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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3,
September, 1862, by Various

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Title: The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3,  September, 1862
       Devoted to Literature and National Policy.

Author: Various

Release Date: February 22, 2007 [EBook #20647]

Language: English

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THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

DEVOTED TO

LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY


VOL. II.--SEPTEMBER, 1862.--NO. III.


       *       *       *       *       *




HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE.


The death of Henry Thomas Buckle, at this period of his career, is no
ordinary calamity to the literary and philosophical world. Others have
been cut short in the midst of a great work, but their books being
narrative merely, may close at almost any period, and be complete; or
others after them may take up the pen and conclude that which was so
abruptly terminated. So it was with Macaulay; he was fascinating, and
his productions were literally devoured by readers of elevated taste,
though they disagreed almost entirely with his conclusions. His volumes
were read--as one reads Dickens, or Holmes, or De Quincey--to amuse in
leisure hours.

But such are not the motives with which we take up the ponderous tomes
of the historian of Civilization in England. He had no heroes to
immortalize by extravagant eulogy, no prejudices seeking vent to cover
the name of any man with infamy. He knew no William to convert into a
demi-god; no Marlborough who was the embodiment of all human vices. His
mind, discarding the ordinary prejudices of the historian, took a wider
range, and his researches were not into the transactions of a particular
monarch or minister, as such, but into the _laws_ of human action, and
their results upon the civilization of the race. Hence, while he wrote
history, he plunged into all the depths of philosophy; and thus it is,
that his work, left unfinished by himself, can never be completed by
another. It is a work which will admit no broken link from its
commencement to its conclusion.

Mr. Buckle was born in London, in the early part of the year 1824, and
was consequently about thirty-eight years of age at the time of his
death. His father was a wealthy gentleman of the metropolis, and
thoroughly educated, and the historian was an only son. Devoted to
literature himself, it is not surprising that the parent spared neither
money nor labor to educate his child. He did not, however, follow the
usual course; did not hamper the youthful mind by the narrow routine of
the English academy, nor did he make him a Master of Arts at Oxford or
Cambridge.

His early education was superintended by his father directly, but
afterward private teachers were employed. But Mr. Buckle was by nature a
close student, and much that he possessed he acquired without a tutor,
as his energetic, self-reliant nature rendered him incapable of ever
seeing insurmountable difficulties before him. By this means he became
what the students of Oxford rarely are, both learned and liberal. As he
mingled freely with the people, during his youth, a democratic sympathy
entwined itself with his education, and is manifested in every page of
his writings.

Mr. Buckle never married. After he had commenced his great work, he
found no time to enjoy society, no hours of leisure and repose. His
whole soul was engaged in the accomplishment of one great purpose, and
nothing which failed to contribute directly to the object nearest his
heart, received a moment's consideration. He collected around him a
library of twenty-two thousand volumes, all choice standard works, in
Greek, Latin, Spanish, French, German, Italian, and English, with all of
which languages he was familiar. It was the best private collection of
books, said some one, in England. It was from this that the historian
drew that inexhaustible array of facts, and procured the countless
illustrations, with which the two volumes of his History of Civilization
abound.

At what age he first conceived the project of writing his history, is
not yet publicly known. He never figured in the literary world previous
to the publication of his first volume. He appears to have early grasped
at more than a mere temporary fame, and determined to stake all upon a
single production. His reading was always systematic, and exceedingly
thorough; and as he early became charmed with the apparent harmony of
all nature, whether in the physical, intellectual, or moral world, he at
once commenced tracing out the laws of the universe, to which, in his
mind, all things were subject, with a view of illustrating that
beautiful harmony, every where prevailing, every where unbroken. All
this influenced every thing, 'and mind and gross matter, each performed
their parts, in relative proportions, and according to the immutable
laws of progress.'

With a view of discussing his subject thoroughly, and establishing his
theory beyond controversy, as he believed, he proposed, before referring
to the _History of Civilization in England_, to discover, so far as
possible, all the laws of political and social economy, and establish
the relative powers and influence of the moral faculties, the intellect,
and external nature, and determine the part each takes in contributing
to the progress of the world. To this, the first volume is exclusively
devoted; and it is truly astonishing to observe the amount of research
displayed. The author is perfectly familiar, not only with a vast array
of facts of history, but with the principal discoveries of every branch
of science; and as he regards all things as a unit, he sets out by
saying that no man is competent to write history who is not familiar
with the physical universe. A fascinating writer, with a fair industry,
can write narrative, but not history.

This is taking in a wide field; and Mr. Buckle may be regarded as
somewhat egotistic and vain; but the fact that he proves himself, in a
great degree, the possessor of the knowledge he conceives requisite,
rather than asserts it, is a sufficient vindication against all
aspersions.

Mr. Buckle regards physical influences as the primary motive power which
produces civilization; but these influences are fixed in their nature,
and are few in number, and always operate with equal power. The capacity
of the intellect is unlimited; it grows and expands, partially impelled
by surrounding physical circumstances, and partially by its own second
suggestions, growing out of those primary impressions received from
nature. The moral influence, the historian asserts, is the weakest of
the three, which control the destiny of man. Not an axiom now current,
but was known and taught in the days of Plato, of Zoroaster, and of
Confucius; yet how wide the gap intervening between the civilization of
the different eras! Moral without intellectual culture, is nothing; but
with the latter, the former comes as a necessary sequence.

All individual examples are rejected. As all things act in harmony, we
can only draw deductions by regarding the race in the aggregate, and
studying its progress through long periods of time. Statistics is the
basis of all generalizations, and it is only from a close comparison of
these, for ages, that the harmonious movement of all things can be
clearly proved.

Mr. Buckle was a fatalist in every sense of the word. Marriages, deaths,
births, crime--all are regulated by Law. The moral status of a community
is illustrated by the number of depredations committed, and their
character. Following the suggestions of M. Quetelot, he brings forward
an array of figures to prove that not only, in a large community, is
there about the same number of crimes committed each year, but their
character is similar, and even the instruments employed in committing
them are nearly the same. Of course, outside circumstances modify this
slightly--such as financial failures, scarcity of bread, etc., but by a
comparison of long periods of time, these influences recur with perfect
regularity.

It is not the individual, in any instance, who is the criminal--but
society. The murderer and the suicide are not responsible, but are
merely public executioners. Through them the depravity of the _public_
finds vent.

Free Will and Predestination--the two dogmas which have, more than any
others, agitated the public mind--are discussed at length. Of course he
accepts the latter theory, but under a different name. Free Will, he
contends, inevitably leads to aristocracy, and Predestination to
democracy; and the British and Scottish churches are cited as examples
of the effect of the two doctrines on ecclesiastical organizations. The
former is an aristocracy, the latter a democracy.

No feature of Mr. Buckle's work is so prominent as its democratic
tendencies. The people, and the means by which they can be elevated,
were uppermost in his mind, and he disposes of established usages, and
aristocratic institutions, in a manner far more American than English.
It is this circumstance which has endeared him to the people of this
country, and to the liberals of Germany--the work having been translated
into German. For the same reason, he was severely criticised in England.

Having devoted the first volume to a discussion of the laws of
civilization, it was his intention to publish two additional volumes,
illustrating them; taking the three countries in which were found
certain prominent characteristics, which he conceived could be fully
accounted for by his theories, but by no other, and above all, by none
founded upon the doctrine of free will and individual responsibility.
These countries were Spain, Scotland, and the United States--nations
which grew up under the most diverse physical influences, and which
present widely different civilizations.

The volume treating upon Spain and Scotland has been published about a
year; and great was the indignation it created in the latter country. In
Spain it is probable that the work is unknown; but it was caught up by
the Scottish reviewers, who are shocked at any thing outside of regular
routine, and whose only employment seems to be to strangle young
authors. _Blackwood_, and the _Edinburgh Review_, contained article
after article against the 'accuser' of Scotland; but the writers,
instead of calmly sifting and disproving Mr. Buckle's untenable
theories, new into a rage, and only established two things, to the
intelligent public--their own malice and ignorance.

Amid all this abuse, our author stood immutable. But once did he ever
condescend to notice his maligners, and then only to expose their
ignorance, at the same time pledging himself never again to refer to
their attacks. A thinking man, he could not but be fully aware that
their style, and self-evident malice, could only add to his reputation.

As already remarked, he did not write to immortalize a hero, but to
establish an idea; did not labor to please the fancy, but to reach the
understanding; hence we read his books, not as we do the brilliant
productions of Macaulay, the smooth narratives of Prescott, or the
dramatic pages of Bancroft; but his thoughts are so well connected, and
so systematically arranged, that to read a single page, is to insure a
close study of the whole volume. We would not study him for his style,
for although fair, it is not pleasing; we can not glide over his pages
in thoughtless ease; but then, at the close of almost every paragraph,
one must pause and _think_.

Being an original writer, Mr. Buckle naturally fell into numerous
errors; but now is not the proper time to refute them. He gives more
than due weight to the powers of nature, in the civilization of man; and
although he probably intimates the fact, yet he does _not_ add that as
the intellect is enlightened, their influences become circumscribed, and
must gradually almost entirely disappear. In the primitive state of the
race, climate, soil, food, and scenery, are all-powerful; but among an
enlightened people, the effects of heat and cold, of barren or
exceedingly productive soils, etc., are entirely modified. This omission
has given his enemies an excellent opportunity for a display of their
refutory powers, of which they have not failed to avail themselves.

The historian is a theorist, yet no controversialist. He states his
facts, and draws his conclusions, as if no ideas different from his own
had ever been promulgated. He never attempts to show the fallacies of
any other author, but readily understands that if he establishes his
system of philosophy, all contrary ones must fall. How fortunate it
would have been for the human race, if all innovators and reformers had
done the same!

That which adds to the regrets occasioned by his loss, which must be
entertained by every American, is the circumstance that his forthcoming
volume was to be devoted to the social and political condition of the
United States, as an example of a country in which existed a general
diffusion of knowledge. Knowing, as all his readers do, that his
sympathies are democratic, and in favor of the elevation of the masses,
we had a right to expect a vindication-the first we ever had--from an
English source. At the time of his death he was traveling through Europe
and Asia for his health, intending to arrive in this country in autumn,
to procure facts as a basis for his third volume, and the last of his
introduction.

Although his work is an unfinished one, it will remain a lasting
monument to the industry of its author. He has done enough to exhibit
the necessity of studying and writing history, henceforth as a
_science_; and of replacing the chaotic fragments of narrative, called
history, with which the world abounds, by a systematic statement of
facts, and philosophical deductions. Some other author, with sufficient
energy and industry, will--not finish the work of Mr. Buckle, but--write
another in which the faults of the original will be corrected, and the
omissions filled; who will go farther in defining the relative
influences of the three powers which control civilization, during the
different stages of human progress.




AN ANGEL ON EARTH.

  Die when you may, you will not wear
  At heaven's court a form more fair
    Than beauty at your birth has given;
  Keep but the lips, the eyes we see,
  The voice we hear, and you will be
    An angel ready-made for heaven.




THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS.

VIII


Better than wealth, better than hosts of friends, better than genius, is
a mind that finds enjoyment in little things--that sucks honey from the
blossom of the weed as well as from the rose--that is not too dainty to
enjoy coarse, everyday fare. I am thankful that, though not born under a
lucky star, I wasn't born under a melancholy one; that, though there
were at my christening no kind fairies to bestow on me all the blessings
of life--there was no malignant elf to 'mingle a curse with every
blessing.' I'd rather have a few drops of pure sweet than an overflowing
cup tinctured with bitterness.

Not that sorrow has never blown her chill breath on my spirit--yet it
has never been so iced over that it would not here and there bubble
forth with a song of gladness.... There are depths of woe that I have
never fathomed, or rather, to which I have never sunken--for there are
no line and plummet to sound the dreary depths--yet the waves have
overwhelmed me, as every human being, but I soon rose above them.

  'One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,
    Do not fear an armed band;
  One shall fade as others greet thee--
    Shadows passing through the land.'

I have found this true--I know there are some to whom it is not
true--that, though sorrows come not to them 'in battalions,' the shadow
of the one huge Grief is ever on their path, or on their heart; that at
their down-sittings and their up-risings it is with them, even darkening
to them the night, and making them almost curse the sunshine; for it is
ever between them and it--not a mere shadow, nor yet a substance, but a
_vacuum of light_, casting also a shadow. Neither substance nor shadow,
it must be a phantom--it may be of a dead sin--and against such,
exorcism avails. I opine this exorcism lies in no cabalistic words, no
crossing of the forehead, no holy name, in nothing that one can do unto
or for himself, but in entire self-forgetfulness--in doing for, in
sympathizing with, others. So shall this Grief step aside from your
path, get away from between you and the sunshine, till finally it shall
have vanished.

I know--not, however, by experience--that a great _sorrow-berg_, with
base planted in the under-current of a man's being, has been borne at a
fearful rate, right up against all his nobly-built hopes and projects,
making a complete wreck of them. May God help him then! But must his
being ever after be like the lonely Polar Sea on which no bark was ever
launched?

But surely we have troubles enough without borrowing from the future or
the past, as we constantly do. It is often said, it is a good thing that
we can't look into the future. One would think that that mysterious
future, on which we are the next moment to enter, in which we are to
live our everyday life--one would think it a store-house of evils. Do
you expect no good--are there for you no treasures there?

How often life has been likened to a journey, a pilgrimage, with its
deserts to cross, its mountains to climb!... The road to---- Lake,
distant from my home some eight or ten miles, partly lies through a
mountain pass. You drive a few miles--and a beautiful drive it is, with
its pines and hemlocks, their dark foliage contrasting with the blue
sky--on either hand high mountains; now at your left, then at your
right, and again at your left runs now swiftly over stones, now
lingering in hollows, making good fishing-places, a creek, that has come
many glad miles on its way to the river. But how are you to get over
that mountain just before you? Your horse can't draw you up its rocky,
perpendicular front! Never mind, drive along--there, the mountain is
behind you--the road has wound around it. Thus it is with many a
mountain difficulty in our way, we never have it to climb. There is now
and then one, though, that we do have to climb, and we can't be drawn or
carried up by a faithful nag, but our weary feet must toil up its steep
and rugged side. But many a pilgrim before us has climbed it, and we
will not faint on the way. 'What man has done, man may do.' ... Yet,
till I have found out to a certainty, I never will be sure that the
mountain that seemingly blocks up my way, _has not a path winding round
it_.

Then the past.... Some one says we are happier our whole life for having
spent one pleasant day. Keats says: 'A thing of beauty is a joy
_forever_.' I believe this: to me the least enjoyment has been like a
grain of musk dropped into my being, sending its odor into all my
after-life--it may be that centuries hence it will not have lost its
fragrance. Who knows?

But sorrows--they should, like bitter medicines, be washed down with
sweet; we should get the taste of them out of our mouth as soon as
possible.

We are as apt to borrow trouble from the might-have-beens of our past
life as from any thing else. We mourn over the chances we've missed--the
happiness that eel-like has slipped through our fingers. This is folly;
for generally there are so many ifs in the way, that nearly all the
might-have-beens turn into couldn't-have-beens. Even if they do not, it
is well for us when we don't know them.... The object of our weary
search glides past us like Gabriel past Evangeline, so near, did we only
know it: happy is it for us if we do not, like her, too late learn it;
for

  'Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
  The saddest are these--_it might have been!_'

So sad are they, that they would be a suitable refrain to the song of a
lost spirit.

Well, I might have been ----, but am ----

MOLLY O'MOLLY.


IX.

If one wishes to know how barren one's life is of events, the best way
is to try to keep a journal. I tried it in my boarding-school days. With
a few exceptions, the record of one day's outer life was sufficient for
the week; the rest might have been written _ditto, ditto_. Even then,
the events were so trifling that, like entries in a ledger, they might
have been classed as _sundries_. How I tried to get up thoughts and
feelings to make out a decent day's chronicle! How I threw in profound
remarks on what I had read, sketches of character, caricatures of the
teachers, even condescending to give the bill of fare; here, too, there
might have been a great many _dittos_. Had I kept a record of my
dream-life, what a variety there would have been! what extravagances,
exceeded by nothing out of the _Arabian Nights' Entertainments_. Then,
if I could have illuminated each day's page with my own fancy portrait
of myself, the _Book of Beauty_ would not have been a circumstance to my
journal. Certainly, among these portraits would not have been that
plain, snub-nosed daguerreotype, sealed and directed to a dear home
friend; but to the dear home friend no picture in the _Book of Beauty_
or my fancy journal would have had such charms; and if the daguerreotype
would not have illuminated this journal, it was itself illuminated _by
the light of a mother's love_. Alas! this light never more can rest on
and irradiate the plain face of Molly O'Molly.

After all, what a dull, monotonous life ours would be, if within this
outer life there were not the inner life, the 'wheel within the wheel,'
as in Ezekiel's vision. Though this inner wheel is 'lifted up
whithersoever the spirit' wills 'to go,' the outer--unlike that in the
vision--is not also lifted up; perhaps _hereafter_ it will be.

The Mohammedans believe that, although unseen by mortals, 'the decreed
events of every man's life are impressed in divine characters on his
forehead.' If so, I shouldn't wonder if there was generally a large
margin of forehead left, unless there is a great deal of repetition....
The record (not the prophecy) of the inner life, though it is
hieroglyphed on the whole face too, is a scant one; not because there is
but little to record, but because only results are chronicled. Like the
_Veni, vidi, vici_, of Caesar. _Veni_; nothing of the weary march.
_Vidi_; nothing of the doubts, fears, and anxieties. _Vici_; nothing of
the fierce struggle.

One thing is certain; though we can not read the divine imprint on the
forehead, we know that either there or on the face, either as prophecy
or record, is written, _grief_. Grief, the burden of the sadly-beautiful
song of the poet; yet we find, alas! that _grief is grief_. And the
poet's woe is also the woe of common mortals, though his soul is so
strung that every breeze that sweeps over it is changed to melody. The
wind that wails, and howls, and shrieks around the corners of streets,
among the leafless branches of trees, through desolate houses, is the
same wind that sweeps the silken strings of the AEolian harp.

Then there is _care_, most often traced on the face of woman, the care
of responsibility or of work, sometimes of both. A man, however hard he
may labor, if he loses a day, does not always find an accumulation of
work; but with poor, over-worked woman, it is, work or be overwhelmed
with work, as in the punishment of prisoners, it is, pump or drown. I
can not understand how women do get along who, with the family of John
Rogers' wife, assisted only by the eldest daughter, a girl of thirteen,
wash, iron, bake, cook, wash dishes, and sew for the family, coats and
pantaloons included, and that too without the help of a machine. Oh!
that pile of sewing always cut out, to be leveled stitch by stitch; for,
unlike water, it never will find its own level, unless its level be Mont
Blanc, for to such a hight it would reach if left to itself. I could
grow eloquent on the subject, but forbear.

Croakers to the contrary notwithstanding, there is in the record of our
past lives, or in the prophecy of our future, another word than _grief_
or _care_; it is _joy_. My friend, could your history be truthfully
written, and printed in the old style, are there not many passages that
would shine beautifully in golden letters? I say truthfully written; for
we are so apt to forget our joys, while we remember our griefs. Perhaps
this is because joy and its effects are so evanescent. Leland talks
beautifully of 'the perfumed depths of the lotus-word, _joyousness_;'
but in this world we only breathe the perfume. Could we eat the
lotus!... The fabled lotus-eater wished never to leave the isle whence
he had plucked it. Wrapped in dreamy selfishness, unnerved for the toil
of reaching the far-off shore, he grew indifferent to country and
friends.... So earth would be to us an enchanted isle. The stern toil by
which we are to reach that better land, our _home_, would become irksome
to us. It is well for us that we can only breathe the perfume.

Then, too, the deepest woe we may know--not the highest joy--that is
bliss beyond even our capacity of dreaming. Some one, in regard to the
ladder Jacob saw in his dream, says: 'But alas! he slept at the foot.'
That any ladder should be substantial enough for cumbersome mortality to
climb to heaven, was too great an impossibility even for a dream.

But read for yourself the faces that swirl through the streets of a
city. Now and then there is one on which the results of all evil
passions are traced. Were it not for the _brute_ in it, it might be
mistaken for the face of a fiend. Though such are few, too many bear the
impress of at least one evil passion. Every passion, unbitted and
unbridled, hurries the soul bound to it--as Mazeppa was bound to the
wild horse--to certain destruction.... But I--as all things hasten to
the end--will mention one word more--the _finis_ of the prophecy--the
_stamp on the seal_ of the record--_Death_.... We will not dwell on it.
Who more than glances at the _finis_, who studies the plain word stamped
on the seal?

Yours, MOLLY O'MOLLY.


X.

I have read of a young Indian girl, disguised as her lover, whom she had
assisted to escape from captivity, fleeing from her pursuers, till she
reached the brink of a deep ravine; before her is a perpendicular wall
of rock; behind, the foe, so near that she can hear the crackling of the
dry branches under their tread; yet nearer they come; she almost feels
their breath on her cheek; it is useless to turn at bay; there is hardly
time to measure with her eye the depth of the ravine, or its width. A
step back, another forward, an almost superhuman leap, and she has
cleared the awful chasm.... 'Look before you leap,' is one of caution's
maxims. We may stand looking till it is too late to leap. There are
times when we _must_ put our 'fate to the touch, to win or lose it all;'
there are times when doubt, hesitation, caution is certain destruction.
You are crossing a frozen pond, firm by the shore, but as you near the
centre, the ice beneath your feet begins to crack; hesitate, attempt to
retrace your steps, and you are gone. Did you ever cross a rapid stream
on an unhewn foot-log? You looked down at the swift current, stopped,
turned back, and over you went. You would climb a steep mountain-side.
Half-way up, look not from the dizzy hight, but press on, grasping every
tough laurel and bare root; but hasten, the laurel may break, and you
lose your footing. 'If thy heart fail thee, climb not at all;' but once
resolved to climb, leave thy caution at the foot. Before you give battle
to the enemy, be cautious, reckon well your chances of winning or
losing; above all, be sure of the justice of your cause; but once flung
into the fierce fight, then with _'Dieu et mon droit!'_ for your
battle-cry, let not 'discretion' be _any_ 'part of' your 'valor.'

Then your careful, hesitating people are cautious where there is no need
of caution, they feel their way on the highways and by-ways of life, as
you have seen a person when fording a stream with whose bed he was
unacquainted. I'd rather fall down and pick myself up a dozen times a
day, than thus grope my way along.

There is Nancy Primrose. I have good reason to remember her. She was, in
my childhood, always held up to me as a pattern. She used to come to
school with such smooth, clean pantalets, while mine were splashed with
mud, drabbled by the wet grass, or all wrinkles from having been rolled
up. She would go around a rod to avoid a mud-puddle, or if she availed
herself of the board laid down for the benefit of pedestrians, she
never, as I was sure to do, stepped on one end, so the other came down
with a splash. The starch never was taken out of her sun-bonnet by the
rain, for if there was 'a cloud as big as a man's hand,' she took an
umbrella. It was well that she never climbed the mountain-side, for she
would have surely fallen. It was well that she never crossed a foot-log,
unless it was hewn and had a railing, for she would have certainly been
ducked. It was well she never went on thin ice, (she didn't venture till
the other girls had tried it,) she would have broken through. Her
caution, I must say, was of the right kind; it always preceded her
undertaking. She had such a 'wholesome fear of consequences,' that she
never played truant, as one whom I could mention did. Indeed,
antecedents and consequents were always associated in her mind. She
never risked any thing for herself or any one else.... Of course, she is
still _Miss_ Nancy, (I am 'Aunt Molly' to all my friends' children,)
though it is said that she might have been Mrs.----. Mr.----, a widower
of some six months' standing, thinking it time to commence his
probation--the engagement preparatory to being received into the full
matrimonial connection--made some advances toward Miss Nancy, she being
the nearest one verging on 'an uncertain age,' (you know widowers
always go the rounds of the old maids.) Though, in a worldly point of
view, he was an eligible match, she, from her fixed habits of caution,
half-hesitated as to whether it was best to receive his attentions--he
got in a hurry (you know widowers are always in a hurry) and married
some one else.... I don't think Miss Nancy would venture to love any man
before marriage--engagements are as liable to be broken as thin ice, and
it isn't best to throw away love. As for her giving it unasked!... How
peacefully her life flows along--or rather, it hardly flows at all,
about as much as a mill-pond--with such a small bit of heaven and earth
reflected in it. Oh! that placidity!--better have some great, heavy,
splashing sorrow thrown into it than that ever calm surface.... As for
me--it was a good thing that I was a girl--rash, never counting the
cost, without caution, it is well that I have to tread the quiet paths
of domestic life. Had I been a boy, thrown out into the rough, dangerous
world, I'd have rushed over the first precipice, breaking my moral, or
physical neck, or both. As it is, had I been like Miss Nancy, I would
have been spared many an agony, and--many an exquisite joy.

You may be sure that I have well learned all of caution's maxims; they
have, all my life, been dinged into my ears. Now I hate most maxims.
Though generally considered epitomes of wisdom, they should, almost all
of them, be received with a qualification. What is true in one case is
not true in another; what is good for one, is not good for another. You,
as far as you are concerned, in exactly the same manner draw two lines,
one on a plane, the other on a sphere; one line will be straight, the
other curved. So does every truth, even, make a different mark on
different minds. This is one reason that I hate most maxims, they never
accommodate themselves to circumstances or individuals. The maxim that
would make one man a careful economist, would make another a miser. 'One
man's meat is another man's poison;' one man's truth is another man's
falsehood.

But how many mistaken ideas have been embodied in maxims--fossilized, I
may say! It would have been better to let them die the natural death of
falsehood, and they might have sprung up in new forms of truth--truth
that never dies. What a vitality it has--a vitality that can not be
dried out by time, nor crushed out by violence. You know how in old
mummy-cases have been found grains of wheat, which, being sown, sprang
up, and bore a harvest like that which waved in the breeze on the banks
of the Nile. You know how God's truth--all truth is God's truth--was
shut up in that old mummy-case, the monastery, and how, when found by
one Luther, and sown broadcast, it sprang up, and now there is hardly an
island, or a river's bank, on which it has not fallen and does not bear
abundant fruit. The 'heel of despotism' could not crush out its life;
ages hence it will be said of it: 'It still lives.'

And still lives, yours,

MOLLY O'MOLLY.




'THAT LAST DITCH.'


Many reasons have been assigned for the _Chivalry's_ determining to die
in that last ditch. One William Shakspeare puts into the mouth of
Enobarbus, in _Antony and Cleopatra_, the best reason we have yet seen.
'Tis thus:

                               'I will go seek
  Some ditch wherein to die: THE FOUL BEST FITS
  MY LATTER PART OF LIFE.'




HOPEFUL TACKETT--HIS MARK.

BY RICHARD WOLCOTT, 'TENTH ILLINOIS.'


  'An' the Star-Spangle' Banger in triump' shall wave
  O! the lan dov the free-e-e, an' the ho mov the brave.'

Thus sang Hopeful Tackett, as he sat on his little bench in the little
shop of Herr Kordwaener, the village shoemaker. Thus he sang, not
artistically, but with much fervor and unction, keeping time with his
hammer, as he hammered away at an immense 'stoga.' And as he sang, the
prophetic words rose upon the air, and were wafted, together with an
odor of new leather and paste-pot, out of the window, and fell upon the
ear of a ragged urchin with an armful of hand-bills.

'Would you lose a leg for it, Hope?' he asked, bringing to bear upon
Hopeful a pair of crossed eyes, a full complement of white teeth, and a
face promiscuously spotted with its kindred dust.

'For the Banger?' replied Hopeful; 'guess I would. Both on 'em--an' a
head, too.'

'Well, here's a chance for you.' And he tossed him a hand-bill.

Hopeful laid aside his hammer and his work, and picked up the hand-bill;
and while he is reading it, let us briefly describe him. Hopeful is not
a beauty, and he knows it; and though some of the rustic wits call him
'Beaut,' he is well aware that they intend it for irony. His countenance
runs too much to nose--rude, amorphous nose at that--to be classic, and
is withal rugged in general outline and pimply in spots. His hair is
decidedly too dingy a red to be called, even by the utmost stretch of
courtesy, auburn; dry, coarse, and pertinaciously obstinate in its
resistance to the civilizing efforts of comb and brush. But there is a
great deal of big bone and muscle in him, and he may yet work out a
noble destiny. Let us see.

By the time he had spelled out the hand-bill, and found that
Lieutenant ---- was in town and wished to enlist recruits for
Company ----, ---- Regiment, it was nearly sunset; and he took off his
apron, washed his hands, looked at himself in the piece of looking-glass
that stuck in the window--a defiant look, that said that he was not
afraid of all that nose--took his hat down from its peg behind the door,
and in spite of the bristling resistance of his hair, crowded it down
over his head, and started for his supper. And as he walked he mused
aloud, as was his custom, addressing himself in the second person,
'Hopeful, what do you think of it? They want more soldiers, eh? Guess
them fights at Donelson and Pittsburg Lannen 'bout used up some o' them
ridgiments. By Jing!' (Hopeful had been piously brought up, and his
emphatic exclamations took a mild form.) 'Hopeful, 'xpect you'll have to
go an' stan' in some poor feller's shoes. 'Twon't do for them there
blasted Seceshers to be killin' off our boys, an' no one there to pay
'em back. It's time this here thing was busted! Hopeful, you an't
pretty, an' you an't smart; but you used to be a mighty nasty hand with
a shot-gun. Guess you'll have to try your hand on old Borey's
[Beauregard's] chaps; an' if you ever git a bead on one, he'll enter his
land mighty shortly. What do you say to goin'? You wanted to go last
year, but mother was sick, an' you couldn't; and now mother's gone to
glory, why, show your grit an' go. Think about it, any how.'

And Hopeful did think about it--thought till late at night of the
insulted flag, of the fierce fights and glorious victories, of the dead
and the dying lying out in the pitiless storm, of the dastardly outrages
of rebel fiends--thought of all this, with his great warm heart
overflowing with love for the dear old 'Banger,' and resolved to go.
The next morning, he notified his 'boss' of his intention to quit his
service for that of Uncle Sam. The old fellow only opened his eyes very
wide, grunted, brought out the stocking, (a striped relic of the
departed Frau Kordwaener,) and from it counted out and paid Hopeful every
cent that was due him. But there was one thing that sat heavily upon
Hopeful's mind. He was in a predicament that all of us are liable to
fall into--he was in love, and with Christina, Herr Kordwaener's
daughter. Christina was a plump maiden, with a round, rosy face, an
extensive latitude of shoulders, and a general plentitude and solidity
of figure. All these she had; but what had captivated Hopeful's eye was
her trim ankle, as it had appeared to him one morning, encased in a warm
white yarn stocking of her own knitting. From this small beginning, his
great heart had taken in the whole of her, and now he was desperately in
love. Two or three times he had essayed to tell her of his proposed
departure; but every time that the words were coming to his lips,
something rushed up into his throat ahead of them, and he couldn't
speak. At last, after walking home from church with her on Sunday
evening, he held out his hand and blurted out:

'Well, good-by. We're off to-morrow.'

'Off! Where?'

'I've enlisted.'

Christina didn't faint. She didn't take out her delicate and daintily
perfumed _mouchoir_, to hide the tears that were not there. She looked
at him for a moment, while two great _real_ tears rolled down her
cheeks, and then--precipitated all her charms right into his arms.
Hopeful stood it manfully--rather liked it, in fact. But this is a
tableau that we've no right to be looking at; so let us pass by how they
parted--with what tears and embraces, and extravagant protestations of
undying affection, and wild promises of eternal remembrance; there is no
need of telling, for we all know how foolish young people will be under
such circumstances. We older heads know all about such little matters,
and what they amount to. Oh! yes, certainly we do.

The next morning found Hopeful, with a dozen others, in charge of the
lieutenant, and on their way to join the regiment. Hopeful's first
experience of camp-life was not a singular one. He, like the rest of us,
at first exhibited the most energetic awkwardness in drilling. Like the
rest of us, he had occasional attacks of home-sickness; and as he stood
at his post on picket in the silent night-watches, while the camps lay
quietly sleeping in the moonlight, his thoughts would go back to his
far-away home, and the little shop, and the plentiful charms of the
fair-haired Christina. So he went on, dreaming sweet dreams of home, but
ever active and alert, eager to learn and earnest to do his duty,
silencing all selfish suggestions of his heart with the simple logic of
a pure patriotism.

'Hopeful,' he would say, 'the Banger's took care o' you all your life,
an' now you're here to take care of it. See that you do it the best you
know how.'

It would be more thrilling and interesting, and would read better, if we
could take our hero to glory amid the roar of cannon and muskets,
through a storm of shot and shell, over a serried line of glistening
bayonets. But strict truth--a matter of which newspaper correspondents,
and sensational writers, generally seem to have a very misty
conception--forbids it.

It was only a skirmish--a bush-whacking fight for the possession of a
swamp. A few companies were deployed as skirmishers, to drive out the
rebels.

'Now, boys,' shouted the captain, 'after'em! Shoot to kill, not to scare
'em!'

'Ping! ping!' rang the rifles.

'Z-z-z-z-vit!' sang the bullets.

On they went, crouching among the bushes, creeping along under the banks
of the brook, cautiously peering from behind trees in search of
'butternuts.'

Hopeful was in the advance; his hat was lost, and his hair more
defiantly bristling than ever. Firmly grasping his rifle, he pushed on,
carefully watching every tree and bush, A rebel sharp-shooter started to
run from one tree to another, when, quick as thought, Hopeful's rifle
was at his shoulder, a puff of blue smoke rose from its mouth, and the
rebel sprang into the air and fell back--dead. Almost at the same
instant, as Hopeful leaned forward to see the effect of his shot, he
felt a sudden shock, a sharp, burning pain, grasped at a bush, reeled,
and sank to the ground.

'Are you hurt much, Hope?' asked one of his comrades, kneeling beside
him and staunching the blood that flowed from his wounded leg.

'Yes, I expect I am; but that red wamus over yonder's redder 'n ever
now. That feller won't need a pension.'

They carried him back to the hospital, and the old surgeon looked at the
wound, shook his head, and briefly made his prognosis.

'Bone shattered--vessels injured--bad leg--have to come off. Good
constitution, though; he'll stand it.'

And he did stand it; always cheerful, never complaining, only,
regretting that he must be discharged--that he was no longer able to
serve his country.

And now Hopeful is again sitting on his little bench in Mynheer
Kordwaener's little shop, pegging away at the coarse boots, singing the
same glorious prophecy that we first heard him singing. He has had but
two troubles since his return. One is the lingering regret and
restlessness that attends a civil life after an experience of the rough,
independent life in camp. The other trouble was when he first saw
Christina after his return. The loving warmth with which she greeted him
pained him; and when the worthy Herr considerately went out of the room,
leaving them alone, he relapsed into gloomy silence. At length, speaking
rapidly, and with choked utterance, he began:

'Christie, you know I love you now, as I always have, better 'n all the
world. But I'm a cripple now--no account to nobody--just a dead
weight--an' I don't want you, 'cause o' your promise before I went away,
to tie yourself to a load that'll be a drag on you all your life. That
contract--ah--promises--an't--is--is hereby repealed! There!' And he
leaned his head upon his hands and wept bitter tears, wrung by a great
agony from his loving heart.

Christie gently laid her hand upon his shoulder, and spoke, slowly and
calmly: 'Hopeful, your soul was not in that leg, was it?'

It would seem as if Hopeful had always thought that such was the case,
and was just receiving new light upon the subject, he started up so
suddenly.

'By jing! Christie!' And he grasped her hand, and--but that is another
of those scenes that don't concern us at all. And Christie has promised
next Christmas to take the name, as she already has the heart, of
Tackett. Herr Kordwaener, too, has come to the conclusion that he wants a
partner, and on the day of the wedding a new sign is to be put up over a
new and larger shop, on which 'Co.' will mean Hopeful Tackett. In the
mean time, Hopeful hammers away lustily, merrily whistling, and singing
the praises of the 'Banger.' Occasionally, when he is resting, he will
tenderly embrace his stump of a leg, gently patting and stroking it, and
talking to it as to a pet. If a stranger is in the shop, he will hold it
out admiringly, and ask:

'Do you know what I call that? I call that _'Hopeful Tackett--his
mark.'_'

And it is a mark--a mark of distinction--a badge of honor, worn by many
a brave fellow who has gone forth, borne and upheld by a love for the
dear old flag, to fight, to suffer, to die if need be, for it; won in
the fierce contest, amid the clashing strokes of the steel and the wild
whistling of bullets; won by unflinching nerve and unyielding muscle;
worn as a badge of the proudest distinction an American can reach. If
these lines come to one of those that have thus fought and
suffered--though his scars were received in some unnoticed, unpublished
skirmish, though official bulletins spoke not of him, 'though fame
shall never know his story'--let them come as a tribute to him; as a
token that he is not forgotten; that those that have been with him
through the trials and the triumphs of the field, remember him and the
heroic courage that won for him by those honorable scars; and that while
life is left to them they will work and fight in the same cause,
cheerfully making the same sacrifices, seeking no higher reward than to
take him by the hand and call him 'comrade,' and to share with him the
proud consciousness of duty done. Shoulder-straps and stars may bring
renown; but he is no less a real hero who, with rifle and bayonet,
throws himself into the breach, and, uninspired by hope of official
notice, battles manfully for the right.

Hopeful Tackett, humble yet illustrious, a hero for all time, we salute
you.




JOHN BULL TO JONATHAN.


  You grow too fast, my child! Your stalwart limbs,
    Herculean in might, now rival mine;
  The starry light upon your forehead dims
    The lustre of my crown--distasteful sign.
  Contract thy wishes, boy! Do not insist
    Too much on what's thine own--thou art too new!
  Bend and curtail thy stature! As I list,
    It is _my_ glorious privilege to do.
  Take my advice--I freely give it thee--
    Nay, would enforce it. I am ripe in years--
  Let thy young vigor minister to me!
    Restrain thy freedom when it interferes!
  No rival must among the nations be
  To jeopardize my own supremacy!




JONATHAN TO JOHN BULL.


  Thanks for your kind advice, my worthy sire!
    Though thrust upon me, and but little prized.
  The offices you modestly require,
    I reckon, will be scarcely realized.
  My service to you! but not quite so far
    That I will lop a limb, or force my lips
  To gratify your longing. Not a star
    Of my escutcheon shall your fogs eclipse!
  Let noble deeds evince my parentage.
    No rival I; my aim is not so low:
  In nature's course, youth soon outstrippeth age,
    And is survivor at its overthrow.
  Freedom is Heaven's best gift. Thanks! I am free,
  Nor will acknowledge your supremacy!




AMERICAN STUDENT LIFE.

SOME MEMORIES OF YALE.


  'Through many an hour of summer suns,
    By many pleasant ways,
  Like Hezekiah's, backward runs
    The shadow of my days.
  I kiss the lips I once have kissed;
    The gas-light wavers dimmer;
  And softly through a vinous mist,
    My college friendships glimmer.'

      --_Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue._

It is now I dare not say how many years since the night that chum and I,
emerging from No. 24, South College, descended the well-worn staircase,
and took our last stroll beneath the heavy shadows that darkly hung from
the old elms of our Alma Mater. Commencement, with its dazzling
excitement, its galleries of fair faces to smile and approve, its
gathered wisdom to listen and adjudge, was no longer the goal of our
student-hopes; and the terrible realization that our joyous college-days
were over, now pressed hard upon us as we paced slowly along, listening
to the low night wind among the summer leaves overhead, or looking up at
the darkened windows whence the laugh and song of class-mates had so oft
resounded to vex with mirth the drowsy ear of night--and tutors. I
thought then, as I have often thought since, that our student-life must
be 'the golden prime' compared with which all coming time would be as
silver, brass, or iron. Here youth with its keenness of enjoyment and
generous heartiness; freedom from care, smooth-browed and mirthful;
liberal studies refining and elevating withal; the Numbers, whose ready
sympathy had divided sorrow and multiplied joy, were associated as they
never could be again; and so I doubt not many a one has felt as he stood
at the door of academic life and looked away over its sunny meadows to
the dark woodlands and rugged hillsides of world-life. How throbbed in
old days the wandering student's heart as on the distant hill-top he
turned to take a last look at disappearing Bologna and remembered the
fair curtain-lecturing Novella de Andrea[1]--fair prototype of modern
Mrs. Caudle; how his spirits rose when, like Lucentio, he came to 'fair
Padua, nursery of arts;' or how he mused for the last time wandering
beside the turbid Arno, in

  'Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,'

we wot not. Little do we know either of the ancient 'larks' of the
Sorbonne, of Leyden, Utrecht, and Amsterdam; somewhat less, in spite of
gifted imagining, of _The Student of Salamanca_. But Howitt's _Student
Life in Germany_, setting forth in all its noisy, smoking, beer-drinking
conviviality the significance of the Burschenleben,

  'I am an unmarried scholar and a free man;'

Bristed's _Five Years in an English University_, congenial in its
setting forth of the Cantab's carnal delights and intellectual
jockeyism; _The Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green, an Oxford Freshman_,
wherein one 'Cuthbert Bede, B.A.' has by 'numerous illustrations' of
numerous dissipations, given as good an idea as is desirable of the
'rowing men' in that very antediluvian receptacle of elegant
scholarship; are all present evidences of the affectionate interest with
which the graduate reverts to his college days. In like manner _Student
Life in Scotland_ has engaged the late attention of venerable
_Blackwood_, while the pages of _Putnam_, in _Life in a Canadian
College_,[2] and _Fireside Travels_,[3] have given some idea of things
nearer home, some little time ago. But while numerous pamphlets and
essays have been written on our collegiate systems of education, the
general development and present doings of Young America in the
universities remain untouched.

The academic influences exerted over American students are, it must be
premised, vastly different from those of the old world. Imprimis, our
colleges are just well into being. Reaching back into no dim antiquity,
their rise and progress are traceable from their beginnings--beginnings
not always the greatest. Thus saith the poet doctor of his Alma Mater:

  'Pray, who was on the Catalogue
    When college was begun?
  Two nephews of the President,
    And _the_ Professor's son,
  (They turned a little Indian by,
    As brown as any bun;)
  Lord! how the Seniors knocked about
    That Freshman class of one!'

From small beginnings and short lives our colleges have gathered neither
that momentum of years heavy with mighty names and weighty memories, nor
of wealth heaping massive piles and drawing within their cloistered
walls the learning of successive centuries which carries the European
universities crashing down the ages, though often heavy laden with the
dead forms of mediaeval preciseness. No established church makes with
them common cause, no favoring and influential aristocracy gives them
the careless security of a complete protection. Their development thus
far has been under very different influences. Founded in the wilderness
by our English ancestors, they were, at first, it is true, in their
course of study and in foolish formula of ceremony an imperfect copy of
trans-Atlantic originals. Starting from this point, their course has
been shaped according to the peculiar genius of our institutions and
people. Republican feeling has dispensed with the monastic dress, the
servile demeanor toward superiors, and the ceremonious forms which had
lost their significance. The peculiar wants of a new country have
required not high scholarship, but more practical learning to meet
pressing physical wants. Again, our numerous religious sects requiring
each a nursery of its own children, and the great extent of our country,
have called, or seemed to call (in spite of continually increasing
facility of intercourse) for some one hundred and twenty colleges within
our borders. Add to this a demand not peculiar but general--the
increased claim of the sciences and of modern languages upon our
regard--and the accompanying fallacy of supposing Latin and Greek
heathenish and useless, and we have a summary view of the influences
bearing upon our literary institutions. Hence both good and evil have
arisen. Our colleges easily conforming in their youthful and supple
energy, have met the demands of the age. They have thrown aside their
monastic gowns and quadrangular caps. They have in good degree given up
the pedantic follies of Latin versification and Hebrew orations. Their
walls have arisen alike in populous city and lonely hamlet, and in
poverty and insignificance they have been content could they give depth
and breadth to any small portion of the national mind. They have
conceded to Science the place which her rapid and brilliant progress
demanded. On the other hand, however, we see long and well-proven
systems of education profaned by the ignorant hands of superficial
reformers. We see the colleges themselves dragging on a precarious life,
yet less revered than cherished by fostering sects, and more hooted at
by the advocates of potato-digging and other practical pursuits, than
defended by their legitimate protectors. It is not to be denied that
there is a powerful element of Materialism among us, and that too often
we neither appreciate nor respect the earnest, abstruse scholar. The
progress of humanity must be shouted in popular catch-words from the
house-tops, and the noisy herald appropriates the laudation of him who
in pain and weariness traced the hidden truth. We hear men of enlarged
thought and lofty views derided as old fogies because beyond unassisted
appreciation, until we are half-tempted to believe the generation to be
multiplied Ephraims given to their idols, who had best be let alone.

The American student, under these influences, differs somewhat from his
European brethren. He is younger by two or three years. Though generally
from the better class, he is more, perhaps, identified with the mass of
the people, and is more of a politician than a scholar. His remarks upon
the Homeric dialects, however laudatory, are most suspiciously vague,
and though he escape such slight errors as describing the Gracchi as a
barbarous tribe in the north of Italy or the Piraeus as a meat-market of
Athens, you must beware of his classical allusions. On the other hand he
is more moral, a more independent thinker and a freer man than his
prototype across the sea. His fault is, as Bristed says, that he is
superficial; his virtue, that he is straightforward and earnest in
aiming at practical life.

Such may suffice for a few general remarks. But some memories of one of
our most important universities will better set forth the habits and
customs of the joyous student-life than farther wearisome generality.

The pleasant days are gone that I dreamed away beneath the green arcades
of the fair Elm City. But still come the budding spring and the blooming
summer to embower those quiet streets and to fill the morning hour with
birds' sweet singing. Still comes the gorgeous autumn--the dead summer
lain in state--and the cloud-robed winter to round the circling year.
Still streams the golden sunlight through the green canopies of tented
elms, and still, I ween, do pretty school-girls (feminine of student)
loiter away in flirting fascination the holiday afternoons beneath their
shade. Still do our memories haunt those old walks we loved so well: the
avenue shaded and silent like grove of Academe, fit residence of
colloquial man of science or genial metaphysician; the old cemetery with
its brown ivy-grown wall, its dark, massive evergreens, and moss-grown
stones, that, before years had effaced the inscription, told the mortal
story of early settler; elm-arched Temple street, where the midnight
moon shone so softly through the dark masses of foliage and slept so
sweetly on the sloping green. Still do those old wharves and
warehouses--ancient haunts of colonial commerce and scenes of
continental struggle--rest there in dusty quiet, hearing but murmurs of
the noisy merchant-world without; and the fair bay lies silent among
those green hills that slope southward to the Sound. Methinks I hear the
ripple of its moonlit waves as in the summer night it upbore our gallant
boat and its fair freight; the far-off music stealing o'er the bright
waters; the distant rattling of some paid-out cable as a newly arrived
bark anchors down the bay; or the lonely baying of a watch-dog at some
farm-house on the hight. I see the sail-boats bending under their canvas
and dashing the salt spray from their bows as they rush through the
smooth water, and the oyster-boats cleaving the clear brine like an
arrow, bound for Fair Haven, of many shell-fish; while sturdy sloops and
schooners--suggestive of lobsters or pineapples--bow their big heads
meekly and sway themselves at rest. I see again those long lines of
green-wooded slope, here crowned by a lonely farm-house musing solitary
on the hills as it looks off on the blue Sound, there ending abruptly in
a weather-worn cliff of splintered trap, or anon bringing down some
arable acres to the very beach, where a gray old cottage, kept in
countenance by two or three rugged poplars, like the fisher's hut,

  'In der blauen Fluth sich beschaut.'

Nor can I soon forget those wild hillsides, so glorious both when the
summer floods of foliage came pouring down their sides, and when autumn,
favorite child of the year, donned his coat of many colors and came
forth to join his brethren. Then, on holiday-afternoon, free from
student-care, we climbed the East or West Rock, and looked abroad over
the distant city-spires, rock-ribbed hillside and sail-dotted sea; or
threading the devious path to the Judges' Cave, where tradition said
that in colonial times the regicides, Goffe and Whalley, lay hidden,
read on the lone rock that in the winter wilderness overhung their bleak
hiding-place, in an old inscription carved not without pain, in quaint
letters of other years, the stern and stirring old watchword:


'RESISTANCE TO TYRANTS IS OBEDIENCE TO GOD.'


Or, going further, we climbed Mount Carmel, and looked from its steep
cliff down into the solitary rock-strewn valley--

  'Where storm and lightning from that huge gray wall,
  Had tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base
  Dashed them in fragments.'

