How vainglorious we felt over it! Many a poor fellow\ncomplained jocosely of the hardship and exposure, whom since I have seen\nperfectly content to obtain a few pine boughs to keep him from being\nsubmerged in an abyss of mud. Many, alas! have gone to a couch where\ntheir sleep will be no more broken by the reveille of drum and fife and\nbugle--in the trenches of Yorktown, in the thickets of Williamsburg, in\nthe morasses of the Chickahominy, on the banks of the Antietam, at the\nfoot of those fatal heights at Fredericksburg, in the wilderness of\nChancellorsville, on the glorious ridge of Gettysburg. Comrades of the\nbivouac and the mess! ye are not forgotten in that sleep upon the fields\nwhere swept the infernal tide of battle, obliterating so much glorious\nlife, leaving so much desolation! Even amid the roar of cannon, exulting\nin their might for destruction, amid the shrieking of the merciless\nshells, amid the blaze of the deadly musketry, memories of you occur to\nus. We resolve that your lives shall not have been sacrificed in vain.\nAnd in these long, dreary, monotonous days of winter, as the sleet\nrattles on our frail canvas covering, and the wind roars in our rude log\nchimneys, while the jests go around and the song arises, thoughts of the\nbattle fields of the past cross our minds--we recall the incidents of\nfierce conflicts--we say, there and there fell----, no nobler fellows\never lived! A blunt and hasty epitaph, but the desultory vicissitudes of\na soldier's life permit no other--we expect no other for ourselves when\nour turn to follow you shall come. So we break out into our favorite\nchorus:\n\n    'Then we'll stand by our glasses steady,\n      And we'll drink to our ladies' eyes.\n    Three cheers for the dead already,\n      And huzza for the next man that dies.\n\nThough your graves are unmarked, save by the simple broad slab from\nwhich storms have already effaced the pencilled legend, or perhaps only\nby the murderous fragment of iron, which lies half imbedded on the spot\nwhere you fell and where you lie, yet you live in the memory of your\ncomrades, you live in the hearts of those who were desolated by your\ndeath, you live in that eternal record of heaven where are written the\nnames of those who have given their lives to promote the truth and the\nfreedom which God has guaranteed to humanity in the great charters of\nNature and Revelation. For we are fighting in a holy cause. No crusade\nto redeem Eastern shrines from infidels, no struggle for the privilege\nof religious freedom, no insurrection for civil independence, has been\nmore holy than this strife against the great curse and its abettors, who\nseek to make a land of freedom a land of bondage to substitute for a\nUnion of freemen, miserable oligarchies controlled by breeders of\nslaves. If we die in this cause, we have lived a full life. An anomalous\nstate of things had existed between the time of the attack on Sumter and\nthe 'invasion' of Virginia. Although the war had in reality commenced,\ncommunication was not suspended between Washington and Alexandria. On\nthe day following the march over the Potomac, we found the plans of\nintrenchments marked out by wooden forms on the spots which subsequently\nbecame Fort Corcoran, opposite Georgetown, Fort Runyon, opposite\nWashington, and Fort Ellsworth, in front of Alexandria. How this had so\nspeedily been done by the engineers I did not learn until many months\nafterward, when one of the party who planned the works described the\n_modus operandi_. They went over to Virginia in a very rustic dress, and\nprofessed to the rebel pickets to be from 'down country,' come up to\ntake a look at 'them durned Yankees.' So they walked around unmolested,\nselected the sites for the intrenchments, formed the plans in their\nminds, made some stealthy notes and sketches, and, returning to\nWashington, plotted the works on paper, gave directions to the\ncarpenters about the frames, which were constructed; and, after the army\ncrossed, these were put in their proper positions, tools were placed\nconveniently, and, soon after the crossing was made, the men commenced\nto work.\n\nIn raising these intrenchments, drilling and organizing, the army passed\nabout a month--varied only by alarms two or three times a week at night\nthat the rebels were coming, whereupon the troops turned out and stood\nin line till daylight. It was shrewdly suspected that these alarms were\npurposely propagated from headquarters to accustom the men to form\nthemselves quickly at night without panic. In after times, in front of\nRichmond, we had such duty to perform, without any factitious reasons.\nIt was a matter of necessary precaution to stand to our arms nightly for\ntwo or three hours before daybreak.\n\nUntil just previous to the disastrous Bull Run campaign, no higher\norganization than that of brigades was adopted; but a day or two before\nthe march commenced, General McDowell organized the brigades into\ndivisions. These were reorganized by General McClellan as the two and\nthree years volunteers joined the army. The organization of corps was\nmade in the spring of 1862, just before the commencement of the\nPeninsula campaign, and is now the organization of the army.\n\nThe complete organization is now as follows:\n\n  _Regiments_, generally of ten companies.\n  _Brigades_, of four or more regiments.\n  _Divisions_, generally of three brigades.\n  _Corps_, generally of three divisions.