Or went on to the Cheshire hillside, where the Roaring Brook, tumbling
down the steep ravine, flashed its clear waters into whitest foam, and
veiled the unsightly rocks with its snowy spray; or, perchance, in
cumbrous boat, floated upon Lake Saltonstall, hermit of ponds, set like
a liquid crystal in the emerald hills--an eyesore to luckless piscatory
students, but highly favored of all lovers of ice, whether applied to
the bottoms of ringing High Dutchers, or internally in shape of summer
refrigerators.

In the midst of these pleasant haunts and this fair city, lies a sloping
green of twenty or twenty-five acres, girt and bisected by rows of huge
elms, and planted with three churches, whose spires glisten above the
tall trees, and with a stuccoed State House, whose peeled columns and
crumbling steps are more beautiful in conception than execution. On the
upper side, looking down across, stretched out in a long line of eight
hundred feet, the buildings of the college stand, in dense shade. Ugly
barracks, four stories high, built of red brick, without a line of
beautifying architecture, they yet have an ancient air of repose, buried
there in the deep shade, that pleases even the fastidious eye. In the
rear, an old laboratory, diverted from its original gastronomic purpose
of hall, which in our American colleges has dispensed with commons, a
cabinet, similarly metamorphosed, and containing some magnificent
specimens of the New World's minerals; a gallery of portraits of
college, colonial and revolutionary worthies--a collection of rare
historical interest; a Gothic pile of library, built of brown sandstone,
its slender towers crowned with grinning, uncouth heads, cut in stone,
which are pointed out to incipient Freshmen as busts of members of the
college faculty; and a castellated Gothic structure of like material,
occupied by the two ancient literary fraternities, and notable toward
the close of the academic year as the place where isolated Sophomores
and Seniors write down the results of two years' study in the Biennial
Examination--make up the incongruous whole of the college proper.

Such is the place where, about the middle of September, if you have been
sojourning through the very quiet vacation in one of the almost deserted
hotels of New-Haven, you will begin to be conscious of an awakening from
the six weeks' torpor, (the _long_ vacation of hurried Americans who
must study forty weeks of the year.) Along the extended row of brick you
will begin to discern aproned 'sweeps' clearing the month and a half's
accumulated rubbish from the walks, beating carpets on the grass-plots,
re-lining with new fire-brick the sheet-iron cylinder-stoves, more
famous for their eminent Professor improver (may his shadow never be
less!) than for their heating qualities, or furbishing old furniture
purchased at incredibly low prices, of the last class, to make good as
new for the Freshmen, periphrastically known as 'the young gentlemen who
have lately entered college.' It may be, too, that your practiced eye
will detect one of these fearful youths, who, coming from a thousand
miles in the interior--from the prairies of the West or the bayous of
the South--has arrived before his time, and now, blushing unseen, is
reconnoitering the intellectual fortress which he hopes soon to storm
with 'small Latin and less Greek,' or, perchance, remembering with sad
face the distance of his old home and the strangeness of the new. A few
days more, and hackmen drive down Chapel street hopefully, and return
with trunks and carpet-bags outside and diversified specimens of
student-humanity within--a Freshman, in spite of his efforts, showing
that his as yet undeveloped character is '_summa integritate et
innocentia_;' a Sophomore, somewhat flashy and bad-hatted, a _hard_
student in the worse sense, with much of the '_fortiter in re_' in his
bearing; a Junior, exhibiting the antithetical '_suaviter in modo_;' a
Senior, whose '_otium cum dignitate_' at once distinguishes him from the
vulgar herd of common mortals. Then succeed hearty greetings of meeting
friends, great purchase of text-books, and much changing of rooms;
students being migratory by nature, and stimulated thereto by the
prospect of choice of better rooms conceded to advanced academical
standing. In which state of things the various employes of college,
including the trusty colored Aquarius, facetiously denominated Professor
_Paley_, under the excitement of numerous quarters, greatly multiply
their efforts.

But the chief interest of the opening year is clustered around the class
about to unite its destinies with the college-world. A new century of
students--

  'The igneous men of Georgia,
  The ligneous men of Maine,'

the rough, energetic Westerner, the refined, lethargic metropolitan,
with here and there a missionary's son from the Golden Horn or the isles
of the Pacific or even a Chinese, long-queued and meta-physical, are to
be divided between the two rival literary Societies.[4] These having
during the last term with great excitement elected their officers for
the coming 'campaign,' and held numerous 'indignation meetings,' where
hostile speeches and inquiries into the numbers to be sent down by the
various academies were diligently prosecuted to the great neglect of
debates and essays, now join issue with an adroitness on the part of
their respective members which gives great promise for political life.
Committees at the station-house await the arrival of every train, accost
every individual of right age and verdancy; and, having ascertained that
he is not a city clerk nor a graduate, relapsed into his ante-academic
state, offer their services as amateur porters, guides, or tutors,
according to the wants of the individual. Having thus ingratiated
themselves, various are the ways of procedure. Should the new-comer
prove confiding, perhaps he is told that 'there is _one_ vacancy left in
our Society, and if you wish, I will try and get it for you,' which,
after a short absence, presumed to be occupied with strenuous effort,
the amiable advocate succeeds in doing, to the great gratitude of his
Freshman friend. But should he prove less tractable, and wish to hear
both sides, then some comrade is perhaps introduced as belonging to the
other Society, and is sorely worsted in a discussion of the respective
excellencies of the two rival fraternities. Or if he be religious, the
same disguised comrade shall visit him on the Sabbath, and with much
profanity urge the claims of his supposititious Society. By such, and
more honorable means, the destiny of each is soon fixed, and only a few
stragglers await undecided the so-called 'Statement of Facts,' when with
infinite laughter and great hustling of 'force committees,' they are
preaedmitted to 'Brewster's Hall' to hear the three appointed orators of
each Society laud themselves and deny all virtue to their opponents;
which done, in chaotic state of mind they fall an easy prey to the
strongest, and with the rest are initiated that very evening with lusty
cheers and noisy songs and speeches protracted far into the night.

Nor less notable are the Secret Societies, two or three of which exist
in every class, and are handed down yearly to the care of successors.
With more quiet, but with busy effort, their members are carefully
chosen and pledged, and with phosphorous, coffins, and dead men's bones,
are awfully admitted to the mysteries of Greek initials, private
literature, and secret conviviality. Being picked men, and united, they
each form an _imperium in imperio_ in the large societies much used by
ambitious collegians. Curious as it may seem, too, many of these
societies have gained some influence and notoriety beyond college walls.
The Psi Upsilon, Alpha Delta Phi, and Delta Kappa Epsilon Societies, are
now each ramified through a dozen or more colleges, having annual
conventions, attended by numerous delegates from the several chapters,
and by graduate members of high standing in every department of letters.
Yet they have no deep significance like that of the Burschenschaft.

Close treading on the heels of Society movements, comes the annual
foot-ball game between the Freshmen and Sophomores. The former having
_ad mores majorum_ given the challenge and received its acceptance, on
some sunny autumn afternoon you may see the rival classes of perhaps a
hundred men each, drawn up on the Green in battle and motley array, the
latter consisting of shirt and pants, unsalable even to the sons of
Israel, and huge boots, perhaps stuffed with paper to prevent hapless
abrasion of shins. The steps of the State House are crowded with the
'upper classes,' and ladies are numerous in the balconies of the
New-Haven Hotel. The umpires come forward, and the ground is cleared of
intruders. There is a dead silence as an active Freshman, retiring to
gain an impetus, rushes on; a general rush as the ball is _warned_; then
a seizure of the disputed bladder, and futile endeavors to give it
another impetus, ending in stout grappling and the endeavor to force it
through. Now there is fierce issue; neither party gives an inch. Now
there is a side movement and roll of the struggling orb as to relieve
the pressure. Now one party gives a little, then closes desperately in
again on the encouraged enemy. Now a dozen are down in a heap, and there
is momentary cessation, then up and pressing on again. Here a fiery
spirit grows pugnacious, but is restrained by his class-mates; there
another has his shirt torn off him, and presents the picturesque
appearance of an amateur scarecrow. There are, in short, both

  'Breaches of peace and pieces of breeches,'

until the stronger party carries the ball over the bounds, or it gets
without the crowd unobserved by most, and goes off hurriedly under the
direction of some swift-footed player to the same goal. Then mighty is
the cheering of the victors, and woe-begone the looks, though defiant
the groans of the vanquished. And thus, with much noise and dispute, and
great confounding of umpire, they continue for three, four, or five
games, or until the evening chapel-bell calls to prayers. In the evening
the victors sing paeans of victory by torch-light on the State House
steps, and bouquets, supposed to be sent by the fair ones of the
balconies, are presented and received with great glorification.

Nor less exciting and interesting in college annals, is the Burial of
Euclid. The incipient Sophomores, assisted by the other classes, must
perform duly the funeral rites of their friend of Freshman-days, by
nocturnal services at the 'Temple.' Wherefore, toward midnight of some
dark Wednesday evening in October, you may see masked and
fantastically-dressed students by twos and threes stealing through the
darkness to the common rendezvous. An Indian chief of gray leggins and
grave demeanor goes down arm in arm with the prince of darkness, and a
portly squire of the old English school communes sociably with a
patriotic continental. Here is a reinforcement of 'Labs,' (students of
chemistry,) noisy with numerous fish-horns; there a detachment of
'Medics,' appropriately armed with thigh-bones, according to their
several resources. Then, when gathered within the hall, a crowded mass
of ugly masks, shocking bad hats, and antique attire, look down from
the steep slope of seats upon the stage where lies the effigy of Father
Euclid, in inflammable state. After a voluntary by the 'Blow Hards,'
'Horne Blenders,' or whatever facetiously denominated band performs the
music, there is a mighty singing of some Latin song, written with more
reference to the occasion than to correct quantities, of which the
following opening stanza may serve as a specimen:

  'Fundite nunc lacrymas,
  Plorate Yalenses:
  Euclid rapuerunt fata,
  Membra et ejus inhumata
  Linquimus tres menses.'

The wild, grotesque hilarity of those midnight songs can never be
forgotten. Then come poem and funeral oration, interspersed with songs,
and music by the band--'Old Grimes is dead,' 'Music from the Spheres,'
and other equally solemn and rare productions. Then are torches lighted,
and two by two the long train of torch-bearers defiles through the
silent midnight streets to the sound of solemn music, and passing by the
dark cemetery of the real dead, bear through 'Tutor's Lane' the coffin
of their mathematical ancestor. They climb the hill beyond, and commit
him to the flames, invoking Pluto, in Latin prayer, and chanting a final
dirge, while the flare of torches, the fearful grotesqueness of each
uncouth disguised wight, and the dark background of the encircling
forest, make the wild mirth almost solemn.

So ends the fun of the closing year; and with the exception of the
various excitements of burlesque debate on Thanksgiving eve, when the
smallest Freshman in either Society is elected President _pro tempore;_
of the _noctes ambrosianae_ of the secret societies; of appointments,
prize essays, and the periodical issue of the _Yale Literary_, now a
venerable periodical of twenty years' standing; the severe drill of
college study finds little relaxation during the winter months. Three
recitations or lectures each day, a review each day of the last lesson,
review of and examination on each term's study, with two biennial
examinations during the four years' course, require great diligence to
excel, and considerable industry to keep above water. But with the
returning spring the unused walks again are paced, and the dry keels
launched into the vernal waters. Again, in the warm twilight of evening,
you hear the laugh and song go up under the wide-spreading elms. Now,
too, comes the Exhibition of the Wooden Spoon, where the low-appointment
men burlesque the staid performances of college, and present the lowest
scholar on the appointment-list with an immense spoon, handsomely carved
from rosewood, and engraved with the convivial motto: '_Dum vivimus
vivamus_.'

Then, too, come those summer days upon the harbor, when the fleet
club-boats, and their stalwart crews, like those of Alcinous,

  [Greek: 'kouroi anarriptein ala pedo,']

in their showy uniforms, push out from Ryker's; some bound upward past
the oyster-beds of Fair Haven, away up among the salt-marsh meadows,
where the Quinnipiac wanders under quaint old bridges among fair, green
hills; some for the Light, shooting out into the broad waters of the
open bay, their feathered oars flashing in the sunlight; some for
Savin's Rock, where among the cool cedars that overshadow the steep
rock, they sing uproarious student-songs until the dreamy beauty of
ocean, with its laughing sunlight, its white sails, and green, quiet
shores, like visible music, shall steal in and fill the soul until the
noisy hilarity becomes eloquent silence. And now, as in the
twilight-hour they are again afloat, you may hear the song again:

  'Many the mile we row, boys,
    Merry, merry the song;
  The joys of long ago, boys,
    Shall be remembered long.
  Then as we rest upon the oar,
    We raise the cheerful strain,
  Which we have often sung before,
    And gladly sing again.'

But perhaps the most interesting day of college-life is
'Presentation-Day,' when the Seniors, having passed the various ordeals
of _viva voce_ and written examinations, are presented by the senior
tutor to the President, as worthy of their degrees. This ceremony is
succeeded by a farewell poem and oration by two of the class chosen for
the purpose, after which they partake of a collation with the college
faculty, and then gather under the elms in front of the colleges. They
seat themselves on a ring of benches, inside of which are placed huge
tubs of lemonade, (the strongest drink provided for public occasions,)
long clay pipes, and great store of mildest Turkey tobacco. Here, led on
by an amateur band of fiddlers, flutists, etc., through the long
afternoon of 'the leafy month of June,' surrounded by the other classes
who crowd about in cordial sympathy, they smoke manfully, harangue
enthusiastically, laugh uproariously, and sing lustily, beginning always
with the glorious old Burschen song of 'Gaudeamus':

  'Gaudeamus igitur
  Juvenes dum sumus:
  Post jucundam juventutem,
  Post molestam senectutem,
  Nos habebit humus.'

         *       *       *       *       *

  'Pereat tristitia,
  Pereant osores,
  Pereat diabolus,
  Quivis antiburschius
  Atque irrisores.'

Then as the shadows grow long, perhaps they sing again those stirring
words which one returning to the third semi-centennial of his Alma
Mater, wrote with all the warmth and power of manly affection:

       *       *       *       *       *

  'Count not the tears of the long-gone years,
    With their moments of pain and sorrow;
  But laugh in the light of their memories bright,
    And treasure them all for the morrow.
  Then roll the song in waves along,
    While the hours are bright before us,
  And grand and hale are the towers of Yale,
    Like guardians towering o'er us.

         *       *       *       *       *

  'Clasp ye the hand 'neath the arches grand
    That with garlands span our greeting.
  With a silent prayer that an hour as fair
    May smile on each after meeting:
  And long may the song, the joyous song,
    Roll on in the hours before us,
  And grand and hale may the elms of Yale
    For many a year bend o'er us.'

Then standing in closer circle, they pass around to give, each to each,
a farewell grasp of the hand; and amid that extravagant merriment the
lips begin to quiver, and eyes grow dim. Then, two by two, preceded by
the miscellaneous band, playing 'The Road to Boston,' and headed by a
huge base-viol, borne by two stout fellows, and played by a third, they
pass through each hall of the long line of buildings, giving farewell
cheers, and at the foot of one of the tall towers, each throws his
handful of earth on the roots of an ivy, which, clinging about those
brown masses of stone, in days to come, he trusts will be typical of
their mutual, remembrance as he breathes the silent prayer: 'Lord, keep
our memories green!'

So end the college-days of these most uproarious of mirth-makers and
hardest of American students; and the hundred whose joys and sorrows
have been identified through four happy years, are dispersed over the
land. They are partially gathered again at Commencement, but the broken
band is never completely united. On the third anniversary of their
graduation, the first class-meeting takes place; and the first happy
father is presented with a silver cup, suitably inscribed. On the tenth,
twentieth, and other decennial years, the gradually diminishing band, in
smaller and smaller numbers, meet about the beloved shrine, until only
two or three gray-haired men clasp the once stout hand and renew the
remembrance of 'the days that are gone.'

  'They come ere life departs,
   Ere winged death appears.
  To throng their joyous hearts
    With dreams of sunnier years:
      To meet once more
        Where pleasures sprang,
      And arches rang
        With songs of yore.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: 'In the fourteenth century, Novella de Andrea, daughter of
the celebrated canonist, frequently occupied her father's chair; and her
beauty was so striking, that a curtain was drawn before her in order not
to distract the attention of the students.']

[Footnote 2: Vol. i. p. 392.]

[Footnote 3: Vol. iii. pp. 379 and 473.]

[Footnote 4: The Linonian Society was founded in 1753; The Brothers in
Unity, fifteen years later, in 1768.]




GO IN AND WIN.


            Will nothing rouse the Northmen
              To see what they can do?
            When in one day of our war-growth
              The South are growing two?
  When they win a victory it always counts a pair,
  One at home in Dixie, and another _over there_!

            North, you have spent your millions!
              North, you have sent your men!
            But if the war ask billions,
              You must give it all again.
  Don't stop to think of what you've done--it's very fine and true--
  But in fighting for our _life_, the thing is, _what we've yet to do_.

            Who dares to talk of party,
              And the coming President,
            When the rebels threaten 'bolder raids,'
              And all the land is rent?
  How _dare_ we learn 'they gather strength,' by every telegraph,
  If an army of a million could have scattered them like chaff!

            What means it when the people
              Are prompt with blood and gold,
            That this devil-born rebellion
              Is growing two years old?
  The Nigger feeds them as of old, and keeps away their fears,
  While 'gayly into battle' go the 'Southern cavaliers.'

            And the Richmond _Whig_, which lately
              Lay groveling in mud,
            Shows its mulatto insolence,
              And prates of 'better blood:'
  'We ruled them in the Union; we can thrash them out of bounds:
  Ye are mad, ye drunken Helots--cap off, ye Yankee hounds!'

            Yet the Northman has the power,
              And the North would not be still!
            Rise up! rise up, ye rulers!
              Send the people where ye will!
  Don't organize your victories--fly to battle with your bands--
  If you can find the brains to lead, _we'll find the willing hands!_




JOHN NEAL.


John Neal was born at the close of the last century, in Portland, Maine,
where he now resides; and during sixty years it has not been decided
whether he or his twin sister was the elder.

He was born in 1793. When he was four weeks old, he was fatherless. His
school education began early, as his mother was a celebrated teacher.
From his mother's school he went to the town school, where he once
declared in our hearing that he 'got licked, frozen, and stupefied.'
That he had a rough time, may be inferred from the fact that his parents
were Quakers, and he, notwithstanding his peaceful birthright, _fought_
his way through the school as 'Quaker Neal.' He went barefoot in those
days through a great deal of trouble. Somewhere in his early life, he
went to a Quaker boarding-school at Windham, where he always averred
that they starved him through two winters, till it was a luxury to get a
mouthful of brown bread that was not a crumb or fragment that some one
had left. At this school the boys learned to sympathize in advance with
Oliver Twist--to eat trash, till they would quarrel for a bit of salt
fish-skin, and to generalize in their hate of Friends from very narrow
data. We have heard Neal speak of the two winters he spent in that
school as by far the most miserable six or eight months of his whole
life.

Very early, we think at the age of twelve years, he was imprisoned
behind a counter, and continued there till he was near twenty; and by
the time he was twenty one, he had worked his way to a retail shop of
his own in Court street, Boston. We next track him to Baltimore, where,
in 1815, if we are not out in our chronology, John Pierpont, John Neal,
and Joseph L. Lord were in partnership in a wholesale trade. Neal's
somersets in business--from partnership to wholesale jobbing, which he
went into on his own hook with a capital of _one hundred and fifty
dollars_, and as he once said, in speaking of this remarkable business
operation, 'with about as much credit as a lamp-lighter'--may not be any
more interesting to the public than they were to him then; so we shall
not be particular about them in this chapter of chronicles.

At Baltimore he was very successful, after he got at it, in making
money, but failed after the peace in 1816. This failure made him a
lawyer. With his characteristic impetuosity, he renounced and denounced
trade, determined to study law, and beat the profession with its own
weapons.

This impulse drove him at rather more than railroad speed. He studied as
if a demon chased him. By computation of then Justice Story, he
accomplished fourteen years' hard work in four. During this time he was
reading largely in half-a-dozen languages that he knew nothing of when
he began, _and maintaining himself_ by writing, either as editor of _The
Telegraph_, coeditor of _The Portico_, (for which he wrote near a volume
octavo in a year or two,) and also as joint-editor of Paul Allen's
_Revolution_, besides a tremendous avalanche of novels and poetry. We
have amused ourself casting up the amount of this four years' labor. It
seems entirely too large for the calibre of common belief, and we
suppose Neal will hardly believe us, especially if he have grown
luxurious and lazy in these latter days. Crowded into these four years,
we find: for the _Portico_ and _Telegraph_, and half-a-dozen other
papers, ten volumes; 'Keep Cool,' two volumes; 'Seventy-Six,' two
volumes; 'Errata,' two volumes; 'Niagara and Goldau,' two volumes; Index
to Niles' Register, three volumes; 'Otho,' one volume; 'Logan,' four
volumes; 'Randolph,' two volumes; Buckingham's Galaxy, Miscellanies, and
Poetry, two volumes; making the incredible quantity of thirty volumes.
He could no more have gone leisurely and carefully through this amount
of work, than a skater could walk a mile a minute on his skates. The
marvel is, that he got through it on any terms, not that he won his own
disrespect forever. We do not wonder that he manufactured more bayonets
than bee-stings for his literary armory, but we wonder that he became a
literary champion at all. With all the irons Neal had in the fire, we
are not to expect Addisonian paragraphs; and yet he has in his lifetime
been mistaken for Washington Irving, as we can show by an extract from
an old letter of his, which we will give by and by.

A power that could produce what Neal produced between 1819 and 1823,
properly disciplined and economized, might have performed tasks
analogous to those of the lightning, since it has been put in harness
and employed to carry the mail. When genius has its day of humiliation
for the wasted water of life, Neal may put on sackcloth, for he never
economized his power; but for the soul's fire quenched in idleness, or
smothered in worldliness, certainly for these years, he need wear no
weeds.

His novels are always like a rushing torrent, never like a calm stream.
They all are dignified with a purpose, with a determination to correct
some error, to remedy some abuse, to do good in any number of instances.
They are not unlike a field of teasels in blossom--there are the thorny
points of this strange plant, and the delicate and exceedingly beautiful
blossom beside, resting on the very points of a hundred lances, with
their lovely lilac bloom. Those who have lived where teasels grow will
understand this illustration. We doubt not it will seem very pointed and
proper to Neal. It must be remembered that the teasel is a very useful
article in dressing cloth, immense cards of them being set in machinery
and made to pass over the cloth and raise and clean the nap. A criticism
taking in all the good and bad points of these novels, would be too
extensive to pass the door of any review or magazine, unless in an
extra. They are full of the faults and virtues of their author's
unformed character. Rich as a California mine, we only wish they could
be passed through a gold-washer, and the genuine yield be thrown again
into our literary currency.

The character of his poems is indicated by their titles, 'Niagara' and
'Goldau,' and by the _nom de plume_ he thought proper to publish them
under, namely, 'Jehu O. Cataract.' But portions of his poetry repudiate
this thunderous parentage, and are soft as the whispering zephyr or the
cooing of doves. The gentleness of strength has a double beauty: its
own, and that of contrast. Still, the predominating character of Neal's
poetry is the sweep of the wild eagle's wing and the roar of rushing
waters.

We read his 'Otho' years since, when we were younger than now, and our
pulse beat stronger; and we read it 'holding our breath to the end'--or
this was the exact sensation we felt, as nearly as we can remember,
twelve years ago.

The character of Neal's periodical writing was just suited to a working
country, that was in too great a hurry to dine decently. People wanted
to be arrested. If they could stop, they had brains enough to judge you
and your wares; but they needed to be lassoed first, and lashed into
quietness afterward, and then they would hear and revere the man who had
been 'smart' enough to conquer them. John Neal seemed to be conscious of
this without knowing it. A veritable woman in his intuitions, he spoke
from them, and the heart of the people responded. The term 'live Yankee'
was of his coinage, and it aptly christened himself.

Neal went to Europe in 1823, and remained three years. That an American
could manage to maintain himself in England by writing, which Neal did,
is a pregnant fact. But his power is better proved than in this way. He
left America with a vow of temperance during his travels; he returned
with it unbroken. Honor to the strong man! He had traveled through
England and France, merely wetting his lips with wine. He wrote volumes
for British periodicals, and also his 'Brother Jonathan' in three
volumes. After looking over the catalogue of his labors for an hour, we
always want to draw a long breath and rest. There is no doubt that since
his return from Europe in 1826, he has written and published, in books
and newspapers, what would make at least one hundred volumes duodecimo.
It would be a hard fate for such an author to be condemned to read his
own productions, for he would never get time to read any thing else.

Neal's peculiar style caused many oddities and extravagances to be laid
at his door that did not belong there. From this fact of style, people
thought he could not disguise himself on paper. This is a mistake, for
his papers in Miller's _European Magazine_ were attributed to Washington
Irving. We transcribe the paragraph of a letter from Neal, promised
above, and which we received years since:

     'The papers I wrote for Miller's _European Magazine_ have been
     generally attributed to no less a person than Washington Irving--a
     man whom I resemble just about as much in my person as in my
     writing. He, Addisonian and Goldsmithian to the back-bone, and
     steeped to the very lips in what is called classical literature, of
     which I have a horror and a loathing, as the deadest of all dead
     languages; he, foil of subdued pleasantry, quiet humor, and genial
     blandness, upon all subjects. I, altogether--but never mind. He is
     a generous fellow, and led the way to all our triumphs in that
     'field of the cloth of gold' which men call the _literary_'.

Neal went to England a sort of Yankee knight-errant to fight for his
country. He had the wisdom to fight with his visor down, and quarter on
the enemy. He took heavy tribute from _Blackwood_ and others for his
articles vindicating America, which came to be extravagantly quoted and
read. His article for _Blackwood_ on the Five Presidents and the Five
Candidates, portraying General Jackson to the life as he afterward
proved to be, was translated into most of the European languages. I
transcribe another paragraph from an old letter. It is too
characteristic to remain unread by the public:

     'For my paper on the Presidents, _Blackwood_ sent me five guineas,
     and engaged me as a regular contributor, which I determined to be.
     But I ventured to write for other journals without consulting him;
     whereat he grew tetchy and impertinent, and I blew him up sky-high,
     recalled an article in type for which he had paid me _fifteen_
     guineas, (I wish he had kept it,) refunded the money, (I wish I
     hadn't,) and left him forever. But this I will say: _Blackwood_
     behaved handsomely to me from first to last, with one small
     exception, and showed more courage and good feeling toward '_my
     beloved_ country' while I was at the helm of that department, than
     any and all the editors, publishers, and proprietors in Britain.
     Give the devil his due, I say!'

This escapade with _Blackwood_ might have been a national loss; but
happily, Neal had accomplished his purpose--vindicated his country by
telling the truth, and by showing in himself the metal of one of her
sons. He had silenced the whole British battery of periodicals who had
been abusing America. He had forced literary England to a capitulation,
and he could well enough afford to leave his fifteen guineas at
_Blackwood's_, and go to France for recreation, as he did about this
time.

In 1826 he returned to America, and applied for admission to the
New-York bar. This started a hornet's nest. He had been 'sarving up' too
many newspaper and other scribblers, to be left in peace any longer.
With an excellent opinion of himself, his contempt was often quite as
large, to say the least of it, as his charity; and he had doubtless, at
times, in England, ridiculed his countrymen to the full of their
deserving; knowing that if he admitted the debtor side honestly, he
would be allowed to fix the amount of credit without controversy. His
Yankees are alarming specimens, which a growing civilization has so
nearly 'used up' that they are now regarded somewhat like fossil remains
of some extinct species of animal.

About the time Neal applied for admission to the New-York bar, a portion
of the people of Portland, stimulated by the aggrieved _literati_ above
mentioned, determined to elevate themselves into a mob _pro tem._, and
expel him from Portland. In the true spirit of his Quaker ancestry, who,
some one has said, always decided they were needed where they were not
wanted, Neal determined to stay in Portland, The mobocrats declared that
he was sold to the British. Neal retorted, in cool irony, that 'he only
wished he had got an offer.' They asserted that he was the mortal enemy
of our peculiar institutions, and that therefore he must be placarded
and mobbed. Hand-bills were issued, and widely circulated. But they did
not effect their object. They only drove this son of the Quakers to
_swear_ that he would stay in Portland. And he did stay, and established
a literary paper, though he once said to us that 'he would as soon have
thought of setting up a _Daily Advertiser_ in the Isle of Shoals three
months before.'

His marriage took place about this time, and was, as he used to say, his
pledge for good behavior. His wife was one of the loveliest of
New-England's daughters, and looked as if she might tame a tiger by the
simple magic of her presence. It is several years since we have met
Neal, and near a dozen since we saw him in his home. At that time he
must have been greatly in fault not to be a proud and happy man. If a
calm, restful exterior, and a fresh and youthful beauty, are signs of
happiness, then Mrs. Neal was one of the happiest women in the world.
The delicate softness, the perfection of youth in her beauty, lives
still in our memory. It is one of those real charms that never drop
through the mind's meshes.

Judging from Neal's impulsive nature, he was not the last man to do
something to be sorry for; but his wife and children looked as if they
were never sorry. We remember a little girl of some five or six years;
we believe they called her Maggie. Her dimpled cheek, her white round
neck and arms, and the perfect symmetry of her form, and the grace of
her motions, have haunted us these twelve years. We would not promise to
remember her as long or as well if we should see her again in these
days. But we made up our mind then, that we would rather be the father
of that child than the author of all Neal had written, or might have
written, even though he had been a wise and prudent man, and had done
his work as well as he doubtless wishes now that he had done it. Neal is
only half himself away from his beautiful home. There, he is in
place--an eagle in a nest lined with down, soft as eider. There his fine
taste is manifest in every thing. If we judge of his taste by his
rapidly-written works, we are sure to do him injustice. We find in him a
union of the most opposite qualities. We can not say a harmonious union.
An inflexible industry is not often united with a bird-like celerity and
grace of movement. With Neal, the two first have always been
combined--the whole on occasions, which might have been multiplied into
unbroken continuity if he had possessed the calm greatness that never
hastens and never rests. He did not rest; but through the first half of
his life, he surely forgot the Scripture which saith: 'He that believeth
shall not make haste.' It has often been asserted, that power which has
rest is greater than a turbulent power. We shall not attempt to settle
whether Erie or Niagara is greater, but we should certainly choose the
Lake for purposes of navigation.

Many men are careless of their character in private, but sufficiently
careful in public. The reverse is true of Neal. He has never hesitated
to throw his gauntlet in the face of the public as he threw his letters
of introduction in the fire when he arrived in Europe. But when he comes
into the charmed circle of his home, he is neither reckless nor
pugilistic, but a downright gentleman. We don't mean to say that Neal
never gets in a passion in private, or that he never needed the
wholesome restraint of a strait-waistcoat in the disputes of a Portland
Lyceum or debating-club. We do not give illustrative anecdotes, because
a lively imagination can conceive them, and probably has manufactured
several that have been afloat; still, we dare guess that the subject has
sometimes given facts to base the fictions on.

We speak of the past. A man with a forty-wildcat power imprisoned in him
is not very likely to travel on from youth to age, keeping the peace on
all occasions. Years bring a calming wisdom. The same man who once swore
five consecutive minutes, because he was forbidden by his landlady to
swear on penalty of leaving her house, and then made all the inmates
vote to refrain from profane language, and rigidly enforced the rule
thus _democratically_ established, is now, after a lapse of more than
thirty years, (particularly provoking impulse aside,) a careful and
dignified gentleman, who might be a Judge, if the public so willed.

That a long line of intellectual and finely developed ancestry gives a
man a better patent of nobility than all the kings of all countries
could confer, is beginning to be understood and believed among us;
though the old battle against titles and privilege, and the hereditary
descent of both, for a time blinded Americans to the true philosophy of
noble birth.

Neal's ancestors came originally from Scotland, and exemplify the
proverb that 'bluid is thicker than water,' in more ways than one. They
have a strong feeling of clanship, or, in other words, they are
convinced that it is an honor to be a Neal, and many of the last
generation have given proof positive that their belief is a fact. The
present generation we have little knowledge of, and do not know whether
they fulfill the promise of the name.

Neal has done good service to the Democracy of our country in many ways,
besides being one of the first and bravest champions of woman's rights.
He has labored for our literature with an ability commensurate with his
zeal, and he has drawn many an unfledged genius from the nest,
encouraged him to try his wings, and magnetized him into
self-dependence. A bold heavenward flight has often been the
consequence. A prophecy of Neal's that an idea or a man would succeed,
has seldom failed of fulfillment. We can not say this of the many
aspiring magazines and periodicals that have solicited the charity of
his name. We recollect, when brass buttons were universally worn on
men's coats, a wag undertook to prove that they were very unhealthy,
from the fact that more than half the persons who wore them suffered
from chronic or acute disease, and died before they had reached a
canonical age. According to this mode of generalization, Neal could be
convicted of causing the premature death of nine tenths of the defunct
periodicals in this country--probably no great sin, if it really lay at
his door.

In a brief outline sketch, such as we have chosen to produce, our
readers will perceive that only slight justice can be done to a man in
the manifold relations to men and things which contribute to form the
character.

John Neal's personal appearance is a credit to the country. He is tall,
with a broad chest, and a most imposing presence. One of the finest
sights we ever saw, was Neal standing with his arms folded before a fine
picture. His devotion to physical exercise, and his personal example to
his family in the practice of it--training his wife and children to take
the sparring-gloves and cross the foils with him in those graceful
attitudes which he could perfectly teach, because they were fully
developed in himself--all this has inevitably contributed to the health
and beauty of his beautiful family.

Few men have had so many right ideas of the art or science of living as
John Neal, and fewer still have acted upon them so faithfully. When we
last saw him, some ten years since--when he had lived more than half a
century--his eye had lost none of its original fire, not a nerve or
sinew was unbraced by care, labor, or struggle. He stood before us, a
noble specimen of the strong and stalwart growth of a new and
unexhausted land.

     NOTE,--The foregoing must have been written years ago, if
     one may judge by the color of the paper; and as the writer is now
     abroad, so as not to be within reach, the manuscript has been put
     into the hands of a gentleman who has been more or less acquainted
     with Mr. Neal from his boyhood up, and he has consented to finish
     the article by bringing down the record to our day, and putting on
     what he calls a 'snapper.'

Most of what follows, if we do not wholly misunderstand the intimations
that accompany the manuscript, is in the very language of Mr. Neal
himself word for word; gathered up we care not how, whether from
correspondence or conversation, so that there is no breach of manly
trust and no indecorum to be charged.

'As to my family,' he writes, in reply to some body's questioning, 'I
know not where they originated, nor how. Sometimes I have thought,
although I have never said as much before, that we must have come up of
ourselves--the spontaneous growth of a rude, rocky soil, swept by the
boisterous north-wind, and washed by the heavy surges of some great
unvisited sea. Of course, the writer you mention, who says that my
ancestors--if I ever had any--'came from Scotland,' must know something
that I never heard of, to the best of my recollection and belief.
Somewhere in England I have supposed they originated, and probably along
the coast of Essex; for there, about Portsmouth and Dover, I have always
felt so much at home in the graveyards--among my own household, as it
were, the names being so familiar to me, and the grave-stones now to be
seen in Portsmouth and Dover, New-Hampshire, where the Neals were first
heard of three or four generations ago, being duplicates of some I saw
in Portsmouth and Dover, England.

'Others have maintained, with great earnestness and plausibility, as if
it were something to brag of, that we have the blood of Oliver Cromwell
in us; and one, at least, who has gone a-field into heraldry, and
strengthens every position with armorial bearings--which only goes to
show the unprofitableness of all such labor, so far as we are
concerned--that we are of the '_red_ O'Neals,' not the _learned_
O'Neals, if there ever were any, but the 'red O'Neals of Ireland,' and
that I am, in fact, a lineal descendant of that fine fellow who
'_bearded_' Queen Elizabeth in her presence-chamber, with his right hand
clutching the hilt of his dagger.

'But, for myself, I must acknowledge that if I ever had a
great-great-grandfather, I know not where to dig for him--on my father's
side, I mean; for on the side of my mother I have lots of grandfathers
and great-grandfathers--and furthermore this deponent sayeth not--up to
the days of George Fox; enough, I think, to show clearly that the Neals
did not originate among the aborigines of the New World, whatever may be
supposed to the contrary. And so, in a word, the whole sum and substance
of all I know about my progenitors, male and female, is, that they were
always a sober-minded, conscientious, hard-working race, with a way and
a will of their own, and a habit of seeing for themselves, and judging
for themselves, and taking the consequences.

'Nor is it true that I am a 'large' or 'tall' man, though, in some
unaccountable way, always passing for a great deal more than I would
ever measure or weigh; and my own dear mother having lived and died in
the belief that I was good six feet, and well-proportioned, like my
father. My inches never exceeded five feet eight-and-a-half, and my
weight never varied from one hundred and forty-seven to one hundred and
forty-nine pounds, for about five-and-forty years; after which, getting
fat and lazy, I have come to weigh from one hundred and sixty-five to
one hundred and seventy-five pounds, without being an inch taller, I am
quite sure.'

Mr. Neal owns up, it appears, to the following publications, omitted by
the writer of the article you mentioned: 'Rachel Dyer,' one volume;
'Authorship,' one volume; 'Brother Jonathan,' three volumes, (English
edition;) 'Ruth Elder,' one volume; 'One Word More;' 'True Womanhood,'
one volume; magazine articles, reviews, and stories in most of the
British and American monthlies, and in some of the quarterlies, to the
amount of twenty volumes, at least, duodecimo. In addition to which, he
has been a liberal contributor all his life to some of the ablest
newspapers of the age, and either sole or sub-editor, or associate, in
perhaps twenty other enterprises, most of which fell through.

He claims, too--being a modest man--and others who know him best
acknowledge his claims, we see--that he revolutionized _Blackwood_ and
the British periodical press, at a time when they were all against us;
that he began the war on titles in this country, that he broke up the
lottery system and the militia system, and proposed (through the
_Westminster Review_) the only safe and reasonable plan of emancipation
that ever appeared; that with him originated the question of woman's
rights; that he introduced gymnasia to our people; and, in short, that
he has always been good for something, and always lived to some purpose.
'And furthermore deponent sayeth not.'




THE SOLDIER AND THE CIVILIAN.


When Charles Dickens expressed regret for having written his foolish
_American Notes_, and _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he 'improved the occasion' to
call us a large-hearted and good-natured people, or something to that
effect--I have not his _peccavi_ by me, and write from 'a favorable
general impression.'

It is not weak vanity which may lead any American to claim that in this
compliment lies a great truth. The American _is_ large-hearted and
good-natured, and when a few of his comrades join in a good work, he
will aid them with a lavish and Jack-tar like generosity. Charity is
peculiarly at home in America. A few generations have accumulated, in
all the older States, hospitals, schools, and beneficent institutions,
practically equal in every respect to those which have been the slow
growth of centuries in any European country. The contributions to the
war, whether of men or money, have been incredible. And there is no
stint and no grumbling. The large heart is as large and generous as
ever.

The war has, however, despite all our efforts, become an almost settled
institution. This is a pity--we all feel it bitterly, and begin to grow
serious. Still there is no flinching. Flinching will not help; we must
go on in the good cause, in God's name. 'Shall there not be clouds as
well as sunshine?' 'Go in, then'--that is agreed upon. Draft your men,
President Lincoln; raise your money, Mr. Chase, we are ready. To the
last man and the last dollar we are ready. History shall speak of the
American of this day as one who was as willing to spend money for
national honor as he was earnest and keen in gathering it up for private
emolument. Go ahead!

But let us do every thing advisedly and wisely.

In the first flush of war, it was not necessary to look so closely at
the capital. We pulled out our loose change and bank-notes, and
scattered them bravely--as we should. Now that more and still more are
needed, we should look about to see how to turn every thing to best
account. For instance, there is the matter of soldiers. Those who rose
in 1861, and went impulsively to battle, acted gloriously--even more
noble will it be with every volunteer who _now_, after hearing of the
horrors of war, still resolutely and bravely shoulders the musket and
dares fate. God sends these times to the world and to men as 'jubilees'
in which all who have lost an estate, be it of a calling or a social
position, may regain it or win a new one.

But still we want to present _every_ inducement. Already the lame and
crippled soldiers are beginning to return among us. The poor souls,
ragged and sun-burnt, may be seen at every corner. They sit in the parks
with unhealed wounds; they hobble along the streets, many of them weary
and worn; poor fellows! they are greater, and more to be envied than
many a fresh fopling who struts by. And the people feel this. They treat
them kindly, and honor them.

But would it not be well if some general action could be adopted on the
subject of taking care of all the incurables which this war is so
rapidly sending us? If every township in America would hold meetings and
provide honorably in some way for the returned crippled soldiers, they
would assume no great burden, and would obviate the most serious
drawback which the country is beginning to experience as regards
obtaining volunteers. It has already been observed by the press, that
the scattering of these poor fellows over the country is beginning to
have a discouraging effect on those who should enter the army. It is a
pity; we would very gladly ignore the fact, and continue to treat the
question solely _con entusiasmo_, and as at first; but what is the use
of endeavoring to shirk facts which will only weigh more heavily in the
end from being inconsidered now? Let us go to work generously,
great-heartedly, and good-naturedly, to render the life of every man who
has been crippled for the country as little of a burden as possible.

Dear readers, it will not be sufficient to guarantee to these men a
pauper's portion among you. I do not pretend to say what you should give
them, or what you should do for them. I only know that there are but two
nations on the face of the earth capable of holding town-meetings and
acting by spontaneous democracy for themselves. One of these is
represented by the Russian serfs, who administer their _mir_ or
'commune' with a certain beaver-like instinct, providing for every man
his share of land, his social position, his rights, so far as they are
able. The Englishman, or German, or Frenchman, is _not_ capable of this
natural town-meeting sort of action. He needs 'laws,' and government,
and a lord or a squire in the chair, or a demagogue on the rostrum. The
poor serf does it by custom and instinct.

The Bible Communism of the Puritans, and the habit of discussing all
manner of secular concerns in meeting, originated this same ability in
America. To this, more than to aught else, do we owe the growth of our
country. One hundred Americans, transplanted to the wild West and left
alone, will, in one week, have a mayor, and 'selectmen,' a town-clerk,
and in all probability a preacher and an editor. One hundred Russian
serfs will not rise so high as this; but leave them alone in the steppe,
and they will organize a _mir_, elect a _starosta_, or 'old man,' divide
their land very honestly, and take care of the cripples!

Such nations, but more especially the American, can find out for
themselves, much better than any living editor can tell them, how to
provide liberally for those who fought while they remained at home. The
writer may suggest to them the subject--they themselves can best 'bring
it out.'

In trials like these it is very essential that our habits of meeting,
discussing and practically acting on such measures, should be more
developed than ever. We have come to the times which _test_ republican
institutions, and to crises when the public meeting--the true
corner-stone of all our practical liberties--should be brought most
boldly, freely, and earnestly into action. Politics and feuds should
vanish from every honorable and noble mind, and all unite in cordial
cooeperation for the good work. Friends, there is _nothing_ you can not
do, if you would only get together, inspire one another, and do your
_very best_. You could raise an army which would drive these rebel
rascals howling into their Dismal Swamps, or into Mexico, in a month, if
you would only combine in earnest and do all you can.

Hitherto the man of ease, and the Respectable, disgusted by the
politicians, has neglected such meetings, and left them too much to the
Blackguard to manage after his own way. But this is a day of politics no
longer; at least, those who try to engineer the war with a view to the
next election, are in a fair way to be ranked with the enemies of the
country, and to earn undying infamy. The only politics which the honest
man now recognizes is, the best way to save the country; to raise its
armies and fight its battles. It is not McClellan or anti-McClellan,
which we should speak of, but anti-Secession. And paramount among the
principal means of successfully continuing the war, I place this, of
properly caring for the disabled soldier, and of placing before those
who have not as yet enlisted, the fact, that come what may, they will be
well looked after, for life.

As I said, the common-sense of our minor municipalities will abundantly
provide for these poor fellows, if a spirit can be awakened which shall
sweep over the country and induce the meetings to be held. In many,
something has already been done. But something liberal and large is
requisite. Government will undoubtedly do its share; and this, if
properly done, will greatly relieve our local commonwealths. Here,
indeed, we come to a very serious question, which has been already
discussed in these pages--more boldly, as we are told, than our
cotemporaries have cared to treat it, and somewhat in advance of others.
We refer to our original proposition to liberally divide Southern lands
among the army, and convert the retired soldier to a small planter. Such
men would very soon contrive to hire the 'contraband,' get him to
working, and make something better of him than planterocracy ever did.
At least, this is what Northern ship-captains and farmers contrive to
do, in their way, with numbers of coal-black negroes, and we have no
doubt that the soldier-planter will manage, 'somehow,' to get out a
cotton-crop, even with the aid of hired negroes! Here, again, a bounty
could be given to the wounded. Observe, we mean a bounty which shall, to
as high a degree as is possible or expedient, fully recompense a man for
losing a limb. And as we can find in Texas alone, land sufficient to
nobly reward a vast proportion of our army, it will be seen that I do
not propose any excessive or extravagant reward.

Between our municipalities and our government, _much_ should be done.
But will not this prove a two-stool system of relief, between which the
disbanded soldier would fall to the ground? Not necessarily. Let our
towns and villages do their share, pledging themselves to take _good_
care of the disabled veteran, and to find work for all until Government
shall apportion the lands of the conquered among the army.

And let all this be done _soon_. Let it forthwith form a part of the
long cried for 'policy' which is to inspire our people. If this had been
a firmly determined thing from the beginning, and if we had _dared_ to
go bravely on with it, instead of being terrified at every proposal to
_act_, by the yells and howls of the Northern secessionists, we might
have cleared Dixie out as fire clears tow. 'The enemy,' said one who had
been among them, 'have the devil in them.' If our men had something
solid to look forward to, they too, would have the devil in them, and no
mistake. They fight bravely as it is, without much inducement beyond
patriotism and a noble cause. But the 'secesh' soldier has more than
this--he has the desperation of a traitor in a bad cause, of a fanatic
and of a natural savage. It is no slur at the patriotism of our troops
to say that they would fight better for such a splendid inducement as
we hold out.

We may as well do all we can for the army--at home and away, here and
there, with all our hearts and souls. For it will come to that sooner or
later. The army is a terrible power, and its power has been, and is to
be, terribly exerted. If we would organize it betimes, prevent it from
becoming a social trouble, or rather make of it a great social support
and a _help_ instead of a future hindrance and a drag, we must be busy
at work providing for it. There it is--destined, perhaps, to rise to a
million--the flower, strength, and intellect of America, our productive
force, our brain--yes, the great majority of our mills, and looms, and
printing-presses, and all that is capital-producing, are there, in those
uniforms. There, friends, lie towns and cities, towers and palace-halls,
literature and national life--for there are the brains and arms which
make these things. Those uniforms are not to be, at least, _should not_
be, forever there. But manage meanly and weakly and stingily _now_, and
you destroy the cities and fair castles, the uniform remains in the
myriad ranks, war becomes interminable, the soldier becomes nothing but
a soldier--God avert the day!--and you will find yourself some day
telling your grand-children--if you have any, for I can inform you that
the chances of war diminish many other chances--how 'things _might_ have
been, and how finely we _might_ have conquered the enemy and had an
undivided country--God bless us!'

Will the WOMEN of America take no active part in this movement?

Many years ago, a German writer--one Kirsten--announced the
extraordinary fact, that in the Atlantic States the proportion of women
who died unmarried, or of 'old maids,' was larger than in any European
country. It is certainly true that, owing to the high standard of
expenses adopted by the children of respectable American parents--and
what American is not 'respectable'?--we are far less apt to rush into
'imprudent' marriages than is generally supposed. But what proportion of
unmarried dames will there be, if drafting continues, and the war
becomes a permanent annual subject of draft? The prospect is seriously
and simply frightful! The wreck of morality in France caused by
Napoleon's wars is notorious, for previous to that time the French
peasantry were not so debauched as they subsequently became. But this
shocking subject requires no comment.

On with the war! Drive it, push it, send it howling and hissing on like
the wild tornado, like the mad levin-brand, right into the foe! Pay the
soldier--promise--pledge--do any thing and every thing; but raise an
overwhelming force, and end the war.

Up and fight!

It is better to die now than see such disaster as awaits this country if
war become a fixed disease.




VOLUNTEER BOYS. [1750.]


  'Hence with the lover who sighs o'er his wine,
    Chloes and Phillises toasting;
  Hence with the slave who will whimper and whine,
    Of ardor and constancy boasting;
            Hence with Love's joys,
            Follies and noise.
    The toast that _I_ give is: 'The Volunteer Boys!''




AUTHOR-BORROWING.


Bulwer, in narrating the literary career of a young Chinese, states how
one of his works was very severely handled by the Celestial critics: one
of the gravest of the charges brought against it by these poll-shaved,
wooden-shod, little-foot-worshiping, Great-Wall-building mandarins of
literature being its extreme originality! They denounced Fihoti as
having sinned the unpardonable literary sin of writing a book, a large
share of whose ideas was nowhere to be found in the writings of
Confucius.

But how strange such a charge would sound in our English ears! With us,
if between two authors the most remote resemblance of idea or expression
can be detected, straightway some ultraist stickler for
originality--some Poe--shrieks out, 'Some body must be a thief!' and
forthwith, all along the highways of reviewdom, is sent up the hue and
cry: 'Stop thief! stop thief!' For has not the law thundered from Sinai,
'Thou shalt not steal'? True, plagiarism is nowhere distinctly forbidden
by Moses; but have not critics judicially pronounced it author-_theft_?
Has not metaphor been sounded through every note of its key-board, to
strike out all that is base whereunto to liken it? Have not old Dr.
Johnson's seven-footed words--the tramp of whose heavy brogans has
echoed down the staircase of years even unto our day--declared
plagiarists from the works of buried writers 'jackals, battening on dead
men's thoughts'?

And yet, after a vast deal of such like catachresis, the orthodoxy of
plagiarism remains still in dispute. What we incorporate among the
cardinal articles of literary faith, China abjures as a dangerous
heresy. But neither our own nor the Chinese creed consists wholly of
tested bullion, but is crude ore, in which the pure gold of truth is
mingled with the dross of error. That is a golden tenet of the
tea-growers which licenses the borrowing of ideas; that 'of the earth,
earthy,' which embargoes every one unborrowed. We build upon a rock when
interdicting plagiarism; but on sand when we make that term inclose
author-theft and author-borrowing. The making direct and unacknowledged
quotations, and palming them off as the quoter's, is a very grave
literary offense. But the expression of similar or even identical
thoughts in different language, in this age of the world must be
tolerated, or else the race of authors soon become as extinct as that of
behemoths and ichthyosauri; and, indeed, far from levying any imposts
upon author-borrowing, rather ought we to vote bounties and pensions to
encourage it.

Originality of thought with men is impossible. There is in existence a
certain amount of thought, but it all belongs to God. Lord paramount
over the empire of mind as well as matter, he alone is seized, in fee
simple right, of the whole domain: provinces of which men hold, as
fiefs, by vassal tenure, subject to reversion and enfeoffment to
another. Nor can any man absolve himself from his allegiance, and extend
absolute sovereignty over broad tracts of idea-territory; for while
feudal princes vested in themselves, by conquest merely, the ownership
of kingdoms, God became suzerain over the empire of thought by virtue of
creation--for creation confers right of property. We do not, then,
originate the thoughts we call our own; or else Pantheism tells no lie
when it declares that man is God, for the differentia which
distinguishes God from man is absolute creative power. And if man be
thought-creative, he can as well as God give being unto what was
non-existent, and that, too, not mere gross, perishable matter, but
immortal soul; for thought is mind, and mind is spirit, soul, undying,
immortal. Grant that, and you divide God's empire, and enthrone the
creature in equal sovereignty beside his Maker.

All thought, then, belongs exclusively to God, and is parceled out by
him, as he chooses, among his creature feudatories. As the wind, which
bloweth where it listeth, and no one knoweth whence it cometh, save that
it is sent by God, so is thought, as it blows through our minds. Over
birds, flying at liberty through the free air, boys often advance claims
of ownership more specific than are easily derived from the general
dominion God gave man over the beasts of the field and the birds of the
air; yet, 'All those birds are mine!' exclaims a youngster in
roundabout, with just as much reason as any man can claim, as
exclusively his own, the thoughts which are ever winging their way
through the firmament of mind.

But considered apart from the relation we sustain to God, none of us are
original with respect to our fellow-men. Few, indeed, are the ideas we
derive by direct grant, or through nature, from our liege lord; but far
the greater share, by hooks or personal contact, we gather through our
fellow-men. Consciously, unconsciously, we all teach--we all learn from,
one another. Association does far more toward forming mind than natural
endowments. As not alone the soil whence it springs makes the oak, but
surrounding elements contribute. Seclude a human mind entirely from
hooks and men, and you may have a man with no ideas borrowed from his
fellows. Such a one, in Germany, once grew up from childhood to manhood
in close imprisonment, and poor Kasper Hauser proved--an idiot. It can
hardly be necessary to suggest the well-known fact, that the greatest
readers of men and books always possess the greatest minds. Such are,
besides, of the greatest service to mankind. For since God has so formed
us that we love to give as well as take, a great independent mind,
complete in itself and incapable of receiving from others, must always
stand somewhat apart from men; and even a great heart, when
conjoined--as it seldom is--with a great head, is rarely able to
drawbridge over the wide moat which intrenches it in solitary
loneliness. Originality ever links with it something of
uncongeniality--a feeling somewhat akin to the egotism of that one who,
when asked why he talked so much to himself, replied--for two reasons:
the one, that he liked to talk to a sensible man; the other, that he
liked to hear a sensible man talk. Divorcing itself from
fellow-sympathies, it broods over its own perfections, till, like
Narcissus, it falls in love with itself. And so, a highly original man
can rarely ever be a highly popular man or author. By the very
super-abundance of his excellencies, his usefulness is destroyed; just
as Tarpeia sank, buried beneath the presents of the Sabine soldiery. A
Man once appeared on earth, of perfect originality; and in him, to an
unbounded intellect was added boundless moral power. But men received
him not. They rejected his teachings; they smote him; they crucified
him.

But though the right of eminent domain over ideas does and should inhere
in one superior to us, far different is the case with words. These
'incarnations of thought' are of man's device, and therefore his; and
style--the peculiar manner in which one uses words to express ideas--is
individually personal. Indeed, style has been defined the man himself; a
definition, so far as he is recognized only as a revealer of thought,
substantially correct. In an idea word-embodied, the embodier, then,
possesses with God concurrent ownership. The idea itself may be
borrowed, or it may be his so far as discovery gives title; but the
words, in their arrangement, are absolutely his. All ideas are like
mathematical truths: eternal and unchangeable in their essence, and
originate in nature; words like figures, of a fixed value, but of human
invention; and sentences are formulae, embodying oftentimes the same
essential truth, but in shapes as various as their paternity. Words, in
sentences, should then be inviolate to their author.

Nor is this to value words above ideas--the flesh above the spirit of
which it is but the incarnation. It is not the intrinsic value of each
that we here regard, but the value of the ownership one has in each.
'Deacon Giles and I,' said a poor man, 'own more cows than any five
other men in the county.' 'How many does Deacon Giles own?' asked a
bystander. 'Nineteen.' 'And how many do you?' 'One.' And that one cow,
which that poor man owned, was worth more to _him_ than the nineteen
which were Deacon Giles's. So, when you have determined whose the style
is which enfolds a thought, whose the thought is, is as little worth
dispute as, after its wrappage of corn has been shelled off, the cob's
ownership is worth a quarrel.

As thoughts bodied in words uttered make up conversation, thought
incarnate in words written constitutes literature. The gross sum of
thought with which God has seen to dower the human mind, though vast, is
finite, and may be exhausted. Indeed, we are told this had been already
done so long ago as times whereof Holy Writ takes cognizance. Since that
time, then, men have been echoing and reechoing the same old ideas. And
though words, too, are finite, their permutations are infinite. What
Himalayan piles of paper, river-coursed by Danubes and Niagaras of ink,
hath the 'itch of writing' aggregated! And yet, Ganganelli says that
every thing that man has ever written might be contained within six
thousand folio volumes, if filled with only original matter. But how
books lie heaped on one another, weighing down those under, weighed down
by those above them; each crushed and crushing; their thoughts, like
bones of skeletons corded in convent vault, mingled in confusion--like
those which Hawthorne tells us Miriam saw in the burial-cellar of the
Capuchin friars in Rome, where, when a dead brother had lain buried an
allotted period, his remains, removed from earth to make room for a
successor, were piled with those of others who had died before him.

It is said Aurora once sought and gained from Jove the boon of
immortality for one she loved; but forgetting to request also perpetual
youth, Tithonus gradually grew old, his thin locks whitened, his wasting
frame dwindled to a shadow, and his feeble voice thinned down till it
became inaudible. And just so ideas, although immortal, were it not for
author-borrowers, through age grown obsolete, might virtually perish.
But by and by, just as some precious thought is being lost unto the
world, let there come some Medea, by whose potent sorcery that old and
withered idea receives new life-blood through its shrunken veins, and it
starts to life again with recreated vigor--another AEson, with the bloom
of youth upon him. Besides in this way playing the physician to save old
ideas from a burial alive, the author-borrower often delivers many a
prolific mother-thought of a whole family of children--as a prism from
out a parent ray of colorless light brings all the bright colors of the
spectrum, which, from red to violet, were all waiting there only for its
assistance to leap into existence; or sometimes he plays the parson,
wedlocking thoughts from whose union issue new; as from yellow wedded to
red springs orange, a new, a secondary life; or enacts, maybe, the
brood-hen's substitute. Many a thought is a Leda egg, imprisoning twin
life-principles, which,, incubated in the eccaleobion brain of an
author-borrower, have blessed the world; but without such a
foster-parent, in some neglected nest staled and addled, had never burst
the shell.

Author-borrowing should also be encouraged, because it tends to
language's perfection, and thus to incrementing the value of the ideas
it vehicles; for though a gilding diction and elegant expression may not
directly increase a thought's intrinsic worth, yet by bestowing beauty
it increases its utility, and so adds relative value--just as a rosewood
veneering does to a basswood table. There may be as much raw timber in a
slab as in a bunch of shingles, but the latter is worth the most; it
will find a purchaser where the former would not. So there may be as
much truly valuable thought in a dull sermon as in a lively lecture;
but the lecture will please, and so instruct, where the dull sermon will
fall on an inattentive ear. Moreover, author minds are of two classes,
the one deep-thinking, the other word-adroit. Providence bestows her
favors frugally; and with the power of quarrying out huge lumps of
thought, ability to work them over into graceful form is rarely given.
This is no new doctrine, but a truth clearly recognized in metaphysics,
and evidenced in history. Cromwell was a prodigious thinker; but in
language, oh! how deficient. His thoughts, struggling to force
themselves out of that sphynx-like jargon which he spake and wrote,
appear like the treasures of the shipwrecked Trojans, swimming '_rari in
gurgite vasto_'--Palmyra columns, reared in the midst of a desert of
sentences. And Coleridge--than whom in the mines of mental science few
have dug deeper, and though Xerxes-hosts of word-slaves waited on his
pen--often wrote apparently mere bagatelle--the most transcendental
nonsense. Yet he who takes the pains to husk away his obscurity of style
will find solid ears of thought to recompense his labor. Bentham and
Kant required interpreters--Dumont and Cousin--to make understood what
was well worth understanding. These two kinds of
authors--thought-creditors and borrowing expressionists--are as mutually
necessary to each other to bring out idea in its most perfect shape, as
glass and mercury to mirror objects. Dim, indeed, is the reflection of
the glass without its coating of quicksilver; and amalgam, without a
plate on which to spread it, can never form a mirror. The metal and the
silex are

  'Useless each without the other;'

but wed them, and from their union spring life-like images of life.

But it may be objected that in trying to improve a thought we often mar
it; just as in transplanting shrubs from the barren soil in which they
have become fast rooted, to one more fertile, we destroy them. 'Just as
the fabled lamps in the tomb of Terentia burned underground for ages,
but when removed into the light of day, went out in darkness.' That this
sometimes occurs, we own. Some ideas are as fragile as butterflies, whom
to handle is to destroy. But such are exceptions only, and should not
preclude attempts at improvement. If a bungler tries and fails, let him
be Anathema, Maranathema; but let not his failure deter from trial a
genuine artist. Nor is it an ignoble office to be thus shapers only of
great thinkers' thoughts--Python interpreters to oracles. Nor is his
work of slight account who thus--as sunbeams gift dark thunder-clouds
with 'silver lining' and a fringe of purple, as Time with ivy drapes a
rugged wall--hangs the beauties of expression round a rude but sterling
thought. Nay, oftentimes the shaper's labor is worth more than the
thought he shapes. For if the stock out of which the work is wrought be
ever more valuable than the workman's skill, then let canvas and
paint-pots impeach the fame of Raphael; rough blocks from Paros and
Pentelicus, the gold and ivory of the Olympian Jove; tear from the brow
of Phidias the laurel wreath with which the world has crowned him.
Supply of raw material is little without the ability to use it. Furnish
three men with stone and mortar, and while one is building an unsightly
heap of clumsy masonry, the architect will rear up a magnificent
cathedral--an Angelo, a St. Peter's. And so when ideas, which in their
crudeness are often as hard to be digested as unground corn, are run
through the mill of another's mind, and appear in a shape suited to
satisfy the most dyspeptic stomachs, does not the miller deserve a toll?

Finally, author-borrowing has been hallowed by its practice, in their
first essays, by all our greatest writers. Turn to the scroll on which
the world has written the names of those it holds as most illustrious.
How was it with him whom English readers love to call the
'myriad-minded?' Shakespeare began by altering old plays, and his
indebtedness to history and old legends is by no means slight. How with
him who sang 'of man's first disobedience' and exodus from Eden? Even
Milton did not, Elijah-like, draw down his fire direct from heaven, but
kindled with brands, borrowed from Greek and Hebrew altars, the
inspiration which sent up the incense-poetry of a Lost Paradise. And all
the while that Maro sang 'Arms and the Man,' a refrain from the harp of
Homer was sounding in his ears, unto whose tones so piously he keyed and
measured his own notes, that oftentimes we fancy we can hear the strains
of 'rocky Scio's blind old bard' mingling in the Mantuan's melody. If
thus it has been with those who sit highest and fastest on
Parnassus--the crowned kings of mind--how has it been with the mere
nobility? What are Scott's poetic romances, but blossomings of engrafted
scions on that slender shoot from out the main trunk of English
poetry--the old border balladry? Campbell's polished elegance of style,
and the 'ivory mechanism of his verse,' was born the natural child of
Beattie and Pope. Byron had Gifford in his eye when he wrote 'English
Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' and Spenser when he penned the
'Pilgrimage.' Pope, despairing of originality, and taking Dryden for his
model, sought only to polish and to perfect. Gray borrowed from Spenser,
Spenser from Chaucer, Chaucer from Dante, and Dante had ne'er been Dante
but for the old Pagan mythology. Sterne and Hunt and Keats were only

  Bees, in their own volumes hiving
  Borrowed sweets from others' gardens.

And thus it ever is. The inceptions of true genius are always
essentially imitations. A great writer does not begin by ransacking for
the odd and new. He re-models--betters. Trusting not hypotheses
unproven, he demonstrates himself the proposition ere he wagers his
faith on the corollary; and it is thus that in time he grows to be a
discoverer, an inventor, an _originator_.

Toward originality all should steer; but can only hope to reach it
through imitation. For if originality be the Colchis where the golden
fleece of immortality is won, imitation must be the Argo in which we
sail thither.




INTERVENTION.


  Intervene! and see what you'll catch
  In a powder-mill with a lighted match.
  Intervene! if you think fit,
  By jumping into the bottomless pit.
  Intervene! How you'll gape and gaze
  When you see all Europe in a blaze!
  Russia gobbling your world half in,
  Red Republicans settling with _sin_;
  Satan broke loose and nothing between--
  _That's_ what you'll catch if you intervene!




MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

VII.


'A REEL TITIANO FOR SAL.'

There was a shop occupied by a dealer in paintings, engravings,
intaglios, old crockery, and _Bric-a-brac_-ery generally, down the Via
Condotti, and into this shop Mr. William Browne, of St. Louis, one
morning found his way. He had been induced to enter by reading in the
window, written on a piece of paper,

'A REEL TITIANO FOR SAL,'

and as he wisely surmised that the dealer intended to notify the English
that he had a painting by Titian for sale, he went in to see it.

Unfortunately for Mr. Browne, familiarly known as Uncle Bill, he had one
of those faces that invariably induced Roman tradesmen to resort to the
Oriental mode of doing business, namely, charging three hundred per cent
profit; and as this dealer having formerly been a courier,
commissionaire and pander to English and American travelers, naturally
spoke a disgusting jargon of Italianized English, and had what he
believed were the most distinguished manners: _he_ charged five hundred
per cent.

'I want,' said Uncle Bill to the 'brick-Bat' man, 'to see your Titian.'

'I shall expose 'im to you in one moment, sare; you walk this way. He's
var' fine pickshoor, var' fine. You ben long time in Rome, sare?'

No reply from Uncle Bill: his idea was, even a wise man may ask
questions, but none but fools answer fools.

Brick-bat man finds that his customer has ascended the human scale one
step; he prepares 'to spring dodge' Number two on him.

'Thare, sar, thare is Il Tiziano! I spose you say you see notheeng bote
large peas board: zat peas board was one table for two, tree hundret
yars; all zat time ze pickshoor was unbeknounst undair ze table. Zey
torn up ze table, and you see a none-doubted Tiziano. Var' fine
pickshoor!'

'Do you know,' asked Uncle Bill, 'if it was in a temperance family all
that time?'

'I am not acquent zat word, demprance--wot it means?'

'Sober,' was the answer.

'Yas, zat was in var' sobair fam'ly--in convent of nons.'

'That will account for its being undiscovered so long--all the world
knows they are not inquisitive! If it had been in a drinking-house, some
body falling under the table would have seen it--wouldn't they?'

Brick-bat reflects, and comes to the conclusion that the 'eldairly cove'
is wider-awake than he believed him, at first sight.

'Now I torne zis board you see on ze othaire side, ze Bella Donna of
Tiziano. Zere is one in ze Sciarra palace, bote betwane you and I, I
don't believe it is gin'wine.'

'I don't know much about paintings,' spoke Uncle Bill, 'but I know I've
seen seventy-six of these Belli Donners, and each one was sworn to as
the original picture!'

'Var' true, sare, var' true, Tiziano Vermecellio was grate pantaire, man
of grate mind, and when he got holt onto fine subjick he work him ovair
and ovair feefty, seexty times. Ze chiaro-'scuro is var' fine, and ze
depfs of his tone somethings var' deep, vary. Look at ze flaish, sare,
you can pinch him, and, sare, you look here, I expose grand secret to
you. I take zis pensnife, I scratgis ze pant. Look zare!'

'Well,' said Uncle Bill, 'I don't see any thing.'

'You don't see anne theengs! Wot you see under ze pant?'

'It looks like dirt.'

'_Cospetto!_ zat is ze gr-and prep-par-ra-tion zat makes ze flaish of
Tiziano more natooral as life. You know grate pantaire, Mistaire Leaf,
as lives in ze Ripetta? Zat man has spend half his lifes scratging
Tiziano all to peases, for find out 'ow he mak's flaish: now he believes
he found out ze way, bote, betwane you and I----' Here the Brick-bat
man conveyed, by a shake of his head and a tremolo movement of his left
hand, the idea that 'it was all in vain.'

'What do you ask for the picture?' asked Uncle Bill

The head of the Brick-bat man actually disappeared between his shoulders
as he shrugged them up, and extended his hands at his sides like the
flappers of a turtle. Uncle Bill looked at the man in admiration; he had
never seen such a performance before, save by a certain contortionist in
a traveling circus, and in his delight he asked the man, when his head
appeared, if he wouldn't do that once more, only once more!

In his surprise at being asked to perform the trick, he actually went
through it again. For which, Uncle Bill thanked him, kindly, and again
asked the price of the Titian.

'I tak' seex t'ousand scudi for him, not one baiocch less.'

'It an't dear,'specially for those who have the money to
scatterlophisticate,' replied Uncle Bill cheerfully.

'No, sare, it ees dogs chip, var' chip. I have sevral Englis' want to
buy him bad; I shall sell him some days to some bodies. Bote, sare, will
you 'ave ze goodniss to write down on peas paper zat word, var' fine
word, you use him minit 'go--scatolofistico sometheengs--I wis' to larn
ze Englis' better as I spiks him.'

'Certainly; give me a pencil and paper, I'll write it down, and you'll
astonish some Englishman with it, I'll bet a hat.'

So it was written down; and if any one ever entered a shop in the
Condotti where there was a Titiano for Sal, and was 'astonished' by
hearing that word used, they may know whence it came.

Mr. Browne, after carefully examining the usual yellow marble model of
the column of Trajan, the alabaster pyramid of Caius Cestius, the verd
antique obelisks, the bronze lamps, lizards, marble _tazze_, and
paste-gems of the modern-antique factories, the ever-present Beatrice
Cenci on canvas, and the water-color costumes of Italy, made a purchase
of a Roman mosaic paper-weight, wherein there was a green parrot with a
red tail and blue legs, let in with minute particles of composition
resembling stone, and left the Brick-bat man alone with his Titiano for
Sal.


SO LONG!

Rocjean came into Caper's studio one morning, evidently having something
to communicate.

'Are you busy this morning? If not, come along with me; there is
something to be seen--something that beats the Mahmoudy Canal of the
Past, or the Suez Canal of the Present, for wholesale slaughter; for I
do assure you, on the authority of Hassel, that nine hundred and
thirty-six million four hundred and sixty-one thousand people died
before it was finished!'

'That must be a work worth looking at. Why, the Pyramids must be as
anthills to Chimborazo in comparison to it! Nine hundred and odd
millions of mortals! Why, that is about the number dying in a
generation--and these have passed away while it was being completed? It
ought to be a master-piece.'

'Can't we get a glass of wine round here?' asked Rocjean, looking at his
watch; 'it is about luncheon-time, and I have a charming little thirst.'

'Oh! yes, there is a wine-shop only three doors from here, pure Roman.
Let us go: we can stand out in the street and drink if you are afraid to
go in.'

Leaving the studio, they walked a few steps to a house that was
literally all front-door; for the entrance was the entire width of the
building, and a buffalo-team could have passed in without let. Outside
stood a wine-cart, from which they were unloading several small casks
of wine. The driver's seat had a hood over it, protecting him from the
sun, as he lazily sleeps there, rumbling over the tufa road, to or from
the Campagna, and around the seat were painted in gay colors various
patterns of things unknown. In the autumn, vine-branches with pendent,
rustling leaves decorate hood and horse, while in spring or summer, a
bunch of flowers often ornaments this gay-looking wine-cart.

The interior of the shop was dark, dingy, sombre, and dirty enough to
have thrown an old Flemish Interior artist into hysterics of delight.
There was an _olla podrida_ browniness about it that would have
entranced a native of Seville; and a collection of dirt around, that
would have elevated a Chippeway Indian to an ecstasy of delight. The
reed-mattings hung against the walls were of a gulden ochre-color, the
smoked walls and ceiling the shade of asphaltum and burnt sienna, the
unswept stone pavement a warm gray, the old tables and benches very rich
in tone and dirt; the back of the shop, even at midday, dark, and the
eye caught there glimpses of arches, barrels, earthen jars, tables and
benches resting in twilight, and only brought out in relief by the faint
light always burning in front of the shrine of the Virgin, that hung on
one of the walls.

In a wine-shop this shrine does not seem out of place, it is artistic;
but in a lottery-office, open to the light of day, and glaringly
common-place, the Virgin hanging there looks much more like the goddess
Fortuna than Santa Maria.

But they are inside the wine-shop, and the next instant a black-haired
gipsy-looking woman with flashing, black eyes, warming up the sombre
color of the shop by the fiery red and golden silk handkerchief which
falls from the back of her head, Neapolitan fashion, illuminating that
dusky old den like fireworks, asks them what they will order?

'A foglietta of white wine.'

'Sweet or dry?' she asks.

'Dry,' (_asciutto_,) said Rocjean.

There it is on the table, in a glass flask, brittle as virtue, light as
sin, and fragile as folly. They are called Sixtusses, after that pious
old Sixtus V. who hanged a publican and wine-seller sinner in front of
his shop for blasphemously expressing his opinion as to the correctness
of charging four times as much to put the fluoric-acid government stamp
on them as the glass cost. However, taxes must be raised, and the
thinner the glass the easier it is broken, so the Papal government
compel the wine-sellers to buy these glass bubbles, forbidding the sale
of wine out of any thing else save the _bottiglie_; and as it raises
money by touching them up with acid, why, the people have to stand it.
These _fogliette_ have round bodies and long, broad necks, on which you
notice a white mark made with the before-mentioned chemical preparation;
up to this mark the wine should come, but the attendant generally takes
thumb-toll, especially in the restaurants where foreigners go, for the
Roman citizen is not to be swindled, and will have his rights: the
single expression, 'I AM A ROMAN CITIZEN,' will at times save him at
least two _baiocchi_, with which he can buy a cigar. There was a time
when these words would have checked the severest decrees of the highest
magistrate: now when they fire off 'that gun,' the French soldiers stand
at its mouth, laugh, and say; '_Boom!_ you have no balls for your
cartridges!'

The wine finished, our two artists took up their line of march for the
object that had outlived so many millions on millions of human beings,
and at last reached it, discovering its abode afar off, by the crowd of
fair-and unfair, or red-haired Saxons, who were thronging up a staircase
of a house near the Ripetta, as if a steamboat were ringing her last
bell and the plank were being drawn in.

'And pray, can you tell me, Mister Buller, if it's a positive fact that
the man has been so long as they say, at work on the thing?'

'And ah! I haven't the slightest doubt of it, myself. I've been told
that he has worked on it, to be sure, for full thirty years; and I may
say I am delighted, that he has it done at last, and that it is to be
packed up and sent away to St. Petersburg next week. And how do you like
the Hotel Minerva? I think it's not a very dirty inn, but the waiters
are very demanding, and the fleas--'

'I beg you won't speak of them, it makes my blood run cold. Have you
seen the last copy of _Galignani_? The Americans, I am glad to see, have
had trouble with us, and I hope they will be properly punished. Do you
know the Duke of Bigghed is in town?'

'Really! and when did he come--and where is the Duchess? oh!--she's a
very amiable lady--but here's the picture!'

Ushered in, or preceded by this rattle-headed talk, Caper and Rocjean
stood at last before Ivanhof's celebrated painting--finished at last!
Thirty years' work, and the result?

A very unsatisfactory stream of water, a crowd of Orientals, and our
Saviour descending a hill.

The general impression left on the mind after seeing it, was like that
produced by a wax-work show. Nature was travestied; ease, grace,
freedom, were wanting: evidently the thirty years might have been better
spent collecting beetles or dried grasses.

Around the walls of the studio hung sketches painted during visits the
artist had made to the East. Here were studies of Eastern heads,
costumes, trees, soil by river-side, sand in the desert, copied with
scrupulous care and precise truth, yet, when they were all together in
the great painting, the combined effect was a failure.

The artist, they said, had, during this long period, received an annual
pension of so many roubles from the Russian government, and had taken
his time about it. At last it was completed; the painting that had
outlasted a generation was to be sent to St. Petersburg to hibernate
after a lifetime spent in sunny Italy. Well! after all, it was better
worth the money paid for it than that paid for nine tenths of those
kingly toys in the baby-house Green Chambers of Dresden. _Le Roi
s'amuse!_

And the white-haired Saxons came in shoals to the studio to see the
painting with thirty years' labor on it, and accordingly as their
oracles had judged it, so did they: for behold! gay colors are tabooed
in the mythology of the Pokerites, and are classed with perfumes,
dance-music, and jollity, and art earns a precarious livelihood in their
land, where all knowledge of it is supposed to be tied up with the
enjoyers of primogeniture.


ROMAN THEATRES.

The Apollo, where grand opera, sandwiched with moral ballets, is given
for the benefit of foreigners, principally, would be a fine house if you
could only see it; but when Caper was in Rome, the oil-lamps, showing
you where to sit down, did not reveal its proportions, or the dresses of
the box-beauties, to any advantage; and as oil-lamps will smoke, there
settled a veil over the theatre towards the second act, that draped
Comedy like Tragedy, and then set her to coughing.

During Carnival a melancholy ball or two was given there: a few wild
foreigners venturing in masked, believed they had mistaken the house,
for although many women were wandering around in domino, they found the
Roman young men unmasked, walking about dressed in canes and those
dress-coats, familiarly known as tail-coats, which cause a man to look
like a swallow with the legs of a crane, and wearing on their impassive
faces the appearance of men waiting for an oyster-supper--or an
earthquake.

The commissionaire at the hotel always recommends strangers to go to the
Apollo: 'I will git you loge, sare, first tier--more noble, sare.'

The Capranica Theatre is next in size and importance; it is beyond the
Pantheon, out of the foreign quarter of Rome, and you will find in it a
Roman audience--to a limited extent. Salvini acted there in _Othello_,
and filled the character admirably; it is needless to say that Iago
received even more applause than Othello; Italians know such men
profoundly--they are Figaros turned undertakers. Opera was given at the
Capranica when the Apollo was closed.

The Valle is a small establishment, where Romans, pure blood, of the
middle class, and the nobility who did not hang on to foreigners, were
to be found. Giuseppina Gassier, who has since sung in America, was
prima-donna there, appearing generally in the _Sonnambula_.

But the Capranica Theatre was the resort for the Roman _minenti_, decked
in all their bravery. Here came the shoemaker, the tailor, and the small
artisan, all with their wives or women, and with them the wealthy
peasant who had ten cents to pay for entrance. Here the audience wept
and laughed, applauded the actors, and talked to each other from one
side of the house to the other. Here the plays represented Roman life in
the rough, and were full of words and expressions not down in any
dictionary or phrase-book; nor in these local displays were forgotten
various Roman peculiarities of accentuation of words, and curious
intonations of voice. The Roman people indulge in chest-notes, leaving
head-notes to the Neapolitans, who certainly do not possess such
smoothness of tongue as would classify them among their brethren in the
old proverb: 'When the confusion of tongues happened at the building of
the Tower of Babel, if the Italian had been there, Nimrod would have
made him a plasterer!'

You will do well, if you want to learn from the stage and audience, the
Roman _plebs_, their customs and language, to attend the Capranica
Theatre often; to attend it in 'fatigue-dress,' and in gentle mood,
being neither shocked nor astonished if a good-looking Roman youth
should call your attention to the fact that there is a beautiful girl in
the box to the left hand, and inquire if you know whether she is the
daughter of Santi Stefoni, the grocer? And should the man on the other
side offer you some pumpkin-seeds to eat, by all means accept a few; you
can't tell what they may bring forth, if you will only plant them
cheerfully.

Do not think it strange if a doctor on the stage recommends conserve of
vipers to a consumptive patient; for these poisonous reptiles are caught
in large numbers in the mountains back of Rome, and sold to the city
apothecaries, who prepare large quantities of them for their customers.

When you see, perhaps the hero of the play, thrown into a paroxysm of
anger and fiery wrath by some untoward event, proceed calmly to cut up
two lemons, squeeze into a tumbler their juice, and then drink it
down--learn that it is a common Roman remedy for anger.

Or if, when a piece of crockery, or other fragile article, may be
broken, you notice one of the actors carefully counting the pieces, do
not think it is done in order to reconstruct the article, but to guide
him in the purchase of a lottery-ticket.

When you notice that on one of his hands the second finger is twined
over the first, of the Rightful-heir in presence of the Wrongful-heir,
you may know that the first is guarding himself against the Evil Eye
supposed to belong to the second.

And--the list could be extended to an indefinite length--you will learn
more, by going to the Capranica.

At the Metastasio Theatre there was a French vaudeville company,
passably good, attended by a French audience, the majority officers and
soldiers. Here were presented such attractive plays as _La Femme qui
Mord_, or 'The Woman who Bites;' _Sullivan_, the hero of which gets
_bien gris_, very gray, that is, blue, that is, very tipsy, and at the
close, astonishes the audience with the moral: To get tight is human!
_Dalilah_, etc., etc. The French are not very well beloved by the Romans
pure and simple; it is not astonishing, therefore, that their language
should be laughed at. One morning Rome woke up to find placards all
over the city, headed:

  FRENCH

  TAUGHT IN THIRTY-SIX LESSONS!

  Apply to Monsieur SO-AND-SO.

A few days afterward appeared a fearful wood-cut, the head of a jackass,
with his tongue hanging down several inches, and under it, these words,
in Italian: 'The only tongue yet learnt in less than thirty-six
lessons!'

Caper, seated one night in the parquette of the Metastasio, had at his
side a French infantry soldier. In conversation he asked him:

'How long have you been in Rome?'

'Three years, _Mossu_.'

'Wouldn't you like to return to France?'

'Not at all.'

'Why not?'

'Wine is cheap, here, tobacco not dear, the ladies are extremely kind:
_voila tout!_'

'You have all these in France.'

'_Oui, Mossu!_ but when I return there I shall be a farmer again; and
it's a frightful fact that you may plow your heart out without turning
up but a very small quantity of these articles there!'

French soldiers still protect Rome--and 'these articles there.'


THE BEARDS OF ART.

'Can you tell me,' said Uncle Bill Browne to Rocjean, with the air of a
man about to ask a hard conundrum, 'why beards, long hair, and art,
always go together?'

'Of course, art draws out beards along with talent; paints and bristles
must go together; but high-art drives the hair of the head in, and
clinches it. Among artists first and last there have been men with giant
minds, and they have known it was their duty to show their mental power:
the beard is the index.'

'But the beard points downward,' suggested Caper, 'and not upward.'

'That depends----'

'On _pomade Hongroise_--or beeswax,' interrupted Caper.

'Exactly; but let me answer Uncle Bill. To begin, we may safely assert
that an artist's life--here in Rome, for instance--is about as
independent a one as society will tolerate; its laws, as to shaving
especially, he ignores, and caring very little for the Rules of the
Toilette, as duly published by the--_bon ton_ journals, uses his razor
for mending lead-pencils, and permits his beard to enjoy long vacation
rambles. Again: those who first set the example of long beards, Leonardo
da Vinci, for example, who painted his own portrait with a full beard a
foot long, were men who moved from principle, and I have the belief that
were Leonardo alive to-day, he would say:

"My son, and well-beloved Rocjean, _zitto!_ and let ME talk. Know, then,
that I did permit my beard luxuriant length--for a reason. Thou dost not
know, but I do, that among the ancient Egyptians they worshiped in their
deity the male and female principle combined; so the exponents of this
belief, the Egyptian priests, endeavored in their attire to show a
mingling of the male and female sex; they wore long garments like women,
_vergogna!_ they wore long hair, _guai!_ and they SHAVED THEIR FACES! It
pains me to say, that their indecent example is followed even to this
day, by the priests of what should be a purer and better religion.

"_Silenzio!_ I have not yet said my say. Among Eastern nations, their
proverbs, and what is better, their customs, show a powerful protest
against this impure old faith. You have seen the flowing beards of the
Mohammedans, especially the Turks, and their short-shaved heads of hair,
and you may have heard of their words of wisdom:

"'Long hair, little brain.'

"And that eloquent sentence:

"'Who has no beard has no authority.'

"They have other sayings, which I can not approve of; for instance:

"'Do not buy a red-haired person, do not sell one, either; if you have
any in the house, drive them away.'

"I say I do not approve of this, for the majority of the English have
red heads, and people who want to buy my pictures I never would drive
out of my house, _mai!_"

'Come,' said Caper, 'Leonardo no longer speaks when there is a question
of buying or selling. Assume the first person.'

'Another excellent reason for artists in Rome to wear beards is, that
where their foreign names can not be pronounced, they are often called
by the size, color, or shape, of this face-drapery. This is particularly
the case in the Cafe Greco, where the waiters, who have to charge for
coffee, etc., when the artist does not happen to have the change about
him, are compelled to give him a name on their books, and in more than
one instance, I know that they are called from their beards, I have a
memorandum of these nicknames: I am called _Barbone_, or Big-bearded;
and you, Caper, are down as _Sbarbato Inglese_, the Shaved Englishman.'

'Hm!' spoke Caper, 'I an't an Englishman, and I don't shave; my beard
has to come yet.'

'What is my name?' asked Uncle Bill.

'_Puga Sempre_, or He Pays Always. A countryman of mine is called _Baffi
Rici_, or Big Moustache; another one, _Barbetta_, Little Beard; another,
_Barbaccia_, Shabby Beard; another, _Barba Nera_, Black Beard; and, of
course, there is a _Barba Rossa_, or Red Beard. Some of the other names
are funny enough, and would by no means please their owners. There is
_Zoppo Francese_, the Lame Frenchman; _Scapiglione_, the Rowdy;
_Pappagallo_, the Parrot; _Milordo_; _Furioso_; and one friend of ours
is known, whenever he forgets to pay two baiocchi for his coffee, as
_San Pietro_!'

'Well,' said Uncle Bill, 'I'll tell you why I thought you artists wore
long beards: that when you were hard up, and couldn't buy brushes, you
might have the material ready to make your own.'

'You're wrong, Uncle,' remarked Caper; 'when we can't buy them, we get
trusted for them--that's our way of having a brush with the enemy.'

'That will do, Jim, that will do; say no more. None of the artists'
beards here, can compare with one belonging to a buffalo-and-prairie
painter who lives out in St. Louis--it is so long he ties the ends
together and uses it for a boot-jack. Good-night, boys, good-night!'


A CALICO-PAINTER.

Rocjean was finishing his after-dinnerical coffee and cigar, when
looking up from _Las Novedades_, containing the latest news from Madrid,
and in which he had just read _en Roma es donde hay mas mendigos_, Rome,
is where most beggars are found; London, where most engineers, lost
women, and rat-terriers, abound; Brussels, where women who smoke, are
all round--looking up from this interesting reading, he saw opposite him
a young man, whose acquaintance he knew at a glance, was worth making.
Refinement, common-sense, and energy were to be read plainly in his
face. When he left the cafe, Rocjean asked an artist, with long hair,
who was fast smoking himself to the color of the descendants of Ham, if
he knew the man?'

'No-o-oo, I believe he's some kind of a calico-painter.'

'What?'

'Oh! a feller that makes designs for a calico-mill.'

Not long afterward Rocjean was introduced to him, and found him, as
first impressions taught him he would--a man well worth knowing. Ho was
making a holiday-visit to Rome, his settled residence being in Paris,
where his occupation was designer of patterns for a large calico-mill in
the United States. A New-Yorker by birth, consequently more of a
cosmopolitan than the provincial life of our other American cities will
tolerate or can create in their children, Charles Gordon was every inch
a man, and a bitter foe to every liar and thief. He was well informed,
for he had, as a boy, been solidly instructed; he was polite, refined,
for he had been well educated. His life was a story often told:
mercantile parent, very wealthy; son sent to college; talent for art,
developed at the expense of trigonometry and morning-prayers; mercantile
parent fails, and falls from Fifth avenue to Brooklyn, preparatory to
embarking for the land of those who have failed and fallen--wherever
that is. Son wears long hair, and believes he looks like the painter who
was killed by a baker's daughter, writes trashy verses about a man who
was wronged, and went off and howled himself to a long repose, sick of
this vale of tears, et cetera. Finally, in the midst of his despair,
long hair, bad poetry and painting, an enterprising friend, who sees he
has an eye for color, its harmonies and contrasts, raises him with a
strong hand into the clear atmosphere of exertion for a useful and
definite end--makes him a 'calico-painter.'

It was a great scandal for the Bohemians of art to find this
calico-painter received every where in refined and intelligent society,
while they, with all their airs, long hairs, and shares of impudence,
could not enter--they, the creators of Medoras, Magdalens, Our Ladies of
Lorette, Brigands' Brides, Madame not In, Captive Knights, Mandoline
Players, Grecian Mothers, Love in Repose, Love in Sadness, Moonlight on
the Waves, Last Tears, Resignation, Broken Lutes, Dutch Flutes, and
other mock-sentimental-titled paintings.

'God save me from being a gazelle!' said the monkey.

'God save us from being utility calico-painters!' cried the high-minded,
dirty cavaliers who were not cavaliers, as they once more rolled over in
their smoke-house.

'In 1854,' said Gordon, one day, to Rocjean, after their acquaintance
had ripened into friendship, 'I was indeed in sad circumstances, and was
passing through a phase of life when bad tobacco, acting on an empty
stomach, gave me a glimpse of the Land of the Grumblers. One long year,
and all that was changed; then I woke up to reality and practical life
in a 'Calico-Mill;' then I wrote the lines you have asked me about. Take
them for what they are worth.


REDIVIVUS.

MDCCCLVI

  'He sat in a garret in Fifty-four,
    To welcome Fifty-five.
  'God knows,' said he, 'if another year
    Will find this man alive.
  I was born for love, I live in song,
  Yet loveless and songless I'm passing along,
      And the world?--Hurrah!
      Great soul, sing on!

  'He sat in the dark, in Fifty-four,
    To welcome Fifty-five.
  'God knows,' said he, 'if another year
    I'll any better thrive.
  I was born for light, I live in the sun,
  Yet in, darkness, and sunless, I'm passing on,
      And the world?--Hurrah!
      Great soul, shine on!'

  'He sat in the cold, in Fifty-four,
    To welcome Fifty-five.
  'God knows,' said he, 'I'm fond of fire,
    From warmth great joy derive.
  I was born warm-hearted, and oh! it's wrong
  For them all to coldly pass along:
      And the world?--Hurrah!
      Great soul, burn on!'

  'He sat in a home, in Fifty-five,
    To welcome Fifty-six.
  'Throw open the doors!' he cried aloud,
    'To all whom Fortune kicks!
  I was born for love, I was born for song,
  And great-hearted MEN my halls shall throng.
      And the world?--Hurrah!
      Great soul, sing on!'

  'He sat in bright light, in Fifty-five,
    To welcome Fifty-six.
  'More lights!' he cried out with joyous shout,
    'Night ne'er with day should mix.
  I was born for light, I live in the sun,
  In the joy of others my life's begun.
      And the world?--Hurrah!
      Great soul, shine on!'

  'He sat in great warmth, in Fifty-five,
    To welcome Fifty-six,
  In a glad and merry company
    Of brave, true-hearted Bricks!
  'I was born for warmth, I was born for love,
  I've found them all, thank GOD above!
      And the world?--Ah! bah!
      Great soul, move on!''


A PATRON OF ART.

The Roman season was nearly over: travelers were making preparations to
fly out of one gate as the Malaria should enter by the other; for,
according to popular report, this fearful disease enters, the last day
of April, at midnight, and is in full possession of the city on the
first day of May. Rocjean, not having any fears of it, was preparing not
only to meet it, but to go out and spend the summer with it; it costs
something, however, to keep company with La Malaria, and our artist had
but little money: he must sell some paintings. Now it was unfortunate
for him that though a good painter, he was a bad salesman; he never kept
a list of all the arrivals of his wealthy countrymen or other strangers
who bought paintings; he never ran after them, laid them under
obligations with drinks, dinners, and drives; for he had neither the
inclination nor that capital which is so important for a
picture-merchant to possess in order to drive--a heavy trade, and
achieve success--such as it is. Rocjean had friends, and warm ones; so
that whenever they judged his finances were in an embarrassed state,
they voluntarily sent wealthy sensible as well as wealthy insensible
patrons of art to his aid, the latter going as Dutch galliots laden with
doubloons might go to the relief of a poor, graceful felucca, thrown on
her beam-ends by a squall.

One morning there glowed in Rocjean's studio the portly forms of Mr. and
Mrs. Cyrus Shodd, together with the tall, fragile figure of Miss Tillie
Shodd, daughter and heiress apparent and transparent. Rocjean welcomed
them as he would have manna in the desert, for he judged by the air and
manner of the head of the family, that he was on picture-buying bent. He
even gayly smiled when Miss Shodd, pointing out to her father, with her
parasol, some beauty in a painting on the easel, run its point along the
canvas, causing a green streak from the top of a stone pine to extend
from the tree same miles into the distant mountains of the Abruzzi-the
paint was not dry!

She made several hysterical shouts of horror after committing this
little act, and then seating herself in an arm-chair, proceeded to take
a mental inventory of the articles of furniture in the studio.

Mr. Shodd explained to Rocjean that he was a plain man:

This was apparent at sight.

That he was an uneducated man:

This asserted itself to the eyes and ears.

After which self-denial, he commenced 'pumping' the artist on various
subjects, assuming an ignorance of things which, to a casual observer,
made him appear like a fool; to a thoughtful person, a knave: the whole
done in order, perhaps, to learn about some trifle which a plain,
straightforward question would have elicited at once. Rocjean saw his
man, and led him a fearful gallop in order to thoroughly examine his
action and style.

Spite of his commercial life, Mr. Shodd had found time to 'self-educate'
himself--he meant self-instruct--and having a retentive memory, and a
not always strict regard for truth, was looked up to by the
humble-ignorant as a very columbiad in argument, the only fault to be
found with which gun was, that when it was drawn from its quiescent
state into action, its effective force was comparatively nothing, one
half the charge escaping through the large touch-hole of untruth.
Discipline was entirely wanting in Mr. Shodd's composition. A man who
undertakes to be his own teacher rarely punishes his scholar, rarely
checks him with rules and practice, or accustoms him to order and
subordination. Mr. Shodd, therefore, was--undisciplined: a raw recruit,
not a soldier.

Of course, his conversation was all contradictory. In one breath, on the
self-abnegation principle, he would say, 'I don't know any thing about
paintings;' in the next breath, his overweening egotism would make him
loudly proclaim: 'There never was but one painter in this world, and
his name is Hockskins; he lives in my town, and he knows more than any
of your 'old masters'! _I_ ought to know!' Or, '_I_ am an uneducated
man,' meaning uninstructed; immediately following it with the assertion:
'All teachers, scholars, and colleges are useless folly, and all
education is worthless, except self-education.'

Unfortunately, self-education is too often only education of self!

After carefully examining all Rocjean's pictures, he settled his
attention on a sunset view over the Campagna, leaving Mrs. Shodd to talk
with our artist. You have seen--all have seen--more than one Mrs. Shodd;
by nature and innate refinement, ladies; (the 'Little Dorrits' Dickens
shows to his beloved countrymen, to prove to them that not all nobility
is nobly born--a very mild lesson, which they refuse to regard;) Mrs.
Shodds who, married to Mr. Shodds, pass a life of silent protest against
brutal words and boorish actions. With but few opportunities to add
acquirable graces to natural ease and self-possession, there was that in
her kindly tone of voice and gentle manner winning the heart of a
gentleman to respect her as he would his mother. It was her mission to
atone for her husband's sins, and she fulfilled her duty; more could not
be asked of her, for his sins were many. The daughter was a copy of the
father, in crinoline; taking to affectation--which is vulgarity in its
most offensive form--as a duck takes to water. Even her dress was
marked, not by that neatness which shows refinement, but by precision,
which in dress is vulgar. One glance, and you saw the woman who in
another age would have thrown her glove to the tiger for her lover to
pick up!

Among Rocjean's paintings was the portrait of a very beautiful woman,
made by him years before, when he first became an artist, and long
before he had been induced to abandon portrait-painting for landscape.
It was never shown to studio-visitors, and was placed with its face
against the wall, behind other paintings. In moving one of these to
place it in a good light on the easel, it fell with the others to the
floor, face uppermost; and while Rocjean, with a painting in his hands,
could not stoop at once to replace it, Miss Shodd's sharp eyes
discovered the beautiful face, and, her curiosity being excited, nothing
would do but it must be placed on the easel. Unwilling to refuse a
request from the daughter of a Patron of Art in perspective, Rocjean
complied, and, when the portrait was placed, glancing toward Mrs. Shodd,
had the satisfaction of reading in her eyes true admiration for the
startlingly lovely face looking out so womanly from the canvas.

'Hm!' said Shodd the father, 'quite a fancy head.'

'Oh! it is an exact portrait of Julia Ting; if she had sat for her
likeness, it couldn't have been better. I must have the painting, pa,
for Julia's sake. I _must_. It's a naughty word, isn't it, Mr. Rocjean?
but it is so expressive!'

'Unfortunately, the portrait is not for sale; I placed it on the easel
only in order not to refuse your request.'

Mr. Shodd saw the road open to an argument. He was in ecstasy; a long
argument--an argument full of churlish flings and boorish slurs, which
he fondly believed passed for polished satire and keen irony. He did not
know Rocjean; he never could know a man like him; he never could learn
the truth that confidence will overpower strength; only at last, when
through his hide and bristles entered the flashing steel, did he,
tottering backwards, open his eyes to the fact that he had found his
master--that, too, in a poor devil of an artist.

The landscapes were all thrown aside; Shodd must have that portrait. His
daughter had set her heart on having it, he said, and could a gentleman
refuse a lady any thing?

'It is on this very account I refuse to part with it,' answered Rocjean.