\n\nThe various staffs have gradually been organized, until they now stand\n(in the Army of the Potomac) as follows:\n\nAt the headquarters of the army:\n\n  _A Chief of Staff._\n  _An Assistant Adjutant-General._\n  _A Chief Quartermaster._\n  _A Chief Commissary._\n  _A Chief of Artillery._\n  _An Assistant Inspector-General._\n  _A Medical Director._\n  _A Judge Advocate-General._\n  _An Ordnance Officer._\n  _A Provost Marshal-General._\n  _A Chief Engineer._\n  _A Signal Officer._\n  _Aides-de-Camp._\n\nThe rank of these officers, as the staff is now composed, is as follows:\nThe chief of staff, a major-general; the assistant adjutant-general,\nchief of artillery, and provost marshal, brigadier-generals; assistant\ninspector-general, a colonel; medical director, chief engineer, judge\nadvocate-general, majors; the signal officer, chief commissary, and\nordnance officer, captains; the aides, of various ranks, lieutenants,\ncaptains, and majors. Most of these officers do not derive their rank\nfrom their position on the staff, but it has been given them in the\nvolunteer organization, or pertains to them in the line of the regular\nor volunteer army. All the department officers (meaning all except\naides) have a number of assistants, and the general officers have staffs\nand aides of their own, to which they are entitled by law. The total\nnumber of officers on duty at the headquarters may amount to fifty or\nmore, and there is plenty of work for all of them during a campaign.\nBesides the regular staff, constituted as above related, there are the\nofficers of an infantry regiment which furnishes guards and escorts, and\nofficers of cavalry squadrons detailed to furnish orderlies. The\nheadquarters of the army is therefore a town of considerable population.\n\nAt the headquarters of the different corps the staffs are as follows:\n\n  _An Assistant Adjutant-General_--Lieutenant-colonel.\n  _A Chief Quartermaster_--Lieutenant-colonel.\n  _A Chief Commissary_--Lieutenant-colonel.\n  _An Assistant Inspector-General_--Lieutenant-colonel.\n\n[These officers derive their rank from their position, under a law of\nCongress.]\n\n  _A Medical Director_--being detailed from\n  the senior surgeons of the regular or\n  Volunteer army, and ranking as a\n  major.\n\n  _A Commissary of Musters._\n  _A Provost Marshal._\n  _A Signal Officer._\n\n[These officers are detailed from the line, and have the ranks which\nthere belongs to them. The signal corps is, however, now being\norganized, with ranks prescribed by law.]\n\n_Aides-de-Camp_--one with the rank of major, and two with the rank of\ncaptain. Besides these, additional aides are sent to the corps from\nthose created under an act of Congress of 1861--now repealed--and are\ndetailed from the line.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe quartermaster, commissary, and medical director generally have\nassistant officers. There is a squadron of cavalry and usually a company\nof infantry at each corps headquarters.\n\nThe staffs of divisions and brigades resemble those of the corps, except\nthat the regular staff officers usually rank only as captains, except in\ncases where a major-general commands; he is entitled to an assistant\nadjutant-general with the rank of major. Officers detailed from the line\nto act on any staff in any capacity, bring with them the rank they hold\nin the line. They are not entitled, except the authorized aides and in\nsome other particular cases, when ordered by the War Department, to\nadditional allowances; but if they are foot officers, and are properly\ndetailed for mounted duty, the quartermaster of the staff on which they\nserve is obligated to furnish them a horse and equipments. Divisions\nusually have an _ordnance officer_, whose duty it is to take charge of\nthe ammunition of the division, keep the quantity ordered, and supply\nthe troops in time of battle. By law the chief of artillery at corps\nheadquarters is the chief ordnance officer for the corps, but this\narrangement has been found impracticable. In the Army of the Potomac the\nchief of artillery does not remain at corps headquarters, but is\nassigned directly to the command of the artillery, where he also has a\nstaff, including an ordnance officer, who supplies ammunition and other\narticles pertaining to his department, exclusively to the artillery.\n\nThe _staff_, it must be recollected, is to an army what the masons,\ncarpenters, ironworkers, and upholsterers are to a building. As the\nlatter are the agents for executing the designs of the architect, so the\nstaff are the medium by which the commander of an army effects his\npurposes. Without competent staff officers in all the various grades of\norganization constituting an army, the most judicious plans of the\nablest commander will entirely fail. If a campaign is to be made, the\ncommanding general, having formed his general strategical plan, needs\nthe advice of his chief of staff as to the condition of his troops, and\nhis assistance in devising the details. His adjutant-general's office\nmust contain full records of the numbers of the troops--effective and\nnon-effective--armed and unarmed--sick and well--present and absent,\nwith all reports and communications relative to the state of the army.\nHis quartermaster must have been diligent to provide animals, wagons,\nclothing, tents, forage, and other supplies in his department; his\ncommissary and ordnance officer, the same in relation to subsistence and\nmunitions--all having made their arrangements to establish depots at the\nmost accessible points on the proposed route of march. His chief of\nartillery must have bestowed proper attention to keeping the hundred\nbatteries of the army in the most effective condition. His chief\nengineer must have informed himself of all the routes and the general\ntopography of the country to be traversed; he must know at what points\nrivers can be best crossed, and where positions for battle can be best\nobtained; his pontoon trains and intrenching implements must be complete\nand ready for service; his maps prepared for distribution to subordinate\ncommanders. His inspector must have seen that the orders for discipline\nand equipment have been complied with. His medical director must have\nprocured a supply of hospital stores, and organized the ambulance and\nhospital departments. His provost marshal must have made adequate\narrangements to prevent straggling, plundering, and other disorders. His\naides must have informed themselves of the positions of the various\ncommands, and become acquainted with the principal officers, so as to\ntake orders through night and storm with unerring accuracy. They must be\ncool-headed, daring fellows, alert, and well posted, good riders, and\nhave good horses under them.\n\nAll this work cannot be accomplished in a day, a week, or a month. The\nfull preparations required to render a campaign successful must have\nbeen the result of long, patient, thoughtful consideration and\norganization. It is no time to teach sailors seamanship in a hurricane.\nThey must know where to find the ropes and what to do with them, with\nthe spray dashing in their eyes and the black clouds scurrying across\nthe sky. It is no time for staff officers to begin their duties when a\ngreat army is to be moved. Then it is needed that every harness strap,\nevery gun-carriage wheel, every knapsack, every soldier's shoe should\nhave been provided and should be in serviceable order; that the men\nshould have had their regular fare, and have been kept in the healthiest\ncondition; that clear and explicit information be ready on all details.\nPrepared by the assiduous, intelligent labor of a vigilant and faithful\nstaff, an army becomes a compact, homogeneous mass--without\nindividuality, but pervaded by one animating will--cohesive by\ndiscipline, but pliant in all its parts--impetuous with enthusiasm, but\ncontrolled easily in the most minute operations.\n\nThese remarks, relative to the requirements for an effective staff,\npertain to all grades of organization. The staff officers at the\nheadquarters of the army organize general arrangements and supervise the\noperations of subordinate officers of their department at the\nheadquarters of corps; these have more detailed duties, and, in their\nturn, supervise the staffs of the divisions; the duties of these again\nare still more detailed, and they supervise the staffs of brigades;\nthese finally are charged with the specific details pertaining to their\ncommands, supervising the staffs of the regiments, who are in direct\ncommunication with the officers of companies.\n\nPrepared for service by the unremitting labors of the staff officers, it\nis seldom that the army cannot move in complete order at six hours'\nnotice. Think what preparation is required for a family of half a dozen\nto get ready to spend a month in the country--how tailors and milliners\nand dressmakers are put in requisition--how business arrangements must\nbe made--how a thousand little vexing details constantly suggest\nthemselves which need attention. Think of a thousand families--ten\nthousand--making these preparations! What a vast hurly burly! What an\nocean of confusion! How many delays and disappointments! During the\nfortnight or month which has elapsed while these families have been\ngetting ready, an army of fifty or a hundred thousand men has marched a\nhundred miles, fought a battle, been reequipped, reclothed, reorganized,\nand, perhaps, the order of a nation's history has experienced an entire\nchange.\n\nOur next paper will describe in detail the operations of the staff\ndepartments.\n\n\n\n\nSLEEPING.\n\n    The purple light sleeps on the hills,\n      The shadowed valleys sleep between,\n    Down through the shadows slide the rills,\n      The drooping hazels o'er them lean.\n\n    The clouds lie sleeping in the sky--\n      The crimson beds of sleeping airs;\n    The broad sun shuts his lazy eye\n      On all the long day's weary cares.\n\n    The far, low meadows sleep in light,\n      The river sleeps, a molten tide;\n    I dream reclined, with half-shut sight--\n      My dog sleeps, couching at my side.\n\n    The branches droop above my head,\n      The motes sleep in the slanting beam,\n    Yon hawk sails through the sunset red--\n      Adieu thought, sailing through a dream!\n\n    And here upon this bank I lie,\n      Beneath the drooping, airless leaves,\n    And watch the long, low sunset die,\n      On silent, dreamy summer eves.\n\n    The slant light creeps the boughs among,\n      And drops upon the sleeping sod--\n    SHE lies below, in slumber long,\n      ASLEEP till the great morn of GOD!\n\n\n\n\nDR. FOX'S PRESCRIPTION.\n\n    'None but bigots will in vain\n    Adore a heaven they cannot gain.'--SHERIDAN.\n\n\nThere is a story, familiar to most people of extensive reading, and\nquite frequently alluded to, of a fox that, after endeavoring in vain to\npossess himself of some luscious grapes which grew beyond his reach,\nwalked composedly away, solemnly assuring himself and Mr AEsop, who\noverheard him, that as yet the grapes were unripe. The story, or any\nallusion to it, seldom fails to excite a smile. I, too, laugh when I\nhear it; but not so much at Reynard's inconsistency as at his wit. The\nfaculty of discovering grave defects in that which we have failed to\nobtain is one for which we cannot be too thankful. It is a source of\ninfinite comfort in this comfortless world--a principle which enables\nboth parties in every contest to be victorious--an important article in\nthe great law of compensation. It is as old as the human race. The great\nfabulist no more invented it than Lord Bacon invented inductive\nreasoning. Like that philosopher, he simply enunciated a principle which\nhad been unconsciously recognized and constantly used ever since the\nmachinery of the human mind was first set in motion. I have no doubt\nthat when Adam found himself outside of Eden he wondered how he could\nhave been contented to remain so long in that little garden, assorting\npinks and training honeysuckles, when here lay a vast farm, well watered\nand fertile, needing only to be cleared, fenced, and cultivated to yield\na handsome income.\n\nIt is well that pride should sometimes have a fall. But you and I, dear\nreader, have often seen envious people gloating over that fall in any\nbut a Christian spirit. At such times have we not rejoiced at any\ncircumstance which could break the force of the fall and disappoint the\ngratification of such malicious hopes? And what has accomplished that\nobject so often and so effectually as Reynard's great principle?