It instantly penetrated Shodd's head that all this refusal was only
design on the part of the artist, to obtain a higher price for the work
than he could otherwise hope for; and so, with what he believed was a
master-stroke of policy, he at once ceased importuning the artist, and
shortly departed from the studio, preceding his wife with his daughter
on his arm, leaving the consoler, and by all means his best half, to
atone, by a few kind words at parting with the artist, for her husband's
sins.

'And there,' thought Rocjean, as the door closed, 'goes 'a patron of
art'--and by no means the worst pattern. I hope he will meet with
Chapin, and buy an Orphan and an Enterprise statue; once in his house,
they will prove to every observant man the owner's taste.'

Mr. Shodd, having a point to gain, went about it with elephantine grace
and dexterity. The portrait he had seen at Rocjean's studio he was
determined to have. He invited the artist to dine with him--the artist
sent his regrets; to accompany him, 'with the ladies,' in his carriage
to Tivoli--the artist politely declined the invitation; to a
_conversazione_, the invitation from Mrs. Shodd--a previous engagement
prevented the artist's acceptance.

Mr. Shodd changed his tactics. He discovered at his banker's one day a
keen, communicative, wiry, shrewd, etc., etc., enterprising, etc., 'made
a hundred thousand dollars' sort of a little man, named Briggs, who was
traveling in order to travel, and grumble. Mr. Shodd 'came the ignorant
game' over this Briggs; pumped him, without obtaining any information,
and finally turned the conversation on artists, denouncing the entire
body as a set of the keenest swindlers, and citing the instance of one
he knew who had a painting which he believed it would be impossible for
any man to buy, simply because the artist, knowing that he (Shodd)
wished it, would not set a price on it, so as to have a very high one
offered (!) Mr. Briggs instantly was deeply interested. Here was a
chance for him to display before Shodd of Shoddsville his shrewdness,
keenness, and so forth. He volunteered to buy the painting.

In Rome, an artist's studio may be his castle, or it may be an Exchange.
To have it the first, you must affix a notice to your studio-door
announcing that all entrance of visitors to the studio is forbidden
except on, say, 'Monday from twelve A.M. to three P.M. This is the
baronial manner. But the artist who is not wealthy or has not made a
name, must keep an Exchange, and receive all visitors who choose to
come, at almost any hours--model hours excepted. So Briggs, learning
from Shodd, by careful cross-questioning, the artist's name, address,
and a description of the painting, walked there at once, introduced
himself to Rocjean, shook his hand as if it were the handle of a pump
upon which he had serious intentions, and then began examining the
paintings. He looked at them all, but there was no portrait. He asked
Rocjean if he painted portraits; he found out that he did not. Finally,
he told the artist that he had heard some one say--he did not remember
who--that he had seen a very pretty head in his studio, and asked
Rocjean if he would show it to him.

'You have seen Mr. Shodd lately, I should think?' said the artist,
looking into the eyes of Mr. Briggs.

A suggestion of a clean brick-bat passed under a sheet of yellow
tissue-paper was observable in the hard cheeks of Mr. Briggs, that being
the final remnant of all appearance of modesty left in the sharp man, in
the shape of a blush.

'Oh! yes; every body knows Shodd--man of great talent--generous,' said
Briggs.

'Mr. Shodd may be very well known,' remarked Rocjean measuredly, 'but
the portrait he saw is not well known; he and his family are the only
ones who have seen it. Perhaps it may save you trouble to know that the
portrait I have several times refused to sell him will never be sold
while I live. The _common_ opinion that an artist, like a Jew, will sell
the old clo' from his back for money, is erroneous.'

Mr. Briggs shortly after this left the studio, slightly at a discount,
and as if he had been measured, as he said to himself; and then and
there determined to say nothing to Shodd about his failing in his
mission to the savage artist. But Shodd found it all out in the first
conversation he made with Briggs; and very bitter were his feelings when
he learnt that a poor devil of an artist dared possess any thing he
could not buy, and moreover had a quiet moral strength which the vulgar
man feared. In his anger, Shodd, with his disregard for truth, commenced
a fearful series of attacks against the artist, regaling every one he
dared to with the coarsest slanders, in the vilest language, against the
painter's character. A very few days sufficed to circulate them, so that
they reached Rocjean's ears; a very few minutes passed before the artist
presented himself to the eyes of Shodd, and, fortunately finding him
alone, told him in four words, 'You are a slanderer;' mentioning to him,
beside, that if he ever uttered another slander against his name, he
should compel him to give him instantaneous satisfaction, and that, as
an American, Shodd knew what that meant.

It is needless to say that a liar and slanderer is a coward;
consequently Mr. Shodd, with the consequences before his eyes, never
again alluded to Rocjean, and shortly left the city for Naples, to
bestow the light of his countenance there in his great character of Art
Patron.

       *       *       *       *       *

'It is a heart-touching face,' said Caper, as one morning, while hauling
over his paintings, Rocjean brought the portrait to light which the
cunning Shodd had so longed to possess for cupidity's sake.

'I should feel as if I had thrown Psyche to the Gnomes to be torn to
pieces, if I had given such a face to Shodd. If I had sold it to him, I
should have been degraded; for the women loved by man should be kept
sacred in memory. She was a girl I knew in Prague, and, I think, with
six or eight exceptions, the loveliest one I ever met. Some night, at
sunset, I shall walk over the old bridge, and meet her as we parted;
_apropos_ of which meeting, I once wrote some words. Hand me that
portfolio, will you? Thank you. Oh! yes; here they are. Now, read them,
Caper; out with them!


ANEZKA OD PRAHA.

  Years, weary years, since on the Moldau bridge,
  By the five stars and cross of Nepomuk,
  I kissed the scarlet sunset from her lips:
    Anezka, fair Bohemian, thou wert there!

  Dark waves beneath the bridge were running fast,
  In haste to bathe the shining rocks, whence rose
  Tier over tier, the gloaming domes and spires,
  Turrets and minarets of the Holy City,
  Its crown the Hradschin of Bohemia's kings.
  O'er Wysscherad we saw the great stars shine;
  We felt the night-wind on the rushing stream;
  We drank the air as if 'twere Melnick wine,
  And every draught whirled us still nearer Nebe:
    Anezka, fair Bohemian, thou wert there!

  Why ever gleam thy black eyes sadly on me?
  Why ever rings thy sweet voice in my ear?
  Why looks thy pale face from the drifting foam--
  Dashed by the wild sea on this distant shore--
  Or from the white clouds does it beckon me?

  My own heart answers: On the Moldau bridge,
    Anezka, we will meet to part no more.




ANTHONY TROLLOPE ON AMERICA.


Mr. Anthony Trollope's work entitled _North-America_ has been
republished in this country, and curiosity has at length been satisfied.
Great as has been this curiosity among his friends, it can not, however,
be said to have been wide-spread, inasmuch as up to the appearance of
this book of travels, comparatively few were aware of the presence of
Mr. Trollope in this country. When Charles Dickens visited America, our
people testified their admiration of his homely genius by going mad,
receiving him with frantic acclamations of delight, dining him, and
suppering him, and going through the 'pump-handle movement' with him.
Mr. Dickens was, in consequence, intensely bored by this attestation of
popular idolatry so peculiar to the United States, and looked upon us as
officious, absurd, and disgusting. Officious we were, and absurd enough,
surely, but far from being disgusting. He ought hardly to beget disgust
whose youth and inexperience leads him to extravagance in his kindly
demonstrations toward genius. However, Mr. Dickens went home rather more
impressed by our faults, which he had had every opportunity of
inspecting, than by our virtues, which possessed fewer salient features
to his humorous eye. Two books--_American Notes_ and _Martin
Chuzzlewit_--were the product of his tour through America. Thereupon,
the American people grew very indignant. Their Dickens-love, in
proportion to its intensity, turned to Dickens-hate, and ingratitude was
considered to be synonymous with the name of this novelist. We gave him
every chance to see our follies, and we snubbed his cherished and chief
object in visiting America, concerning a copyright. There is little
wonder, then, that Dickens, an Englishman and a caricaturist, should
have painted us in the colors that he did. There is scarcely less wonder
that Americans, at that time, all in the white-heat of enthusiasm,
should have waxed angry at Dickens' cold return to so much warmth. But,
reading these books in the light of 1862, there are few of us who do not
smile at the rage of our elders. We see an uproariously funny
extravaganza in _Martin Chuzzlewit_, which we can well afford to laugh
at, having grown thicker-skinned, and wonder what there is to be found
in the _Notes_ so very abominable to an American. Mr. Dickens was a
humorist, not a statesman or philosopher, therefore he wrote of us as a
disappointed humorist would have been tempted to write.

It is not likely that Mr. Trollope's advent in this country would have
given rise to any remark or excitement, his novels, clever though they
be, not having taken hold of the people's heart as did those of Dickens.
He came among us quietly; the newspapers gave him no flourish of
trumpets; he traveled about unknown; hence it was, that few knew a new
book was to be written upon America by one bearing a name not
over-popular thirty years ago. Curiosity was confined to the friends and
acquaintances of Mr. Trollope, who were naturally not a little anxious
that he should conscientiously write such a book as would remove the
existing prejudice to the name of Trollope, and render him personally as
popular as his novels. For there are, we believe, few intelligent
Americans (and Mr. Trollope is good enough to say that we of the North
are all intelligent) who are not ready to '_faire l'aimable_' to the
kindly, genial author of _North-America_. It is not being rash to state
that Mr. Trollope, in his last book, has not disappointed his warmest
personal friends in this country, and this is saying much, when it is
considered that many of them are radically opposed to him in many of
his opinions, and most of them hold very different views from him in
regard to the present war. They are not disappointed, because Mr.
Trollope has _labored_ to be impartial in his criticisms. He has, at
least, _endeavored_ to lay aside his English prejudices and judge us in
a spirit of truth and good-fellowship. Mr. Trollope inaugurated a new
era in British book-making upon America, when he wrote: 'If I could in
any small degree add to the good feeling which should exist between two
nations which ought to love each other so well, and which do hang upon
each other so constantly, I should think that I had cause to be proud of
my work.' In saying this much, Mr. Trollope has said what others of his
ilk--Bulwer, Thackeray, and Dickens--would _not_ have said, and he may
well be proud, or, at least, he can afford _not_ to be proud, of a
superior honesty and frankness. He has won for himself kind thoughts on
this side of the Atlantic, and were Americans convinced that the body
English were imbued with the spirit of Mr. Trollope, there would be
little left of the resuscitated 'soreness.'

In his introduction, Mr. Trollope frankly acknowledges that 'it is very
hard to write about any country a book that does not represent the
country described in a more or less ridiculous point of view.' He
confesses that he is not a philosophico-political or
politico-statistical or a statistico-scientific writer, and hence,
'ridicule and censure run glibly from the pen, and form themselves into
sharp paragraphs, which are pleasant to the reader. Whereas, eulogy is
commonly dull, and too frequently sounds as though it were false.' We
agree with him, that 'there is much difficulty in expressing a verdict
which is intended to be favorable, but which, though favorable, shall
not be falsely eulogistic, and though true, not offensive.' Mr. Trollope
has not been offensive either in his praise or dispraise; and when we
look upon him in the light in which he paints himself--that of an
English novelist--he has, at least, done his best by us. We could not
expect from him such a book as Emerson wrote on _English Traits_, or
such an one as Thomas Buckle would have written had death not staid his
great work of _Civilization_. Nor could we look to him for that which
John Stuart Mill--the English De Tocqueville--alone can give. For much
that we expected we have received, for that which is wanting we shall
now find fault, but good-naturedly, we hope.

Our first ground of complaint against Mr. Trollope's _North-America_, is
its extreme verbosity. Had it been condensed to one half, or at least
one third of its present size, the spirit of the book had been less
weakened, and the taste of the public better satisfied. The question
naturally arises in an inquiring mind, if the author could make so much
out of a six months' tour through the Northern States, what would the
consequences have been had he remained a year, and visited Dixie's land
as well? The conclusions logically arrived at are, to say the least,
very unfavorable to weak-eyed persons who are condemned to read the
cheap American edition. Life is too short, and books are too numerous,
to allow of repetition; and at no time is Mr. Trollope so guilty in this
respect as when he dilates upon those worthies, Mason and Slidell, in
connection with the Trent affair. It was very natural, especially as
England has come off first-best in this matter, that Mr. Trollope should
have made a feature of the Trent in reporting the state of the American
pulse thereon. One reference to the controversy was desirable, two
endurable, but the third return to the charge is likely to meet with
impatient exclamations from the reader, who heartily sympathizes with
the author when he says: 'And now, I trust, I may finish my book without
again naming Messrs. Slidell and Mason.'

It certainly was rash to rave as we did on this subject, but it was
quite natural, when our jurists, (even the Hon. Caleb Cushing) who were
supposed to know their business, assured us that we had right on our
side. It was extremely ridiculous to put Captain Wilkes upon a pedestal
a little lower than Bunker-Hill monument, and present him with a hero's
sword for doing what was then considered _only_ his duty. But it must be
remembered that at that time the mere performance of duty by a public
officer was so extraordinary a phenomenon that loyal people were brought
to believe it merited especial recognition. Our Government, and not the
people, were to blame. Had the speech of Charles Sumner, delivered on
his 'field-day,' been the verdict of the Washington Cabinet _previous_
to the reception of England's expostulations, the position taken by
America on this subject would have been highly dignified and honorable.
As it is, we stand with feathers ruffled and torn. But if, as we
suppose, the Trent imbroglio leads to a purification of maritime law,
not only America, but the entire commercial world will be greatly
indebted to the super-patriotism of Captain Wilkes.

'The charming women of Boston' are inclined to quarrel with their friend
Mr. Trollope, for ridiculing their powers of argumentation _apropos_ to
Captain Wilkes, for Mr. Trollope must confess they knew quite as much
about what they were talking as the lawyers by whom they were
instructed. They have had more than their proper share of revenge,
however, meted out for them by the reviewer of the London _Critic_, who
writes as follows:

     'Mr. Trollope was in Boston when the first news about the Trent
     arrived. Of course, every body was full of the subject at once--Mr.
     Trollope, we presume, not excluded--albeit he is rather sarcastic
     upon the young ladies who began immediately to chatter about it.
     'Wheaton is quite clear about it,' said one young girl to me. It
     was the first I had heard of Wheaton, and so far was obliged to
     knock under.' Yet Mr. Trollope, knowing very little more of Wheaton
     than he did before, and obviously nothing of the great authorities
     on maritime law, inflicts upon his readers page after page of
     argument upon the Trent affair, not half so delightful as the
     pretty babble of the ball-room belle. With all due respect to Mr.
     Trollope, and his attractions, we are quite sure that we would much
     sooner get our international law from the lips of the fair
     Bostonian than from _his_.'

After such a champion as this, could the fair Bostonians have the heart
to assail Mr. Trollope?

Mr. Trollope treats of our civil war at great length; in fact, the
reverberations of himself on this matter are quite as objectionable as
those in the Trent affair. But it is his treatment of this subject that
must ever be a source of regret to the earnest thinkers who are
gradually becoming the masters of our Government's policy, who
constitute the bone and muscle of the land, the rank and file of the
army, and who are changing the original character of the war into that
of a holy crusade. It is to be deplored, because Mr. Trollope's book
will no doubt influence English opinion, to a certain extent, and
therefore militate against us, and we already know how his mistaken
opinions have been seized upon by pro-slavery journals in this country
as a _bonne bouche_ which they rarely obtain from so respectable a
source; the more palatable to them, coming from that nationality which
we have always been taught to believe was more abolition in its creed
than William Lloyd Garrison himself, and from whose people we have
received most of our lectures on the sin of slavery. It is sad that so
fine a nature as that of Mr. Trollope should not feel
conscience-stricken in believing that 'to mix up the question of general
abolition with this war must be the work of a man too ignorant to
understand the real subject of the war, or too false to his country to
regard it.' Yet it is strange that these 'too ignorant' or 'too false'
men are the very ones that Mr. Trollope holds up to admiration, and
declares that any nation might be proud to claim their genius.
Longfellow and Lowell, Emerson and Motley, to whom we could add almost
all the well-known thinkers of the country, men after his own heart in
most things, belong to this 'ignorant' or 'false' sect. Is it their one
madness? That is a strange madness which besets our _greatest_ men and
women; a marvelous anomaly surely. Yet there must be something
sympathetic in abolitionism to Mr. Trollope, for he prefers Boston, the
centre of this ignorance, to all other American cities, and finds his
friends for the most part among these false ones, by which we are to
conclude that Mr. Trollope is by nature an abolitionist, but that
circumstances have been unfavorable to his proper development. And these
circumstances we ascribe to a hasty and superficial visit to the British
West-India colonies.

It is well known that in his entertaining book on travels in the
West-Indies and Spanish Main, Mr. Trollope undertakes to prove that
emancipation has both ruined the commercial prosperity of the British
islands and degraded the free blacks to a level with the idle brute. Mr.
Trollope is still firm in this opinion, notwithstanding the statistics
of the Blue Book, which prove that these colonies never were in so
flourishing a condition as at present. We, in America, have also had the
same fact demonstrated by figures, in that very plainly written book
called the _Ordeal of Free Labor_. Mr. Trollope, no doubt, saw some very
lazy negroes, wallowing in dirt, and living only for the day, but later
developments have proved that his investigations could have been simply
those of a dilettante. It is highly probable that the planters who have
been shorn of their riches by the edict of Emancipation, should paint
the present condition of the blacks in any thing but rose-colors, and
we, of course, believe that Mr. Trollope _believes_ what he has written.
He is none the less mistaken, if we are to pin our faith to the Blue
Book, which we are told never lies. And yet, believing that emancipation
has made a greater brute than ever of the negro, Mr. Trollope rejoices
in the course which has been pursued by the home government. If both
white man and black man are worse off than they were before, what good
could have been derived from the reform, and by what right ought he to
rejoice? Mr. Trollope claims to be an anti-slavery man, but we must
confess that to our way of arguing, the ground he stands upon in this
matter is any thing but _terra firma_. Mr. Trollope was probably
thinking of those dirty West-India negroes when he made the following
comments upon a lecture delivered by Wendell Phillips:

     'I have sometimes thought that there is no being so venomous, so
     bloodthirsty, as a professed philanthropist; and that when the
     philanthropist's ardor lies negro-ward, it then assumes the deepest
     die of venom and bloodthirstiness. There are four millions of
     slaves in the Southern States, none of whom have any capacity for
     self-maintenance or self-control. Four millions of slaves, with the
     necessities of children, with the passions of men, and the
     ignorance of savages! And Mr. Phillips would emancipate these at a
     blow; would, were it possible for him to do so, set them loose upon
     the soil to tear their masters, destroy each other, and make such a
     hell upon earth as has never even yet come from the uncontrolled
     passions and unsatisfied wants of men.'

Mr. Trollope should have thought twice before he wrote thus of the
American negro. Were he a competent authority on this subject, his
opinion might be worth something; but as he never traveled in the South,
and as his knowledge of the negro is limited to a surface acquaintance
with the West-Indies, we maintain that Mr. Trollope has not only been
unjust, but ungenerous. Four millions of slaves, none of whom have any
capacity for self-maintenance or self-control! Whom are we to believe?
Mr. Trollope, who has never been on a Southern plantation, or Frederick
Law Olmsted? Mr. Pierce, who has been superintendent of the contrabands
at Fortress Monroe and at Hilton Head, officers attached to Burnside's
Division, and last and best, General David Hunter, an officer of the
regular army, who went to South-Carolina with anti-abolition
antecedents? All honor to General Hunter, who, unlike many others, has
not shut his eyes upon facts, and, like a rational being, has yielded to
the logic of events. It is strange that these authorities, all of whom
possess the confidence of the Government, should disagree with Mr.
Trollope. _None_ self-maintaining? Robert Small is a pure negro. Is he
not more than self-maintaining? Has he not done more for the Federal
Government than any white man of the Gulf States? Tillman is a negro;
the best pilots of the South are negroes: are _they_ not
self-maintaining? Kansas has welcomed thousands of fugitive slaves to
her hospitable doors, not as paupers, but as laborers, who have taken
the place of those white men who have gone to fight the battles which
they also should be allowed to take part in. The women have been gladly
accepted as house-servants. Does not this look like self-maintenance?
Would negroes be employed in the army if they were as Mr. Trollope
pictures them? He confesses that without these four millions of slaves
the South would be a wilderness, therefore they _do_ work as slaves to
the music of the slave-drivers' whip. How very odd, that the moment men
and women (for Mr. Trollope does acknowledge them to be such) _own
themselves_, and are paid for the sweat of their brow, they should
forget the trades by which they have enriched the South, and become
incapable of maintaining themselves--they who have maintained three
hundred and fifty thousand insolent slave-owners! Given whip-lashes and
the incubus of a white family, the slave _will_ work; given freedom and
wages, the negro _won't_ work. Was there ever stated a more palpable
fallacy? Is it necessary to declare further that the Hilton Head
experiment is a success, although the negroes, wanting in slave-drivers
and in their musical instruments, began their planting very late in the
season? Is it necessary to give Mr. Trollope one of many figures, and
prove that in the British West-India colonies free labor has exported
two hundred and sixty-five millions pounds of sugar annually, whereas
slave labor only exported one hundred and eighty-seven millions three
hundred thousand? And this in a climate where, unlike even the Southern
States of North-America, there is every inducement to indolence.

Four millions of slaves, _none_ of whom are capable of self-control, who
possess the necessities of children, the passions of men, and the
ignorance of savages! We really have thought that the many thousands of
these four millions who have come under the Federal jurisdiction,
exercised considerable self-control, when it is remembered that in some
localities they have been left entire masters of themselves, have in
other instances labored months for the Government under promise of pay,
and have had that pay prove a delusion. Certainly it is fair to judge of
a whole by a part. Given a bone, Professor Agassiz can draw the animal
of which the bone forms a part. Given many thousands of negroes, we
should be able to judge somewhat of four millions. Had Mr. Trollope seen
the thousands of octoroons and quadroons enslaved in the South by their
_own fathers_, it would have been more just in him to have attributed a
want of _self-control_ to the _masters_ of these four millions. We do
not know what Mr. Trollope means by 'the necessities of children.
Children need to be sheltered, fed, and clothed, and so do the negroes,
but here the resemblance ends; for whereas children can not take care of
themselves, the negro _can_, provided there is any opportunity to work.
It is scarcely to be doubted that temporary distress must arise among
fugitives in localities where labor is not plenty; but does this
establish the black man's incapacity? Revolutions, especially those
which are internal, generally bring in their train distress to laborers.
Then we are told that the slaves are endowed with the passions of men;
and very glad are we to know this, for, as a love of liberty and a
willingness to sacrifice all things for freedom, is one of the loftiest
passions in men, were he devoid of this passion, we should look with
much less confidence to assistance from the negro in this war of freedom
_versus_ slavery, than we do at present. In stating that the slaves are
as ignorant as savages, Mr. Trollope pays an exceedingly poor compliment
to the Southern whites, as it would naturally be supposed that constant
contact with a superior race would have civilized the negro to a
_certain_ extent, especially as he is known to be wonderfully imitative.
And such is the case; at least the writer of these lines, who has been
born and bred in a slave State, thinks so. As a whole, they compare very
favorably with the 'poor white trash,' and individually they are vastly
superior to this 'trash.' It is true, that they can not read or write,
not from want of aptitude or desire, as the teachers among the
contrabands write that their desire to read amounts to a passion, in
many cases, even among the hoary-headed, but because the teaching of a
slave to read or write was, in the good old times before the war,
regarded and punished as a criminal offense. What a pity it is that we
can not go back to the Union _as it was!_ In this ignorance of the
rudiments of learning, the negroes are not unlike a large percentage of
the populations of Great Britain and Ireland.

'And Mr. Phillips would let these ignorant savages loose upon the soil
to tear their masters, destroy each other, and make such a hell upon
earth as has never even yet come from the uncontrolled passions and
unsatisfied wants of men!' If Mr. Trollope were read in the history of
emancipation, he would know that there has not been an instance of 'such
a hell upon earth' as he describes. The American negro is a singularly
docile, affectionate, and good-natured creature, not at all given to
destroying his kind or tearing his master, and the least inclined to do
these things at a time when there is no necessity for them. A slave is
likely to kill his master to gain his freedom, but he is not fond enough
of murder to kill him when no object is to be gained except a halter.
The record so far proves that the masters have shot down their slaves
rather than have them fall into the hands of the Union troops. Even
granting Mr. Trollope's theory of the negro disposition, no edict of
emancipation could produce such an effect as he predicts, to the
_masters_, at least. They, in revenge, might shoot down their slaves,
but, unfortunately, the victims would be unable to defend themselves,
from the fact that all arms are sedulously kept from them. The slaves
would run away in greater numbers than they do at present, would give us
valuable information of the enemy, and would swell our ranks as
soldiers, if permitted, and kill their rebel masters in the legal and
honorable way of war. It is likely that Mr. Trollope, holding the black
man in so little estimation, would doubt his abilities in this capacity.
Fortunately for us, we can quote as evidence in our favor from General
Hunter's late letter to Congress, which, for sagacity and elegant
sarcasm, is unrivaled among American state papers. General Hunter, after
stating that the 'loyal slaves, unlike their fugitive masters, welcome
him, aid him, and supply him with food, labor, and information, working
with remarkable industry,' concludes by stating that 'the experiment of
arming the blacks, so far as I have made it, has been a complete and
even marvelous success. They are sober, docile, attentive, and
enthusiastic, _displaying great natural capacity for acquiring the
duties of the soldier_. They are eager beyond all things to take the
field and be led into action, and it is the _unanimous opinion_ of the
officers who have had charge of them, that in the peculiarities of this
climate and country, they will prove invaluable auxiliaries, fully equal
to the similar regiments so long and successfully used by the British
authorities in the West-India Islands. In conclusion, I would say that
it is my hope, there appearing no possibility of other reinforcements,
owing to the exigencies of the campaign on the peninsula, to have
organized by the end of next fall, and to be able to present to the
Government, from forty-eight to fifty thousand of these hardy and
devoted soldiers.'

Mr. Trollope declares that without the slaves the South would be a
wilderness; he also says that the North is justified in the present war
against the South, and although he doubts our ability to attain our ends
in this war, he would be very glad if we were victorious. If these are
his opinions, and if further, he considers slavery to be the cause of
the war, then why in the name of common-sense does he not advocate that
which would bring about our lasting success? He expresses his
satisfaction at the probability of emancipation in Missouri, Kentucky,
and Virginia, and yet rather than that abolition should triumph
universally, he would have the Gulf States go off by themselves and sink
into worse than South-American insignificance, a curse to themselves
from the very reason of slavery. This, to our way of thinking, is vastly
more cruel to the South than even the 'hell upon earth,' which,
supposing it were possible, emancipation would create. A massacre could
affect but one generation: such a state of things as Mr. Trollope
expects to see would poison numberless generations. The Northern brain
is gradually ridding itself of mental fog, begotten by Southern
influences, and Mr. Trollope will not live to see the Gulf States sink
into a moral Dismal Swamp. The day is not far distant when a God-fearing
and justice-loving people will give these States their choice between
Emancipation and death in their 'last ditch,' which we suppose to be the
Gulf of Mexico. Repulses before Richmond only hasten this end. 'But
Congress can not do this,' says Mr. Trollope. Has martial law no virtue?
We object to the title, 'An Apology for the War,' which Mr. Trollope has
given to one of his chapters; and with the best of motives, he takes
great pains to prove to the English public how we of the North could not
but fight the South, however losing a game it might be. No true American
need beg pardon of Europe for this war, which is the only apology we can
make to civilization for slavery. Mr. Trollope states the worn-out cant
that the secessionists of the South have been aided and abetted by the
fanatical abolitionism of the North. Of course they have: had there been
no slavery, there would have been no abolitionists, and therefore no
secessionists. Wherever there is a wrong, there are always persons
fanatical enough to cry out against that wrong. In time, the few
fanatics become the majority, and conquer the wrong, to the infinite
disgust of the easy-going present, but to the gratitude of a better
future. The Abolitionists gave birth to the Republican party, and of
course the triumph of the Republican party was the father to secession;
but we see no reason to mourn that it was so; rather do we thank God
that the struggle has come in our day. We can not sympathize with Mr.
Trollope when he says of the Bell and Everett party: 'Their express
theory was this: that the question of slavery should not be touched.
Their purpose was to crush agitation, and restore harmony by an
impartial balance between the North and South: a fine purpose--the
finest of all purposes, had it been practicable.' We suppose by this,
that Mr. Trollope wishes such a state of things had been practicable.
The impartial balance means the Crittenden Compromise, whose
impartiality the North fails to see in any other light than a fond
leaning to the South, giving it all territory South of a certain
latitude, a _latitude_ that never was intended by the Constitution. It
seems to us that there can be no impartial balance between freedom and
slavery. Every jury must be partial to the right, or they sin before
God.

Mr. Trollope tells us that 'the South is seceding from the North because
the two are not homogeneous. They have different instincts, different
appetites, different morals, and a different culture. It is well for one
man to say that slavery has caused the separation, and for another to
say that slavery has not caused it. Each in so saying speaks the truth.
Slavery has caused it, seeing that slavery is the great point on which
the two have agreed to differ. But slavery has not caused it, seeing
that other points of difference are to be found In every circumstance
and feature of the two people. The North and the South must ever be
dissimilar. In the North, labor will always be honorable, and because
honorable, successful. In the South, labor has ever been servile--at
least in some sense--and therefore dishonorable; and because
dishonorable, has not, to itself, been successful.' Is not this arguing
in a circle? The North is dissimilar to the South. Why? Because labor is
honorable in the former, and dishonorable, because of its servility, in
the latter. The servility removed, in what are the two dissimilar? One
third of the Southern whites are related by marriage to the North; a
second third are Northerners, and it is this last third that are most
violent in their acts against and hatred of the North. They were born
with our instincts and appetites, educated in the same morals, and
received the same culture; and these men are no worse than some of their
brothers who, though they have not emigrated to the South, have yet
fattened upon cotton. The parents of Jefferson Davis belonged to
Connecticut; Slidell is a New-Yorker; Benjamin is a Northerner; General
Lovell is a disgrace to Massachusetts; so, too, is Albert Pike. It is
utter nonsense to say that we are two people. Two interests have been at
work--free labor and slave labor; and when the former triumphs, there
will be no more straws split about two people, nor will the refrain of
agriculture _versus_ manufacture be sung. The South, especially
Virginia, has untold wealth to be drained from her great water-power.
New-England will not be alone in manufacturing, nor Pennsylvania in
mining.

We think that Mr. Trollope fails to appreciate principle when he likens
the conflict between the two sections of our country to a quarrel
between Mr. and Mrs. Jones, in which a mutual friend (England) is, from
the very nature of the case, obliged to maintain neutrality, leaving the
matter to the tender care of Sir Creswell. There never yet existed a
mutual friend who, however little he interfered with a matrimonial
difference, did not, in sympathy and moral support, take violent sides
with _one_ of the combatants; and Mr. Trollope would be first in taking
up the cudgels against private wrong. The North has never wished for
physical aid from England; but does Mr. Trollope remember what Mrs.
Browning has so nobly and humanely written? 'Non-intervention in the
affairs of neighboring States is a high political virtue; but
non-intervention does not mean passing by on the other side when your
neighbor falls among thieves, or Phariseeism would recover it from
Christianity.' England, the greatest of actual nations, had a part to
act in our war, and that part a noble one. Not the part of physical
intervention for the benefit of Lancashire and of a confederacy founded
upon slavery, which both Earl Russell and Lord Palmerston inform the
world will not take place 'at present.' Not the part of hypercriticism
and misconstruction of Northern 'Orders,' and affectionate blindness to
Southern atrocities. But such a part as was worthy of the nation, one of
whose greatest glories is that it gave birth to a Clarkson, a Sharpe,
and a Wilberforce. And England has much to answer for, in that she has
been found wanting, not in the cause of the North, but in the cause of
humanity. Had she not always told us that we were criminals of the
deepest dye not to do what she had done in the West-Indies, had she not
always held out to the world the beacon-light of emancipation, there
could be little censure cast upon the British ermine; but having laid
claim to so white and moral a robe, she subjects herself to the very
proper indignation of the anti-slavery party which now governs the
North.

Mr. Trollope confesses that British sympathy is with the South, and
further writes: 'It seems to me that some of us never tire in abusing
the Americans and calling them names, for having allowed themselves to
be driven into this civil war. We tell them that they are fools and
idiots; we speak of their doings as though there had been some plain
course by which the war might have been avoided; and we throw it in
their teeth that they have no capability for war,' etc., etc. Contact
with the English abroad sent us home convinced of English animosity, and
this was before the Trent affair. A literary woman writes to America:
'There is only one person to whom I can talk freely upon the affairs of
your country. Here in England, they say I have lived so long _in Italy
that I have become an American_.' We have had nothing but abuse from the
English press always, excepting a few of the liberal journals. Mill and
Bright and Cobden alone have been prominent in their expression of
good-will to the North. And this is Abolition England! History will
record, that at the time when America was convulsed by the inevitable
struggle between Freedom and Slavery, England, actuated by selfish
motives, withheld that moral support and righteous counsel which would
have deprived the South of much aid and comfort, brought the war to a
speedier conclusion, gained the grateful confidence of the anti-slavery
North, and immeasurably aided the abolition of human slavery.

It may be said that we of the North have no intention of touching the
'institution,' and therefore England can not sympathize with us.
Whatever the theory of the administration at Washington may have been,
he is insane as well as blind who does not see what is its practical
tendency. In the same length of time, this tendency would have been much
farther on the road to right had the strong arm of England wielded the
moral power which should belong to it. Mr. Trollope says: 'The complaint
of Americans is, that they have received no sympathy from England; but
it seems to me that a great nation should not require an expression of
sympathy during its struggle. Sympathy is for the weak, not for the
strong. When I hear two powerful men contending together in argument, I
do not sympathize with him who has the best of it; but I watch the
precision of his logic, and acknowledge the effects of his rhetoric.
There has been a whining weakness in the complaints made by Americans
against England, which has done more to lower them, as a people, in my
judgment, than any other part of their conduct during the present
crisis.' It is true that at the beginning of this war the North _did_
show a whining weakness for English approbation, of which it is
sincerely to be hoped we have been thoroughly cured. We paid our
mother-land too high a compliment--we gave her credit for virtues which
she does not possess--and the disappointment incurred thereby has been
bitter in the extreme. We were not aware, however, that a sincere desire
for sympathy was an American peculiarity. We have long labored under the
delusion that the English, even, were very indignant with Brother
Jonathan during the Crimean war, when he failed to furnish the quota of
sympathy which our cousins considered was their due, but which we could
not give to a debauched 'sick man' whom, for the good of civilization,
we wished out of the world as quickly as possible. But England was
'strong;' why should she have desired sympathy? For, according to Mr.
Trollope's creed, the weak alone ought to receive sympathy. It seems to
be a matter entirely independent of right and wrong with Mr. Trollope.
It is sufficient for a man to prove his case to be '_strong_,' for Mr.
Trollope to side with his opponent. Demonstrate your weakness, whether
it be physical, moral, or mental, and Mr. Trollope will fight your
battles for you. On this principle--which, we are told, is English--the
exiled princes of Italy, especially the Neapolitan-Bourbon, the Pope,
Austria, and of course the Southern confederacy, should find their
warmest sympathizers among true Britons, and perhaps they do; but Mr.
Trollope, in spite of his theory, is not one of them.

The emancipationist should _not_ look to England for aid or comfort, but
it will be none the worse for England that she has been false to her
traditions. 'I confess,' wrote Mrs. Browning--dead now a year--'that I
dream of the day when an English statesman shall arise with a heart too
large for England, having courage, in the face of his countrymen, to
assert of some suggested policy: 'This is good for your trade, this is
necessary for your domination; but it will vex a people hard by, it will
hurt a people farther off, it will profit nothing to the general
humanity; therefore, away with it! it is not for you or for me.'' The
justice of the poet yet reigns in heaven only; and dare we dream--we
who, sick at heart, are weighed down by the craft and dishonesty of our
public men--of the possibility of such a golden age?

On the subject of religion as well, we are much at variance with Mr.
Trollope. Of course, it is to be expected that one who says, 'I love the
name of State and Church, and believe that much of our English
well-being has depended on it; _I have made up my mind to think that
union good, and am not to be turned away from that conviction_;' it is
to be expected, we repeat, that such an one should consider religion in
the States 'rowdy.' Surely, we will not quarrel with Mr. Trollope for
this opinion, however much we may regret it; as we consider it the glory
of this country, that while we claim for our moral foundation a fervent
belief in GOD and an abiding faith in the necessity of
religion, our government pays no premium to hypocrisy by having fastened
to its shirts one creed above all other creeds, made thereby more
respectable and more fashionable. 'It is a part of their system,' Mr.
Trollope continues, 'that religion shall be perfectly free, and that no
man shall be in any way constrained in that matter,' (and he sees
nothing to thank God for in this system of ours!) 'consequently, the
question of a man's religion is regarded in a free-and-easy manner.'
That which we have gladly dignified by the name of religious toleration,
(not yet half as broad as it should and will be,) Mr. Trollope degrades
by the epithet of 'free-and-easy.' This would better apply were ours the
toleration of indifference, instead of being a toleration founded upon
the unshaken belief that God has endowed every human being with a
conscience whose sufficiency unto itself, in matters of religious faith,
we have no right to question. And we are convinced that this experiment,
with which we started, has been good for our growth of mind and soul, as
well as for our growth as a nation. Even Mr. Trollope qualifies our
'rowdyism,' by saying that 'the nation is religious in its tendencies,
and prone to acknowledge the goodness of God in all things.'

And now we have done with fault-finding. For all that we hereafter quote
from Mr. Trollope's book, we at once express our thanks and _sympathy_.
He is '_strong_,' but he is also human, and likes sympathy.

More than true, if such a thing could be, is Mr. Trollope's comments
upon American politicians. 'The corruption of the venal politicians of
the nation stinks aloud in the nostrils of all men. It behoves the
country to look to this. It is time now that she should do so. The
people of the nation are educated and clever. The women are bright and
beautiful. Her charity is profuse; her philanthropy is eager and true;
her national ambition is noble and honest--honest in the cause of
civilization. But she has soiled herself with political corruption, and
has disgraced the cause of republican government by those whom she has
placed in her high places. Let her look to it NOW. She is nobly
ambitious of reputation throughout the earth; she desires to be called
good as well as great; to be regarded not only as powerful, but also as
beneficent She is creating an army; she is forging cannon, and preparing
to build impregnable ships of war. But all these will fail to satisfy
her pride, unless she can cleanse herself from that corruption by which
her political democracy has debased itself. A politician should be a man
worthy of all honor, in that he loves his country; and not one worthy of
contempt, in that he robs his country.' Can we plead other than guilty,
when even now a Senator of the United States stands convicted of a
miserable betrayal of his office? Will America heed the voice of Europe,
as well as of her best friends at home, before it is too late? Again
writes Mr. Trollope: ''It is better to have little governors than great
governors,' an American said to me once. 'It is our glory that we know
how to live without having great men over us to rule us.' That glory, if
ever it were a glory, has come to an end. It seems to me that all these
troubles have come upon the States because they have not placed high men
in high places.' Is there a thinking American who denies the truth of
this? And of our code of honesty--that for which Englishmen are most to
be commended--what is truly said of us? 'It is not by foreign voices, by
English newspapers, or in French pamphlets, that the corruption of
American politicians has been exposed, but by American voices and by the
American press. It is to be heard on every side. Ministers of the
Cabinet, Senators, Representatives, State Legislatures, officers of the
army, officials of the navy, contractors of every grade--all who are
presumed to touch, or to have the power of touching, public money, are
thus accused.... The leaders of the rebellion are hated in the North.
The names of Jefferson Davis, Cobb, Toombs, and Floyd, are mentioned
with execration by the very children. This has sprung from a true and
noble feeling; from a patriotic love of national greatness, and a hatred
of those who, for small party purposes, have been willing to lessen the
name of the United States. But, in addition to this, the names of those
also should be execrated who have robbed their country when pretending
to serve it; who have taken its wages in the days of its great struggle,
and at the same time have filched from its coffers; who have undertaken
the task of steering the ship through the storm, in order that their
hands might be deep in the meal-tub and the bread-basket, and that they
might stuff their own sacks with the ship's provisions. These are the
men who must be loathed by the nation--whose fate must be held up as a
warning to others--before good can come.' How long are the American
people to allow this pool of iniquity to stagnate, and sap the vitals of
the nation? How long, O Lord! how long?

On the subject of education, Mr. Trollope--though indulging in a little
pleasantry on young girls who analyze Milton--does us full justice. 'The
one matter in which, as far as my judgment goes, the people of the
United States have excelled us Englishmen, so as to justify them in
taking to themselves praise which we can not take to ourselves or refuse
to them, is the matter of education.... The coachman who drives you, the
man who mends your window, the boy who brings home your purchases, the
girl who stitches your wife's dress--they all carry with them sure signs
of education, and show it in every word they utter.' But much as Mr.
Trollope admires our system of public schools, he does not see much to
extol in the at least Western way of rearing children. 'I must protest
that American babies are an unhappy race. They eat and drink just as
they please; they are never punished; they are never banished, snubbed,
and kept in the background, as children are kept with us; and yet they
are wretched and uncomfortable. My heart has bled for them as I have
heard them squalling, by the hour together, in agonies of discontent and
dyspepsia.' This is the type of child found by Mr. Trollope on Western
steamboats; and we agree with him that beef-steaks, _with pickles_,
produce a bad type of child; and it is unnecessary to confess to Mr.
Trollope what he already knows, that pertness and irreverence to parents
are the great faults of American youth. No doubt the pickles have much
to do with this state of things.

While awarding high praise to American women _en masse_, Mr. Trollope
mourns over the condition of the Western women with whom he came in
contact, and we are sorry to think that these specimens form the rule,
though of course exceptions are very numerous. 'A Western American man
is not a talking man. He will sit for hours over a stove, with his cigar
in his mouth and his hat over his eyes, chewing the cud of reflection. A
dozen will sit together in the same way, and there shall not be a dozen
words spoken between them in an hour. With the women, one's chance of
conversation is still worse. 'It seemed as though the cares of this
world had been too much for them.... They were generally hard, dry, and
melancholy. I am speaking, of course, of aged females, from
five-and-twenty, perhaps, to thirty, who had long since given up the
amusements and levities of life.' Mr. Trollope's malediction upon the
women of New-York whom he met in the street-cars, is well merited, so
far as many of them are concerned; but he should bear in mind the fact
that these 'many' are foreigners, mostly uneducated natives of the
British isles. Inexcusable as is the advantage which such women
sometimes take of American gallantry, the spirit of this gallantry is
none the less to be commended, and the grateful smile of thanks from
American ladies is not so rare as Mr. Trollope imagines. Mr. Trollope
wants the gallantry abolished; we hope that rude women may learn a
better appreciation of this gallantry by its abolition in flagrant cases
only. Had Mr. Trollope once 'learned the ways' of New-York stages, he
would not have found them such vile conveyances; but we quite agree with
him in advocating the introduction of cabs. In seeing nothing but
vulgarity in Fifth Avenue, and a thirst for gold all over New-York City,
we think Mr. Trollope has given way to prejudice. There is no city so
generous in the spending of money as New-York. Art and literature find
their best patrons in this much-abused Gotham; and it will not do for
one who lives in a glass house to throw stones, for we are not the only
nation of shop-keepers. We do not blame Mr. Trollope, however, for
giving his love to Boston, and to the men and women of intellect who
have homes in and about Boston.

We are of opinion that Mr. Trollope is too severe upon our hotels; for
faulty though they be, they are established upon a vastly superior plan
to those of any other country, if we are to believe our own experience
and that of the majority of travelers. Mr. Trollope sees no use of a
ladies' parlor; but Mr. Trollope would soon see its indispensability
were he to travel as an unprotected female of limited means. On the
matter of the Post-Office, however, he has both our ears; and much that
he says of our government, and the need of a constitutional change in
our Constitution, deserves attention--likewise what he says of
colonization. We do elevate unworthy persons to the altar of heroism,
and are stupid in our blatant eulogies. It is sincerely to be regretted
that so honest a writer did not devote two separate chapters to the
important subjects of drunkenness and artificial heat, which, had he
known us better, he would have known were undermining the American
_physique_. He does treat passingly of our hot-houses, but seems not to
have faced the worse evil. Of our literature, and of our absorption of
English literature, Mr. Trollope has spoken fully and well; and in his
plea for a national copyright, he might have further argued its
necessity, from the fact that American publishers will give no
encouragement to unknown native writers, however clever, so long as they
can steal the brains of Great Britain.

To conclude. We like Mr. Trollope's book, for we believe him when he
says: 'I have endeavored to judge without prejudice, and to hear with
honest ears, and to see with honest eyes.' We have the firmest faith in
Mr. Trollope's honesty. We know he has written nothing that he does not
conscientiously believe, and he has given unmistakable evidence of his
good-will to this country. We are lost in amazement when he tells us: 'I
know I shall never again be at Boston, and that I have said that about
the Americans which would make me unwelcome as a guest if I were
there.' Said what? We should be thin-skinned, indeed, did we take
umbrage at a book written in the spirit of Mr. Trollope's. On the
contrary, the Americans who are interested in it are agreeably
disappointed in the verdict which he has given of them; and though they
may not accept his political opinions, they are sensible enough to
appreciate the right of each man to his honest convictions. Mr.
Trollope, though he sees in our future not two, but three,
confederacies, predicts a great destiny for the North. We can see but a
union of all--a Union cemented by the triumph of freedom in the
abolition of that which has been the taint upon the nation. If Mr.
Trollope's prophecies are fulfilled, (and God forbid!) it will be
because we have allowed the golden hour to escape. Pleased as we are
with Mr. Trollope the writer--who has not failed to appreciate the
self-sacrifice of Northern patriotism--Mr. Trollope the _man_ has a far
greater hold upon our heart; a hold which has been strengthened, rather
than weakened, by his book. The friends of Mr. Trollope extend to him
their cordial greeting, and Boston in particular will offer a hearty
shake of the hand to the writer of _North-America_, whenever he chooses
to take that hand again.




UP AND ACT.


The man who is not convinced, by this time, that the Union has come to
'the bitter need,' must be hard to convince. For more than one year we
have put off doing our _utmost_, and talked incessantly of the 'wants of
the enemy.' We have demonstrated a thousand times that they wanted
quinine and calomel, beef and brandy, with every other comfort, luxury,
and necessary, and have ended by discovering that they have forced every
man into their army; that they have, at all events, abundance of
corn-meal, raised by the negroes whom Northern Conservatism has dreaded
to free; that they are well supplied with arms from Abolition England,
and that every day finds them more and more warlike and inured to war.

Time was, we are told, when a bold, 'radical push' would have prevented
all this. Time was, when those who urged such vigorous and overwhelming
measures--and we were among them--were denounced as insane and
traitorous by the Northern Conservative press. Time was, when the
Irishman's policy of capturing a horse in a hundred-acre lot, 'by
surrounding him,' might have been advantageously exchanged for the more
direct course of going _at_ him. Time _was_, when there were very few
troops in Richmond. All this when time--and very precious time--was.

Just now, time _is_--and very little time to lose, either. The rebels,
it seems, can live on corn-meal and whisky as well under tents as they
once did in cabins. They are building rams and 'iron-clads,' and very
good ones. They have an immense army, and three or four millions of
negroes to plant for it and feed it. Hundreds of thousands of acres of
good corn-land are waving in the hot breezes of Dixie. These are facts
of the strongest kind--so strong that we have actually been compelled to
adopt some few of the 'radical and ruinous' measures advocated from the
beginning by 'an insane and fanatical band of traitors,' for whose blood
the New-York _Herald_ and its weakly ape, the Boston _Courier_, have not
yet ceased to howl or chatter. Negroes, it seems, are, after all, to be
employed sometimes, and all the work is not to be put upon soldiers who,
as the correspondent of the London _Times_ has truly said, have endured
disasters and sufferings caused by unpardonable neglect, such as _no_
European troops would have borne without revolt. It is even thought by
some hardy and very desperate 'radicals,' that negroes may be armed and
made to fight for the Union; in fact, it is quite possible that, should
the North succeed in resisting the South a year or two longer, or should
we undergo a few more _very_ great disasters, we may go so far as to
believe what a great French writer has declared in a work on Military
Art, that 'War is war, and he wages it best who injures his enemy most.'
We are aware of the horror which this fanatical radical, and, of course,
Abolitionist axiom, by a writer of the school of Napoleon, must inspire,
and therefore qualify the assertion by the word 'may.' For to believe
that the main props of the enemy are to be knocked away from under them,
and that we are to fairly fight them in _every_ way, involves a
desperate and un-Christian state of mind to which no one should yield,
and which would, in fact, be impious, nay, even un-democratic and
un-conservative.