\n\nOnce or twice in my life I have seen a smile on a female face under\ncircumstances which made it impossible to doubt that the smile was\ngotten up for my especial benefit. On such occasions my sense of\ngratitude (which is quite large) and my vanity (which is very small)\nhave conspired to exalt women in my estimation to perhaps an undue\nelevation. They have seemed to me to be angels visiting poor, weak,\ndegraded man from pure motives of love and sympathy. And I have felt a\nsort of chagrin that we have only such a dirty, ill-constructed world to\nask them into. But let us suppose that a short time afterward I see on\nthe same face a decided frown or a look of chilling disdain (I do not\nsay that I ever did), under circumstances which indicate that this also\nis displayed with reference to, and out of a kind regard for, myself.\nHere, it should seem, the premises are established which compel me to\nadmit a very disagreeable conclusion. This I cannot think of doing. How\nshall I escape? Why, deny one of the premises, of course. But the\nfrown--I saw it plainly, alas, too plainly! I cannot dispute the\nevidence of my senses. For a moment I falter; and again that ghastly\nconclusion stares me in the face. But now I remember that a shrewd\ndebater sometimes gains a point by denying the premise which he is\nexpected to concede. Can it be done in this case? Certainly! Human\njudgment, you know, is fallible. Not that mine can be at fault _now_;\nbut it may have been so heretofore. All men have erred; but no man\nerrs. There is the point! I was in error when I said women were angels.\nThey are, they must be, mortal. There are unmistakable signs that they\nare but human--indeed, some of them might almost be called inhuman. The\nworld is plenty good enough for them--a little too good for some I could\nname. The Mussulman is quite right in excluding them from heaven. What\nshould we want of them when we get there? Won't there be plenty of\nhouris there, with all their beauty and virtue, but without their\nextravagance and wilfulness? To say the least, they are the weaker\nvessels, though they carry the most sail. Am I, then, to drop my lip and\nhang my head and put my finger in my eye, because one of them, for some\ncause or no cause, chooses to turn up her nose at me? The proposition is\nabsurd.--Thus, thus only, I save my self-respect without sacrificing my\nlogic. Am I inconsistent? Nay, verily. For what is the highest\nconsistency but correspondence with truth? And have I not at length hit\nupon the exact truth? Before, I was deceived; then, I was inconsistent.\nBut now--now I am thoroughly, beautifully consistent. But all this is\nsimply Dr. Fox's method of treating half the ills which flesh is heir\nto, reduced to logical forms and written out in plain English.\n\nHad Lord Byron but availed himself of this panacea after his adventure\nin Jack Muster's vineyard, it might, perhaps, have rendered his life\nhappier, and imparted a 'healthy, moral tone' to his writings.\n\nEvery science, in its true progress, works toward simplicity. And\nmankind will acknowledge at some future time that the 'sour grapes' at\nwhich they were wont to sneer, contain a powerful stimulant for drooping\nambition--the only infallible remedy for damaged honor and wounded\npride. When the scales shall have fallen from our eyes in that happy\nday, politics will become a delightful profession, the contentious\nspirit of man will cease from its bickerings, the tongue of woman will\nsettle down into a steady and respectable trot, the golden age of\nduelling will retreat into the shadowy past until it shall seem\ncontemporary with the half-fabulous chivalry of the middle ages,\ndistracted maidens will no longer die of broken hearts, nor disappointed\nlovers of unbroken halters.\n\nAs the parties to a lawsuit have the privilege of challenging\nperemptorily a certain number of jurymen, so every man should be allowed\nto enjoy a reasonable number of whims and prejudices without being\ncalled upon to give reasons for them. Then let us hear no more derisive\nlaughter when it is hinted that an unfortunate brother has resorted to\nthe sour-grape remedy. We all, at times, would be glad to find relief in\na similar way, but are deterred sometimes by ignorance of the true\nprinciples of therapeutics, but oftener by a false pride of consistency.\nLet us rather say that he has simply fallen back upon a final privilege,\nand exercised a God-given faculty.\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n     HISTORICAL MEMOIR OF JOAN OF ARC, THE MAID OF ORLEANS.\n     Compiled from Authentic Sources. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1864\n\nOur attention was first drawn to this work by a notice of it in that\nsprightly paper, the _Round Table_. The writer of the notice therein\nsays: 'I am at a loss where to award its authorship, since it comes\nanonymously, but from internal evidence it seems to be a translation\nfrom the German, and to have been rendered likewise into French. It\nseems also to have been written before the official publication of the\ndocumentary evidence given on Joan's trial, which was committed to the\npress for the first time in 1847, and which within ten years thereafter\nwas the occasion of an address to the present Emperor of the French,\naccompanied by elaborate historical notes, praying him to take the\npreliminary steps to secure the canonization of the Maid. It is always\nto be regretted that a book is put forth, like the present, without any\nvouchers for its authenticity, especially when the knowledge of its\norigin dimly presents itself to the reader upon perusal.' We can imagine\nno possible reason for the suppression of the name of the careful and\nconscientious author of the work under consideration. Such suppressions\nand literary piracies expose the writers and translators of America to\nsuspicion and censure. Have we any right to defraud an author of his\njust fame, or to use his works to fill our own pockets, without at least\ngiving the name of the man to whose labors we stand indebted for our\nwhole tissue? We think our publishers should frown upon all such\nattempts, bearing as they do upon the just claims of foreign authors.\nThe work in question is a translation from the German of Guido Goerres,\nthe son of the great Goerres, author of 'The History of Mysticism.' So\nfar as we have examined it, it gives the original without abridgment\nuntil the thirtieth chapter, when, in the most interesting part of the\nwhole life, condensation and omissions begin. The ten last chapters of\nthe original are crowded into three. We have thirty-three chapters in\nthe translation, and forty in the original. Many of the most\ncharacteristic, exciting, and intensely interesting passages of the\nwonderful trial are excluded.\n\nThis work was first translated into English by Martha Walker Cook, and\nwas given to the public without abridgment in 1859, in the pages of the\n_Freeman's Journal_, published in New York. The title page ran thus:\n'Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans. An Authentic Life from\nContemporaneous Chronicles. From the German of Guido Goerres. By Mrs.\nMartha Walker Cook.' Mrs. Cook's translation has never appeared in book\nform. The rendering of the work in question differs in many important\npoints from that given by Mrs. Cook. The life in the original is one of\nexceeding interest. The standpoint of its author is a Catholic one, he\nbeing a firm believer in the divinity of the mission of the maiden. Her\ncareer was full of marvels, every step marked by the wildest romance\nunited to the strangest truths. Chained and exposed to the fury and\nbrutality of the English soldiery, defenceless and alone, she yet knew\nhow to preserve her virgin sanctity; the hero of the battle field, the\ndeliverer of her country from the rule of the foreigner, she shed not\nhuman blood; deserted by her friends, she never ceased to pray for them;\nbewildered, betrayed, tried and condemned by the clergy of her own\nchurch, her firm faith never wavered. Her answers to the subtle\nmetaphysical questions propounded to her by her judges on purpose to\nentrap her during her painful trial, are models of simplicity,\ninnocence, and faith, mingled with keen intellect and intuitive\nperception of their bearing upon her fate. Maligned and persecuted by\nthe English, deserted by the French, forgotten by the king she saved\nand crowned, betrayed and condemned by the ecclesiastics of the church\nshe honored--she perished in the flames with the name of the Saviour she\nworshipped upon her pure, young lips. Her fame brightens with the\nincreasing light of our own century, and her canonization is now loudly\ndemanded from the Church. She has been celebrated in the most opposite\ndomains of human intelligence, by historians, romancers, theologians,\njurisconsults, philosophers, writers on tactics, politicians,\ngenealogists, heralds, preachers, orators, epic, tragic, and lyric\npoets, magnetizers, demonologists, students of magic, rhapsodists,\nbiographers, journalists, and critics, and yet we have never met with a\nsingle writer who appeared to comprehend her aright, or who was able to\ndo justice to the marvellous simplicity, truth, modesty, and force of\nher character. A French author has drawn up a list of four hundred works\ndedicated to her history, but as yet this uncultured girl of nineteen\nhas puzzled all her delineators!\n\n\n     THE NATIONAL ALMANAC AND ANNUAL RECORD FOR THE YEAR 1864.\n     Philadelphia: George W. Childs, 628 & 630 Chestnut street. For sale\n     by J. Bradburn, 49 Walker street, New York.\n\nThe value of this compilation as a book of reference can scarcely be\noverestimated. Almost every question likely to be asked about officers,\noffices, governments, finances, elections, education, armies, navies,\ncommerce, navigation, or public affairs, at home or abroad, is answered\nherein. There are 600 pages of compactly and clearly printed matter, and\nit is marvellous how much has been included in them through a judicious\nsystem of condensation. Stores of information relating to the volunteers\nfurnished by the several States to the United States army; names, dates,\nfigures in detail of all the regimental organizations from all the\nStates and Territories; valuable records of the events of the war,\npresented in a twofold form, first by tracing the operations of each of\nthe great armies, and then by noting the events in chronological\norder--are given in these pages, where millions of figures and names\noccur, with wonderful accuracy. Particulars of every vessel, with name,\narmament, tonnage, &c., and details of the internal revenue system, are\nplaced before us. We cannot offer even an outline of the contents of\nthis volume, because the details are so multifarious that we could\ncompress their index into no reasonable space. A copy of this book\nshould be in the hands of every reader, thinker, and business man in the\ncountry. It is indeed a 'little library,' a 'photograph of the world'\nfor the last two years of its rapid course.\n\n\n     MY CAVE LIFE IN VICKSBURG, WITH LETTERS OF TRIAL AND\n     TRAVEL. By a Lady. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 443 and 445\n     Broadway.\n\nWe are a magnanimous people, and we doubt not this simple record of a\nwoman's sufferings and terror will be read with interest, although she\nis the wife of a Confederate officer. It gives us, indeed, the only\npicture we have as yet seen of the interior of Vicksburg during its\never-memorable siege; the only sketch of the hopes and fears of its\ninhabitants. Its dedication is as follows: 'To one who, though absent,\nis ever present, this little waif is tenderly and affectionately\ndedicated.'\n\n     NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD. By J. T. Trowbridge. Boston: J. E.\n     Tilton & Company. For sale by D. Appleton & Co., New York.\n\nA novel from Mr. Trowbridge, the author of 'Cudjo's Cave,' will always\ncommand attention. He gives us no wayside episodes, rambling details, or\nuseless explanations. He seizes his story at the outset, and sustains\nits interest to the close. His action is rapid, and every step is a\ndirect one to the final _denouement_. He holds his reins with a firm\nhand, and big incidents never swerve from an air-line track. His books\nare characteristically American, and he uses the events and characters\nof the hour with ability. Poor Charlotte, the heroine, is well drawn,\nand her tale is one appealing to all human sympathies, yet, perhaps in\nconsequence of old and persistent prejudices, we cannot say we like this\nwork as well as 'Cudjo's Cave.' Many of our readers may like it better.