It is true that by 'throwing grass' at the enemy, as President Lincoln
quaintly terms it, by the anaconda game, and above all, by constantly
yelling, 'No nigger!' and 'Down with the Abolitionists!' we have
contrived to lose some forty thousand good soldiers' lives by disease;
to stand where we were, and to have myriads of men paralyzed and kept
back from war just at the instant when their zeal was most needed. We
beg our readers to seriously reflect on this last fact. There are
numbers of essential and bold steps in this war, and against the enemy,
which _must_, in the ordinary course of events, be taken, as for
instance. General Hunter's policy of employing negroes, as General
Jackson did. With such a step, _honestly_ considered, no earthly
politics whatever has any thing to do. Yet every one of these sheer
necessities of war which a Napoleon would have grasped at the _first_,
have been promptly opposed as radical, traitorous, and infernal, by
those tories who are only waiting for the South to come in again to rush
and lick its hands as of old. Every measure, from the first arming of
troops down to the employment of blacks, has been fought by these
'reactionaries' savagely, step by step--we might add, in parenthesis,
that it has been amusing to see how they 'ate dirt,' took back their
words and praised these very measures, one by one, as soon as they saw
them taken up by the Administration. The _ecco la fica_ of Italian
history was a small humiliation to that which the 'democratic' press
presented when it glorified Lincoln's 'remuneration message,' and gilded
the pill by declaring it (Heaven knows how!) a splendid triumph over
Abolition--that same remuneration doctrine which, when urged in the
New-York _Tribune_, and in these pages, had been reviled as fearfully
'abolition!'

However, all these conservative attacks in succession on every measure
which any one could see would become necessities from a merely military
point of view, have had their inevitable result: they have got into the
West, and have aided Secession, as in many cases they were intended to
do. The plain, blunt man, seeing what _must_ be adopted if the war is to
be carried on in earnest, and yet hearing that these inevitable
expediencies were all 'abolition,' became confused and disheartened. So
that it is as true as Gospel, that in the West, where 'Abolition' has
kept one man back from the Union, 'Conservatism' has kept ten. And the
proof may be found that while in the West, as in the East, the better
educated, more intelligent, and more energetic minds, have at once
comprehended the necessities of the war, and dared the whole, 'call it
Abolition or not,' the blinder and more illiterate, who were afraid of
being 'called' Abolitionists, have kept back, or remained by Secession
altogether.

As we write, a striking proof of our news comes before us in a remark in
an influential and able Western conservative journal, the Nebraska
_News_, The remark in question is to the effect that the proposition
made by us in THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, to partition the
confiscated real estate of the South among the soldiers of the Federal
army is nothing more nor less than 'a bribe for patriotism.' That is the
word.

Now, politics apart--abolition or no abolition--we presume there are not
ten rational men in the country who believe that the proposition to
colonize Texas in particular, with free labor, or to settle free
Northern soldiers in the cotton country of the South, is other than
judicious and common-sensible. If it will make our soldiers fight any
better, it certainly is not very much to be deprecated. To settle
disbanded volunteers in the South so as to gradually drive away slave
labor by the superior value of free labor on lands confiscated or
public, is certainly not a very reprehensible proposition. But it
originated, as all the more advanced political proposals of the day do,
with men who favor Emancipation, present or prospective, and _therefore_
it must be cried down! The worst possible construction is put upon it.
It is 'a bribe for patriotism,' and must not be thought of. 'Better lose
the victory,' says Conservatism, 'rather than inspire the zeal of our
soldiers by offering any tangible reward!' We beg our thousands of
readers in the army to note this. Since we first proposed in these
columns to _properly_ reward the army by giving to each man his share of
cotton-land, [we did not even go so far as to insist that the land
should absolutely be confiscated, knowing well, and declaring, that
Texas contains public land enough for this purpose,] the
democratic-conservative-pro-slavery press, especially of the West, has
attacked the scheme with unwonted vigor. For the West _understands_ the
strength latent in this proposal better than the East; it _knows_ what
can be done when free Northern vigor goes to planting and town-building;
it 'knows how the thing is done;' it 'has been there,' and sees in our
'bribe for patriotism' the most deadly blow ever struck at Southern
Aristocracy. Consequently those men who abuse Emancipation in its every
form, violently oppose our proposal to give the army such reward as
their services merit, and such as their residence in the South renders
peculiarly fit. It is 'a bribe;' it is extravagant; it--yes--it is
Abolition! The army is respectfully requested not to think of settling
in the South, but to hobble back to alms-houses in order that Democracy
may carry its elections and settle down in custom-houses and other snug
retreats.

And what do the anti-energy, anti-action, anti-contraband-digging,
anti-every thing practical and go-ahead in the war gentlemen propose to
give the soldier in exchange for his cotton-land? Let the soldier
examine coolly, if he can, the next bullet-wound in his leg. He will
perceive a puncture which will probably, when traced around the edge and
carefully copied, present that circular form generally assigned to
a--cipher. _This_ represents, we believe, with tolerable accuracy, what
the anti-actionists and reactionists propose to give the soldier as a
recompense for that leg. For so truly as we live, so true is it that
there is not _one_ anti-Emancipationist in the North who is not opposed
to settling the army or any portion of it in the South, simply because
to do any thing which may in any way interfere with 'the Institution,'
or jar Southern aristocracy, forms no part of their platform!

We believe this to be as plain a fact as was ever yet submitted to
living man.

Now, are we to go to work in earnest, to boldly grasp at every means of
honorable warfare, as France or England would do in our case, and
overwhelm the South, or are we going to let it alone? Are we, for years
to come, to slowly fight our way from one small war-expediency to
another, as it may please the mongrel puppies of Democracy to gradually
get their eyes opened or not? Are we to arm the blacks by and by, or
wait till they shall have planted another corn-crop for the enemy? Shall
we inspire the soldiers by promising them cotton-lands now, or wait till
we get to the street of By and By, which leads to the house of Never?
Would we like to have our victory now, or wait till we get it?

Up and act! We are waiting for grass to grow while the horse is
starving! Let the Administration no longer hold back, for lo! the people
are ready and willing, and one grasp at a fiercely brave, _decided_
policy would send a roar of approval from ocean to ocean. One tenth part
of the wild desire to adopt instant and energetic measures which is now
struggling into life among the people, would, if transferred to their
leaders, send opposition, North and South, howling to Hades. We find the
irrepressible discontent gathering around like a thunder-storm. It
reaches us in letters. We _know_ that it is growing tremendously in the
army--the discontent which demands a bold policy, active measures, and
one great overwhelming blow. Every woman cries for it--it is everywhere!
Mr. Lincoln, you have waited for the people, and we tell you that the
people are now ready. The three hundred thousand volunteers are coming
bravely on; but, we tell you, DRAFT! That's the thing. The very
word has already sent a chill through the South. _They_ have seen what
can be done by bold, overwhelming military measures; by driving _every_
man into arms; by being headlong and fearless; and know that it has put
them at once on equality with us--they, the half minority! And they
know, too, that when WE once begin the 'big game,' all will be up with
them. We have more than twice as many men here, and their own blacks are
but a broken reed. When we begin to _draft_, however, war will begin _in
earnest_. They dread that drafting far more than volunteering. They know
by experience, what we have not as yet learned, that drafting contains
many strange secrets of success. It is a _bold_ conscriptive measure,
and indicates serious strength and the _consciousness_ of strength in
government. Our government has hitherto lain half-asleep, half-awake, a
great, good-natured giant, now and then rolling over and crushing some
of the rats running over his bed, and now and then getting very badly
bitten. Wake up, Giant Samuel, all in the morning early! The rats are
coming down on thee, old friend, not by scores, but by tens of
thousands! Jump up, my jolly giant! for verily, things begin to look
serious. You must play the Wide-Awake game now; grasp your stick, knock
them right and left; call in the celebrated dog Halleck, who can kill
his thousand rats an hour, and cry to Sambo to carry out the dead and
bury them! It's rats _now_, friend Samuel, if it ever was!

Can not the North play the entire game, and shake out the bag, as well
as the South? They have bundled out every man and dollar, dog, cat, and
tenpenny nail into the war, and done it _gloriously_. They have stopped
at nothing, feared nothing, believed in nothing but victory. Now let the
North step out! Life and wife, lands and kin, will be of small value if
we are to lose this battle and become the citizens of a broken country,
going backward instead of forward--a country with a past, but no future.
Better draw every man into the army, and leave the women to hoe and
reap, ere we come to that. _Draft_, Abraham Lincoln--draft, in
GOD'S name! Let us have one rousing, tremendous pull at
victory! Send out such armies as never were seen before. The West has
grain enough to feed them, and tide what may betide, you can arm them.
Let us try what WE can do when it comes to the last emergency.

When we arise in our _full_ strength, England and France and the South
will be as gnats in the flame before us. And there is no time to lose.
France is 'tinkering away' at Mexico; foreign cannon are to pass from
Mexico into the South; our foe is considering the aggressive policy.
Abraham Lincoln, _the time has come!_ Canada is to attack from the
North, and France from Mexico. Your three hundred thousand are a trifle;
draw out your million; draw the last man who can bear arms--_and let it
be done quickly!_ This is your policy. Let the blows rain thick and
fast. Hurrah! Uncle Samuel--the rats are running! Strike quick,
though--_very_ quick--and you will be saved!




REMINISCENCES OF ANDREW JACKSON.


All public exhibitions have their peculiar physiognomies. During the
passage of General Jackson through Philadelphia, there was a very strong
party opposed to him, which gave a feature to the show differing from
others we had witnessed, but which became subdued in a degree by his
appearance. A firm and imposing figure on horseback, General Jackson was
perfectly at home in the saddle. Dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed
white beaver hat, craped in consequence of the recent death of his wife,
he bowed with composed ease and a somewhat military grace to the
multitude. His tall, thin, bony frame, surmounted by a venerable,
weather-beaten, strongly-lined and original countenance, with stiff,
upright, gray hair, changed the opinion which some had previously
formed. His military services were important, his career undoubtedly
patriotic; but he had interfered with many and deep interests. There was
much dissentient humming.

The General bowed right and left, lifting his hat often from his head,
appearing at the same time dignified and kind. When the cavalcade first
marched down Chestnut street, there was no immediate escort, or it did
not act efficiently. Rude fellows on horseback, of the roughest
description, sat sideling on their torn saddles just before the
President, gazing vacantly in his face as they would from the gallery of
a theatre, but interrupting the view of his person from other portions
of the public.

James Reeside, the celebrated mail-contractor, became very much provoked
at one of these fellows. Reeside rode a powerful horse before the
President, and with a heavy, long-lashed riding-whip in his hand,
attempted to drive the man's broken-down steed out of the way. But the
animal was as impervious to feeling as the rider to sense or decency,
and Reeside had little influence over a dense crowd, till the escort
exercised a proper authority in front. I saw the General smile at
Reeside's eagerness to clear the way for him. Of course, this sketch is
a glimpse at a certain point where the procession passed me. I viewed it
again in Arch street, and noticed the calmness with which the General
saluted a crowd of negroes who suddenly gave him a hearty cheer from the
wall of a graveyard where they were perched. He had just taken off his
hat to some ladies waving handkerchiefs on the opposite side of the
street, when he heard the huzza, and replied by a salutation to the
unexpected but not despised color.

After the fatigue of the parade, when invited to take some refreshment,
Jackson asked for boiled rice and milk at dinner. There was some slight
delay to procure them, but he declined any thing else.

I recollect an anecdote of Daniel Webster in relation to General
Jackson, which I wish to preserve. On some public occasion, an
entertainment was given, under large tents, near Point-no-Point, in
Philadelphia county, which the representatives to the Legislature were
generally invited to attend. Political antipathies and prejudices were
excessive at that day. No moderate person was tolerated, in the
slightest degree, by the more violent opponents of the Administration.
Mr. Webster was present, and rose to speak. His intelligent and serious
air of grave thought was impressively felt. He spoke his objections to a
certain policy of the Administration with a gentle firmness. I sat near
him. One of his intolerant friends made an inquiry, either at the close
of a short dinner-table address, or during his speech, if 'he was not
still in the practice of visiting at the White House?' I saw Webster's
brow become clouded, as he calmly but slowly explained, 'His position as
Senator required him to have occasional intercourse with the President
of the United States, whose views upon some points of national policy
differed widely from those he (Webster) was well known to entertain;'
when, as if his noble spirit became suddenly aware of the narrow
meanness that had induced the question, he raised himself to his full
hight, and looking firmly at his audience, with a pause, till he caught
the eye of the inquirer, he continued: 'I hope to God, gentlemen, never
to live to see the day when a Senator of the United States _can not_
call upon the Chief Magistrate of the nation, on account of _any_
differences in opinion either may possess upon public affairs!' This
honorable, patriotic, and liberal expression was most cordially
applauded by all parties. Many left that meeting with a sense of relief
from the oppression of political intolerance, so nearly allied to the
tyranny of religious bigotry.

I had been introduced, and was sitting with a number of gentlemen in a
circle round the fire of the President's room, when James Buchanan
presented himself for the first time, as a Senator of the United States
from his native State. 'I am happy to see you, Mr. Buchanan,' said
General Jackson, rising and shaking him heartily by the hand, 'both
personally and politically. Sit down, sir.' The conversation was social.
Some one brought in a lighted corn-cob pipe, with a long reed-stalk, for
the President to smoke. He appeared waiting for it. As he puffed at it,
a Western man asked some question about the fire which had been reported
at the Hermitage. The answer made was, 'it had not been much injured,' I
think, 'but the family had moved temporarily into a log-house,' in
which, the General observed, 'he had spent some of the happiest days of
his life.' He then, as if excited by old recollections, told us he had
an excellent plantation, fine cattle, noble horses, a large still-house,
and so on. 'Why, General,' laughed his Western friend, 'I thought I saw
your name, the other day, along with those of other prominent men,
advocating the cold-water system?' 'I did sign something of the kind,'
replied the veteran, very coolly puffing at his pipe, 'but I had a very
good distillery, for all that!' Before markets became convenient, almost
all large plantations had stills to use up the surplus grains, which
could not be sold to a profit near home. Tanneries and blacksmiths'
shops were also accompaniments, for essential convenience.

Martin, the President's door-keeper, was very independent, at times, to
visitors at the White House, especially if he had been indulging with
his friends, as was now and then the case. But he was somewhat
privileged, on account of his fidelity and humor. Upon one occasion he
gave great offense to some water-drinking Democrats--rather a rare
specimen at that day--who complained to the President. He promised to
speak to Martin about it. The first opportunity--early, while Martin was
cool--the President sent for him in private, and mentioned the
objection. 'Och! Jineral, dear!' said Martin, looking him earnestly in
the face, 'I'de hev enough to do ef I give ear to all the nonsense
people tell me, even about yerself, Jineral! I wonther _who_ folks don't
complain about, now-a-days? But if they are friends of yours, Jineral,
they maybe hed cause, ef I could only recollict what it was! So we'll
jist let it pass by this time, ef you plase, sur!' Martin remained in
his station. When the successor of Mr. Van Buren came in, the
door-keeper presented himself soon after to the new President, with the
civil inquiry: 'I suppose I'll hev to flit, too, with the _other_
Martin?' He was smilingly told to be easy.

I saw General Jackson riding in an open carriage, in earnest
conversation with his successor, as I was on the way to the Capitol to
witness the inaugural oath. A few days after, I shook hands with him for
the last time, as he sat in a railroad-car, about to leave Washington
for the West. Crowds of all classes leaped up to offer such salutations,
all of whom he received with the same easy, courteous, decided manner he
had exhibited on other occasions.




SHAKSPEARE'S CARICATURE OF RICHARD III.


'The youth of England have been said to take their religion from Milton,
and their history from Shakspeare:' and as far as they draw the
character of the last royal Plantagenet from the bloody ogre which every
grand tragedian has delighted to personate, they set up invention on the
pedestal of fact, and prefer slander to truth. Even from the opening
soliloquy, Shakspeare traduces, misrepresents, vilifies the man he had
interested motives in making infamous; while at the death of Jack Cade,
a cutting address is made to the future monarch upon his deformity, just
TWO _years before his birth!_ There is no sufficient authority for his
having been

  'Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
  Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
  Into this breathing world, scarce half-made up,
  And that so lamely and unfashionable,
  The dogs bark at me, as I halt by them.'

A Scotch commission addressed him with praise of the 'princely majesty
and royal authority sparkling in his face.' Rev. Dr. Shaw's discourse to
the Londoners, dwells upon the Protector's likeness to the noble Duke,
his father: his mother was a beauty, his brothers were handsome: a
monstrous contrast on Richard's part would have been alluded to by the
accurate Philip de Comines: the only remaining print of his person is at
least fair: the immensely heavy armor of the times may have bowed his
form a little, and no doubt he was pale, and a little higher shouldered
on the right than the left side: but, if Anne always loved him, as is
now proved, and the princess Elizabeth sought his affection after the
Queen's decease, he could not have been the hideous dwarf at which dogs
howl. Nay, so far from there being an atom of truth in that famous
wooing scene which provokes from Richard the sarcasm:

  'Was ever woman in this humor wooed?
  Was ever woman in this humor won?'

Richard actually detected her in the disguise of a kitchen-girl, at
London, and renewed his early attachment in the court of the Archbishop
of York. And while Anne was never in her lifetime charged with
insensibility to the death of her relatives, or lack of feeling, she
died not from any cruelty of his, but from weakness, and especially from
grief over her boy's sudden decease. Richard indeed 'loved her early,
loved her late,' and could neither have desired nor designed a calamity
which lost him many English hearts. The burial of Henry VI. Richard
himself solemnized with great state; a favor that no one of Henry's
party was brave and generous enough to return to the last crowned head
of the rival house.

Gloucester did not need to urge on the well-deserved doom of Clarence:
both Houses of Parliament voted it; King Edward plead for it; the
omnipotent relatives of the Queen hastened it with characteristic
malice; they may have honestly believed that the peaceful succession of
the crown was in peril so long as this plotting traitor lived. No doubt
it was.

It is next to certain that Richard did not stab Henry VI., nor the
murdered son of Margaret, though he had every provocation in the insults
showered upon his father; was devotedly attached to King Edward, and
hazarded for him person and life with a constancy then unparalleled and
a zeal rewarded by his brother's entire confidence.

Certain names wear a halter in history, and his was one. Richard I. was
assassinated in the siege of Chalone Castle; Richard II. was murdered at
Pomfret; Richard, Earl of Southampton, was executed for treason;
Richard, Duke of York, was beheaded with insult; his son, Richard III.,
fell by the perfidy of his nobles; Richard, the last Duke of York, was
probably murdered by his uncle, in the Tower.

At the decease of his brother Edward, the Duke of Gloucester was not
only the first prince of the blood royal, but was also a consummate
statesman, intrepid soldier, generous giver, and prompt executor,
naturally compassionate, as is proved by his large pensions to the
families of his enemies, to Lady Hastings, Lady Rivers, the Duchess of
Buckingham, and the rest; peculiarly devout, too, according to a pattern
then getting antiquated, as is shown by his endowing colleges of
priests, and bestowing funds for masses in his own behalf and others.
Shakspeare never loses an opportunity of painting Gloucester's piety as
sheer hypocrisy, but it was not thought so then; for there was a growing
Protestant party whom all these Romanist manifestations of the highest
nobleman in England greatly offended, not to say alarmed.

Richard's change of virtual into actual sovereignty, in other words, the
Lord Protector's usurpation of the crown, was not done by violence: in
his first royal procession he was unattended by troops; a fickle,
intriguing, ambitious, and warlike nobility approved the change;
Buckingham, Catesby, and others, urged it. No doubt he himself saw that
the crown was not a fit plaything for a twelve years' old boy, in such a
time of frequent treason, ferocious crime, and general recklessness.
There is no question but what, as Richard had more head than any man in
England, he was best fitted to be at its head.

The great mystery requiring to be explained is, not that 'the
Lancastrian partialities of Shakspeare have,' as Walter Scott said,
'turned history upside down,' and since the battle of Bosworth, no party
have had any interest in vindicating an utterly ruined cause, but how
such troops of nobles revolted against a monarch alike brave and
resolute, wise in council and energetic in act, generous to reward, but
fearful to punish.

The only solution I am ready to admit is, the imputed assassination of
his young nephews; not only an unnatural crime, but sacrilege to that
divinity which was believed to hedge a king. The cotemporary ballad of
the 'Babes in the Wood,' was circulated by Buckingham to inflame the
English heart against one to whom he had thrown down the gauntlet for a
deadly wrestle. Except that the youngest babe is a girl, and that the
uncle perishes in prison, the tragedy and the ballad wonderfully keep
pace together. In one, the prince's youth is put under charge of an
uncle 'whom wealth and riches did surround;' in the other, 'the uncle is
a man of high estate.' The play soothes the deserted mother with,
'Sister, have comfort;' the ballad with, 'Sweet sister, do not fear.'
The drama says that:

  'Dighton and Forrest, though they were fleshed villains,
  Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.'

And the poem:

  'He bargained with two ruffians strong,
  Who were of furious mood.'

But

  'That the pretty speech they had,
     Made murderous hearts relent,
  And they that took to do the deed.
     Full sore did now repent.'

There is a like agreement in their deaths:

  'Thus, thus, quoth Dighton, girdling one another
  Within their alabaster, innocent arms.'

And the ballad:

  'In one another's arms they died.'

Finally, the greatest of English tragedies represents Richard's remorse
as:

  'My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
  And every tongue brings in a several tale,
  And every tale condemns me for a villain.'

While the most pathetic of English ballads gives it:

  'And now the heavy wrath of God
     Upon their uncle fell;
  Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house.
     His conscience felt a hell.'

As it is probable that this ballad was started on its rounds by
Buckingham, the arch-plotter, was eagerly circulated by the Richmond
conspirators, and sung all over the southern part of England as the
fatal assault on Richard was about to be made, we shall hardly wonder
that, in an age of few books and no journals, the imputed crime hurled a
usurper from his throne.

But was he really _guilty_? Did he deserve to be set up as this
scarecrow in English story? The weight of authority says, 'Yes;' facts
are coming to light in the indefatigable research now being made in
England, which may yet say: 'No.'

The charge was started by the unprincipled Buckingham to excuse his
sudden conversion from an accomplice, if Shakspeare is to be credited,
to a bloodthirsty foe. It was so little received that, months afterward,
the convocation of British clergy addressed King Richard thus, 'Seeing
your most noble and blessed disposition in all other things'--so little
received that when Richmond actually appeared in the field, there was no
popular insurrection in his behalf, only a few nobles joined him with
their own forces; and when their treason triumphed, and his rival sat
supreme on Richard's throne, the three pretended accomplices in the
murder of the princes were so far from punishment that their chief held
high office for nearly a score of years, and then perished for assisting
at the escape of Lady Suffolk, of the house of York. And when Perkin
Warbeck appeared in arms as the murdered Prince Edward, and the
strongest possible motive urged Henry VII. to justify his usurpation by
producing the bones of the murdered princes, (which two centuries
afterward were pretended to be found at the foot of the Tower-stairs,)
at least to publish to the world the three murderers' confessions, and
demonstrate the absurdity of the popular insurrection, Lord Bacon
himself says, that Henry could obtain no proof, though he spared neither
money nor effort! We have even the statement of Polydore Virgil, in a
history written by express desire of Henry VII., that 'it was generally
reported and believed that Edward's sons were still alive, having been
conveyed secretly away, and obscurely concealed in some distant region.'

And then the story is laden down with improbabilities. That Brakenbury
should have refused this service to so willful a despot, yet not have
fled from the penalty of disobedience, and even have received additional
royal favors, and finally sacrificed his life, fighting bravely in
behalf of the bloodiest villain that ever went unhung, is a large pill
for credulity to swallow.

Again, that a mere page should have selected as chief butcher a nobleman
high in office, knighted long before this in Scotland, and that this
same Sir Edward Tyrrel should have been continued in office around the
mother of the murdered princes, and honored year after year with high
office by Henry VII., and actually made confidential governor of
Guisnes, and royal commissioner for a treaty with France, seems
perfectly incredible. All of Shakspeare's representation of this most
slandered courtier is, indeed, utterly false; while Bacon's repetition
of the principal charges only shows how impossible it is to recover a
reputation that has once been lost, and how careless history has been in
repeating calumnies that have once found circulation.

Bayley's history of the Tower proves that what has been popularly
christened the Bloody Tower could never have been the scene of the
supposed murder; that no bones were found under any staircase there; so
that this pretended confirmation of the murder in the time of Charles
II., on which many writers have relied, vanishes into the stuff which
dreams are made of.

And yet by this charge which the antiquarian Stowe declared was 'never
proved by any credible witness,' which Grafton, Hall, and Holinshead
agreed could never be certainly known; which Bacon declared that King
Henry in vain endeavored to substantiate, a brave and politic monarch
lost his crown, life, and historic fame! Nay, it is a curious fact that
Richard could not safely contradict the report of the princes' deaths
when it broke out with the outbreak of civil war, because it would have
been furnishing to the rebellion a justifying cause and a royal head,
instead of a milksop whom he despised and felt certain to overthrow.

As it was, Richard left nothing undone to fortify his failing cause; he
may be thought even to have overdone. He doubled his spies, enlisted
fresh troops, erected fortifications, equipped fleets, twice had
Richmond at his fingers' ends, twice saw Providence take his side in the
dispersion of Richmond's fleet, the overthrow of Buckingham's force;
then was utterly ruined by the general treason of his most trusted
nobles and his not unnatural scorn of a pusillanimous rival. In vain did
he strive to be just and generous, vigilant and charitable, politic and
enterprising. The poor excuse for Buckingham's desertion, the refusal of
the grant of Hereford, is refuted by a Harleian MS. recording that royal
munificence; yet Buckingham, without any question, wove the net in which
this lion fell; he seduced the very officers of the court; he invited
Richmond over, assuring him of a popular uprising, which was proved to
be a mere mockery by the miserable handful that rallied around him,
until Richard fell at Bosworth. And after Buckingham's death, Richmond
merely followed _his_ plans, used the tools he had prepared, headed the
conspiracy which this unmitigated traitor arranged, and profited more
than Richard by his death, because he had not to fear an after-struggle
with Buckingham's insatiable ambition, overweening pride, and
unsurpassed popular power.

As one becomes familiar with the cotemporary statements, the fall of
Richard seems nothing but the treachery which provoked his last outcry
on the field of death. Even Catesby probably turned against him; his own
Attorney-General invited the invaders into Wales with promise of aid;
the Duke of Northumberland, whom Richard had covered over with honor,
held his half of the army motionless while his royal benefactor was
murdered before his eyes. Stanley was a snake in the grass in the next
reign as well as this, and at last expiated his double treason too late
upon the scaffold. Yet while the nobles went over to Richmond's side,
the common people held back; only three thousand troops, perhaps
personal retainers of their lords, united themselves to the two thousand
Richmond hired abroad. It was any thing but a popular uprising against
the jealous, hateful, bloody humpback of Shakspeare; it excuses the
fatal precipitancy with which the King (instead of gathering his troops
from the scattered fortifications) not only hurried on the battle, but,
when the mine of treason began to explode beneath his feet on Bosworth
field, refused to seek safety by flight, but heading a furious charge
upon Richmond, threw his life magnificently away.

Even had he been guilty of the great crime which cost him his crown, his
fate would have merited many a tear but for the unrivaled genius at
defamation with which the master-dramatist did homage to the triumphant
house of Lancaster. Lord Orford says, that it is evident the Tudors
retained all their Lancastrian prejudices even in the reign of
Elizabeth; and that Shakspeare's drama was patronized by her who liked
to have her grandsire presented in so favorable a light as the deliverer
of his native land from a bloody tyranny.

Even in taking the darkest view of his case, we find that other English
sovereigns had sinned the same: Henry I. probably murdered the elder
brother whom he robbed; Edward III. deposed his own father; Henry IV.
cheated his nephew of the sceptre, and permitted his assassination;
Shakspeare's own Elizabeth was not over-sisterly to Mary of Scotland;
all around Richard, robbery, treason, violence, lust, murder, were like
a swelling sea. Why was he thus singled out for the anathema of four
centuries? Why was the naked corpse of one who fell fighting valiantly,
thrown rudely on a horse's back? Why was his stone coffin degraded into
a tavern-trough, and his remains tossed out no man knew where? Not
merely that the Plantagenets never lifted their heads from the gory dust
any more, so that their conquerors wrote the epitaph upon their tombs,
and hired the annalists of their fame; but, still more, that the weak
and assailed Henry required every excuse for his invasion and
usurpation; and that the principal nobility of England wanted a
hiding-place for the shame of their violated oaths, their monstrous
perfidy, their cowardly abandonment in the hour of peril of one of the
bravest leaders, wisest statesmen, and most liberal princes England ever
knew.




THE NEGRO IN THE REVOLUTION.


Whether the negro can or ought to be employed in the Federal army, or in
any way, for the purpose of suppressing the present rebellion, is
becoming a question of very decided significance. It is a little late in
the day, to be sure, since it is probable that the expensive amusement
of dirt-and-shovel warfare might, by the aid of the black, have been
somewhat shorn of its expense, and our Northern army have counted some
thousands of lives more than it now does, had the contraband been freely
encouraged to delve for his deliverance. Still, there are signs of sense
being slowly manifested by the great conservative mass, and we every day
see proof that there are many who, to conquer the enemy, are willing to
do a bold or practical thing, even if it _does_ please the
Abolitionists. Like the rustic youth who was informed of a sure way to
obtain great wealth if he would pay a trifle, they would not mind
getting _that_ fortune if it _did_ cost a dollar. It _is_ a pity, of
course, saith conservatism, that the South can not be conquered in some
potent way which shall at least make it feel a little bad, and at the
same time utterly annihilate that rather respectably sized majority of
Americans who would gladly see emancipation realized. However, as the
potent way is not known, we must do the best we can. In its secret
conclaves, respectable conservatism shakes its fine old head, and
smoothing down the white cravat inherited from the late great and good
Buchanan, admits that the _Richmond Whig_ is almost right, after
all--this Federal cause _is_ very much in the nature of a 'servile
insurrection' of Northern serfs against gentlemen; '_mais que
voulez-vous?_--we have got into the wrong boat, and must sink or swim
with the maddened Helots! And conservatism sighs for the good old days
when they blasphemed _Liberty_ at their little suppers,

  'And--blest condition!-felt genteel.'

To be sure, the portraits of Puritan or Huguenot or Revolutionary
ancestors frowned on them from the walls--the portraits of men who had
risked all things for freedom; ''but this is a different state of
things, you know;' we have changed all that--the heart is on the other
side of the body now--let us be discreet!'

It is curious, in this connection of employing slaves as workmen or
soldiers, with the remembrance of the progressive gentlemen of the olden
time who founded this republic, to see what the latter thought in their
day of such aid in warfare. And fortunately we have at hand what we
want, in a very _multum in parvo_ pamphlet[5] by George H. Moore,
Librarian of the New-York Historical Society. From this we learn that
while great opposition to the project prevailed, owing to wrong
judgment as to the capacity of the black, the expediency and even
necessity of employing him was, during the events of the war, forcibly
demonstrated, and that, when he _was_ employed in a military capacity,
he proved himself a good soldier.

There were, however, great and good men during the Revolution, who
warmly sustained the affirmative. The famous Dr. Hopkins wrote as
follows in 1776:

     'God is so ordering it in his providence, that it seems absolutely
     necessary something should speedily be done with respect to the
     slaves among us, in order to our safety, and to prevent their
     turning against us in our present struggle, in order to get their
     liberty. Our oppressors have planned to gain the blacks, and induce
     them to take up arms against us, by promising them liberty on this
     condition; and this plan they are prosecuting to the utmost of
     their power, by which means they have persuaded numbers to join
     them. And should we attempt to restrain them by force and severity,
     keeping a strict guard over them, and punishing them severely who
     shall be detected in attempting to join our opposers, this will
     only be making bad worse, and serve to render our inconsistence,
     oppression and cruelty more criminal, perspicuous and shocking, and
     bring down the righteous vengeance of heaven on our heads. The only
     way pointed out to prevent this threatening evil, is to set the
     blacks at liberty ourselves by some public acts and laws, and then
     give them proper encouragement to labor, or take arms in the
     defense of the American cause, as they shall choose. This would at
     once be doing them some degree of justice, and defeating our
     enemies in the scheme they are prosecuting.'

'These,' says Mr. Moore, 'were the views of a philanthropic divine, who
urged them upon the Continental Congress and the owners of slaves
throughout the colonies with singular power, showing it to be at once
their duty and their interest to adopt the policy of emancipation.' They
did not meet with those of the administration of any of the colonies,
and were formally disapproved. But while the enlistment of negroes was
prohibited, the fact is still notorious, as Bancroft says, that 'the
roll of the army at Cambridge had from its first formation borne the
names of men of color.' 'Free negroes stood in the ranks by the side of
white men. In the beginning of the war, they had entered the provincial
army; the first general order which was issued by Ward had required a
return, among other things, of the 'complexion' of the soldiers; and
black men, like others, were retained in the service after the troops
were adopted by the continent.'

It was determined on, at war-councils and in committees of conference,
in 1775, that negroes should be rejected from the enlistments; and yet
General Washington found, in that same year, that the negroes, if not
employed in the American army, would become formidable foes when
enlisted by the enemy. We may judge, from a note given by Mr. Moore,
that Washington had at least a higher opinion than his _confreres_ of
the power of the black. His apprehensions, we are told, were grounded
somewhat on the operations of Lord Dunmore, whose proclamation had been
issued declaring 'all indented servants, negroes or others,
(appertaining to rebels,) free,' and calling on them to join his
Majesty's troops. It was the opinion of the commander-in-chief, that if
Dunmore was not crushed before spring, he would become the most
formidable enemy America had; 'his strength will increase as a snow-ball
by rolling, and faster, if some expedient can not be hit upon to
convince the slaves and servants of the impotency of his designs.'
Consequently, in general orders, December 30th, he says:

     'As the General is informed that numbers of free negroes are
     desirous of enlisting, he gives leave to the recruiting-officers to
     entertain them, and promises to lay the matter before the Congress,
     who, he doubts not, will approve of it.'

Washington communicated his action to Congress, adding: 'If this is
disapproved of by Congress, I will put a stop to it.'

His letter was referred to a committee of three, (Mr. Wythe, Mr. Adams,
and Mr. Wilson,) on the fifteenth of January, 1776, and upon their
report on the following day the Congress determined:

     'That the free negroes who have served faithfully in the army at
     Cambridge may be reenlisted therein, but no others.'

That Washington, at a later period at least, warmly approved of the
employment of blacks as soldiers, appears from his remarks to Colonel
Laurens, subsequent to his failure to carry out what even as an effort
forms one of the most remarkable episodes of the Revolution, full
details of which are given in Mr. Moore's pamphlet.

On March 14th, 1779, Alexander Hamilton wrote to John Jay, then
President of Congress, warmly commending a plan of Colonel Laurens, the
object of which was to raise three or four battalions of negroes in
South-Carolina. We regret that our limits render it impossible to give
the whole of this remarkable document, which is as applicable to the
present day as it was to its own.

     'I foresee that this project will have to combat much opposition
     from prejudice and self-interest. The contempt we have been taught
     to entertain for the blacks makes us fancy many things that are
     founded neither in reason nor experience; and an unwillingness to
     part with property of so valuable a kind will furnish a thousand
     arguments to show the impracticability, or pernicious tendency, of
     a scheme which requires such sacrifices. But it should be
     considered that if we do not make use of them in this way, the
     enemy probably will; and that the best way to counteract the
     temptations they will hold out, will be to offer them ourselves. An
     essential part of the plan is to give them their freedom with their
     swords. This will secure their fidelity, animate their courage,
     and, I believe, will have a good influence upon those who remain,
     by opening a door to their emancipation.

     'This circumstance, I confess, has no small weight in inducing me
     to wish the success of the project; for the dictates of humanity
     and true policy equally interest me in favor of this unfortunate
     class of men.

     'While I am on the subject of Southern affairs, you will excuse the
     liberty I take in saying, that I do not think measures sufficiently
     vigorous are pursuing for our defense in that quarter. Except the
     few regular troops of South-Carolina, we seem to be relying wholly
     on the militia of that and two neighboring States. These will soon
     grow impatient of service, and leave our affairs in a miserable
     situation. No considerable force can be uniformly kept up by
     militia, to say nothing of the many obvious and well-known
     inconveniences that attend this kind of troops. I would beg leave
     to suggest, sir, that no time ought to be lost in making a draft of
     militia to serve a twelve-month, from the States of North and
     South-Carolina and Virginia. But South-Carolina, being very weak in
     her population of whites, may be excused from the draft, on
     condition of furnishing the black battalions. The two others may
     furnish about three thousand five hundred men, and be exempted, on
     that account, from sending any succors to this army. The States to
     the northward of Virginia will be fully able to give competent
     supplies to the army here; and it will require all the force and
     exertions of the three States I have mentioned to withstand the
     storm which has arisen, and is increasing in the South.

     'The troops drafted must be thrown into battalions, and officered
     in the best possible manner. The best supernumerary officers may be
     made use of as far as they will go. If arms are wanted for their
     troops, and no better way of supplying them is to be found, we
     should endeavor to levy a contribution of arms upon the militia at
     large. Extraordinary exigencies demand extraordinary means. I fear
     this Southern business will become a very _grave_ one.

        'With the truest respect and esteem,
             I am, sir, your most obedient servant,
                                 ALEXANDER HAMILTON.

     'His Excellency, JOHN JAY,
     President of Congress,'



The project was warmly approved by Major-General Greene, and Laurens
himself, who proposed to lead the blacks, was enthusiastic in his hopes.
In a letter written about this time, he says:

     'It appears to me that I should be inexcusable in the light of a
     citizen, if I did not continue my utmost efforts for carrying the
     plan of the black levies into execution, while there remains the
     smallest hope of success. The House of Representatives will be
     convened in a few days. I intend to qualify, and make a final
     effort. Oh! that I were a Demosthenes! The Athenians never deserved
     a more bitter exprobation than our countrymen.'

But the Legislature of South-Carolina decided, as might have been
expected from the most tory of States in the Revolution, as it now is
the most traitorous in the Emancipation--for it is by _that_ name that
this war will be known in history. It rejected Laurens' proposal--his
own words give the best account of the failure:

     'I was outvoted, having only reason on my side, and being opposed
     by a triple-headed monster, that shod the baneful influence of
     avarice, prejudice, and pusillanimity in all our assemblies. It was
     some consolation to me, however, to find that philosophy and truth
     had made some little progress since my last effort, as I obtained
     twice as many suffrages as before.'

'Washington,' says Mr. Moore, 'comforted Laurens with the confession
that he was not at all astonished by the failure of the plan, adding:

     ''That spirit of freedom, which at the commencement of this contest
     would have gladly sacrificed every thing to the attainment of its
     object, has long since subsided, and every selfish passion has
     taken its place. It is not the public, but private interest, which
     influences the generality of mankind, nor can the Americans any
     longer boast an exception. Under these circumstances, it would
     rather have been surprising if you had succeeded.'

But the real lesson which this rejection of negro aid taught this
country was a bitter one. South-Carolina lost twenty-five thousand
negroes, and in Georgia between three fourths and seven eighths of the
slaves escaped. The British organized them, made great use of them, and
they became 'dangerous and well-disciplined bands of marauders.' As the
want of recruits in the American army increased, negroes, both bond and
free, were finally and gladly taken. In the department under General
Washington's command, on August 24th, 1778, there were nearly eight
hundred black soldiers. This does not include, however, the black
regiment of Rhode Island slaves which had just been organized.

In 1778 General Varnum proposed to Washington that a battalion of negro
slaves be raised, to be commanded by Colonel Greene, Lieutenant-Colonel
Olney, and Major Ward. Washington approved of the plan, which, however,
met with strong opposition from the Rhode Island Assembly. The black
regiment was, however, raised, tried, 'and not found wanting.' As Mr.
Moore declares:

     'In the battle of Rhode-Island, August 29th, 1778, said by
     Lafayette to have been 'the best fought action of the whole war,'
     this newly raised black regiment, under Colonel Greene,
     distinguished itself by deeds of desperate valor, repelling three
     times the fierce assaults of an overwhelming force of Hessian
     troops. And so they continued to discharge their duty with zeal and
     fidelity--never losing any of their first laurels so gallantly won.
     It is not improbable that Colonel John Laurens witnessed and drew
     some of his inspiration from the scene of their first trial in the
     field.'

A company of negroes from Connecticut was also raised and commanded by
the late General Humphreys, who was attached to the family of
Washington. Of this company cotemporary account says that they
'conducted themselves with fidelity and efficiency throughout the war.'
So, little by little, the negro came to be an effective aid, after all
the formal rejections of his service. In 1780, an act was passed in
Maryland to procure one thousand men to serve three years. The property
in the State was divided into classes of sixteen thousand pounds, each
of which was, within twenty days, to furnish one recruit, who might be
either a freeman or a slave. In 1781, the Legislature resolved to raise,
immediately, seven hundred and fifty negroes, to be incorporated with
the other troops.

In Virginia an act had been passed in 1777, declaring that free negroes,
and free negroes only, might be enlisted on the footing with white men.
Great numbers of Virginians who wished to escape military service,
caused their slaves to enlist, having tendered them to the
recruiting-officers as substitutes for free persons, whose lot or duty
it was to serve in the army, at the same time representing that these
slaves were freemen. 'On the expiration of the term of enlistment, the
former owners attempted to force them to return to a state of
servitude, with equal disregard of the principles of justice and their
own solemn promise.'

The iniquity of such proceedings soon raised a storm of indignation, and
the result was the passage of an Act of Emancipation, securing freedom
to all slaves who had served their term in the war.

Such are the principal facts collected in this remarkable and timely
publication. It is needless to say that we commend it to the careful
perusal of all who desire conclusive information on a most important
subject. It is evident that we are going through nearly the same stages
of timidity, ignorance, and blind conservatism which were passed by our
forefathers, and shall come, if not too late, upon the same results. It
is historically true that Washington apparently had in the beginning
these scruples, but was among the first to lay them aside, and that
experience taught him and many others the folly of scrupling to employ
in regular warfare and in a regular way men who would otherwise aid the
enemy. These are undeniable facts, well worth something more than mere
reflection, and we accordingly commend the work in which they are set
forth, with all our heart, to the reader.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: Historical Notes on the Employment of Negroes in the
American Army of the Revolution. By George H. Moore. New-York: Charles
T. Evans, 532 Broadway. Price, ten cents.]




A MERCHANT'S STORY.

  'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'


CHAPTER II.

The clock of St. Paul's was sounding eight. Buttoning my outside coat
closely about me--for it was a cold, stormy night in November--I
descended the steps of the Astor House to visit, in the upper part of
the city, the blue-eyed young woman who is looking over my shoulder
while I write this--it was nearly twenty years ago, reader, but she is
young yet!

As I closed the outer door, a small voice at my elbow, in a tone broken
by sobs, said:

'Sir--will you--please, sir--will you buy some ballads?'

'Ballads! a little fellow like you selling ballads at this time of
night?'

'Yes, sir! I haven't sold only three all day, sir; do, please sir, _do_
buy some!' and as he stood under the one gas-burner which lit the
hotel-porch, I saw that his eyes were red with weeping.

'Come inside, my little man; don't stand here in the cold. Who sends you
out on such a night as this to sell ballads?'

'Nobody, sir; but mother is sick, and I _have_ to sell 'em! She's had
nothing to eat all day, sir. Oh! do buy some--_do_ buy some, sir!'

'I will, my good boy; but tell me, have you no father?'

'No, sir, I never had any--and mother is sick, _very_ sick, sir; and
she's nobody to do any thing for her but _me_--nobody but _me_, sir!'
and he cried as if his very heart would break.

'Don't cry, my little boy, don't cry; I'll buy your ballads--all of
them;' and I gave him two half-dollar pieces--all the silver I had.

'I haven't got so many as that, sir; I haven't got only twenty, and
they're only a cent a piece, sir;' and with very evident reluctance, he
tendered me back the money.

'Oh! never mind, my boy, keep the money and the ballads too.'

'O sir! thank you. Mother will be so glad, _so_ glad, sir!' and he
turned to go, but his feelings overpowering him, he hid his little face
in the big blanket-shawl which he wore, and sobbed louder and harder
than before.

'Where does your mother live, my boy?'

'Round in Anthony street, sir; some good folks there give her a room,
sir.'

'Did you say she was sick?'

'Yes, sir, very sick; the doctor says she can't live only a little
while, sir.'

'And what will become of you, when she is dead?'

'I don't know, sir. Mother says God will take care of me, sir.'

'Come, my little fellow, don't cry any more; I'll go with you and see
your mother.'

'Oh! thank you, sir; mother will be so glad to have you--so glad to
thank you, sir;' and, looking up timidly an my face, he added: 'You'll
_love_ mother, sir!'

I took his hand in mine, and we went out into the storm.

He was not more than six years old, and had a bright, intelligent, but
pale and peaked face. He wore thin, patched trowsers, a small, ragged
cap, and large, tattered boots, and over his shoulders was a worn woolen
shawl. I could not see the remainder of his clothing, but I afterward
discovered that a man's waistcoat was his only other garment.

As I have said, it was a bleak, stormy night. The rain, which had fallen
all the day, froze as it fell, and the sharp, wintry wind swept down
Broadway, sending an icy chill to my very bones, and making the little
hand I held in mine tremble with cold. We passed several blocks in
silence, when the child turned into a side-street.

'My little fellow,' I said, 'this is not Anthony street--that is further
on.'

'I know it, sir; but I want to get mother some bread, sir. A good
gentleman down here sells to me very cheap, sir.'

We crossed a couple of streets and stopped at a corner-grocery.

'Why, my little 'un,' said the large, red-faced man behind the counter,
'I didn't know what had become of ye! Why haven't ye bin here to-day?'

'I hadn't any money, sir,' replied the little boy.

'An' haven't ye had any bread to-day, sonny?'

'Mother hasn't had any, sir; a little bit was left last night, but she
made _me_ eat that, sir.'

'D--n it, an' hasn't _she_ hed any all day! Ye mustn't do that agin,
sonny; ye must come whether ye've money or no; times is hard, but, I
swear, I kin give _ye_ a loaf any time.'

'I thank you, sir,' I said, advancing from the doorway where I had stood
unobserved--'I will pay you;' and taking a roll of bills from my pocket,
I gave him one. 'You know what they want--send it to them at once.'

The man stared at me a moment in amazement, then said:

'An' do ye know 'em, sir?'

'No, I'm just going there.'

'Well, do, sir; they're bad off; ye kin do real good there, no mistake.'

'I'll see,' I replied; and taking the bread in one hand and the little
boy by the other, I started again for his mother's. I was always a rapid
walker, but I had difficulty in keeping up with the little fellow as he
trotted along at my side.

We soon stopped at the door of an old, weather-worn building, which I
saw by the light of the street-lamp was of dingy brick, three stories
high, and hermetically sealed by green board-shutters. It sat but one
step above the ground, and a dim light which came through the low
basement-windows, showed that even its cellar was occupied. My little
guide rang the bell, and in a moment a panel of the door opened, and a
shrill voice asked:

'Who's there?'

'It's only me, ma'am; please let me in.'

'What, _you_, Franky, out so late as this!' exclaimed the woman, undoing
the chain which held the door. As she was about closing it she caught
sight of me, and eyeing me for a moment, said: 'Walk in, sir.' As I
complied with the invitation, she added, pointing to a room opening from
the hall: 'Step in there, sir.'

'He's come to see mother, ma'am,' said the little boy.

'You can't see _her_, sir, she's sick, and don't see company any more.'

'I would see her for only a moment, madam.'

'But she can't see nobody now, sir.'

'Oh! mother would like to see him very much, ma'am; he's a very good
gentleman, ma'am,' said the child, in a pleading, winning tone.

The real object of my visit seemed to break upon the woman, for, making
a low courtesy, she said:

'Oh! she _will_ be glad to see you, sir; she's very bad off, very bad
indeed;' and she at once led the way to the basement stairway.

The woman was about forty, with a round, full form, a red, bloated face,
and eyes which looked as if they had not known a wink of sleep for
years. She wore a dirty lace-cap, trimmed with gaudy colors, and a
tawdry red and black dress, laid off in large squares like the map of
Philadelphia. It was very low in the neck--remarkably so for the
season--and disclosed a scorched, florid skin, and a rough, mountainous
bosom.

The furnishings of the hall had a shabby-genteel look, till we reached
the basement stairs, when every thing became bare, and dark, and dirty.
The woman led the way down, and opened the door of a front-room--the
only one on the floor, the rest of the space being open, and occupied as
a cellar. This room had a forlorn, cheerless appearance. Its front wall
was of the naked brick, through which the moisture had crept, dotting it
every here and there with large water-stains and blotches of mold. Its
other sides were of rough boards, placed upright, and partially covered
with a dirty, ragged paper. The floor was of wide, unpainted plank. A
huge chimney-stack protruded some three feet into the room, and in it
was a hole which admitted the pipe of a rusty air-tight stove that gave
out just enough heat to take the chill edge off the damp, heavy
atmosphere. This stove, a small stand resting against the wall, a
broken-backed chair, and a low, narrow bed covered with a ragged
patch-work counterpane, were the only furniture of the apartment. And
that room was the home of two human beings.

'How do you feel to-night, Fanny?' asked the woman, as she approached
the low bed in the corner. There was a reply, but it was too faint for
me to hear.

'Here, mamma,' said the little boy, taking me by the hand and leading me
to the bedside, 'here's a good gentleman who's come to see you. He's
_very_ good, mamma; he's given me a whole dollar, and got you lots of
things at the store; oh! lots of things!' and the little fellow threw
his arms around his mother's neck, and kissed her again and again in his
joy.

The mother turned her eye upon me--such an eye! It seemed a black flame.
And her face--so pale, so wan, so woe-begone, and yet so sweetly,
strangely, beautiful--seemed that of some fallen angel, who, after long
ages of torment, had been purified, and fitted again for heaven! And it
was so. She had suffered all the woe, she had wept for all the sin, and
then she stood white and pure before the everlasting gates which were
opening to let her in!

She reached me her thin, weak hand, and in a low voice, said: 'I thank
you, sir.'

'You are welcome, madam. You are very sick; it hurts you to speak?'

She nodded slightly, but said nothing. I turned to the woman who had
admitted me, and in a very low tone said: 'I never saw a person die; is
she not dying?'

'No, sir, I guess not. She's seemed so for a good many days.'

'Has she had a physician?'

'Not for nigh a month. A doctor come once or twice, but he said it wan't
no use--he couldn't help her.'

'But she should have help at once. Have you any one you can send?'

'Oh! yes; I kin manage that. What doctor will you have?'

I wrote on a piece of paper the name of an acquaintance--a skillful and
experienced physician, who lived not far off--and gave it to her.

'And can't you make her a cup of tea, and a little chicken-broth? She
has had nothing all day.'

'Nothing all day! I'm sure I didn't know it! I'm poor, sir--you don't
know how poor--but she shan't starve in my house.'

'I suppose she didn't like to speak of it; but get her something as soon
as you can.'

'I will, sir; I'll fix her some tea and broth right off.'

'Well, do, as quick as possible. I'll pay you for your trouble.'

'I don't want any pay, sir,' she replied, as she turned and darted from
the doorway as nimbly as if she had not been fat and forty.

She soon returned with the tea, and I gave it to the sick girl, a
spoonful at a time, she being too weak to sit up. It was the first she
had tasted for weeks, and it greatly revived her.

After a time, the doctor came. He felt her pulse, asked, her a few
questions in a low voice, and then wrote some simple directions. When he
had done that, he turned to me and said: 'Step outside for a moment; I
want to speak with you.'

As we passed out, we met the woman going in with the broth.

'Please give it to her at once,' I said.

'Yes, sir, I will; but, gentlemen, don't stand here in the cold. Walk up
into the parlor--the front-room.'

We did as she suggested, for the cellar-way had a damp, unhealthy air.

The parlor was furnished in a showy, tawdry style, and a worn, ugly,
flame-colored carpet covered its floor. A coal-fire was burning in the
grate, and we sat down by it. As we did so, I heard loud voices, mingled
with laughter and the clinking of glasses, in the adjoining room. Not
appearing to notice the noises, the doctor asked:

'Who is this woman?'

'I don't know; I never saw her before. Is she dying?'

'No, not now. But she can't last long; a week, at the most.'

'She evidently has the consumption. That damp cellar has killed her; she
should be got out of it.'

'The cellar hasn't done it; her very vitals are eaten up. She's been
beyond cure for six months!'

'Is it possible? And such a woman!'

'Oh! I see such cases every day--women as fine-looking as she is.'

A ring came at the front-door, and in a moment I heard the woman coming
up the basement stairs. I had risen when the doctor made the last
remark, and was pacing up and down the room, deliberating on what should
be done. The parlor-door was ajar, and as the woman admitted the
new-comers, I caught a glimpse of them. They were three rough,
hard-looking characters; and one, from his unsteady gait, I judged to be
intoxicated. She seemed glad to see them, and led them into the room
from whence the noises proceeded. In a moment the doctor rose to go,
saying: 'I can do nothing more. But what do you intend to do here? I
brought you out to ask you.'

'I don't know what _can_ be done. She ought not to be left to die
there.'

'She'd prefer dying above-ground, no doubt; and if you relish fleecing,
you'll get her an upper room--but she's got to die soon any way, and a
day or two, more or less, down there, won't make any difference. Take my
advice--don't throw your money away, and don't stay here too late; the
house has a very hard name, and some of its rough customers would think
nothing of throttling a spruce young fellow like you.'

'I thank you, doctor, but I think I'll run the risk--at least for a
while,' and I laughed good-humoredly at the benevolent gentleman's
caution.

'Well, if you lose your small change, don't charge it to me.' Saying
this, he bade me 'good-night.'

He found the door locked, barred, and secured by the large chain, and he
was obliged to summon the woman. When she had let him out, I asked her
into the parlor.

'Who is this sick person?' I inquired.

'I don't know, sir. She never gave me no name but Fanny. I found her and
her little boy on the door-step, one night, nigh a month ago. She was
crying hard, and seemed very sick, and little Franky was a-trying to
comfort her--he's a brave, noble little fellow, sir. She told me she'd
been turned out of doors for not paying her rent, and was afeared she'd
die in the street, though she didn't seem to care much about that,
except for the boy--she took on terrible about him. She didn't know what
_would_ become of him. I've to scrape very hard to get along, sir, for
times is hard, and my rent is a thousand dollars; but I couldn't see her
die there, so I took her in, and put a bed up in the basement, and let
her have it. 'Twas all I could do; but, poor thing! she won't want even
that long.'

'It was very good of you. How has she obtained food?'

'The little boy sells papers and ballads about the streets. The newsman
round the corner trusts him for 'em, and he's managed to make
twenty-five cents or more most every day.'

'Can't you give her another room? She should not die where she is.'

'I know she shouldn't, sir, but I hain't got another--all of 'em is
taken up; and besides, sir,' and she hesitated a moment, 'the noise up
here would disturb her.'

I had not thought of that; and expressing myself gratified with her
kindness, I passed down again to the basement. The sick girl smiled as I
opened the door, and held out her hand again to me. Taking it in mine, I
asked:

'Do you feel better?'

'Much better,' she said, in a voice stronger than before. 'I have not
felt so well for a long time. I owe it to you, sir! I am very grateful.'

'Don't speak of it, madam. Won't you have more of the broth?'

'No more, thank you. I won't trouble you any more, sir--I shan't trouble
any one long;' and her eyes filled, and her voice quivered; 'but, O sir!
my child! my little boy! What _will_ become of him when I'm gone?' and
she burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.

'Don't weep so, madam. Calm yourself; such excitement will kill you. God
will provide for your child. I will try to help him, madam.'

She looked at me with those deep, intense eyes. A new light seemed to
come into them; it overspread her face, and lit up her thin, wan
features with a strange glow.

'It must be so,' she said, 'else why were you led here? God must have
sent you to me for that!'

'No doubt he did, madam. Let it comfort you to think so.'

'It does, oh! it does. And, O my Father!' and she looked up to Him as
she spoke: 'I thank thee! Thy poor, sinful, dying child thanks thee;
and, oh! bless _him_, forever bless him, for it!'

I turned away to hide the emotion I could not repress. A moment after,
not seeing the little boy, I asked:

'Where is your son?'

'Here, sir.' And turning down the bed-clothing, she showed him sleeping
quietly by her side, all unconscious of the misery and the sin around
him, and of the mighty crisis through which his young life was passing.

Saying I would return on the following day, I shortly afterward bade her
'good-night,' and left the house.


CHAPTER III.

It was noon on the following day when I again visited the house in
Anthony street. As I opened the door of the sick woman's room, I was
startled by her altered appearance. Her eye had a strange, wild light,
and her face already wore the pallid hue of death. She was bolstered up
in bed, and the little boy was standing by her side, weeping, his arms
about her neck. I took her hand in mine, and in a voice which plainly
spoke my fears, said:

'You are worse!'

In broken gasps, and in a low, a very low tone, her lips scarcely
moving, she answered:

'No! I am--better--much--better. I knew you--were coming. She told me
so.'

'_Who_ told you so?' I asked, very kindly, for I saw that her mind was
wandering.

'My mother--she has been with me--all the day--and I have been so--so
happy, so--_very_ happy! I am going now--going with her--I've only
waited--for you!'

'Say no more now, madam, say no more; you are too weak to talk.'

'But I _must_ talk. I am--dying, and I must tell--you all before--I go!'

'I would gladly hear you, but you have not strength for it now. Let me
get something to revive you.'

She nodded assent, and looking at her son, said:

'Take Franky.'

The little boy kissed her, and followed me from the room. When we had
reached the upper-landing, I summoned the woman of the house, and said
to him:

'Now, Franky, I want you to stay a little while with this good lady;
your mother would talk with me.'

'But mother says she's dying, sir,' cried the little fellow, clinging
closely to me; 'I don't want her to die, sir. Oh! I want to be with her,
sir!'

'You shall be, very soon, my boy; your _mother_ wants you to stay with
this lady now.'

He released his hold on my coat, and sobbing violently, went with the
red-faced woman. I hurried back from the apothecary's, and seating
myself on the one rickety chair by her bedside, gave the sick woman the
restorative. She soon revived, and then, in broken sentences, and in a
low, weak voice, pausing every now and then to rest or to weep, she told
me her story. Weaving into it some details which I gathered from others
after her death, I give it to the reader as she outlined it to me.

She was the only daughter of a well-to-do farmer in the town of B----,
New-Hampshire. Her mother died when she was a child, and left her to the
care of a paternal aunt, who became her father's housekeeper. This aunt,
like her father, was of a cold, hard nature, and had no love for
children. She was, however, an exemplary, pious woman. She denied
herself every luxury, and would sit up late of nights to braid straw and
knit socks, that she might send tracts and hymn-books to the poor
heathen; but she never gave a word of sympathy, or a look of love to the
young being that was growing up by her side. The little girl needed
kindness and affection, as much as plants need the sun; but the good
aunt had not these to give her. When the child was six years old, she
was sent to the district-school. There she met a little boy not quite
five years her senior, and they soon became warm friends. He was a
brave, manly lad, and she thought no one was ever so good, or so
handsome as he. Her young heart found in him what it craved for--some
one to lean on and to love, and she loved him with all the strength of
her child-nature. He was very kind to her. Though his home was a mile
away, he came every morning to take her to school, and in the long
summer vacations he almost lived at her father's house. And thus four
years flew away--flew as fast as years that are winged with youth and
love always fly--and though her father was harsh, and her aunt cold and
stern, she did not know a grief, or shed a tear in all that time.

One day, late in summer, toward the close of those four years,
John--that was his name--came to her, his face beaming all over with
joy, and said:

'O Fanny! I am going--going to Boston. Father [he was a richer man than
her father] has got me into a great store there--a great store, and I'm
to stay till I'm twenty-one--they won't pay me hardly any thing--only
fifty dollars the first year, and twenty-five more every other year--but
father says it's a great store, and it'll be the making of me.' And he
danced and sung for joy, but she wept in bitter grief.

Well, five more years rolled away--this time they were not winged as
before--and John came home to spend his two weeks of summer vacation. He
had come every year, but then he said to her what he had never said
before--that which a woman never forgets. He told her that the old
Quaker gentleman, the head of the great house he was with, had taken a
fancy to him, and was going to send him to Europe, in the place of the
junior partner, who was sick, and might never get well. That he should
stay away a year, but when he came back, he was sure the old fellow
would make him a partner, and then--and he strained her to his heart as
he said it--'then I will make you my little wife, Fanny, and take you to
Boston, and you shall be a fine lady--as fine a lady as Kate Russell,
the old man's daughter.' And again he danced and sung, and again she
wept, but this time it was for joy.

He staid away a little more than a year, and when he returned he did not
come at once to her, but he wrote that he would very soon. In a few days
he sent her a newspaper, in which was a marked notice, which read
somewhat as follows:

     'The co-partnership heretofore existing under the name and style of
     RUSSELL, ROLLINS & Co., has been dissolved by the death of
     DAVID GRAY, Jr.

     'The outstanding affairs will be settled, and the business
     continued, by the surviving partners, who have this day admitted
     Mr. JOHN HALLET to an interest in their firm.'

The truth had been gradually dawning upon me, yet when she mentioned his
name, I sprang involuntarily to my feet, exclaiming:

'John Hallet! and were _you_ betrothed to _him_?'

The sick woman had paused from exhaustion, but when I said that, she
made a feeble effort to raise herself, and said in a stronger voice than
before:

'Do you know him--sir?'

'Know him! Yes, madam;' and I paused and spoke in a lower tone, for I
saw that my manner was unduly exciting her; 'I know him well.'

I did know him _well_, and it was on the evening of the day that notice
was written, and just one month after David had followed his only son to
the grave, that I, a boy of sixteen, with my hat in my hand, entered the
inner office of the old counting-room to which I have already introduced
the reader. Mr. Russell, a genial, gentle, good old man, was seated at
his desk, writing; and Mr. Rollins sat at his, poring over some long
accounts.

'Mr. Russell and Mr. Rollins,' I said very respectfully, 'I have come to
bid you good-by. I am going to leave you.'

'Thee going to leave!' exclaimed Mr. Russell, laying down his
spectacles; 'what does thee mean, Edmund?'

'I mean, I don't want to stay any longer, sir,' I replied, my voice
trembling with emotion.

'But you must stay, Edmund,' said Mr. Rollins, in his harsh, imperative
way. 'Your uncle indentured you to us till you are twenty-one, and you
can't go.'

'I _shall_ go, sir,' I replied, with less respect than he deserved. 'My
uncle indentured me to the old firm; I am not bound to stay with the
new.'

Mr. Russell looked grieved, but in the same mild tone as before, he
said:

'I am sorry, Edmund, very sorry, to hear thee say that. Thee can go if
thee likes; but it grieves me to hear thee quibble so. Thee will not
prosper, my son, if thee follows this course in life.' And the moisture
came into the old man's eyes as he spoke. It filled mine, and rolled in
large drops down my cheeks, as I replied:

'Forgive me, sir, for speaking so. I do not want to do wrong, but I
_can't_ stay with John Hallet.'

'Why can't thee stay with John?'

'He don't like me, sir. We are not friends.'

'Why are you not friends?'

'Because I know him, sir.'

'What do you know of him?' asked Mr. Rollins, in the same harsh, abrupt
tone. I had never liked Mr. Rollins, and his words just then stung me to
the quick, I forgot myself, for I replied:

'I know him to be a lying, deceitful, hypocritical scoundrel, sir.'

Some two years before, Hallet had joined the church in which Mr. Rollins
was a deacon, and was universally regarded as a pious, devout young man.
The opinion I expressed was, therefore, rank heterodoxy. To my surprise,
Mr. Rollins turned to Mr. Russell and said:

'I believe the boy is right, Ephraim; John professes too much to be
entirely sincere; I've told you so before.'

'I can't think so, Thomas; but it's too late to alter things now. We
shall see. Time will prove him.'

I soon left, but not till they had shaken me warmly by the hand, wished
me well, and tendered me their aid whenever I required it. In
after-years they kept their word.

Yes, I did know John Hallet. The old gentleman never knew him, but time
proved him, and those whom that good old man loved with all the love of
his large, noble heart, suffered because he did not know him as I did.

After I had given her some of the cordial, and she had rested awhile,
the sick girl resumed her story.

In about a month Hallet came. He pictured to her his new position; the
wealth and standing it would give him, and he told her that he was
preparing a little home for her, and would soon return and take her with
him forever.

[When he said that, he had been for over a year affianced to another--a
rich man's only child--a woman older than he, whose shriveled, jaundiced
face, weak, scrawny body, and puny, sickly soul, would have been
repulsive even to him, had not money been his god.]

The simple, trusting girl believed him. He importuned her--she loved
him--and she fell!

About a month afterward, taking up a Boston paper, she read the marriage
of Mr. John Hallet, merchant, to Miss ----. 'Some other person has
his name,' she thought. 'It can not be he, yet it is strange!' It _was_
strange, but it was _true_, for there, in another column, she saw that:
'Mr. John Hallet, of the house of Russell, Rollins & Co., and his
accomplished lady, were passengers by the steamer Cambria, which sailed
from this port yesterday for Liverpool.'

The blow crushed her. But why need I tell of her grief, her agony, her
despair? For months she did not leave her room; and when at last she
crawled into the open air, the nearest neighbors scarcely recognized
her.

It was long, however, before she knew all the wrong that Hallet had done
her. Her aunt noticed her altered appearance, and questioned her. She
told her all. At first, the cold, hard woman blamed her, and spoke
harshly to her; but, though cold and harsh, she had a woman's heart, and
she forgave her. She undertook to tell the story to her brother. He had
his sister's nature; was a strict, pious, devout man; prayed every
morning and evening in his family, and, rain or shine, went every Sunday
to hear two dull, cast-iron sermons at the old meeting-house, but he had
not her woman's heart. He stormed and raved for a time, and then he
cursed his only child, and drove her from his house. The aunt had forty
dollars--the proceeds of sock-knitting and straw-braiding not yet
invested in hymn-books, and with one sigh for the poor heathen, she gave
it to her. With that, and a small satchel of clothes, and with two
little hearts beating under her bosom, she went out into the world.
Where could she go? She knew not, but she wandered on till she reached
the village. The stage was standing before the tavern-door, and the
driver was mounting the box to start. She thought for a moment. She
could not stay there. It would anger her father, if she did--no one
would take her in--and besides, she could not meet, in her misery and
her shame, those who had known her since childhood. She spoke to the
driver; he dismounted, opened the door, and she took a seat in the coach
to go--she did not know whither, she did not care where.

They rode all night, and in the morning reached Concord. As she stepped
from the stage, the red-faced landlord asked her if she was going
further. She said, 'I do not know, sir;' but then a thought struck her.
It was five months since Hallet had started for Europe, and perhaps he
had returned. She would go to him. Though he could not undo the wrong he
had done, he still could aid and pity her. She asked the route to
Boston, and after a light meal, was on the way thither.

She arrived after dark, and was driven to the Marlboro Hotel--that
Eastern Eden for lone women and tobacco-eschewing men--and there she
passed the night. Though weak from recent illness, and worn and wearied
with the long journey, she could not rest or sleep. The great sorrow
that had fallen on her had driven rest from her heart, and quiet sleep
from her eye-lids forever. In the morning she inquired the way to
Russell, Rollins & Co.'s, and after a long search found the grim, old
warehouse. She started to go up the rickety old stairs, but her heart
failed her. She turned away and wandered off through the narrow, crooked
streets--she did not know for how long. She met the busy crowd hurrying
to and fro, but no one noticed or cared for her. She looked at the neat,
cheerful homes smiling around her, and she thought how every one had
shelter and friends but her. She gazed up at the cold, gray sky, and oh!
how she longed that it might fall down and bury her forever. And still
she wandered till her limbs grew weary and her heart grew faint. At last
she sank down exhausted, and wept--wept as only the lost and the utterly
forsaken can weep. Some little boys were playing near, and after a time
they left their sports, and came to her. They spoke kindly to her, and
it gave her strength. She rose and walked on again. A livery-carriage
passed her, and she spoke to the coachman. After a long hour she stood
once more before the old warehouse. It was late in the afternoon, and
she had eaten nothing all day, and was very faint and tired. As she
turned to go up the old stairway, her heart again failed her, but
summoning all her strength, she at last entered the old counting-room.

A tall, spare, pleasant-faced man, was standing at the desk, and she
asked him if Mr. John Hallet was there.

'No, madam, he's in Europe.'

'When will he come back, sir?'

'Not for a year, madam;' and David raised his glasses and looked at her.
He had not done it before.

Her last hope had failed, and with a heavy, crushing pain in her heart,
and a dull, dizzy feeling in her head, she turned to go. As she
staggered away a hand was gently placed on her arm, and a mild voice
said:

'You are ill, madam; sit down.'

She took the proffered seat, and an old gentleman came out of the inner
office.

'What! what's this, David?' he asked. 'What ails the young woman?'

(She was then not quite seventeen.)

'She's ill, sir,' said David.

'Only a little tired, sir; I shall be better soon.'

'But thee _is_ ill, my child; thee looks so. Come here, Kate!' and the
old gentleman raised his voice as if speaking to some one in the inner
room. The sick girl lifted her eyes, and saw a blue-eyed, golden-haired
young woman, not so old as she was.

'She seems very sick, father. Please, David, get me some water;' and the
young lady undid the poor girl's bonnet, and bathed her temples with the
cool, grateful fluid. After a while the old gentleman asked:

'What brought thee here, young woman?'

'I came to see John--Mr. Hallet, I mean, sir.'

'Thee knows John, then?'

'Oh! yes, sir.'

'Where does thee live?'

She was about to say that she had no home, but checking herself, for it
would seem strange that a young girl who knew John Hallet, should be
homeless, she answered:

'In New-Hampshire. I live near old Mr. Hallet's, sir. I came to see John
because I've known him ever since I was a child.'

She drank of the water, and after a little time rose to go. As she
turned toward the door, the thought of going out alone, with her great
sorrow, into the wide, desolate world, crossed her mind, the heavy,
crushing pain came again into her heart, the dull, dizzy feeling into
her head, the room reeled, and she fell to the floor.

It was after dark when she came to herself. She was lying on a bed in a
large, splendidly furnished room, and the same old gentleman and the
same young woman were with her. Another old gentleman was there, and as
she opened her eyes, he said:

'She will be better soon; her nervous system has had a severe shock; the
difficulty is there. If you could get her to confide in you, 'twould
relieve her; it is _hidden_ grief that kills people. She needs rest,
now. Come, my child, take this,' and he held a fluid to her lips. She
drank it, and in a few moments sank into a deep slumber.

It was late on the following morning when she awoke, and found the same
young woman at her bedside.

'You are better, now, my sister. A few days of quiet rest will make you
well,' said the young lady.

The kind, loving words, almost the first she had ever heard from woman,
went to her heart, and she wept bitterly as she replied:

'Oh! no, there is no rest, no more rest for me!'

'Why so? What is it that grieves you? Tell me; it will ease your pain to
let me share it with you.'

She told her, but she withheld his name. Once it rose to her lips, but
she thought how those good people would despise him, how Mr. Russell
would cast him off, how his prospects would be blasted, and she kept it
back.

'And that is the reason you went to John? You knew what a good,
Christian young man he is, and you thought he would aid you?'

'Yes!' said the sick girl.

Thus she punished him for the great wrong he had done her; thus she
recompensed him for robbing her of home, of honor, and of peace!

Kate told her father the story, and the good old man gave her a room in
one of his tenement houses, and there, a few months later, she gave
birth to a little boy and girl. She was very sick, but Kate attended to
her wants, procured her a nurse, and a physician, and gave her what she
needed more than all else--kindness and sympathy.

Previous to her sickness she had earned a support by her needle, and
when she was sufficiently recovered, again had recourse to it. Her
earnings were scanty, for she was not yet strong, but they were eked out
by an occasional remittance from her aunt, which good lady still adhered
to her sock-knitting, straw-braiding habits, but had turned her back
resolutely on her benighted brethren and sisters of the Feejee Islands.

Thus nearly a year wore away, when her little girl sickened and died.
She felt a mother's pang at first, but she shed no tears, for she knew
it was 'well with the child;' that it had gone where it would never know
a fate like hers.

The watching with it, added to her other labors, again undermined her
health. The remittance from her aunt did not come as usual, and though
she paid no rent, she soon found herself unable to earn a support. The
Russells had been so good, so kind, had done so much for her, that she
could not ask them for more. What, then, should she do? One day, while
she was in this strait, Kate called to see her, and casually mentioned
that John Hallet had returned. She struggled with her pride for a time,
but at last made up her mind to apply to him. She wrote to him; told him
of her struggles, of her illness, of her many sufferings, of her little
boy--his image, his child--then playing at her feet, and she besought
him by the love he bore her in their childhood, not to let his once
affianced wife, and his poor, innocent child STARVE!

Long weeks went by, but no answer came; and again she wrote him.

One day, not long after sending this last letter, as she was crossing
the Common to her attic in Charles street, she met him. He was alone,
and saw her, but attempted to pass her without recognition. She stood
squarely in his way, and told him she _would_ be heard. He admitted
having received her letters, but said he could do nothing for her; that
the brat was not _his_; that she must not attempt to fasten on _him_ the
fruit of her debaucheries; that no one would believe her if she did; and
he added, as he turned away, that he was a married man, and a Christian,
and could not be seen talking with a lewd woman like her.

She was stunned. She sank down on one of the benches on the Common, and
tried to weep; but the tears would not come. For the first time since he
so deeply, basely wronged her, she felt a bitter feeling rising in her
heart. She rose, and turned her steps up Beacon Hill toward Mr.
Russell's, fully determined to tell Kate all. She was admitted, and
shown to Miss Russell's room. She told her that she had met her seducer,
and how he had cast her off.

'Who is he?' asked Kate. 'Tell me, and father shall publish him from one
end of the universe to the other! He does not deserve to live.'

His name trembled on her tongue. A moment more, and John Hallet would
have been a ruined man, branded with a mark that would have followed him
through the world. But she paused; the vision of his happy wife, of the
innocent child just born to him, rose before her, and the words melted
away from her lips unspoken.

Kate spoke kindly and encouragingly to her, but she heeded her not. One
only thought had taken possession of her: how could she throw off the
mighty load that was pressing on her soul?

After a time, she rose and left the house. As she walked down Beacon
street, the sun was just sinking in the West, and its red glow mounted
midway up the heavens. As she looked at it, the sky seemed one great
molten sea, with its hot, lurid waves surging all around her. She
thought it came nearer; that it set on fire the green Common and the
great houses, and shot fierce, hot flames through her brain and into her
very soul. For a moment, she was paralyzed and sank to the ground; then
springing to her feet, she flew to her child. She bounded down the long
hill, and up the steep stairways, and burst into the room of the good
woman who was tending him, shouting:

'Fire! fire! The world is on fire! Run! run! the world is on fire!'

She caught up her babe and darted away. With him in her arms, she flew
down Charles street, across the Common, and through the crowded
thoroughfares, till she reached India Wharf, all the while muttering,
'Water, water;' water to quench the fire in her blood, in her brain, in
her very soul.

She paused on the pier, and gazed for a moment at the dark, slimy flood;
then she plunged down, down, where all is forgetfulness!

She had a dim recollection of a storm at sea; of a vessel thrown
violently on its beam-ends; of a great tumult, and of voices louder than
she ever heard before--voices that rose above the howling of the tempest
and the surging of the great waves--calling out: 'All hands to clear
away the foremast!' But she knew nothing certain. All was chaos.

The next thing she remembered was waking one morning in a little room
about twelve feet square, with a small grated opening in the door. The
sun had just risen, and by its light she saw she was lying on a low,
narrow bed, whose clothing was spotlessly white and clean. Her little
boy was sleeping by her side. His little cheeks had a rosier, healthier
hue than they ever wore before; and as she turned down the sheet, she
saw he had grown wonderfully. She could hardly credit her senses. Could
that be _her_ child?

She spoke to him. He opened his eyes and smiled, and put his little
mouth up to hers, saying, 'Kiss, mamma, kiss Fanky.' She took him in her
arms, and covered him with kisses. Then she rose to dress herself. A
strange but neat and tidy gown was on the chair, and she put it on; it
fitted exactly. Franky then rolled over to the front of the bed, and
putting first one little foot out and then the other, let himself down
to the floor. 'Can it be?' she thought, 'can he both walk and talk?'
Soon she heard the bolt turning in the door. It opened, and a pleasant,
elderly woman, with a large bundle of keys at her girdle, entered the
room.

'And how do you do this morning, my daughter?' she asked.

'Very well, ma'am. Where am I, ma'am?'

'You ask where? Then you _are_ well. You haven't been for a long, long
time, my child.'

'And _where_ am I, ma'am?'

'Why, you are here--at Bloomingdale.'

'How long have I been here?'

'Let me see; it must be near fifteen months, now.'

'And who brought me?'

'A vessel captain. He said that just as he was hauling out of the dock
at Boston, you jumped into the water with your child. One of his men
sprang overboard and saved you. The vessel couldn't put back, so he
brought you here.'

'Merciful heaven! did I do that?'

'Yes. You must have been sorely troubled, my child. But never mind--it
is all over now. But hasn't Franky grown? Isn't he a handsome boy? Come
here to grandma, my baby.' And the good woman sat down on a chair, while
the little fellow ran to her, put his small arms around her neck, and
kissed her over and over again. Children are intuitive judges of
character; no really bad man or woman ever had the love of a child.

'Yes, he _has_ grown. You call him Franky, do you?'

'Yes; we didn't know his name. What had you named him?'

'John Hallet.'

As she spoke those words, a sharp pang shot through her heart. It was
well that her child had another name!

She was soon sufficiently recovered to leave the asylum. By the kind
offices of the matron, she got employment in a cap-factory, and a plain
but comfortable boarding-place in the lower part of the city. She worked
at the shop, and left Franky during the day with her landlady, a
kind-hearted but poor woman. Her earnings were but three dollars a week,
and their board was two and a quarter; but on the balance she contrived
to furnish herself and her child with clothes. The only luxury she
indulged in was an occasional _walk_, on Sunday to Bloomingdale, to see
her good friend the kind-hearted matron.

Thus things went on for two years; and if not happy, she was at least
comfortable. Her father never relented; but her aunt wrote her often,
and there was comfort in the thought that, at least, one of her early
friends had not cast her off. The good lady, too, sent her now and again
small remittances, but they came few and far between; for as the pious
woman grew older, her heart gradually returned to its first love--the
poor heathen.

To Kate Russell Fanny wrote as soon she left the asylum, telling her of
all that had happened as far as she knew, and thanking her for all her
goodness and kindness to her. She waited some weeks, but no answer came;
then she wrote again, but still no answer came, though that time she
waited two or three months. Fearing then that something had befallen
her, she mustered courage to write Mr. Russell. Still she got no reply,
and she reluctantly concluded--though she had not asked them for
aid--that they had ceased to feel interested in her.

'They had not, madam. Kate has often spoken very kindly of you. She
wanted to come here to-day, but I did not know this, and I could not
bring her _here_!'

She looked at me with a strange surprise. Her eyes lighted, and her face
beamed, as she said: 'And you know _her_, too!'

'Know her! She is to be my wife very soon.'

She wept as she said: 'And you will tell her how much I love her--how
grateful I am to her?'

'I will,' I replied. I did not tell the poor girl, as I might have done,
that Hallet had at that time access to Mr. Russell's mails, and that,
knowing her hand-writing, he had undoubtedly intercepted her letters.

After a long pause, she resumed her story.

At the end of those two years, a financial panic swept over the country,
prostrating the great houses, and sending want and suffering into the
attics--not homes, for they have none--of the poor sewing-women. The
firm that employed her failed, and Fanny was thrown out of work. She
went to her good friend the matron, who interested some 'benevolent'
ladies in her behalf, and they procured her shirts to make at
twenty-five cents apiece! She could hardly do enough of them to pay her
board; but she could do the work at home with Franky, and that was a
comfort, for he was growing to be a bright, intelligent, affectionate
boy.

About this time, her aunt and the good matron died. She mourned for them
sincerely, for they were all the friends she had.

The severe times affected her landlady. Being unable to pay her rent,
she was sold out by the sheriff, and Fanny had to seek other lodgings.
She then took a little room by herself, and lived alone.

The death of the matron was a great calamity to her, for her
'benevolent' friends soon lost interest in her, and took from her the
poor privilege of making shirts at twenty-five cents apiece! When this
befell her, she had but four dollars and twenty cents in the world. This
she made furnish food to herself and her child for four long weeks,
while she vainly sought for work. She offered to do any thing--to sew,
scrub, cook, wash--any thing; but no! there was nothing for
her--NOTHING! She must drain the cup to the very dregs, that the
vengeance of God--and He would not be just if He did not take terrible
vengeance for crime like his--might sink John Hallet to the lowest hell!

For four days she had not tasted food. Her child was sick. She had
_begged_ a few crumbs for him, but even _he_ had eaten nothing all day.
Then the tempter came, and--why need I say it?--she sinned. Turn not
away from her, O you, her sister, who have never known a want or felt a
woe! Turn not away. It was not for herself; she would have died--gladly
have died! It was for her sick, starving child that she did it. Could
she, _should_ she have seen him STARVE?

Some months after that, she noticed in the evening paper, among the
arrivals at the Astor House, the name of John Hallet. That night she
went to him. She was shown to his room, and rapping at the door, was
asked to 'walk in.' She stepped inside and stood before him. He sprang
from his seat, and told her to leave him. She begged him to hear
her--for only one moment to hear her. He stamped on the floor in his
rage, and told her again to go! She did not go, for she told him of the
pit of infamy into which she had fallen, and she prayed him, as he hoped
for heaven, as he loved his own child, to save her! Then, with terrible
curses, he opened the door, laid his hands upon her, and--thrust her
from the room!

Why should I tell how, step by step, she went down; how want came upon
her; how a terrible disease fastened its fangs on her vitals; how Death
walked with her up and down Broadway in the gas-light; how, in her very
hours of shame, there came to her visions of the innocent
past--thoughts of what she MIGHT HAVE BEEN and of what SHE WAS? The mere
recital of such misery harrows the very soul; and, O God! what must be
the REALITY!

As she finished the tale which, in broken sentences, with long pauses
and many tears, she had given me, I rose from my seat, and pacing the
room, while the hot tears ran from my eyes, I said; 'Rest easy, my poor
girl! As sure as God lives, you shall be avenged. John Hallet shall feel
the misery he has made you feel. I will pull him down--down so low, that
the very beggars shall hoot at him in the streets!'

'Oh! no; do not harm him! Leave him to God. He may yet repent!'

The long exertion had exhausted her. The desire to tell me her story had
sustained her; but when she had finished, she sank rapidly. I felt of
her pulse--it scarcely beat; I passed my hand up her arm--it was icy
cold to the elbow! She was indeed dying. Giving her some of the cordial,
I called her child.

When I returned, she took each of us by the hand, and said to Franky:
'My child--your mother is going away--from you. Be a good boy--love this
gentleman--he will take care of you!' Then to me she said: 'Be kind to
him, sir. He is--a good child!'

'Have comfort, madam, he shall be my son. Kate will be a mother to him!'

'Bless you! bless her! A mother's blessing--will be on you both! The
blessing of God--will be on you--and if the dead can come back--to
comfort those they love--I will come back--and comfort _you_!'

I do not know--I can not know till the veil which hides her world from
ours, is lifted from my eyes, but there have been times--many
times--since she said that, when Kate and I have thought she was KEEPING
HER WORD!

For a half-hour she lay without speaking, still holding our hands in
hers. Then, in a low tone--so low that I had to bend down to hear--she
said:

'Oh! is it not beautiful! Don't you hear? And look! oh! look! And my
mother, too! Oh! it is too bright for such as I!'

The heavenly gates had opened to her! She had caught a vision of the
better land!

In a moment she said:

'Farewell my friend--my child--I will come----' Then a low sound
rattled in her throat, and she passed away, just as the last rays of the
winter sun streamed through the low window. One of its bright beams
rested on her face, and lingered there till we laid her away forever.

And now, as I sit with Kate on this grassy mound, this mild summer
afternoon, and write these lines, we talk together of her short, sad
life, of her calm, peaceful death, and floating down through the long
years, comes to us the blessing of her pure, redeemed spirit, pleasant
as the breath of the flowers that are growing on her grave. We look up,
and, through our thick falling tears, read again the words which we
placed over her in the long ago:

  FRANCES MANDELL:

  Aged 23.

  SHE SUFFERED AND SHE DIED.

  WEEP FOR HER.




TAKE CARE!


  When the blades of shears are biting,
  Finger not their edges keen;
  When man and wife are fighting,
  He faces ill who comes between.
  JOHN BULL, in our grief delighting,
  Take care how you intervene!




SHOULDER-STRAPS;

OR, MEN, MANNERS, AND MOTIVES IN 1862.


CHAPTER I.

     INTRODUCTORY AND EPISODICAL--MEASURING-WORMS, DUSSELDORF PICTURES,
     AND PARISIAN FORTUNE-TELLERS.

This is going to be an odd jumble.

Without being an odd jumble, it could not possibly reflect American life
and manners at the present time with any degree of fidelity; for the
foundations of the old in society have been broken up as effectually,
within the past two years, as were those of the great deep at the time
of Noah's flood, and the disruption has not taken place long enough ago
for the new to have assumed any appearance of stability. The old deities
of fashion have been swept away in the flood of revolution, and the new
which are eventually to take their place have scarcely yet made
themselves apparent through the general confusion. The millionaire of
two years ago, intent at that time on the means by which the revenues
from his brown-stone houses and pet railroad stocks could be spent to
the most showy advantage, has become the struggling man of to-day,
intent upon keeping up appearances, and happy if diminished and doubtful
rents can even be made to meet increasing taxes. The struggling man of
that time has meanwhile sprung into fortune and position, through lucky
adventures in government transportations or army contracts; and the
jewelers of Broadway and Chestnut street are busy resetting the diamonds
of decayed families, to sparkle on brows and bosoms that only a little
while ago beat with pride at an added weight of California paste or
Kentucky rock-crystal. The most showy equipages that have this year been
flashing at Newport and Saratoga, were never seen between the
bathing-beach and Fort Adams, or between Congress Spring and the Lake,
in the old days; and if opera should ever revive, and the rich notes of
melody repay the _impresario_, as they enrapture the audience at the
Academy, there will be new faces in the most prominent boxes, almost as
_outre_ and unaccustomed in their appearance there as was that of the
hard-featured Western President, framed in a shock head and a turn-down
collar, meeting the gaze of astonished Murray Hill, when he passed an
hour here on his way to the inauguration.

Quite as notable a change has taken place in personal reputation. Many
of the men on whom the country depended as most likely to prove able
defenders in the day of need, have not only discovered to the world
their worthlessness, but filled up the fable of the man who leaned upon
a reed, by fatally piercing those whom they had betrayed to their fall.
Bubble-characters have burst, and high-sounding phrases have been
exploded. Men whose education and antecedents should have made them
brave and true, have shown themselves false and cowardly--impotent for
good, and active only for evil. Unconsidered nobodies have meanwhile
sprung forth from the mass of the people, and equally astonished
themselves and others by the power, wisdom and courage they have
displayed. In cabinet and camp, in army and navy, in the editorial chair
and in the halls of eloquence, the men from whom least was expected have
done most, and those upon whom the greatest expectations had been
founded have only given another proof of the fallacy of all human
calculations. All has been change, all has been transition, in the
estimation men have held of themselves, and the light in which they
presented themselves to each other.

Opinions of duties and recognitions of necessities have known a change
not less remarkable. What yesterday we believed to be fallacy, to-day we
know to be truth. What seemed the fixed and immutable purpose of God
only a few short months ago, we have already discovered to have been
founded only in human passion or ambition. What seemed eternal has
passed away, and what appeared to be evanescent has assumed stability.
The storm has been raging around us, and doing its work not the less
destructively because we failed to perceive that we were passing through
any thing more threatening than a summer shower. While we have stood
upon the bank of the swelling river, and pointed to some structure of
old rising on the bank, declaring that not a stone could be moved until
the very heavens should fall, little by little the foundations have been
undermined, and the full crash of its falling has first awoke us from
our security. That without which we said that the nation could not live,
has fallen and been destroyed; and yet the nation does not die, but
gives promise of a better and more enduring life. What we cherished we
have lost; what we did not ask or expect has come to us; the effete old
is passing away, and out of the ashes of its decay is springing forth
the young and vigorous new. Change, transition, every where and in all
things: how can society fail to be disrupted, and who can speak, write,
or think with the calm decorum of by-gone days?

All this is obtrusively philosophical, of course, and correspondingly
out of place. But it may serve as a sort of forlorn hope--mental food
for powder--while the narrative reserve is brought forward; and there is
a dim impression on the mind of the writer that it may be found to have
some connection with that which is necessarily to follow.

So let the odd jumble be prepared, perhaps with ingredients as
incongruous as those which at present compose what we used to call the
republic, and as unevenly distributed as have been honors and emoluments
during a struggle which should have found every man in his place, and
every national energy employed to its best purpose.

I was crossing the City Hall Park to dinner at Delmonico's, one
afternoon early in July, in company with a friend who had spent some
years in Europe, and only recently returned. He may be called Ned
Martin, for the purposes of this narration. He had left the country in
its days of peace and prosperity, a frank, whole-souled young artist,
his blue eyes clear as the day, and his faith in humanity unbounded. He
had resided for a long time at Paris, and at other periods been
sojourning at Rome, Florence, Vienna, Dusseldorf, and other places where
art studies called him or artist company invited him. He had come back
to his home and country after the great movements of the war were
inaugurated, and when the great change which had been initiated was most
obvious to an observing eye. I had heard of his arrival in New York, but
failed to meet him, and not long after heard that he had gone down to
visit the lines of our army on the Potomac. Then I had heard of his
return some weeks after, and eventually I had happened upon him drinking
a good-will glass with a party of friends at one of the popular
down-town saloons, when stepping in for a post-prandial cigar. The
result of that meeting had been a promise that we would dine together
one evening, and the after-result was, that we were crossing the Park to
keep that promise.

I have said that Ned Martin left this country a frank, blue-eyed,
happy-looking young artist, who seemed to be without a care or a
suspicion. It had only needed a second glance at his face, on the day
when I first met him at the bar of the drinking-saloon, to know that a
great change had fallen upon him. He was yet too young for age to have
left a single furrow upon his face; not a fleck of silver had yet
touched his brown hair, nor had his fine, erect form been bowed by
either over-labor or dissipation. Yet he was changed, and the second
glance showed that the change was in the _eyes_. Amid the clear blue
there lay a dark, sombre shadow, such as only shows itself in eyes that
have been turned _inward_. We usually say of the wearer of such eyes,
after looking into them a moment, 'That man has studied much;' 'has
suffered much;' or, '_he is a spiritualist_.' By the latter expression,
we mean that he looks more or less beneath the surface of events that
meet him in the world--that he is more or less a student of the
spiritual in mentality, and of the supernatural in cause and effect.
Such eyes do not stare, they merely gaze. When they look at you, they
look at something else through you and behind you, of which you may or
may not be a part.

Let me say here, (this chapter being professedly episodical,) that the
painter who can succeed in transferring to canvas that expression of
_seeing more than is presented to the physical eye_, has achieved a
triumph over great difficulties. Frequent visitors to the old Dusseldorf
Gallery will remember two instances, perhaps by the same painter, of the
eye being thus made to reveal the inner thought and a life beyond that
passing at the moment. The first and most notable is in the 'Charles the
Second Fleeing from the Battle of Worcester.' The king and two nobles
are in the immediate foreground, in flight, while far away the sun is
going down in a red glare behind the smoke of battle, the lurid flames
of the burning town, and the royal standard just fluttering down from
the battlements of a castle lost by the royal arms at the very close of
Cromwell's 'crowning mercy.' Through the smoke of the middle distance
can be dimly seen dusky forms in flight, or in the last hopeless
conflict. Each of the nobles at the side of the fugitive king is heavily
armed, with sword in hand, mounted on heavy, galloping horses going at
high speed; and each is looking out anxiously, with head turned aside as
he flies, for any danger which may menace--not himself, but the
sovereign. Charles Stuart, riding between them, is mounted upon a dark,
high-stepping, pure-blooded English horse. He wears the peaked hat of
the time, and his long hair--that which afterward became so notorious in
the masks and orgies of Whitehall, and in the prosecution of his amours
in the purlieus of the capital--floats out in wild dishevelment from his
shoulders. He is dressed in the dark velvet, short cloak, and broad,
pointed collar peculiar to pictures of himself and his unfortunate
father; shows no weapon, and is leaning ungracefully forward, as if
outstripping the hard-trotting speed of his horse. But the true interest
of this figure, and of the whole picture, is concentrated in the eyes.
Those sad, dark eyes, steady and immovable in their fixed gaze, reveal
whole pages of history and whole years of suffering. The fugitive king
is not thinking of his flight, of any dangers that may beset him, of the
companions at his side, or even of where he shall lay his periled head
in the night that is coming. Those eyes have shut away the physical and
the real, and through the mists of the future they are trying to read
the great question of _fate_! Worcester is lost, and with it a kingdom:
is he to be henceforth a crownless king and a hunted fugitive, or has
the future its compensations? This is what the fixed and glassy eyes are
saying to every beholder, and there is not one who does not answer the
question with a mental response forced by that mute appeal of suffering
thought: 'The king shall have his own again!'

The second picture in the same collection is much smaller, and commands
less attention; but it tells another story of the same great struggle
between King and Parliament, through the agency of the same feature. A
wounded cavalier, accompanied by one of his retainers, also wounded, is
being forced along on foot, evidently to imprisonment, by one of
Cromwell's Ironsides and a long-faced, high-hatted Puritan cavalry-man,
both on horseback, and a third on foot, with _musquetoon_ on shoulder.
The cavalier's garments are rent and blood-stained, and there is a
bloody handkerchief binding his brow and telling how, when his house was
surprised and his dependents slaughtered, he himself fought till he was
struck down, bound and overpowered. He strides sullenly along, looking
neither to the right nor the left; and the triumphant captors behind him
know nothing of the story that is told in his face. The eyes, fixed and
steady in the shadow of the bloody bandage, tell nothing of the pain of
his wound or the tension of the cords which are binding his crossed
wrists. In their intense depth, which really seems to convey the
impression of looking through forty feet of the still but dangerous
waters of Lake George and seeing the glimmering of the golden sand
beneath, we read of a burned house and an outraged family, and we see a
prophecy written there, that if his mounted guards could read, they
would set spurs and flee away like the wind--a calm, silent, but
irrevocable prophecy: 'I can bear all this, for my time is coming! Not a
man of all these will live, not a roof-tree that shelters them but will
be in ashes, when I take my revenge!' Not a gazer but knows, through
those marvelous eyes alone, that the day is coming that he _will_ have
his revenge, and that the subject of pity is the victorious Roundhead
instead of the wounded and captive cavalier!

I said, before this long digression broke the slender chain of
narration, that some strange, spiritualistic shadow lay in the eyes of
Ned Martin; and I could have sworn, without the possibility of an error,
that he had become an habitual reader of the inner life, and almost
beyond question a communicant with influences which some hold to be
impossible and others unlawful.

The long measuring-worms hung pendent from their gossamer threads, as we
passed through the Park, as they have done, destroying the foliage, in
almost every city of the Northern States. One brushed my face as I
passed, and with the stick in my hand I struck the long threads of
gossamer and swept several of the worms to the ground. One, a very large
and long one, happened to fall on Martin's shoulder, lying across the
blue flannel of his coat in the exact position of a shoulder-strap.

'I say, Martin,' I said, 'I have knocked down one of the worms upon
_you_.'

'Have you?' he replied listlessly, 'then be good enough to brush it off,
if it does not crawl off itself. I do not like worms.'

'I do not know who _does_ like them,' I said, 'though I suppose, being
'worms of the dust,' we ought to bear affection instead of disgust
toward our fellow-reptiles. But, funnily enough,' and I held him still
by the shoulder for a moment to contemplate the oddity, 'this
measuring-worm, which is a very big one, has fallen on your shoulder,
and seems disposed to remain there, in the very position of a
_shoulder-strap_! You must belong to the army!'

It is easy to imagine what would be the quick, convulsive writhing
motion with which one would shrink aside and endeavor to get
instantaneously away from it, when told that an asp, a centipede or a
young rattlesnake was lying on the shoulder, and ready to strike its
deadly fangs into the neck. But it is not easy to imagine that even a
nervous woman, afraid of a cockroach and habitually screaming at a
mouse, would display any extraordinary emotion on being told that a
harmless measuring-worm had fallen upon the shoulder of her dress. What
was my surprise, then, to see the face of Martin, that had been so
impassive the moment before when told that the worm had fallen upon his
coat, suddenly assume an expression of the most awful fear and agony,
and his whole form writhe with emotion, as he shrunk to one side in the
effort to eject the intruder instantaneously!