\nGrandmother Rigglesty is inimitable, and should be studied by all the\npeevish, selfish, and exacting old women in the land.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn consequence of the space occupied by our Index, the remaining notices\nof new books are unavoidably postponed until the issue of the ensuing\nnumber.--ED. CON.\n\n\n\n\nEDITOR'S TABLE.\n\n\nTHE METROPOLITAN FAIR.\n\nThis noble and humane enterprise has nearly reached its conclusion, and\nthe results, we believe, are quite commensurate with the expectations of\nthe Executive Committee. It is not possible as yet to arrive at the net\nproceeds, but the entire receipts will exceed one million dollars. The\nnames and reputation of the chiefs of the Sanitary Commission are\nsufficient guarantee that the funds thus raised will be applied to the\npurpose for which they were given, and many a poor soldier will have\nreason to bless the zeal of the energetic men and women who have so\nefficiently labored to soothe suffering and furnish to the sick and\nwounded the very best aid their country can offer.\n\nWe have more than once been pained by hearing the words 'humbug,' 'great\nadvertizing establishment,' etc., applied to the New York Fair, as well\nas to fairs in general. Now, nothing could be more unjust than the first\nterm; and as to the latter, we have only to say that, if human nature\nwere perfect, fairs would be unnecessary, and a subscription all that\nany just enterprise would require for success. Beneficence on a large\nscale, however, requires the money of the selfishly munificent as well\nas of the purely generous, and fairs not only procure purchasers for\nsuch articles as givers can spare with the least detriment to\nthemselves, but also make known the names and quality of wares of\nvarious dealers. The man who might have _subscribed_ ten dollars, is\ncontent to pay one hundred for an object contributed from the time and\nlabor of some individual devoid of other commodities. If the wares in\nquestion become more widely known, and benefit hence accrue to the\ngiver, the consequence is surely a legitimate one, and even a fortunate\ncondition of the facts, as increasing the size of the fund received.\nThey who give simply with the idea of doing good, will doubtless receive\ntheir appropriate reward; and they who give with mixed motives know well\nthat the alleviation purchased by their contribution will be as welcome\nto the sick soldier as that procured by the more unselfish donation. Our\nadmiration for the individual may vary with our knowledge of his springs\nof action, but if love of self can be made to minister to the wants of\nthe suffering, all the better, especially as no man can (without certain\nknowledge) dare to sit in judgment upon the motives of his fellow men.\n\nEach department has done well, and none better than that devoted to\npainting, statuary, engraving, and photography. Large sums have been\nrealized upon the pictures presented by the artists--generous gifts\nindeed from men (and women) not usually overburdened with this world's\ngear. M. Knoedler, of the Art Committee, merits the especial gratitude\nof the community, not only for the generous but unobtrusive zeal\ndisplayed by him, but also for large contributions in engravings and\nphotographs.\n\nThe gift department of the picture gallery comprised works from all our\nbest-known names, as well as from some hitherto unknown. The artists'\nalbums were also a special feature in this domain. Judging merely as\noutsiders (having owned no certificate of subscription), we thought the\nanti-raffling rule might either have been suspended in their favor, or\nshould certainly have been enforced upon the first day, before the\nburden of so many subscriptions had fallen upon the shoulders of the\nenergetic artists having them in charge.\n\nThe general exhibition, although by no means a complete representation\nof all that has been accomplished by painting in America (several of our\nbest artists having been represented only by their gift pictures), was\nnevertheless very interesting. Opportunity was offered for close and\nimmediate comparison between some of the renowned works that have\nadorned our annals, namely, Bierstadt's 'Rocky Mountains,' and Church's\n'Andes of Ecuador' and 'Heart of the Andes,' also, Gignoux's and\nChurch's 'Niagaras.'\n\nThe 'arms and trophies' made a very splendid and inspiring array. The\nbook store, the nautical room, the machine shop, the New York fire,\npolice, and New Jersey departments, and the grouping and general\narrangement of the Seventeenth-street building, were but a few of the\ntasteful and admirable results of the labors of the executive and minor\ncommittees.\n\nLast, but not least, come the Indians, who contributed to the Fair one\nof its most attractive features. Good pictures may often be seen, fancy\narticles every day, but the advent of these children of the forest has\nleft a vivid memory of their appearance and of some of their customs,\ntheir musical instruments, songs, and dances, with many who have never\nheretofore come in contact with them, and whose grandchildren may\nperhaps cross the continent from New York to San Francisco without\nmeeting a single one of the original denizens of mountain, vale,\nprairie, or table land. Great thanks are due to M. Bierstadt for the\nalmost herculean labors he must have undergone in presenting to us these\nliving fossils. Keeping them in a good humor must have been one of his\nmost serious tasks, as they doubtless encountered many contrarieties\ncalculated to chafe hot blood and annoy men unaccustomed to the\nconfinement of city life.\n\nAgain, thanks to him, and also to them; thanks, indeed, to all the\npatriotic men and women who have done so much in New York, Brooklyn,\nBoston, Chicago, Cincinnati, and other smaller places, and also to those\nwho are making similar noble efforts in Baltimore, Philadelphia, St.