'Good God! Off with it--quick! Quick, for heaven's sake!' he cried, in a
frightened, husky voice that communicated his terror to me, and almost
sinking to the ground as he spoke.

Of course I instantly brushed the little reptile away; but it was quite
a moment before he assumed an erect position, and I saw two or three
quick shudders pass over his frame, such as I had not seen since, many a
long year before, I witnessed the horrible tortures of a strong man
stricken with hydrophobia. Then he asked, in a voice low, quavering and
broken:

'Is it gone?'

'Certainly it is!' I said. 'Why, Martin, what under heaven can have
affected you in this manner? I told you that I had knocked a worm on
your coat, and you did not appear to heed it any more than if it had
been a speck of dust. It was only when I mentioned the _shape_ it had
assumed, that you behaved so unaccountably! What does it mean? Are you
afraid of worms, or only of _shoulder-straps_?' And I laughed at the
absurdity of the latter supposition.

'Humph!' said Martin, who seemed to have recovered his equanimity, but
not shaken off the impression. 'You laugh. Perhaps you will laugh more
when I tell you that it was not the worm, _as_ a worm, of which I was
thinking at all, and that my terror--yes, I need not mince words, I was
for the moment in abject terror--had to do altogether with the shape
that little crawling pest had assumed, and the part of my coat on which
he had taken a fancy to lodge himself!'

'No, I should not laugh,' I said; 'but I _should_ ask an explanation of
what seems very strange and unaccountable. Shall I lacerate a feeling,
or tread upon ground made sacred by a grief, if I do so?'

'Not at all,' was the reply. 'In fact, I feel at this moment very much
as the Ancient Mariner may have done the moment before he met the
wedding-guest--when, in fact, he had nobody to button-hole, and felt the
strong necessity of boring some one!' There was a tone of gayety in this
reply, which told me how changeable and mercurial my companion could be;
and I read an evident understanding of the character and mission of the
noun-substantive 'bore,' which assured me that he was the last person in
the world likely to play such a part. 'However,' he concluded, 'wait a
bit. When we have concluded the raspberries, and wet our lips with
green-seal, I will tell you all that I myself know of a very singular
episode in an odd life.'

Half an hour after, the conditions of which he spoke had been
accomplished, over the marble at Delmonico's, and he made me the
following very singular relation:

'I had returned from a somewhat prolonged stay at Vienna,' he said, 'to
Paris, late in 1860. During the fall and winter of that year I spent a
good deal of time at the Louvre, making a few studies, and satisfying
myself as to some identities that had been called in question during my
rambles through the Imperial Gallery at Vienna. I lodged in the little
Rue Marie Stuart, not far from the Rue Montorgeuil, and only two or
three minutes' walk from the Louvre, having a baker with a pretty wife
for my landlord, and a cozy little room in which three persons could sit
comfortably, for my domicil. As I did not often have more than two
visitors, my room was quite sufficient; and as I spent a large
proportion of my evenings at other places than my lodgings, the space
was three quarters of the time more than I needed.

'I do not know that I can have any objection to your knowing, before I
go any further, that I am and have been for some years a believer in
that of which Hamlet speaks when he says: 'There are more things in
heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.' You
may call me a _Spiritualist_, if you like, for I have no reverence for
or aversion to names. I do not call _myself_ so; I only say that I
believe that more things come to us in the way of knowledge, than we
read, hear, see, taste, smell, or feel with the natural and physical
organs. I know, from the most irrefragable testimony, that there are
communications made between one and another, when too far apart to reach
each other by any of the recognized modes of intercourse; though how or
why they are made I have no definite knowledge. Electricity--that
'tongs with which God holds the world'--as a strong but odd thinker once
said in my presence, may be the medium of communication; but even this
must be informed by a living and sentient spirit, or it can convey
nothing. People learn what they would not otherwise know, through
mediums which they do not recognize and by processes which they can not
explain; and to know this is to have left the beaten track of old
beliefs, and plunged into a maze of speculation, which probably makes
madmen of a hundred while it is making a wise man of _one_. But I am
wandering too far and telling you nothing.

'One of my few intimates in Paris, a young Prussian by the name of
Adolph Von Berg, had a habit of visiting mediums, clairvoyants, and, not
to put too fine a point upon it, fortune-tellers. Though I had been in
company with clairvoyants in many instances, I had never, before my
return to Paris in the late summer of 1860, entered any one of those
places in which professional fortune-tellers carried on their business.
It was early in September, I think, that at the earnest solicitation of
Von Berg, who had been reading and smoking with me at my lodgings, I
went with him, late in the evening, to a small two-story house in the
Rue La Reynie Ogniard, a little street down the Rue Saint Denis toward
the quays of the Seine, and running from Saint Denis across to the Rue
Saint Martin. The house seemed to me to be one of the oldest in Paris,
although built of wood; and the wrinkled and crazy appearance of the
front was eminently suggestive of the face of an old woman on which time
had long been plowing furrows to plant disease. The interior of the
house, when we entered it by the dingy and narrow hallway, that night,
well corresponded with the exterior. A tallow-candle in a tin sconce was
burning on the wall, half hiding and half revealing the grime on the
plastering, the cobwebs in the corners, and the rickety stairs by which
it might be supposed that the occupants ascended to the second story.

'My companion tinkled a small bell that lay upon a little uncovered
table in the hall, (the outer door having been entirely unfastened, to
all appearance,) and a slattern girl came out from an inner room. On
recognizing my companion, who had visited the house before, she led the
way without a word to the same room she had herself just quitted. There
was nothing remarkable in this. A shabby table, and two or three still
more shabby chairs, occupied the room, and a dark wax-taper stood on the
table, while at the side opposite the single window a curtain of some
dark stuff shut in almost one entire side of the apartment. We took
seats on the rickety chairs, and waited in silence, Adolph informing me
that the etiquette (strange name for such a place) of the house did not
allow of conversation, not with the proprietors, carried on in that
apartment sacred to the divine mysteries.

'Perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed, and I had grown fearfully tired of
waiting, when the corner of the curtain was suddenly thrown back, and
the figure of a woman stood in the space thus created. Every thing
behind her seemed to be in darkness; but some description of bright
light, which did not show through the curtain at all, and which seemed
almost dazzling enough to be Calcium or Drummond, shed its rays directly
upon her side-face, throwing every feature from brow to chin into bold
relief, and making every fold of her dark dress visible. But I scarcely
saw the dress, the face being so remarkable beyond any thing I had ever
witnessed. I had looked to see an old, wrinkled hag--it being the
general understanding that all witches and fortune-tellers must be long
past the noon of life; but instead, I saw a woman who could not have
been over thirty-five or forty, with a figure of regal magnificence, and
a face that would have been, but for one circumstance, beautiful beyond
description. Apelles never drew and Phidias never chiseled nose or brow
of more classic perfection, and I have never seen the bow of Cupid in
the mouth of any woman more ravishingly shown than in that feature of
the countenance of the sorceress.

'I said that but for one circumstance, that face would have been
beautiful beyond description. And yet no human eye ever looked upon a
face more hideously fearful than it was in reality. Even a momentary
glance could not be cast upon it without a shudder, and a longer gaze
involved a species of horrible fascination which affected one like a
nightmare. You do not understand yet what was this remarkable and most
hideous feature. I can scarcely find words to describe it to you so that
you can catch the full force of the idea--I must try, however. You have
often seen Mephistopheles in his flame-colored dress, and caught some
kind of impression that the face was of the same hue, though the fact
was that it was of the natural color, and only affected by the lurid
character of the dress and by the Satanic penciling of the eyebrows! You
have? Well, this face was really what that seemed for the moment to be.
It was redder than blood-red as fire, and yet so strangely did the
flame-color play through it that you knew no paint laid upon the skin
could have produced the effect. It almost seemed that the skin and the
whole mass of flesh were transparent, and that the red color came from
some kind of fire or light within, as the red bottle in a druggist's
window might glow when you were standing full in front of it, and the
gas was turned on to full height behind. Every feature--brow, nose,
lips, chin, even the eyes themselves, and their very pupil seemed to be
pervaded and permeated by this lurid flame; and it was impossible for
the beholder to avoid asking himself whether there were indeed spirits
of flame--salamandrines--who sometimes existed out of their own element
and lived and moved as mortals.

'Have I given you a strange and fearful picture? Be sure that I have not
conveyed to you one thousandth part of the impression made upon myself,
and that until the day I die that strange apparition will remain stamped
upon the tablets of my mind. Diabolical beauty! infernal ugliness!--I
would give half my life, be it longer or shorter, to be able to explain
whence such things can come, to confound and stupefy all human
calculation!'


CHAPTER II.

     MORE OF PARISIAN FORTUNE-TELLERS--THE VISIONS OF THE WHITE
     MIST--REBELLION, GRIEF, HOPE, BRAVERY AND DESPAIR

It was after a second bottle of green-seal had flashed out its sparkles
into the crystal, that Ned Martin drew a long breath like that drawn by
a man discharging a painful and necessary duty, and resumed his story:

'You may some time record this for the benefit of American men and
women,' he went on, 'and if you are wise you will deal chiefly in the
language to which they are accustomed. I speak the French, of course,
nearly as well and as readily as the English; but I _think_ in my native
tongue, as most men continue to do, I believe, no matter how many
dialects they acquire; and I shall not interlard this little narrative
with any French words that can just as well be translated into our
vernacular.

'Well, as I was saying, there stood my horribly beautiful fiend, and
there I sat spell-bound before her. As for Adolph, though he had told me
nothing in advance of the peculiarities of her appearance, he had been
fully aware of them, of course, and I had the horrible surprise all to
myself. I think the sorceress saw the mingled feeling in my face, and
that a smile blended of pride and contempt contorted the proud features
and made the ghastly face yet more ghastly for one moment. If so, the
expression soon passed away, and she stood, as before, the incarnation
of all that was terrible and mysterious. At length, still retaining her
place and fixing her eyes upon Von Berg, she spoke, sharply, brusquely,
and decidedly:

''You are here again! What do you want?'

''I wish to introduce my friend, the Baron Charles Denmore, of England,'
answered Von Berg, 'who wishes----'

''Nothing!' said the sorceress, the word coming from her lips with an
unmistakably hissing sound. He wants nothing, and he is _not_ the Baron
Charles Denmore! He comes from far away, across the sea, and he would
not have come here to-night but that you insisted upon it! Take him
away--go away yourself--and never let me see you again unless you have
something to ask or you wish me to do you an injury!'

''But----' began Yon Berg.

''Not another word!' said the sorceress, 'I have said. Go, before you
repent having come at all!'

''Madame,' I began to say, awed out of the feeling at least of equality
which I should have felt to be proper under such circumstances, and only
aware that Adolph, and possibly myself, had incurred the enmity of a
being so near to the supernatural as to be at least dangerous--'Madame,
I hope that you will not think----'

'But here she cut _me_ short, as she had done Von Berg the instant
before.

''Hope nothing, young artist!' she said, her voice perceptibly less
harsh and brusque than it had been when speaking to my companion. 'Hope
nothing and ask nothing until you may have occasion; then come to me.'

''And then?'

''Then I will answer every question you may think proper to put to me.
Stay! you may have occasion to visit me sooner than you suppose, or I
may have occasion to force knowledge upon you that you will not have the
boldness to seek. If so, I shall send for you. Now go, both of you!'

'The dark curtain suddenly fell, and the singular vision faded with the
reflected light which had filled the room. The moment after, I heard the
shuffling feet of the slattern girl coming to show us out of the room,
but, singularly enough, as you will think, not out of the _house_!
Without a word we followed her--Adolph, who knew the customs of the
place, merely slipping a five-franc piece into her hand, and in a moment
more we were out in the street and walking up the Rue Saint Denis. It is
not worth while to detail the conversation which followed between us as
we passed up to the Rue Marie Stuart, I to my lodgings and Adolph to his
own, further on, close to the Rue Vivienne, and not far from the
Boulevard Montmartre. Of course I asked him fifty questions, the replies
to which left me quite as much in the dark as before. He knew, he said,
and hundreds of other persons in Paris knew, the singularity of the
personal appearance of the sorceress, and her apparent power of
divination, but neither he nor they had any knowledge of her origin. He
had been introduced at her house several months before, and had asked
questions affecting his family in Prussia and the chances of descent of
certain property, the replies to which had astounded him. He had heard
of her using marvelous and fearful incantations, but had never himself
witnessed any thing of them. In two or three instances, before the
present, he had taken friends to the house and introduced them under any
name which he chose to apply to them for the time, and the sorceress had
never before chosen to call him to account for the deception, though,
according to the assurances of his friends after leaving the house, she
had never failed to arrive at the truth of their nationalities and
positions in life. There must have been something in myself or my
circumstances, he averred, which had produced so singular an effect upon
the witch, (as he evidently believed her to be,) and he had the
impression that at no distant day I should again hear from her. That was
all, and so we parted, I in any other condition of mind than that
promising sleep, and really without closing my eyes, except for a moment
or two at a time, during the night which followed. When I did attempt to
force myself into slumber, a red spectre stood continually before me, an
unearthly light seemed to sear my covered eyeballs, and I awoke with a
start. Days passed before I sufficiently wore away the impression to be
comfortable, and at least two or three weeks before my rest became again
entirely unbroken.

'You must be partially aware with what anxiety we Americans temporarily
sojourning on the other side of the Atlantic, who loved the country we
had left behind on this, watched the succession of events which preceded
and accompanied the Presidential election of that year. Some suppose
that a man loses his love for his native land, or finds it comparatively
chilled within his bosom, after long residence abroad. The very opposite
is the case, I think! I never knew what the old flag was, until I saw it
waving from the top of an American consulate abroad, or floating from
the gaff of one of our war-vessels, when I came down the mountains to
some port on the Mediterranean. It had been merely red, white and blue
bunting, at home, where the symbols of our national greatness were to be
seen on every hand: it was the _only_ symbol of our national greatness
when we were looking at it from beyond the sea; and the man whose eyes
will not fill with tears and whose throat will not choke a little with
overpowering feeling, when catching sight of the Stars and Stripes where
they only can be seen to remind him of the glory of the country of which
he is a part, is unworthy the name of patriot or of man!

'But to return: Where was I? Oh! I was remarking with what interest we
on the other side of the water watched the course of affairs at home
during that year when the rumble of distant thunder was just heralding
the storm. You are well aware that without extensive and long-continued
connivance on the part of sympathizers among the leading people of
Europe--England and France especially--secession could never have been
accomplished so far as it has been; and there never could have been any
hope of its eventual success if there had been no hope of one or both
these two countries bearing it up on their strong and unscrupulous arms.
The leaven of foreign aid to rebellion was working even then, both in
London and Paris; and perhaps we had opportunities over the water for a
nearer guess at the peril of the nation, than you could have had in the
midst of your party political squabbles at home.

'During the months of September and October, when your Wide-Awakes on
the one hand, and your conservative Democracy on the other, were
parading the streets with banners and music, as they or their
predecessors had done in so many previous contests, and believing that
nothing worse could be involved than a possible party defeat and some
bad feelings, we, who lived where revolutions were common, thought that
we discovered the smoldering spark which would be blown to revolution
here. The disruption of the Charleston Convention and through it of the
Democracy; the bold language and firm resistance of the Republicans; the
well-understood energy of the uncompromising Abolitionists, and the less
defined but rabid energy of the Southern fire-eaters: all these were
known abroad and watched with gathering apprehension. American
newspapers, and the extracts made from them by the leading journals of
France and Europe, commanded more attention among the Americo-French and
English than all other excitements of the time put together.

'Then followed what you all know--the election, with its radical result
and the threats which immediately succeeded, that 'Old Abe Lincoln'
should never live to be inaugurated! 'He shall not!' cried the South.
'He shall!' replied the North. To us who knew something of the Spanish
knife and the Italian stiletto, the probabilities seemed to be that he
would never live to reach Washington. Then the mutterings of the thunder
grew deeper and deeper, and some disruption seemed inevitable, evident
to us far away, while you at home, it seemed, were eating and drinking,
marrying and giving in marriage, holding gala-days and enjoying
yourselves generally, on the brink of an arousing volcano from which the
sulphurous smoke already began to ascend to the heavens! So time passed
on; autumn became winter, and December was rolling away.

'I was sitting with half-a-dozen friends in the chess-room at Very's,
about eleven o'clock on the night of the twentieth of December, talking
over some of the marvelous successes which had been won by Paul Morphy
when in Paris, and the unenviable position in which Howard Staunton had
placed himself by keeping out of the lists through evident fear of the
New-Orleanian, when Adolph Von Berg came behind me and laid his hand on
my shoulder.

''Come with me a moment,' he said, 'you are wanted!'

''Where?' I asked, getting up from my seat and following him to the
door, before which stood a light _coupe_, with its red lights flashing,
the horse smoking, and the driver in his seat.

''I have been to-night to the Rue la Reynie Ogniard!' he answered.

''And are you going there again?' I asked, my blood chilling a little
with an indefinable sensation of terror, but a sense of satisfaction
predominating at the opportunity of seeing something more of the
mysterious woman.

''I am!' he answered, 'and so are _you_! She has sent for you! Come!'

'Without another word I stepped into the _coupe_, and we were rapidly
whirled away. I asked Adolph how and why I had been summoned; but he
knew nothing more than myself, except that he had visited the sorceress
at between nine and ten that evening, that she had only spoken to him
for an instant, but ordered him to go at once and find his friend, _the
American_, whom he had falsely introduced some months before as the
English baron. He had been irresistibly impressed with the necessity of
obedience, though it would break in upon his own arrangements for the
later evening, (which included an hour at the Chateau Rouge;) had picked
up a _coupe_, looked in for me at two or three places where he thought
me most likely to be at that hour in the evening, and had found me at
Very's, as related. What the sorceress could possibly want of me, he had
no idea more than myself; but he reminded me that she had hinted at the
possible necessity of sending for me at no distant period, and I
remembered the fact too well to need the reminder.

'It was nearly midnight when we drove down the Rue St. Denis, turned
into La Reynie Ogniard, and drew up at the antiquated door I had once
entered nearly three months earlier. We entered as before, rang the bell
as before, and were admitted into the inner room by the same slattern
girl. I remember at this moment one impression which this person made
upon me--that she did not wash so often as four times a year, and that
the _same old dirt_ was upon her face that had been crusted there at the
time of my previous visit. There seemed no change in the room, except
that _two_ tapers, and each larger than the one I had previously seen,
were burning upon the table. The curtain was down, as before, and when
it suddenly rose, after a few minutes spent in waiting, and the
blood-red woman stood in the vacant space, all seemed so exactly as it
had done on the previous visit, that it would have been no difficult
matter to believe the past three months a mere imagination, and this the
same first visit renewed.

'The illusion, such as it was, did not last long, however. The sorceress
fixed her eyes full upon me, with the red flame seeming to play through
the eyeballs as it had before done through her cheeks, and said, in a
voice lower, more sad and broken, than it had been when addressing me on
the previous occasion:

''Young American, I have sent for you, and you have done well to come.
Do not fear----'

''I do _not_ fear--you, or any one!' I answered, a little piqued that
she should have drawn any such impression from my appearance. I may have
been uttering a fib of magnificent proportions at the moment, but one
has a right to deny cowardice to the last gasp, whatever else he must
admit.

''You do not? It is well, then!' she said in reply, and in the same low,
sad voice. 'You will have courage, then, perhaps, to see what I will
show you from the land of shadows.'

''Whom does it concern?' I asked. 'Myself, or some other?'

''Yourself, and many others--all the world!' uttered the lips of flame.
'It is of your country that I would show you.'

''My country? God of heaven! What has happened to my country?' broke
from my lips almost before I knew what I was uttering. I suppose the
words came almost like a groan, for I had been deeply anxious over the
state of affairs known to exist at home, and perhaps I can be nearer to
a weeping child when I think of any ill to my own beloved land, than I
could be for any other evil threatened in the world.

''But a moment more and you shall see!' said the sorceress. Then she
added: 'You have a friend here present. Shall he too look on what I have
to reveal, or will you behold it alone?'

''Let him see!' I answered. 'My native land may fall into ruin, but she
can never be ashamed!'

''So let it be, then!' said the sorceress, solemnly. 'Be silent, look,
and learn what is at this moment transpiring in your own land!'

'Beneath that adjuration I was silent, and the same dread stillness fell
upon my companion. Suddenly the sorceress, still standing in the same
place, waved her right hand in the air, and a strain of low, sad music,
such as the harps of angels may be continually making over the descent
of lost spirits to the pit of suffering, broke upon my ears. Von Berg
too heard it, I know, for I saw him look up in surprise, then apply his
fingers to his ears and test whether his sense of hearing had suddenly
become defective. Whence that strain of music could have sprung I did
not know, nor do I know any better at this moment. I only know that, to
my senses and those of my companion, it was definite as if the thunders
of the sky had been ringing.

'Then came another change, quite as startling as the music and even more
difficult to explain. The room began to fill with a whitish mist,
transparent in its obscurity, that wrapped the form of the sybil and
finally enveloped her until she appeared to be but a shade. Anon another
and larger room seemed to grow in the midst, with columned galleries and
a rostrum, and hundreds of forms in wild commotion, moving to and fro,
though uttering no sound. At one moment it seemed that I could look
through one of the windows of the phantom building, and I saw the
branches of a palmetto-tree waving in the winter wind. Then amidst and
apparently at the head of all, a white-haired man stood upon the
rostrum, and as he turned down a long scroll from which he seemed to be
reading to the assemblage, I read the words that appeared on the top of
the scroll: 'An ordinance to dissolve the compact heretofore existing
between the several States of the Federal Union, under the name of the
United States of America.' My breath came thick, my eyes filled with
tears of wonder and dismay, and I could see no more.

''Horror!' I cried. 'Roll away the vision, for it is false! It can not
be that the man lives who could draw an ordinance to dissolve the Union
of the United States of America!'

''It is so! That has this day been done!' spoke the voice of the
sorceress from within the cloud of white mist.

''If this is indeed true,' I said, 'show me what is the result, for the
heavens must bow if this work of ruin is accomplished!'

''Look again, then!' said the voice. The strain of music, which had
partially ceased for a moment, grew louder and sadder again, and I saw
the white mist rolling and changing as if a wind were stirring it.
Gradually again it assumed shape and form; and in the moonlight, before
the Capitol of the nation, its white proportions gleaming in the wintry
ray, the form of Washington stood, the hands clasped, the head bare,
and the eyes cast upward in the mute agony of supplication.

''All is not lost!' I shouted more than spoke, 'for the Father of his
Country still watches his children, and while he lives in the heavens
and prays for the erring and wandering, the nation may yet be
reclaimed.'

''It may be so,' said the voice through the mist, 'for look!'

'Again the strain of music sounded, but now louder and clearer and
without the tone of hopeless sadness. Again the white mists rolled by in
changing forms, and when once more they assumed shape and consistency I
saw great masses of men, apparently in the streets of a large city,
throwing out the old flag from roof and steeple, lifting it to heaven in
attitudes of devotion, and pressing it to their lips with those wild
kisses which a mother gives to her darling child when it has been just
rescued from a deadly peril.

''The nation lives!' I shouted. 'The old flag is not deserted and the
patriotic heart yet beats in American bosoms! Show me yet more, for the
next must be triumph!'

''Triumph indeed!' said the voice. 'Behold it and rejoice at it while
there is time!' I shuddered at the closing words, but another change in
the strain of music roused me. It was not sadness now, nor yet the
rising voice of hope, for martial music rung loudly and clearly, and
through it I heard the roar of cannon and the cries of combatants in
battle. As the vision cleared, I saw the armies of the Union in tight
with a host almost as numerous as themselves, but savage, ragged, and
tumultuous, and bearing a mongrel flag that I had never seen before--one
that seemed robbed from the banner of the nation's glory. For a moment
the battle wavered and the forces of the Union seemed driven backward;
then they rallied with a shout, and the flag of stars and stripes was
rebaptized in glory. They pressed the traitors backward at every
turn--they trod rebellion under their heels--they were every where, and
every where triumphant.

''Three cheers for the Star-Spangled Banner!' I cried, forgetting place
and time in the excitement of the scene. 'Let the world look on and
wonder and admire! I knew the land that the Fathers founded and
Washington guarded could not die! Three cheers--yes, nine--for the
Star-Spangled Banner and the brave old land over which it floats!'

''Pause!' said the voice, coming out once more from the cloud of white
mist, and chilling my very marrow with the sad solemnity of its tone.
'Look once again!' I looked, and the mists went rolling by as before,
while the music changed to wild discord; and when the sight became clear
again I saw the men of the nation struggling over bags of gold and
quarreling for a black shadow that flitted about in their midst, while
cries of want and wails of despair went up and sickened the heavens! I
closed my eyes and tried to close my ears, but I could not shut out the
voice of the sorceress, saying once more from her shroud of white mist:

''Look yet again, and for the last time! Behold the worm that gnaws away
the bravery of a nation and makes it a prey for the spoiler!'
Heart-brokenly sad was the music now, as the vision changed once more,
and I saw a great crowd of men, each in the uniform of an officer of the
United States army, clustered around one who seemed to be their chief.
But while I looked I saw one by one totter and fall, and directly I
perceived that _the epaulette or shoulder-strap on the shoulder of each
was a great hideous yellow worm, that gnawed away the shoulder and
palsied the arm and ate into the vitals_. Every second, one fell and
died, making frantic efforts to tear away the reptile from its grasp,
but in vain. Then the white mists rolled away, and I saw the strange
woman standing where she had been when the first vision began. She was
silent, the music was hushed, Adolph Von Berg had fallen hack asleep in
his chair, and drawing out my watch, I discovered that only ten minutes
had elapsed since the sorceress spoke her first word.

''You have seen all--go!' was her first and last interruption to the
silence. The instant after, the curtain fell. I kicked Von Berg to awake
him, and we left the house. The _coupe_ was waiting in the street and
set me down at my lodgings, after which it conveyed my companion to his.
Adolph did not seem to have a very clear idea of what had occurred, and
my impression is, that he went to sleep the moment the first strain of
music commenced.

'As for myself, I am not much clearer than Adolph as to how and why I
saw and heard what I know that I did see and hear. I can only say that
on that night of the twentieth December, 1860, the same on which, as it
afterward appeared, the ordinance of secession was adopted at
Charleston, I, in the little old two-story house in the Rue la Reynie
Ogniard, witnessed what I have related. What may be the omens, you may
judge as well as myself. How much of the sybil's prophecy is already
history, you know already. That SHOULDER-STRAPS, which I take to be _the
desire of military show without courage or patriotism_, are destroying
the armies of the republic, I am afraid there is no question. Perhaps
you can imagine why at the moment of hearing that there was a worm on my
shoulder for a shoulder-strap, I for the instant believed that it was
one of the hideous yellow monsters that I saw devouring the best
officers of the nation, and shrunk and shrieked like a whipped child. Is
not that a long story?' Martin concluded, lighting a fresh cigar and
throwing himself back from the table.

'Very long, and a little mad; but to me absorbingly interesting,' was my
reply, 'And in the hope that it may prove so to others, I shall use it
as a strange, rambling introduction to a recital of romantic events
which have occurred in and about the great city since the breaking out
of the rebellion, having to do with patriotism and cowardice, love,
mischief, and secession, and bearing the title thus suggested.'

A part of which stipulation is hereby kept, with the promise of the
writer that the remainder shall be faithfully fulfilled in forthcoming
numbers.




THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

  Tell us--poor gray-haired children that we are--
  Tell us some story of the days afar,
  Down shining through the years like sun and star.

  The stories that, when we were very young,
  Like golden beads on lips of wisdom hung,
  At fireside told or by the cradle sung.

  Not Cinderella with the tiny shoe,
  Nor Harsan's carpet that through distance flew,
  Nor Jack the Giant-Killer's derring-do.

  Not even the little lady of the Hood,
  But something sadder--easier understood--
  The ballad of the Children in the Wood.

  Poor babes! the cruel uncle lives again,
  To whom their little voices plead in vain--
  Who sent them forth to be by ruffians slain.

  The hapless agent of the guilt is here--
  From whose seared heart their pleading brought a tear--
  Who could not strike, but fled away in fear.

  And hand in hand the wanderers, left alone,
  Through the dense forest make their feeble moan,
  Fed on the berries--pillowed on a stone.

  Still hand in hand, till little feet grow sore,
  And fails the feeble strength their limbs that bore;
  Then they lie down, and feel the pangs no more.

  The stars shine down in pity from the sky;
  The night-bird marks their fate with plaintive cry;
  The dew-drop wets their parched lips ere they die.

  There clasped they lie--death's poor, unripened sheaves--
  Till the red robin through the tree-top grieves,
  And flutters down and covers them with leaves.

  'Tis an old legend, and a touching one:
  What then? Methinks beneath to-morrow's sun
  Some deed as heartless will be planned and done.

  Children of older years and sadder fate
  Will wander, outcasts, from the great world's gate,
  And ne'er return again, though long they wait.

  Through wildering labyrinths that round them close,
  In that heart-hunger disappointment knows,
  They long may wander ere the night's repose.

  Their feeble voices through the dusk may call,
  And on the ears of busy mortals fall,
  But who will hear, save God above us all?

  Will wolfish Hates forego their evil work,
  Nor Envy's vultures in the branches perk,
  Nor Slander's snakes within the verdure lurk?

  And when at last the torch of life grows dim,
  Shall sweet birds o'er them chant a burial-hymn,
  Or decent pity veil the stiffening limb?

  Thrice happy they, if the old legend stand,
  And they are left to wander hand in hand--
  Not driven apart by Eden's blazing brand!

  If, long before the lonely night comes on--
  By tempting berries wildered and withdrawn--
  One does not look and find the other gone;

  If something more of shame, and grief, and wrong
  Than that so often told in nursery song,
  To their sad history does not belong!

  O lonely wanderers in the great world's wood!
  Finding the evil where you seek the good,
  Often deceived and seldom understood--

  Lay to your hearts the plaintive tale of old,
  When skies grow threatening or when loves grow cold,
  Or something dear is hid beneath the mold!

  For fates are hard, and hearts are very weak,
  And roses we have kissed soon leave the cheek,
  And what we are, we scarcely dare to speak.

  But something deeper, to reflective eyes,
  To-day beneath the sad old story lies,
  And all must read if they are truly wise.

  A nation wanders in the deep, dark night,
  By cruel hands despoiled of half its might,
  And half its truest spirits sick with fright.

  The world is step-dame--scoffing at the strife,
  And black assassins, armed with deadly knife,
  At every step lurk, striking at its life.

  Shall it be murdered in the gloomy wood?
  Tell us, O Parent of the True and Good,
  Whose hand for us the fate has yet withstood!

  Shall it lie down at last, all weak and faint,
  Its blood dried up with treason's fever-taint,
  And offer up its soul in said complaint?

  Or shall the omen fail, and, rooting out
  All that has marked its life with fear and doubt,
  The child spring up to manhood with a shout?

  So that in other days, when far and wide
  Other lost children have for succor cried,
  The one now periled may be help and guide?

  Father of all the nations formed of men,
  So let it be! Hold us beneath thy ken,
  And bring the wanderers to thyself again!

  Pity us all, and give us strength to pray,
  And lead us gently down our destined way!
  And this is all the children's lips can say.




NATIONAL UNITY.


Pride in the physical grandeur, the magnificent proportions of our
country, has for generations been the master passion of Americans. Never
has the popular voice or vote refused to sustain a policy which looked
to the enlargement of the area or increase of the power of the Republic.
To feel that so vast a river as the Mississippi, having such affluents
as the Missouri and the Ohio, rolled its course entirely through our
territory--that the twenty thousand miles of steamboat navigation on
that river and its tributaries were wholly our own, without touching on
any side our national boundaries--that the Pacific and the Atlantic, the
great lakes and the Gulf of Mexico, were our natural and conceded
frontiers, that their bays and harbors were the refuge of our commerce,
and their rising cities our marts and depots--were incense to our vanity
and stimulants to our love of country. No true American abroad ever
regarded or characterized himself as a New-Yorker, a Virginian, a
Louisianian: he dilated in the proud consciousness of his country's
transcendent growth and wondrous greatness, and confidently anticipated
the day when its flag should float unchallenged from Hudson's Bay to the
Isthmus of Darien, if not to Cape Horn.

It was this strong instinct of Nationality which rendered the masses so
long tolerant, if not complaisant, toward Slavery and the Slave Power.
Merchants and bankers were bound to their footstool by other and
ignobler ties; but the yeomanry of the land regarded slavery with a
lenient if not absolutely favoring eye, because it existed in fifteen of
our States, and was cherished as of vital moment by nearly all of them,
so that any popular aversion to it evinced by the North, would tend to
weaken the bonds of our Union. It might _seem_ hard to Pomp, or Sambo,
or Cuffee, to toil all day in the rice-swamp, the cotton-field, to the
music of the driver's lash, with no hope of remuneration or release, nor
even of working out thereby a happier destiny for his children; but
after all, what was the happiness or misery of three or four millions of
stupid, brutish negroes, that it should be allowed to weigh down the
greatness and glory of the Model Republic? Must there not always be a
foundation to every grand and towering structure? Must not some grovel
that others may soar? Is not _all_ drudgery repulsive? Yet must it not
be performed? Are not negroes habitually enslaved by each other in
Africa? Does not their enslavement here secure an aggregate of labor and
production that would else be unattainable? Are we not enabled by it to
supply the world with Cotton and Tobacco and ourselves with Rice and
Sugar? In short, is not to toil on white men's plantations the negro's
true destiny, and Slavery the condition wherein he contributes most
sensibly, considerably, surely, to the general sustenance and comfort of
mankind? If it is, away with all your rigmarole declarations of 'the
inalienable Rights of Man'--the right of every one to life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness! Let us have a reformed and rationalized
political Bible, which shall affirm the equality of all _white_
men--_their_ inalienable right to liberty, etc., etc. Thus will our
consistency be maintained, our institutions and usages stand justified,
while we still luxuriate on our home-grown sugar and rice, and deluge
the civilized world with our cheap cotton and tobacco!--And thus our
country--which had claimed a place in the family of nations as the
legitimate child and foremost champion of Human Freedom--was fast
sinking into the loathsome attitude of foremost champion and most
conspicuous exemplar of the vilest and most iniquitous form of
Despotism--that which robs the laborer of the just recompense of his
sweat, and dooms him to a life of ignorance, squalor, and despair.

But

  'The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
  Make whips to scourge us.'

For two generations our people have cherished, justified, and pampered
slavery, not that they really loved, or conscientiously approved the
accursed 'institution,' but because they deemed its tolerance essential
to our National Unity; and now we find Slavery desperately intent on and
formidably armed for the destruction of that Unity: for two generations
we have aided the master to trample on and rob his despised slave; and
now we are about to call that slave to defend our National Unity against
that master's malignant treason, or submit to see our country shattered
and undone.

Who can longer fail to realize that 'there is a God who judgeth in the
earth?' or, if the phraseology suit him better, that there is, in the
constitution of the universe, provision made for the banishment of every
injustice, the redress of every wrong?

'Well,' says a late convert to the fundamental truth, 'we must drive the
negro race entirely from our country, or we shall never again have union
and lasting peace.'

Ah! friend? it is not the negro _per se_ who distracts and threatens to
destroy our country--far from it! Negroes did not wrest Texas from
Mexico, nor force her into the Union, nor threaten rebellion because
California was admitted as a Free State, nor pass the Nebraska bill, nor
stuff the ballot-boxes and burn the habitations of Kansas, nor fire on
Fort Sumter, nor do any thing else whereby our country has been
convulsed and brought to the brink of ruin. It is not by the negro--it
is by injustice to the negro--that our country has been brought to her
present deplorable condition. Were Slavery and all its evil brood of
wrongs and vices eradicated this day, the Rebellion would die out
to-morrow and never have a successor. The centripetal tendency of our
country is so intense--the attraction of every part for every other so
overwhelming--that Disunion were impossible but for Slavery. What
insanity in New-Orleans to seek a divorce from the upper waters of her
superb river! What a melancholy future must confront St. Louis,
separated by national barriers from Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Colorado,
Nebraska, and all the vast, undeveloped sources of her present as well
as prospective commerce and greatness! Ponder the madness of Baltimore,
seeking separation from that active and teeming West to which she has
laid an iron track over the Alleghanies at so heavy a cost! But for
Slavery, the Southron who should gravely propose disunion, would at once
be immured in a receptacle for lunatics. He would find no sympathy
elsewhere.

But a nobler idea, a truer conception, of National Unity, is rapidly
gaining possession of the American mind. It is that dimly foreshadowed
by our President when, in his discussions with Senator Douglas, he said:
'I do not think our country can endure half slave and half free. I do
not think it will be divided, but I think it will become all one or the
other.'

'A union of lakes, a union of lands,' is well; but a true 'union of
hearts' must be based on a substantial identity of social habitudes and
moral convictions. If Islamism or Mormonism were the accepted religion
of the South, and we were expected to bow to and render at least outward
deference to it, there would doubtless be thousands of Northern-born men
who, for the sake of office, or trade, or in the hope of marrying
Southern plantations, would profess the most unbounded faith in the
creed of the planters, and would crowd their favorite temples located on
our own soil. But this would not be a real bond of union between us, but
merely an exhibition of servility and fawning hypocrisy. And so the
Northern complaisance toward slavery has in no degree tended to avert
the disaster which has overtaken us, but only to breed self-reproach on
the one side, and hauteur with ineffable loathing on the other.

Hereafter National Unity is to be no roseate fiction, no gainful
pretense, but a living reality. The United States of the future will be
no constrained alliance of discordant and mutually repellent
commonwealths, but a true exemplification of 'many in one'--many stars
blended in one common flag--many States combined in one homogeneous
Nation. Our Union will be one of bodies not merely, but of souls. The
merchant of Boston or New-York will visit Richmond or Louisville for
tobacco, Charleston for rice, Mobile for cotton, New-Orleans for sugar,
without being required at every hospitable board, in every friendly
circle, to repudiate the fundamental laws of right and wrong as he
learned them from his mother's lips, his father's Bible, and pronounce
the abject enslavement of a race to the interests and caprices of
another essentially just and universally beneficent. That a Northern man
visiting the South commercially should suppress his convictions adverse
to 'the peculiar institution,' and profess to regard it with approval
and satisfaction, was a part of the common law of trade--if one were
hostile to Slavery, what right had he to be currying favor with planters
and their factors, and seeking gain from the products of slave-labor? So
queried 'the South;' and, if any answer were possible, that answer would
not be heard. 'Love slavery or quit the South,' was the inexorable rule;
and the resulting hypocrisy has wrought deep injury to the Northern
character. As manufacturers, as traders, as teachers, as clerks, as
political aspirants, most of our active, enterprising, leading classes
have been suitors in some form for Southern favor, and the consequence
has been a prevalent deference to Southern ideas and a constant
sacrifice of moral convictions to hopes of material advantage.

It has pleased God to bring this demoralizing commerce to a sudden and
sanguinary close. Henceforth North and South will meet as equals,
neither finding or fancying in their intimate relations any reason for
imposing a profession of faith on the other. The Southron visiting the
North and finding here any law, usage, or institution revolting to his
sense of justice, will never dream of offending by frankly avowing and
justifying the impression it has made upon him: and so with the Northman
visiting the South. It is conscious wrong alone that shrinks from
impartial observation and repels unfavorable criticism as hostility. We
freely proffer our farms, our factories, our warehouses, common-schools,
alms-houses, inns, and whatever else may be deemed peculiar among us, to
our visitors' scrutiny and comment: we know they are not perfect, and
welcome any hint that may conduce to their improvement. So in the broad,
free West. The South alone resents any criticism on her peculiarities,
and repels as enmity any attempt to convince her that her forced labor
is her vital weakness and her greatest peril.

This is about to pass away. Slavery, having appealed to the sword for
justification, is to be condemned at her chosen tribunal and to fall on
the weapon she has aimed at the heart of the Republic. A new relation of
North to South, based on equality, governed by justice, and conceding
the fullest liberty, is to replace fawning servility by manly candor,
and to lay the foundations of a sincere, mutual, and lasting esteem. We
already know that valor is an American quality; we shall yet realize
that Truth is every man's interest, and that whatever repels scrutiny
confesses itself unfit to live. The Union of the future, being based on
eternal verities, will be cemented by every year's duration, until we
shall come in truth to 'know no North, no South, no East, no West,' but
one vast and glorious country, wherein sectional jealousies and hatreds
shall be unknown, and every one shall rejoice in the consciousness that
he is a son and citizen of the first of Republics, the land of
Washington and Jefferson, of Adams, Hamilton, and Jay, wherein the
inalienable Rights of Man as Man, at first propounded as the logical
justification of a struggle for Independence, became in the next
century, and through the influence of another great convulsion, the
practical basis of the entire political and social fabric--the accepted,
axiomatic root of the National life.




WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

    'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Everyone _lives_ it--to
    not many is it _known_; and seize it where you will, it is
    interesting.'--_Goethe_.

    'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or
    intended.'--_Webster's Dictionary_.


CHAPTER SEVENTH.

HIRAM MEEKER VISITS MR. BURNS

Mr. Burns had finished his breakfast.

A horse and wagon, as was customary at that hour, stood outside the
gate. He himself was on the portico where his daughter had followed him
to give her father his usual kiss. At that moment Mr. Burns saw some one
crossing the street toward his place. As he was anxious not to be
detained, he hastened down the walk, so that if he could not escape the
stranger, the person might at least understand that he had prior
engagements. Besides, Mr. Burns never transacted business at home, and a
visitor at so early an hour must have business for an excuse. The
new-comer evidently was as anxious to reach the house before Mr. Burns
left it, as the latter was to make his escape, for pausing a moment
across the way, as if to make certain, the sight of the young lady
appeared to reassure him, and he walked over and had laid his hand upon
the gate just as Mr. Burns was attempting to pass out.

Standing on opposite sides, each with a hand upon the paling, the two
met. It would have made a good picture. Mr. Burns was at this time a
little past forty, but his habit of invariable cheerfulness, his
energetic manner, and his fine fresh complexion gave him the looks of
one between thirty and thirty-five. On the contrary, although Hiram
Meeker was scarcely twenty, and had never had a care nor a thought to
perplex him, he at the same time possessed a certain experienced look
which made you doubtful of his age. If one had said he was twenty, you
would assent to the proposition; if pronounced to be thirty, you would
consider it near the mark. So, standing as they did, you would perceive
no great disparity in their ages.

We are apt to fancy individuals whom we have never seen, but of whom we
hear as accomplishing much, older than they really are. In this instance
Hiram had pictured a person at least twenty years older than Mr. Burns
appeared to be. He was quite sure there could be no mistake in the
identity of the man whom he beheld descending the portico. When he saw
him at such close quarters he was staggered for a moment, but for a
moment only. 'It must be he,' so he said to himself.

Now Hiram had planned his visit with special reference to meeting Mr.
Burns in his own house. He had two reasons for this. He knew that there
he should find him more at his ease, more off his guard, and in a state
of mind better adapted to considering his case socially and in a
friendly manner than in the counting-room.

Again: Sarah Burns. He would have an opportunity to renew the
acquaintance already begun.

Well, there they stood. Both felt a little chagrined--Mr. Burns that an
appointment was threatened to be interrupted, and Hiram that his plan
was in danger of being foiled.

This was for an instant only.

Mr. Burns opened the gate passing almost rapidly through, bowing at the
same time to Hiram.

'Do you wish to see me?' he said, as he proceeded to untie the horse and
get into the wagon.

'Mr. Joel Burns, I presume?'

'Yes.'

'I did wish to see you, sir, on matters of no consequence to you, but
personal to myself. I can call again.'

'I am going down to the paper-mill to be absent for an hour. If you will
come to my office in that time, I shall be at liberty.'

Hiram had a faint hope he would be invited to step into the house and
wait. Disappointed in this, he replied very modestly: 'Perhaps you will
permit me to ride with you--that is, unless some one else is going. I
would like much to look about the factories.'

'Certainly. Jump in.' And away they drove to Slab City.

Hiram was careful to make no allusion to the subject of his mission to
Burnsville. He remained modestly silent while Mr. Burns occasionally
pointed out an important building and explained its use or object.
Arriving at the paper-mill, he gave Hiram a brief direction where he
might spend his time most agreeably.

'I shall be ready to return in three quarters of an hour,' he said, and
disappeared inside.

'I must be careful, and make no mistakes with such a man,' soliloquized
Hiram, as he turned to pursue his walk. 'He is quick and rapid--a word
and a blow--too rapid to achieve a GREAT success. It takes a man,
though, to originate and carry through all this. Every thing flourishes
here, that is evident. Joel Burns ought to be a richer man than they say
he is. He has sold too freely, and on too easy terms, I dare say. No
doubt, come to get into his affairs, there will be ever so much to look
after. Too much a man of action. Does not think enough. Just the place
for me for two or three years.'

Hiram had no time for special examination, but strolled about from point
to point, so as to gain a general impression of what was going on. Five
minutes before the time mentioned by Mr. Burns had elapsed, Hiram was at
his post waiting for him to come out. This little circumstance did not
pass unnoticed. It elicited a single observation, 'You are punctual;' to
which Hiram made no reply. The drive back to the village was passed
nearly in silence. Mr. Burns's mind was occupied with his affairs, and
Hiram thought best not to open his own business till he could have a
fair opportunity.

Mr. Burns's place for the transaction of general business was a small
one-story brick building, erected expressly for the purpose, and
conveniently located. There was no name on the door, but over it a
pretty large sign displayed in gilt letters the word 'Office,' simply.
Mr. Burns had some time before discovered this establishment to be a
necessity, in consequence of the multitude of matters with which he was
connected. He was the principal partner in the leading store in the
village, where a large trade was carried on. The lumber business was
still good. He had always two or three buildings in course of erection.
He owned one half the paper-mill. In short, his interests were extensive
and various, but all snug and well-regulated, and under his control. For
general purposes, he spent a certain time in his office. Beyond that, he
could be found at the store, at the mill, in some of the factories, or
elsewhere, as the occasion called him.

Driving up to the 'office,' he entered with Hiram, and pointing the
latter to a seat, took one himself and waited to hear what our hero had
to say.

Hiram opened his case, coming directly to the point. He gave a brief
account of his previous education and business experience. At the
mention of Benjamin Jessup's name, an ominous 'humph!' escaped Mr.
Burns's lips, which Hiram was not slow to notice. He saw it would prove
a disadvantage to have come from his establishment. Without attempting
immediately to modify the unfavorable impression, he was careful, before
he finished, to take pains to do so.

'I have thus explained to you,' concluded Hiram,'that my object is to
gain a full, thorough knowledge of business, with the hope of becoming,
in time, a well-informed and, I trust, successful merchant.'

'And for that purpose--'

'For that purpose, I am very desirous to enter your service.'

'Really, I do not think there is a place vacant which would suit you,
Mr. Meeker.'

'It is of little consequence whether or not the place would suit me,
sir; only let me have the opportunity, and I will endeavor to adapt
myself to it.'

'Oh! what I mean is, we have at present no situation fitted for a young
man as old and as competent as you appear to be.'

'But if I were willing to undertake it?'

'You see there would be no propriety in placing you in a situation
properly filled by a boy, or at least a youth. Still, I will not forget
your request; and if occasion should require, you shall have the first
hearing.'

'I had hoped,' continued Hiram, no way daunted, 'that possibly you might
have been disposed to take me in your private employ.'

'How?'

'You have large, varied, and increasing interests. You must be severely
tasked, at least at times, to properly manage all. Could I not serve you
as an assistant? You would find me, I think, industrious and
persevering. I bring certificates of character from the Rev. Mr.
Goddard, our clergyman, and from both the deacons in our church.'

This was said with a naive earnestness, coupled with a diffidence
apparently _so_ genuine, that Mr. Burns could not but be favorably
impressed by it. In fact, the idea of a general assistant had never
before occurred to him. He reflected a moment, and replied:

'It is true I have much on my hands, but one who has a great deal to do
can do a great deal; besides, the duties I undertake it would be
impossible to devolve on another.'

'I wish you would give me a trial. The amount of salary would be no
object. I want to learn business, and I know I can learn it of _you_.'

Mr. Burns was not insensible to the compliment. His features relaxed
into a smile, but his opinion remained unchanged.

'Well,' said Hiram, in a pathetic tone, 'I hate to go back and meet
father. He said he presumed you had forgotten him, though he remembered
you when you lived in Sudbury, a young man about my age; and he told me
to make an engagement with you, if it were only as errand-boy.'