\nLouis, Pittsburg, etc., etc. War is a sad phase in the history of\nhumanity, and yet it has ever had the glory of developing some of the\nhighest of human virtues.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKNOUT, PLETE, AND GANTLET.\n\nThe peasants of Poland do not seem very amiably disposed toward the\ngreat Russian czar. Having been already emancipated by their own\nleaders, they do not appear to be aware of his superhuman benevolence in\ntheir behalf. They have issued a manifesto against him. They propose to\nraise a peasant army of a million of men, from the ages of sixteen to\nsixty, to assault Warsaw and other Polish cities held by the Russians.\nThey treat with scorn the offered emancipation, and determine to resist\n'the odious, fierce, greedy, and astute Muscovite, and to organize _en\nmasse_ under their own captains, while their own National Government\nwill designate the day upon which the general movement will take place.'\nHaving accomplished their object--the deliverance of Poland--the\npeasants will elect chiefs to arrange the repartition of taxes, and a\nnational diet will undertake the management of the affairs of the\ncountry. Prussia and Austria will then be called in again to aid in the\nsubjugation of Poland. This will throw the firebrand of war and\nrevolution over Western Europe, the oppressed peoples will rise in their\nmight, and Liberty be inscribed on the banner of the world. In the\nindignant refusal of the Polish peasants to receive as a boon from the\nforeigner what they already possess as a right from their own leaders;\nin the devoted patriotism they are now evincing, they rob Russia of the\nvast advantage she hoped to gain in depriving Poland of what has made\npart of her marvellous force, the moral sympathies of the civilized\nworld. For can any one be weak enough to believe that the ukase of\nemancipation originated in the magnanimity of Russia? The design was\nevidently to divide the peasants from the nobles, to light the flames of\ncivil war, to murder by the hands of her own sons that unhappy country,\nwhich, deserted by all the nations of the earth, has again and again\nrisen from her bloody grave to startle her oppressors with the old hymns\nof faith and triumph. But, if uncultured, because the iron heel of the\ntyrant has been on the heart of the murdered mother, the Polish peasant\nis faithful and devoted. He knows the nature of Russian rule. He has\nseen women knouted, childred murdered, boys imprisoned, and men exposed\nto the tortures of Siberia. Have our readers any true conception of what\nit is to be knouted? We will place before them a translation from\nPiotrowski of three modes of punishment used by Russia.\n\n'The _Knout_ is a long narrow thong of leather, which is steeped and\nboiled in a chemical solution until it becomes thickly coated with\nmetallic filings and deposit. Prepared in this way, the thong acquires\nconsiderable weight and hardness. Before it cools and hardens, however,\nthey take care to turn the edges, made thin for this purpose, up toward\neach other, thus forming a groove extending through the whole length of\nthe metal-coated thong, with the exception of the extremity, which is\nleft limber that it may be wound round the hand of the executioner,\nwhile a strong iron hook is appended to the other extremity. The\nscaffold on which the victim suffers is called in Russian 'Kobyla,'\nliterally a mare. It is an inclined plane, on which the sufferer is\ntied, his back is stripped naked, his arms embrace the higher end of the\nplank, his hands are tied under it, his feet are fastened on the lower\nend, all movement being thus rendered impossible. Hacking down upon the\nnaked back of the victim, the knout falls with its concave side upon the\nskin, which the metalized edge of the instrument cuts like a knife, the\nblades of the groove burying themselves in the flesh; the instrument is\nnot lifted up by the operator, but is drawn horizontally toward himself,\ntearing away, by means of the hook, the severed flesh in long strings.\nIf the operator performs his part conscientiously, the sufferer loses\nconsciousness after the third blow, and frequently expires with the\nfifth. Peter the Great fixed the maximum of the number to be given at\none hundred and one--of course, this was a sentence of death. It is a\nsingularity of the Russian laws that the number of blows decreed for the\nknout is always uneven. As soon as the wretched victim has received the\nprescribed number, he is untied, forced to kneel, and submit to the\npunishment of the brand. This brand consists of the three letters VOR\n(robber, criminal), cut in iron points upon a stamp, and is struck by\nthe executioner into the forehead and cheeks of the sufferer. While the\nblood is still flowing, a black fluid, partly composed of gunpowder, is\ninjected into the wounds. When the wounds heal, the letters assume a\ndark blue tint, and are forever after indelible. After the infliction\nof the brand, it was formerly the custom to tear out the nostrils, but\nthis horrible barbarity was definitely abolished toward the close of the\nreign of Alexander I. I have, however, met more than one Siberian exile\nthus hideously disfigured, no doubt belonging to the time anterior to\nthe publication of the ukase. I have met an incalculable number of men\nbearing upon cheeks and forehead the triple inscription VOR. I do not\nthink the brand is applied to woman; at least I have never seen one thus\ndesecrated.\n\n'The _Plete_, which is often and wrongfully confounded with the knout,\nis a far less formidable instrument. It is composed of three strong\nleathern thongs, terminated at the one end by balls of lead; the other\nis wrapped round the hand of the executioner. In accordance with the\nRussian law, this instrument should weigh from five to six pounds. It\nstrikes like a triple lash upon the naked back of the sufferer. It does\nnot plough or tear up the flesh like the knout, but the skin of course\nbreaks under the heavy blows inflicted upon the spinal column and the\nsides. Phthisis is a common complaint with those who have been subjected\nto the punishment of the plete, the strokes frequently detaching the\nviscera from their living walls. In order to give more force to the\nblow, the executioner takes a leap and run, only striking as he reaches\nhis victim. If possible to gain him by a bribe, he may diminish the\npunishment without detection. He may manage not to use his little finger\non the instrument, which softens the force of the blow, without\nattracting the attention of the superintending officer. If the number of\nlashes is to be great, the operator is often bribed to give all his\navailable force to the first blows, directing them principally toward\nthe sides, in order to put as short a term as possible to the torture\nand life of the miserable sufferer.\n\n'A third kind of punishment is that of the _Skvoz-stroi_, literally,\n_through the ranks_. This is generally used for soldiers only, though\nmany Polish patriots have been subjected to it after condemnation for\npolitical offences. It is thus inflicted: Long rods are taken, freshly\ncut and well soaked in water to render them perfectly flexible, and\ngiven to the men who are to operate. A company of soldiers range\nthemselves, facing each other, in a double file, placing themselves at\nsuch a distance from one another that they may be able to strike with\ntheir whole force without being in the way of each other. The sufferer\nis stripped to the waist, his hands are tied before him to a gun, the\nbayonet of which rests on his breast, while the butt end of it is\ncarried by the soldier appointed to lead him through the ranks charged\nwith the duty of inflicting his punishment. He is led slowly forward\nthrough the files, receiving the lashes on his back and shoulders. When\nhe faints or falls on the ground, he is raised up and urged to move on.\nPeter the Great fixed the maximum of blows at twelve thousand, but\nunless they intend to make an example of some offender, more than two\nthousand are rarely administered. If more are decreed, the patient is\nusually carried to the hospital and cured of his wounds ere he is forced\nto undergo the rest of the sentence.\n\n'A conspiracy broke out in Siberia, which was betrayed on the very eve\nof its commencement at Omsk. The Abbe Sierocinski was concerned in it,\nand he and five of his accomplices, among whom was found an officer of\nthe empire between sixty and seventy years of age, were condemned to\nseven thousand lashes, each without remission. The other conspirators,\nnumbering nearly a thousand in all, were sentenced to receive from one\nthousand to fifteen hundred lashes, and to hard labor for life. The day\nof execution arrived. It occurred in 1837, early in the month of March.\nIt took place at Omsk. General Golofeiev, in consequence of being\ncelebrated for his cruelty, was sent from the capital to superintend the\npunishment and command this mournful _cortege_. Two entire battalions\nwere ranged in a great plain near the city, the one destined for the six\nprincipal conspirators, the other for those whose punishment was not to\nbe so severe. It is not our intention to describe the detailed butchery\nof this day of horror: we will confine ourselves to the Abbe Sierocinski\nand his five companions in misfortune. They were escorted on the plain,\ntheir sentence was read aloud to them with great solemnity, and then the\nrunning of the gauntlet commenced. The lashes were administered,\naccording to the letter of the decree, 'without mercy,' and the cries of\nthe wretched sufferers rose to the skies. None of them lived to receive\nthe full number of lashes: executed one after another, after having\npassed two or three times through the dreadful file, they fell upon the\nearth, dyeing the pure snow red with the blood of their agonies as they\nexpired. In order that the Abbe Sierocinski might drink to the dregs the\nbitter cup of his punishment, that he might suffer doubly through the\ntorture of his friends, he had been reserved to the last. His turn now\narrived, they stripped his back and tied his hands to the bayonet, and\nthe physician advanced to give him, as he had given the others, some\ndrops to strengthen him for the torment, but he refused them, saying: 'I\ndo not want your drops--I will not taste them, I am ready--drink, then,\nthe blood for which you thirst.' The signal of his fearful march was\ngiven, and the strong voice of the old superior of the monastery was\nheard entoning with high, clear chant: 'Miserere mei, Deus, secundum\nmagnam misericordiam tuam!'\n\n'The chant of the priest was broken in upon by the harsh cry of General\nGolofeiev to the soldiers: _Pokreptche! Pokreptche!_ 'Harder! Harder!'\nThus was heard for some time the chant of the Basilien broken by the\nhissing of the lashes and the angry cry of the general. Sierocinski had\nonly passed once through the ranks of the battalion, that is to say, he\nhad received but a thousand lashes, when he rolled without consciousness\nover the snow, staining it with his dauntless blood. In vain they tried\nto place him again on his feet--he was too weak to stand; and he was\nthen stretched upon a sled which had been prepared in advance. He was\nfastened upon this species of support so as to present his back to the\nblows, and again the defile through the ranks began. Cries and groans\nwere still heard: though they were constantly growing weaker, they\nceased not until the commencement of the fourth course--the three\nthousand last blows fell on the body of the hapless corpse.\n\n'A common ditch received those who died on this dreadful day, Poles and\nRussians being thrown in together. The holy sign of our faith was placed\nby the friends of the dead upon this crowded grave, and even in 1846 the\ngreat wooden cross still stretched its black arms over the steppe\nshrouded in its snow of dazzling whiteness.'","title":"Continental Monthly , Vol. 5, No. 6, June, 1864: Devoted to Literature and National Policy","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":71166}