[O Hiram! how could that glib and ready lie come so aptly to your lips?
Your father never said a word to you on the subject. It is doubtful if
he knew you were going to Burnsville at all, and he never had seen Mr.
Burns in his life. How carefully, Hiram, you calculated before you
resolved on this delicate method to secure your object! The risk of the
falsity of the whole ever being discovered--that was very remote, and
amounted to little. What you were about to say would injure no
one--wrong no one. If not true, it might well be true. Oh! but Hiram, do
you not see you are permitting an element of falsehood to creep in and
leaven your whole nature? You are exhibiting an utter disregard of
circumstances in your determination to carry your point. Heretofore you
have looked to but one end--self; but you have committed no overt act.
Have a care, Hiram Meeker; Satan is gaining on you.]

Mr. Burns had not been favorably impressed, at first sight, with his
visitor. Magnetically he was repelled by him. He was too just a man to
allow this to influence him, by word or manner. He permitted Hiram to
accompany him to the mill and return with him.

During this time, the latter had learned something of his man. He saw
quickly enough that he had failed favorably to impress Mr. Burns.
Determining not to lose the day, he assumed an entire ingenuousness of
character, coupled with much simplicity and earnestness. He appealed to
the certificates of his minister and the deacons, as if these would be
sure to settle the question irrespective of Mr. Burns's wants; and at
last the _lie_ slipped from his mouth, in appearance as innocently as
truth from the lips of an angel.

At the mention of Sudbury and the time when he was a young man, Hiram,
who watched narrowly, thought he could perceive a slight quickening in
the eye of Mr. Burns--nothing more.

His only reply, however, to the appeal, was to ask:

'How old are you?'

'Nineteen,' said Hiram softly. (He would be twenty the following week,
but he did not say so.)

'Only nineteen!' exclaimed Mr. Burns, 'I took you for five-and-twenty.'

'It is very singular,' replied Hiram mournfully; 'I am not aware that
persons generally think me older than I am.'

'Oh! I presume not; and now I look closer, I do not think you _do_
appear more than nineteen.'

It was really astonishing how Hiram's countenance had changed. How every
trace of keen, shrewd apprehension had vanished, leaving only the
appearance of a highly intelligent and interesting, but almost diffident
youth!

Mr. Burns sat a moment without speaking. Hiram did not dare utter a
word. He knew he was dealing with a man quick in his impressions and
rapid to decide. He had done his best, and would not venture farther.
Mr. Burns, looking up from a reflective posture, cast his eyes on Hiram.
The latter really appeared so amazingly distressed that Mr. Burns's
feelings were touched.

'Is your mother living,' he asked.

Hiram was almost on the point of denying the fact, but that would have
been too much.

'Oh! yes, sir,' he replied.

Again Mr. Burns was silent. Again Hiram calculated the chances, and
would not venture to interrupt him.

This time Mr. Burns's thoughts took another direction. It occurred to
him that he had of late overtasked his daughter. 'True, it is a great
source of pleasure for us both that she can be of so much assistance to
me, but her duties naturally accumulate; she is doing too much. It is
not appropriate.'

So thought Mr. Burns while Hiram Meeker sat waiting for a decision.

'It is true,' continued Mr. Burns to himself, 'I think I ought to have a
private clerk. The idea occurred even to this youth. I will investigate
who and what he is, and will give him a trial if all is right.'

He turned toward Hiram:

'Young man, I am inclined to favor your request. But if I give you
employment in my _office_, your relations with me will necessarily be
confidential, and the situation will be one of trust and confidence. I
must make careful inquiries.'

'Certainly, sir,' replied Hiram, drawing a long breath, for he saw the
victory was gained. 'I will leave these certificates, which may aid you
in your inquiries. I was born and brought up in Hampton, and you will
have no difficulty in finding persons who know my parents and me. When
shall I call again, sir?'

'In a week.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Won! won! yes, won!' exclaimed Hiram aloud, when he had walked a
sufficient distance from the 'office' to enable him to do so without
danger of being overheard. 'A close shave, though! If he had said 'No,'
all Hampton would not have moved him. What a splendid place for me! How
did I come to be smart enough to suggest such a thing to him? I rather
think three years here will make me all right for New-York.'

Hiram walked along to the hotel, and ordered dinner. While it was
getting ready, he strolled over the village. He was in hopes to meet, by
some accident, Miss Burns.

He was not disappointed. Turning a corner, he came suddenly on Sarah,
who had run out for a call on some friend. Hiram fancied he had produced
a decided impression the evening they met at Mrs. Crofts', and with a
slight fluttering at the heart, he was about to stop and extend his
hand, when Miss Burns, hardly appearing to recognize him, only bowed
slightly and passed on her way.

'You shall pay for this, young lady,' muttered Hiram between his
teeth--'you shall pay for this, or my name is not Hiram Meeker! I would
come here now for nothing else but to pull _her_ down!' continued Hiram
savagely. 'I will let her know whom she has to deal with.'

He walked back to the hotel in a state of great irritation. With the
sight of a good dinner, however, this was in a degree dispelled, and
before he finished it, his philosophy came to his relief.

'Time--time--it takes time. The fact is, I shall like the girl all the
better for her playing _off_ at first. Shan't forget it though--not
quite!'

He drove back to Hampton that afternoon. His feelings were placid and
complacent as usual. He had asked the Lord in the morning to prosper his
journey and to grant him success in gaining his object, and he now
returned thanks for this new mark of God's grace and favor.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Burns did not inquire of the Rev. Mr. Goddard, nor of either of the
deacons mentioned by Hiram. He wrote direct to Thaddeus Smith, Senior,
whom he knew, and who he thought would be able to give a correct account
of Hiram. Informing Mr. Smith that the young man had applied to him for
a situation of considerable trust, he asked that gentleman to give his
careful opinion about his capacity, integrity, and general character. As
there could be but one opinion on the subject in all Hampton, Mr. Smith
returned an answer every way favorable. It is true he did not like Hiram
himself, but if called on for a reason, he could not have told why. As
we have recorded, every one spoke well of him. Every one said how good,
and moral, and smart he was, and honest Mr. Smith reported accordingly.

'Well, well,' said Mr. Burns, 'if Smith gives such an account of him
while he has been all the time in an opposition store, he must be all
right.... Don't quite like his looks, though ... wonder what it is.'

       *       *       *       *       *

When at the expiration of the week Hiram went to receive an answer from
Mr. Burns, he did not attempt to find him at his house. He was careful
to call at the office at the hour Mr. Burns was certain to be in.

'I hear a good account of you, Meeker,' said Mr. Burns, 'and in that
respect every thing is satisfactory. Had I not given you so much
encouragement, I should still hesitate about making a new department.
However, we will try it.'

'I am very thankful to you, sir. As I said, I want to learn business and
the compensation is no object.'

'But it _is_ an object with me. I can have no one in my service who is
not fully paid. Your position should entitle you to a liberal salary. If
you can not earn it, you can not fill the place.'

'Then I shall try to earn it, I assure you,' replied Hiram, 'and will
leave the matter entirely with you. I have brought you a line from my
father,' he continued, and he handed Mr. Burns a letter.

It contained a request, prepared at Hiram's suggestion, that Mr. Burns
would admit him in his family. The other ran his eye hastily over it. A
slight frown contracted his brow.

'Impossible!' he exclaimed. 'My domestic arrangements will not permit of
such a thing. Quite impossible.'

'So I told father, but he said it would do no harm to write. He did not
think you would be offended.'

'Offended! certainly not.'

'Perhaps,' continued Hiram, 'you will be kind enough to recommend a good
place to me. I should wish to reside in a religious family, where no
other boarders are taken.'

The desire was a proper one, but Hiram's tone did not have the ring of
the true metal. It grated slightly on Mr. Burns's moral nerves--a little
of his first aversion came back--but he suppressed it, and promised to
endeavor to think of a place which should meet Hiram's wishes. It was
now Saturday. It was understood Hiram should commence his duties the
following Monday. This arranged, he took leave of his employer, and
returned home.

That evening Mr. Burns told his daughter he was about to relieve her
from the drudgery--daily increasing--of copying letters and taking care
of so many papers, by employing a confidential clerk. Sarah at first was
grieved; but when her father declared he should talk with her just as
ever about every thing he did or proposed to do, and that he thought in
the end the new clerk would be a great relief to him, she was content.

'But whom have you got, father,' (she always called him 'father,') 'for
so important a situation?'

'His name is Meeker--Hiram Meeker--a young man very highly recommended
to me from Hampton.'

'I wonder if it was not he whom I met last Saturday!'

'Possibly; he called on me that day. Do you know him?'

'I presume it is the same person I saw at Mrs. Crofts' some weeks since.
Last Saturday a young man met me and almost stopped, as if about to
speak. I did not recognize him, although I could not well avoid bowing.
Now I feel quite sure it was Mr. Meeker.'

'Very likely.'

'Well, I do hope he will prove faithful and efficient. I recollect every
one spoke very highly of him.'

'I dare say.'

Mr. Burns was in a reverie. Certain thoughts were passing through his
mind--painful, unhappy thoughts--thoughts which had never before visited
him.

'Sarah, how old are you?'

'Why, father, what a question!' She came and sat on his knee and looked
fondly into his eyes. 'What _can_ you be thinking of not to remember I
am seventeen?'

'Of course I remember it, dear child,' replied Mr. Burns tenderly; 'my
mind was wandering, and I spoke without reflection.'

'But you were thinking of me?'

'Perhaps.'

He kissed her, and rose and walked slowly up and down the room. Still he
was troubled.

We shall not at present endeavor to penetrate his thoughts; nor is it
just now to our purpose to present them to the reader.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hiram Meeker had been again _successful_. He had resolved to enter the
service of Mr. Burns and he _had_ entered it. He came over Monday
morning early, and put up at the hotel. In three or four days he secured
just the kind of boarding-place he was in search of. A very respectable
widow lady, with two grown-up daughters, after consulting with Mr.
Burns, did not object to receive him as a member of her family.




AN ARMY CONTRACTOR.


  Lived a man of iron mold,
    Crafty glance and hidden eye,
  Dead to every gain but gold,
    Deaf to every human sigh.
  Man he was of hoary beard,
    Withered cheek and wrinkled brow.
  Imaged on his soul, appeared:
    'Honest as the times allow.'




LITERARY NOTICES.


     WHY PAUL FERROLL KILLED HIS WIFE. By the Author of Paul
     Ferroll. New-York: Carleton, 413 Broadway. Boston: N. Williams &
     Co.

Those who remember _Paul Ferroll_, probably recall it as a novel of
merit, which excited attention, partly from its peculiarity, and partly
from the mystery in which its writer chose to conceal herself--a not
unusual course with timid debutantes in literature, who hope either to
_intriguer_ the public with their masks, or quietly escape the disgrace
of a _fiasco_ should they fail. Mrs. Clive is, however, it would seem,
satisfied that the public did not reject her, since she now reaeppears to
inform us, 'novelly,' why the extremely ill-married Paul made himself
the chief of sinners, by committing wife-icide. The work is in fact a
very readable novel--much less killing indeed than its title--but still
deserving the great run which we are informed it is having, and which,
unlike the run of shad, will not we presume--as it is a very summer
book--fall off as the season advances.


     THE CHANNINGS. A Domestic Novel of Real Life. By Mrs.
     Henry Wood. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson. Boston: Crosby and
     Nichols.

Notwithstanding the praise which has been so lavishly bestowed on this
'tale of domestic life,' the reader will, if any thing more than a mere
reader of novels for the very sake of 'story,' probably agree with us,
after dragging through to the end, that it would be a blessing if some
manner of stop could be put to the manufacture of such books. A really
_original_, earnest novel; vivid in its life-picturing, genial in its
characters; the book of a man or woman who has thought something, and
actually _knows_ something, is at any time a world's blessing. But what
has _The Channings_ of all this in it? Every sentence in it rings like
something read of old, all the incidents are of a kind which were worn
out years ago--to be sure the third-rate story-reader may lose himself
in it--just as we may for a fiftieth time endeavor to trace out the plan
of the Hampton Labyrinth, and with about as much real profit or
amusement.

It is a melancholy sign of the times to learn that such hackneyed
English trash as _The Channings_ has sold well! It has not deserved it.
American novels which have appeared nearly cotemporaneously with it, and
which have ten times its merit, have not met with the same success, for
the simple and sole reason that almost any English circulating library
stuff will at any time meet with better patronage than a home work. When
our public becomes as much interested in itself as it is in the very
common-place life of Cockney clergymen and clerks, we shall perhaps
witness a truly generous encouragement of native literature.


     THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. A Story of the Coast of Maine.
     By Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

In reading this quiet, natural, well-pictured narrative of Northern
life, we are tempted to exclaim--fresh from the extraordinary contrast
presented by _Agnes of Sorrento--O si sic omnes!_ Why can not Mrs. Stowe
_always_ write like this? Why not limit her efforts to subjects which
develop her really fine powers--to setting forth the social life of
America at the present day, instead of harping away at the seven times
worn out and knotted cord of Catholic and Italian romance? _The Pearl of
Orr's Island_, though not a work which will sweep Uncle Tom-like in
tempest fashion over all lands and through all languages, is still a
very readable and very refreshing novel--full of reality as we find it
among real people, 'inland or on sounding shore,' and by no means
deficient in those moral and religious lessons to inculcate which it
appears to have been written. Piety is indeed the predominant
characteristic of the work--not obtrusive or sectarian, but earnest and
actual; so that it will probably be classed, on the whole, as a
religious novel, though we can hardly recall a romance in which the
pious element interferes so little with the general interest of the
plot, or is so little conducive to gloom. The hard, '_Angular_ Saxon'
characteristics of the rural people who constitute the _dramatis
personae_, their methods of thought and tone of feeling, so singularly
different from that of 'the world,' their marked peculiarities, are all
set forth with an apparently unconscious ability deserving the highest
praise.


     THE GOLDEN HOUR. By MONOURE D. CONWAY, Author of
     the 'Rejected Stone,' '_Impera Parendo_.' Boston: Ticknor and
     Fields.

The most remarkable work which the war has called out is beyond question
the _Rejected Stone_. Wild, vigorous, earnest, even to suffering, honest
as truth itself, quaint, humorous, pathetic, and startlingly eccentric.
Those who read it at once decided that a new writer had arisen among us,
and one destined to make no mean mark in the destinies of his country.
The reader who will refer to our first number will find what we said of
it in all sincerity, since the author was then to us unknown. He is--it
is almost needless to inform the reader--a thorough-going abolitionist,
yet one who, while looking more intently at the welfare of the black
than we care to do in the present imbroglio, still appreciates and urges
Emancipation, or freeing the black, in its relation to the welfare of
the white man. Mr. Conway is not, however, a man who speaks ignorantly
on this subject. A Virginian born and bred, brought up in the very heart
of the institution, he studied it at home in all its relations, and
found out its evils by experience. A thoroughly honest man, too
clear-headed and far too intelligent to be rated as a fanatic; too
familiar with his subject to be at all disregarded, he claims close
attention in many ways, those of wit and eloquence not being by any
means the least. In the work before us, he insists that there is a
golden hour at hand, a title borrowed from the quaint advertisement, of
'Lost a golden hour set with sixty diamond minutes'--which if not
grasped at by the strong, daring hand will see our great national
opportunity lost forever. We are not such disbelievers in fate as to
imagine that this golden hour ever can be inevitably lost. If the cause
of freedom rolls slowly, it is because even in free soil there are too
many Conservative pebbles. Still we agree with Conway as to his estimate
of the great mass of cowardice, irresolution, and folly which react on
our administration. If the word 'Emancipationist,'--meaning thereby one
who looks to the welfare of the _white_ man rather than the negro--be
substituted for 'Abolitionist' in the following, our more intelligent
readers will probably agree with Mr. Conway exactly:

     'If this country is to be saved, the Abolitionists are to save it;
     and though they seem few in numbers, they are not by a thousandth
     so few as were the Christians when JESUS suffered, or Protestants
     when Luther spoke. There is need only that we should stand as one
     man, and unto the end, for an absolutely free Republic, swearing to
     promote eternal strife until it be attained--until in waters which
     Agitation, the angel of freedom, has troubled, the diseased nation
     shall bathe and be made every whit whole.

     'The Golden Hour is before us: there is in America enough wisdom
     and courage to coin it, ere it passes, into national honor and
     peace, if it is all put forth.

     'Up, hearts!'

It is needless to say that we earnestly commend this book to all who
are truly interested in the great questions of the time.


     TRAGEDY OF SUCCESS. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.

Another of the extraordinary series bearing the motto, '_Aux plus
desheritees le plus d'amour_'--works as strongly marked by talent as by
misapplied taste. The dramatic ability, the deep vein of poetry, the
earnest thought, faith, and humanity of these dramas or drama, are
beyond question--but very questionable to our mind is the extreme love
of over-adorning truth which can induce a writer to represent plantation
negroes as speaking elegant language and using lofty, tender, and poetic
sentiments on almost all occasions, or at least to a degree which is
exceptional and not regular. If we hope that the time may come when all
of GOD'S children will be raised to this high standard of
thought and culture, so much the more reason is there why they should
not now be exaggerated and placed in a false light. Yet, as we have
said, the work abounds in noble thoughts and true poetry. It may be read
with somewhat more than 'profit,' for it has within it a great and
loving heart. True _humanity_ is impressed on every page, and where that
exists greatness and beauty are never absent.


     THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME. By VICTOR HUGO.
     New-York: Dick and Fitzgerald. 1862.

Many years ago--say some thirty-odd--when French literature still walked
in the old groves, and the classic form and style of the old revolution
still swayed all the minor minds, there sprung up a reaection in the
so-called romantic school of which Victor Hugo became the leader. The
medieval renaissance, which fifty years before had penetrated Germany
and England, and indeed all the North, was late in coming to France, but
when it did come it stirred the Latin Quarter and Young France
wonderfully. If its results were less remarkable in literature than in
any other country, they were at least more admired in their day.
Principal among these results was the novel now before us. And this book
is really a tolerable imitation of Walter Scott. The feverish spirit of
modern France craved, indeed, stronger ingredients than the Wizard of
the North was wont to gather, and the _Hunchback_ is accordingly
'sensational.' It has in fact been called extravagant--yes, forced and
unnatural. Even ordinary readers were apt to say as much of it. We well
remember meeting many years ago in a well-thumbed circulating-library
copy of the _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ the following doggerel on the last
page:

  'In Paris when to the Greve you go,
  Pray do not grieve if VICTOR HUGO
  Should there be hanging by a rope,
  Without the blessing of the Pope,
  Or that of any human creature
  On him who libels human nature.'

Yet we counsel all who would be well-informed in literature--as well as
the far greater number of those who read only for entertainment, to get
this work. It is exciting--full of strange, quaint picturing of the
Middle Ages, has vivid characters, and is full of life. Among the series
of books with fewer faults, but, alas! with far fewer excellencies,
which are daily printed, there is, after all, seldom one so well worth
reading as _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


At last we are wide awake. At last the nation has found out its
strength, and determined, despite doughface objections and impediments
to every proposal of every kind, to push the war with energy, so that
the foe _shall_ be overwhelmed. Six hundred thousand men, as we write,
will soon swell the ranks of the Federal army, and if six hundred
thousand more are needed they can be had. For the North is arming in
real earnest, thank God! and when it rises in _all_ its force, who shall
withstand it? It is a thing to remember with pride, that the
proclamation calling for the second three hundred thousand by draft, was
received with the same joy as though we had heard of a great victory.

Government has not gone to work one day too soon. From a rebellion, the
present cause of strife has at length assumed the proportion of equal
war. The South has cast its _whole_ population, all its means, all its
energy, heart and soul, life and future, on one desperate game; while we
with every advantage have let out our strength little by little, so as
to hurt the enemy as little as possible. Doughface democracy among us
has squalled as if receiving deadly wounds at every proposal to crush or
injure the foe. It opposed, heart and soul, the early On to Richmond
movement, when the Republicans clamored for an overwhelming army, a
grand rally, and a bold push. It rejoiced at heart over Bull Run--for
the South was saved for a time. It upheld the wounded snake, 'anaconda'
system, it opposed the using of contrabands in any way, it urged, heart
and soul, the protection of the property of rebels, it warred on
confiscation in any form, it was ready with a negative to every
proposition to energetically push the war, and finally its press is now
opposing the settling our soldiers on the cotton-lands of the South.
Thus far the slow course of this war of ten millions against twenty
millions is the history of the action of falsehood and treason benumbing
the majority. They have lied against us, and against millions, that the
negro was all we cared for, though it was the WHITE MAN, far, far above
the black for whom we spoke and cared, or how else could that _free_
labor in which the black is but a small unit have been our principal
hope and thought?

But treason at home could not last forever, nor will lies always endure.
The people have found out that the foe _can not_ be gently whipped and
amiably reinstated in their old place of honor. Moreover we have no time
to lose. Another year will find us financially bankrupt, and the enemy
in all probability, in that case, free and fairly afloat by foreign aid.

And if the South goes, _all_ may possibly go. In every city exist
desperate and unprincipled men--the FERNANDO WOODS of the
dangerous classes--who to rule would do all in their power to break our
remaining union into hundreds of small independencies. The South would
flood us with smuggled European goods--for, be it remembered, this
iniquitous device to beat down our manufacture has always been prominent
on their programme--our industry would be paralyzed, exchanges ruined,
and the Eastern and Middle States become paltry shadows of what they
once were.

The people have at last seen this terrible ghost stare them full in the
face. They have found out that it is 'rule or ruin' in earnest. No time
now to have every decisive and expedient measure yelled down as
'unconstitutional' or undemocratic or unprecedented. No days these to
fight a maddened foe with conservative kid-gloves and frighten the fell
tiger back with democratic rose-water. We must do all and every thing,
even as the foe have done. We have been generous, we have been
merciful--we have protected property, we have returned slaves, we have
let our wounded lie in the open air and die rather than offend the
fiendish-hearted women of Secessia--and what have we got by it? Lies and
lies, again and yet again. For refusing to touch the black, Mr. Lincoln
is termed by the Southern press 'a dirty negro-stealer,' and our troops,
for _not_ taking the slaves and thereby giving the South all its present
crop and for otherwise aiding them, are simply held up as hell-hounds
and brigands. Much we have made by forbearance!

The miserable position held by Free State secessionists, Breckinridge
Democrats, rose-water conservatives, and other varieties of the great
Northern branch of Southern treason, is fully exemplified by the
following extract from Breckinridge's special organ, the Louisville
_Courier_, printed while Nashville was still under rebel rule, an
article which has been of late more than once closely reechoed and
imitated by the Richmond _Whig_.

     'This,' says the _Courier_, 'has been called a fratricidal war by
     some, by others an irrepressible conflict between freedom and
     slavery. We respectfully take issue with the authors of both these
     ideas. We are not the brothers of the Yankees, and the slavery
     question is merely the _pretext, not the cause of the war_. The
     true irrepressible conflict lies fundamentally in the hereditary
     hostility, the sacred animosity, the eternal antagonism, between
     the two races engaged.

     'The Norman cavalier can not brook the vulgar familiarity of the
     Saxon Yankee, while the latter is continually devising some plan to
     bring down his aristocratic neighbor to his own detested level.
     Thus was the contest waged in the old United States. So long as
     _Dickinson dough-faces were to be bought_, and _Cochrane cowards to
     be frightened_, so long was the Union tolerable to Southern men;
     but when, owing to divisions in our ranks, the Yankee hirelings
     placed one of their own spawn over us, political connection became
     unendurable, and separation necessary to preserve our
     _self-respect_.

     'As our Norman friends in England, always a minority, have ruled
     their Saxon countrymen in political vassalage up to the present
     day, so have we, the slave oligarchs, governed the Yankees till
     within a twelve-month. We framed the Constitution, for seventy
     years molded the policy of the Government, and placed our own men,
     or '_Northern men with Southern principles_,' in power.'

Cool--and in part true. They _did_ rule us in political vassalage, they
_did_ place their own men, or 'Northern men with Southern principles,'
in power, and there are scores of such abandoned traitors even now
crying out 'pro-slavery' and abusing Emancipation among us, in the hope
that if some turn of Fortune's wheel should separate the South, they may
again rise to power as its agents and representatives! GOD help them! It
is hard to conceive of men sunk so low! Nobody wants them now--but a
time _may_ come. They are in New-York--there is a peculiarly
contemptible clique of them in Boston, and the Philadelphia _Bulletin_
informs us that there is exactly such another precious party in the city
of Brotherly Love, who are 'in a very awkward position just now,
inasmuch as there is no market for them. They are in the position of
Johnson and Don Juan in the slave-market at Constantinople, and ready to
exclaim:

  'I wish to G--d that some body would buy us!''

The first draft for the army was a death-blow to the slow-poison
democracy, and it has been frightened accordingly. Like a slug on whom
salt has just begun to fall, the crawling mass is indeed manifesting
symptoms of frightened activity--but it is the activity of death. For
the North is awake in real earnest; it is out with banner and bayonet;
there is to be no more playing at war or wasting of lives--the foe is to
be rooted out--_delanda est Dixie_. And in the hour of triumph where
will the pro-slavery traitors be then? Where? Where they always strive
to be--on the _winning_ side. They will 'back water' as they have done
on progressive measure which they once opposed, since the war begun;
they will eat their words and fawn and wheedle those in power until the
opportunity again occurs for building up on some sham principle a party
of rum and faro-banks, low demagogue-ism, ignorance, reaction, and
vulgarity. Then from his present toad-like swelling and whispering, we
shall hear the full-expanded fiend roar out into a real life. It is the
old story of history--the corrupt and venal arraigning itself against
truth and terming the latter 'visionary' and 'fanatical.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Those who visit the sick soldiers and do good in the hospitals
occasionally get a gleam of fun among all the sad scenes--for any wag
who has been to the wars seldom loses his humor, although he may have
lost all else save that and honor. Witness a sketch from life:


A LITTLE HEAVY.

C----, good soul, after taking all the little comforts he could afford
to give to the wounded soldiers, went into the hospital for the fortieth
time the other day, with his mite, consisting of several papers of
fine-cut chewing-tobacco, Solace for the wounded, as he called it. He
came to one bed, where a poor fellow lay cheerfully humming a tune, and
studying out faces on the papered wall.

'Got a fever?' asked C----.

'No,' answered the soldier.

'Got a cold?'

'Yes, cold--lead--like the d----l!'

'Where?'

'Well, to tell you the truth, it's pretty well scattered. First, there's
a bullet in my right arm, they han't dug that out yet. Then there's one
near my thigh--it's sticking in yet: one in my leg--hit the bone--_that_
fellow _hurts_! one through my left hand--that fell out. And I tell you
what, friend, with all this lead in me, I feel, ginrally speaking, _a
little heavy all over_!'

C---- lightened his woes with a double quantity of Solace.

       *       *       *       *       *

C---- was a good fellow, and the soldier deserved his 'Solace.' Many of
them among us are poor indeed. 'Boys!' exclaimed a wounded volunteer to
two comrades, as they paused the other day before a tobacconist's and
examined with the eyes of connoisseurs the brier or bruyere-wood pipes
in his window, 'Boys! I'd give fifty dollars, if I had it, for four
shillins to buy one of them pipes with!'

       *       *       *       *       *

In a late number of an English magazine, Harriet Martineau gives some
account of her conversations, when in America in 1835, with
Chief-Justice Marshall and Mr. Madison. These men then represented the
old ideas of the Republic and of Virginia as it had been. The following
extract fully declares their opinions:

     'When I knew Chief-Justice Marshall he was eighty-three--as
     bright-eyed and warm-hearted as ever, while as dignified a judge as
     ever filled the highest seat in the highest court of any country.
     He said he had seen Virginia the leading State for half his life;
     he had seen her become the second, and sink to be (I think) the
     fifth.

     'Worse than this, there was no arresting her decline if her
     citizens did not put an end to slavery; and he saw no signs of any
     intention to do so, east of the mountains, at least. He had seen
     whole groups of estates, populous in his time, lapse into waste. He
     had seen agriculture exchanged for human stock-breeding; and he
     keenly felt the degradation.

     'The forest was returning over the fine old estates, and the wild
     creatures which had not been seen for generations were reaeppearing,
     numbers and wealth were declining, and education and manners were
     degenerating. It would not have surprised him to be told that on
     that soil would the main battles be fought when the critical day
     should come which he foresaw.

     'To Mr. Madison despair was not easy. He had a cheerful and
     sanguine temper, and if there was one thing rather than another
     which he had learned to consider secure, it was the Constitution
     which he had so large a share in making. Yet he told me that he was
     nearly in despair, and that he had been quite so till the
     Colonization Society arose.

     'Rather than admit to himself that the South must be laid waste by
     a servile war, or the whole country by a civil war, he strove to
     believe that millions of negroes could be carried to Africa, and so
     got rid of. I need not speak of the weakness of such a hope. What
     concerns us now is that he saw and described to me, when I was his
     guest, the dangers and horrors of the state of society in which he
     was living.

     'He talked more of slavery than of all other subjects together,
     returning to it morning, noon, and night. He said that the clergy
     perverted the Bible because it was altogether against slavery; that
     the colored population was increasing faster than the white; and
     that the state of morals was such as barely permitted society to
     exist.

     'Of the issue of the conflict, whenever it should occur, there
     could, he said, be no doubt. A society burdened with a slave system
     could make no permanent resistance to an unencumbered enemy; and he
     was astonished at the fanaticism which blinded some Southern men to
     so clear a certainty.

     'Such was Mr. Madison's opinion in 1855.'

But the trial has come at last, and it is for the country to decide
whether the South is to be allowed to secede, or to remain strengthened
by their slaves, planting and warring against us until our own resources
becoming exhausted, Europe can at an opportune moment intervene. But
will that be the end? Will not Russia revenge the Crimea by aiding
us--will not Austria be dismembered, France on fire, Southern Europe in
arms, and one storm of anarchy sweep over the world? It is all possible,
should we persevere in fighting the enemy with one hand and feeding him
with the other.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is such a thing as silly theatrical sentiment, and much of it is
shown in the vulgar, melodramatic acting out of popular songs, as shown
by the subjoined brace of anecdotes:

     DEAR SIR: I have had, in my time, not a little experience
     of jailer, warden, and, of late, camp life, and would like to say a
     word about silly, misplaced sympathy, of which I have witnessed
     enough in all conscience.

     At one time, while officering it in a prison not one thousand
     miles--as the penny papers say--from the State of New-York, we
     received into our hands about as degraded a specimen of the _genus_
     'murderer,' as it was ever my lot to see. He had killed a woman in
     a most cowardly and cruel manner, and was, to my way of thinking,
     (and I was used to such fellows,) about as brutal-looking a human
     beast as one need look at. However, we had hardly got him into a
     cell, before a carriage drove up to the door, and a
     splendidly-dressed lady, with a basket of oranges and a five-dollar
     camellia bouquet, asked to see the prisoner.

     '_Do_ let me see him!' she cried, 'I read of him in the newspaper,
     and, guilty as he is, I would fain contribute my mite to soothe
     him.'

     'He is a rough customer, marm,' said my assistant.

     'Yes, but you know what the poet says:

     "Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell."

     So she went in. She took but small notice of the prisoner, however,
     arranged her bouquet, left her oranges, and departed. It occurred
     to me to promptly search the bouquet for a concealed note or file,
     so I entered the cell as she went out. I found Shocky, as we called
     him, sucking away at an orange, and staring at the flowers in great
     amazement. Finally, he spoke.

     'Wat in ----'s the use a sendin' them things to a feller fur,
     unless they give him the rum with 'em?'

     'What do you suppose they are meant for?' I replied.

     'Why, to make bitters with, in course. An't them come-a-mile
     flowers?'

     The second is something of the same sort. Not long since, a lot of
     us--I am an H. P., 'high private,' now--were quartered in several
     wooden tenements, and in the inner room of one lay the _corpus_ of
     a young Secesh officer, awaiting burial. The news soon spread to a
     village not far off. Down came tearing a sentimental and not
     bad-looking specimen of a Virginny dame.

     'Let me kiss him for his mother!' she cried, as I interrupted her
     progress. '_Do_ let me kiss him for his mother!'

     'Kiss whom?'

     'The dear little lieutenant, the one who lies dead within. P'int
     him out to me, sir, if you please. I never saw him, but--oh!'

     I led her through a room in which Lieutenant ----, of Philadelphia,
     lay stretched out on an up-turned trough, fast asleep. Supposing
     him to be the 'article' sought for, she rushed up, and exclaiming,
     'Let me kiss him for his mother,' approached her lips to his
     forehead. What was her amazement when the 'corpse,' ardently
     clasping its arms around her, returned the salute vigorously, and
     exclaimed:

     'Never mind the old lady, Miss, go it on your own account. I
     haven't the slightest objection!'

     Sentiment is a fine thing, Mr. Editor, but it should be handled as
     one handles the spiked guns which the rebels leave behind, loaded
     with percussion-caps--very carefully.

     Yours amazingly,

     WARDEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Readers who are desirous of seeing Ravenshoe fully played out will
please glance at the following:


RAVENSHOE--ITS SEQUEL.

PREFACE

There are those who assert that the doctrine of Compensation is utterly
ignored in Ravenshoe. They instance the rewarding Welter, a coarse,
brutal scoundrel and sensual beast, with wealth and title, and such
honor as the author can confer, as an insult to every rational reader;
nor can they think Charles Ravenshoe, or Horton, who endeavored right
manfully to support himself, repaid for this exertion, and for bearing
up stoutly against his troubles, by being compelled 'to pass a dull,
settled, dreaming, melancholy old age' as an invalid.

It may naturally be thought that a residence of years in Australia, the
mother of Botany Bay, where not exactly the best of American society
could be found, has had its effect in embittering even an Englishman
against Americans, and of embroiling him with his own countrymen;
therefore the reader must smile at this principle of rewarding vice and
punishing virtue; it is what Ravenshoe pretends to be--something novel.

The extreme dissatisfaction of the public with this volume calls
imperatively for a satisfactory conclusion to it, consequently a sequel
is now presented in what the Australians call the most 'bloody dingo[6]
politeful' manner.


CHAPTER I.

A small boy with a dirty face met another small boy similarly
caparisoned. Said the first: 'Eech! you don' know how much twicet two
is?'

'You are a ----' (we suppress the word he used; suffice it to say, it
may be defined, 'a kind of harp much used by the ancients!')--'twicet
two is four. Hmm!' replied the second.

The reader may not see it, but the writer does, that this trivial
conversation has important bearing on the fate of William Ravenshoe, the
wrongful-rightful, rightful-wrongful, etcetera, heir. For further
particulars, see the Bohemian Girl, where a babe is changed by a nurse
in order that the nurse may have change for it.

When Charles Horton Ravenshoe returned once more to his paternal acres,
it will be remembered he settled two thousand pounds a year, rent-charge
on Ravenshoe, in favor of William Ravenshoe. Over and above this,
Charles enjoyed from this estate and from what Lord Saltire (Satire?)
willed him, no less than fourteen thousand pounds; his settlement on
William was therefore by no means one half of the income, consequently
unfair to the exiled Catholic half-brother.

After the death of Father Mackworth he was followed by a gentleman in
crow-colored raiment, named Father Macksham, who accompanied William,
the ex-heir, to a small cottage, where the plots inside were much larger
than the grass-plots outside, and where Father Macksham hatched the
following fruit, which only partially ripened. He determined to
overthrow Welter by the means of Adelaide, then overthrow Adelaide by
means of Charles Ravenshoe, then overthrow the latter by his
illegitimate brother, and finally throw the last over in favor of the
Jesuits. He occupied all his spare moments preparing the fireworks.


CHAPTER II.

The reader will remember that Adelaide, wife of Welter, or Lord Ascot,
broke her back while attempting to jump a fence, mounted on the back of
the Irish mare 'Molly Asthore,' but the reader does not know that Welter
was the cause of his wife's fall, and that he actually hired a groom to
scare 'Molly Asthore' so that she would take the fence, and also his
wife out of this vale of tears. (This sentence I know is not
grammatical; who cares?) Welter, when he saw that his wife was not
killed, was furious. His large red brutal face turned to purple; he
smote his prize-fighting chest with his huge fists, he lowered his
eyebrows until he resembled an infuriated hog, and then he retired to
his house and drank a small box of claret--pints--twenty-four to the
dozen!

Adelaide, too, was furious, but she sent privately to London for Surgeon
Forsups--he came; then in the night season, unbeknown to Welter, an
operation was performed, and behold! in the morning light lay Adelaide,
tall, straight, commanding, proud--well as ever! in fact, straight as a
shingle. Do you think she wanted to choke Welter? I do.


CHAPTER III.

Nature was in one of her gloomiest moods, the clouds were the color of
burnt treacle, the sombre rain pelted the dismal streets; mud was
everywhere, desolation, misery, wet boots, and ruined hats. In the midst
of such a scene, Welter, Lord Ascot, died of apoplexy in the throat,
caused by a rope. Who did the deed? Owls on the battlements answer me.
Did he do it himself or was it done for him? Shrieking elements respond.
Echo answers: Justice!


CHAPTER IV.

Ravenshoe bay again. Sunlight on the waters; clear blue sky; all nature
smiling serenely; Charles Ravenshoe--I adore the man when I think of
him--landing a forty-four-pound salmon; ruddy with health, joyous in
countenance; two curly-headed boys screaming for joy; his wife, 'she
that was' (Americanism picked up among Yorkshiremen in Australia) Mary
Corby, laughing heartily at the _tout ensemble_. William Ravenshoe
affectionately helping Charles with a landing-net to secure the salmon,
thus speaks to him:

'Charles, this idea of yours of dividing the 'state evenly between us is
noble, but I shall not accept it. I would like a small piece of the tail
of this salmon for dinner, though, if it will not rob you.'

'William, halves in every thing between us is my motto; so say no more
about it. The delightful news that Father Macksham has at last fallen a
victim to his love of gain, while trying to run a cargo of cannons,
powder, and Enfield rifles to the confederate States, IN DIRECT
OPPOSITION TO HER BLESSED MAJESTY'S COMMANDS, rejoices my heart to that
extent that I exclaim, perish all Jesuits! Now that you have turned
Protestant, and are thoroughly out of the woods of medieval romance, I
may say,

  'The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold,'

and quote Tennyson, like poor Cuthbert, all day long. Who is there to
hinder?'

'No one,' replied William, with all the warmth of heart of a man who was
once a groom and then a bridegroom. 'No one. I saw Adelaide this morning
a-carrying flannels and rum to the poor of the parish; how thoroughly
she has reformed, I'm sure.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Reader, let us pause here and dwell on the respective merits of the
Bohemian Girl, and Father Rodin in the _Mysteries of Paris_, compared
with the characters described in _Ravenshoe_. Let us ask if an English
novel can be written without allusion to the Derby or Life at Oxford,
the accumulation of pounds or the squandering of pounds, rightful heirs
or wrongful heirs, false marriages, or the actions of spoiled children
generally? An answer is looked for.

       *       *       *       *       *

'And further this deponent sayeth not.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The Nashville _Union_--the new Union newspaper of that city--is
emphatically 'an institution,' and a dashing one at that. Its every
column is like the charge of a column of infantry into the unhallowed
Rebel-ry of Disunion. 'Don't compromise your loyalty with rebels,' says
the _Union_, 'until you are ready to compromise your soul with the
devil.'

Some of the humor of this brave pioneer sheet is decidedly piquant.
Among its quizzical literary efforts the review of Rev. Dr. McFerrin's
_Confederate Primer_ is good enough to form the initial of a series. We
make the following extracts:

     'Nothing is more worthy of being perpetuated than valuable
     contributions to literature. The literature of a nation is its
     crown of glory, whose reflected light shines far down the
     swift-rolling waves of time and gladdens the eyes of remote
     generations. This beautiful and--to our notion--finely-expressed
     sentiment was suggested to our mind in turning over the pages of
     Rev. Dr. McFerrin's _Confederate Primer_, which we briefly noticed
     yesterday. We feel that we then passed too hastily over a work so
     grand in its conception.... The _Primer_, after giving the alphabet
     in due form, offers some little rhymes for youngsters, which are
     perfect nosegays of sentiment, of which the following will serve
     as samples:

  N.

  At Nashville's fall
  We sinned all.

  T.

  At Number Ten
  We sinned again.

  F.

  Thy purse to mend,
  Old Floyd, attend.

  L.

  Abe Lincoln bold,
  Our ports doth hold.

  D.

  Jeff Davis tells a lie,
  And so must you and I.

  I.

  Isham doth mourn
  His case forlorn.

  P.

  Brave Pillow's flight
  Is out of sight.

  B.

  Buell doth play,
  And after slay.

  O.

  Yon Oak will be the gallows-tree
  Of Richmond's fallen majesty.



Governor Ishain Harris 'catches it' in the following extract from the
Easy Reading Lessons for Children:


'LESSON FIRST.

'THE SMART DIX-IE BOY.

     'Once there was a lit-tle boy, on-ly four years old. His name was
     Dix-ie. His fa-ther's name was I-sham, and his moth-er's name was
     All-sham. Dix-ie was ver-y smart, He could drink whis-ky, fight
     chick-ens, play po-ker, and cuss his moth-er. When he was on-ly two
     years old, he could steal su-gar, hook pre-serves, drown kit-tens,
     and tell lies like a man. By and by Dix-ie died, and went to the
     bad place. But the dev-il would not let Dix-ie stay there, for he
     said: 'When you get big, Dix-ie, you would be head-devil yourself.'
     All little Reb-els ought to be like Dix-ie, and so they will, if
     they will stud-y the _Con-fed-e-rate Prim-er_.'

Very good, too, is the powerful and thrilling sermon on the 'Curse of
Cowardice,' delivered by the Rev. Dr. Meroz Armageddon Baldwin, from
which we take 'the annexed:'

     'Then there is Gideon Pillow, who has undertaken a contract for
     digging that 'last ditch,' of which you have heard so much. I am
     afraid that the white 'feathers will fly' whenever _that_ Case is
     opened, and that Pillow will give us the slip. 'The sword of the
     Lord' isn't 'the sword of Gideon' Pillow--_that's_ certain--so I
     shall bolster him up no longer. Gideon is 'a cuss,' and a 'cuss of
     cowardice.''

We are glad to see that the good cause has so stalwart and keen a
defender in Tennessee.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have our opinion that the following anecdote is true. If not, it is
'well found'--or founded.

Not long since, an eminent 'Conserve' of Boston was arguing with a
certain eminent official in Washington, drilling away, of course, on the
old pro-slavery, pro-Southern, pro-give-it-up platform.

'But what _can_ you do with the Southerners?' he remarked, for 'the
frequenth' time. 'You can't conquer them--you can't reconcile them--you
can't bring them back--you can't do any thing with them.'

'But we may _annihilate_ them,' was the crushing reply.

And CONSERVE took his hat and departed.

It is, when we come to facts, really remarkable that it has not occurred
to the world that there _can_ be but one solution to a dispute which has
gone so far. _There is no stopping this war._ Secession is an
impossibility. If we _willed_ it, we could not prevent 'an institutional
race' from absorbing one which has no accretive principle of growth. It
is thought, as we write, that during the week preceding July 4th,
_seventy thousand_ of the Secession army perished! They are exhausting,
annihilating themselves; and by whom will the vacancy be filled? Not by
the children of States which, under the old system, fell behindhand in
population. By whom, then? By Northern men and European emigrants, of
course.

But European intervention? If Louis Napoleon wants to keep his crown--if
England wishes Europe to remain quiet--if they both dread our good
friend Russia, who in event of a war would 'annex,' for aught we can
see, all Austria and an illimitable share of the East--if they wish to
avoid such an upstirring, riot, and infernal carnival of revolution as
the world never saw--they will let us alone.

The London _Herald_ declares that 'America is a nuisance among nations!'
When they undertake to meddle with us, they will find us one. We would
not leave them a ship on the sea or a seaboard town un-ruined. The whole
world would wail one wild ruin, and there should be the smoke as of
nations, when despotism should dare to lay its hand on the sacred cause
of freedom. For we of the North are living and dying in that cause which
never yet went backward, and we shall prevail, though the powers of all
Europe and all the powers of darkness should ally against us. Let them
come. They do but bring grapes to the wine-press of the Lord; and it
will be a bloody vintage which will be pressed forth in that day, as the
great cause goes marching on.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let no one imagine that our military draft has been one whit too great.
Our great folly hitherto has been to underrate the power of the enemy.
In the South every male who can bear arms is now either bearing them or
otherwise directly aiding the rebellion. When the sheriffs of every
county in the seceding States made their returns to their Secretary of
War, they reported one million four hundred thousand men capable of
bearing arms. And they have the arms and will use them. It is 'an united
rising of the people,' such as the world has seldom seen.

But then it is _all_ they can do--it is the last card and the _last_
man, and if we make one stupendous effort, we must inevitably crush it.
There is no other course--it is drag or be dragged, hammer or anvil now.
If we do not beat _them_ thoroughly and completely, they will make us
rue the day that ever we were born.

The South is stronger than we thought, and its unity and ferocity add to
its strength. It will never be conciliated--it must be crushed. When we
have gained the victory, we can be what our foes never were to
us--generous and merciful.

       *       *       *       *       *

A GENTLEMAN of Massachusetts, who has held a position in McClellan's
army that gave him an opportunity to know whereof he speaks, states that
for weeks, while the army on the Peninsula were in a grain-growing
country, surrounded by fields of wheat and oats belonging to well-known
rebels, the Commissary Department was not allowed to turn its cattle
into a rich pasturage of young grain, from the fear of offending the
absent rebel owners, or of using in any way the property of Our Southern
Brethren in arms against us. The result was, that the cattle kept with
the army for the use of our hard-worked soldiers, were penned up, and
half-starved on the forage carried in the regular subsistence trains,
and the men got mere skin and bones for beef.

       *       *       *       *       *

So endeth the month. The rest with the next. But may we, in conclusion,
beg sundry kind correspondents to have patience? Time is scant with us,
and labor fast and hard. Our editorial friends who have kindly cheered
us by applauding 'the outspoken and straightforward young magazine,'
will accept our most grateful thanks. It has seldom happened to any
journal to be so genially and _warmly_ commended as we have been since
our entrance on the stormy field of political discussion.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: The _dingo_, or native dog of Australia, looks like a cross
between the fox or wolf and the shepherd-dog; they generally hunt in
packs, and destroy great numbers of sheep. I have never eaten one.]




THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY has passed its experimental ordeal, and
stands firmly established in popular regard. It was started at a period
when any new literary enterprise was deemed almost foolhardy, but the
publisher believed that the time had arrived for just such a Magazine.
Fearlessly advocating the doctrine of ultimate and gradual Emancipation,
for the sake of the UNION and the WHITE MAN, it has
found favor in quarters where censure was expected, and patronage where
opposition only was looked for. While holding firmly to its _own
opinions_, it has opened its pages to POLITICAL WRITERS _of
widely different views_, and has made a feature of employing the
literary labors of the _younger_ race of American writers. How much has
been gained by thus giving, practically, the fullest freedom to the
expression of opinion, and by the infusion of fresh blood into
literature, has been felt from month to month in its constantly
increasing circulation.

The most eminent of our Statesmen have furnished THE
CONTINENTAL many of its political articles, and the result is, it
has not given labored essays fit only for a place in ponderous
encyclopedias, but fresh, vigorous, and practical contributions on men
and things as they exist.

It will be our effort to go on in the path we have entered, and as a
guarantee of the future, we may point to the array of live and brilliant
talent which has brought so many encomiums on our Magazine. The able
political articles which have given it so much reputation will be
continued in each issue, together with the new Novel by Richard B.
Kimball, the eminent author of the 'Under-Currents of Wall-Street,' 'St.
Leger,' etc., entitled.


WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

An account of the Life and Conduct of Hiram Meeker, one of the leading
men in the mercantile community, and 'a bright and shining light' in the
Church, recounting what he did, and how he made his money. This work
excels the previous brilliant productions of this author. In the present
number is also commenced a new Serial by the author of 'Among the
Pines,' entitled.


A MERCHANT'S STORY,

which will depict Southern _white_ society, and be a truthful history of
some eminent Northern merchants who are largely in 'the cotton trade and
sugar line.'

The UNION--The Union of ALL THE STATES--that indicates
our politics. To be content with no ground lower than the highest--that
is the standard of our literary character.

We hope all who are friendly to the spread of our political views, and
all who are favorable to the diffusion of a live, fresh, and energetic
literature, will lend us their aid to increase our circulation. There is
not one of our readers who may not influence one or two more, and there
is in every town in the loyal States some active person whose time might
be justifiably employed in procuring subscribers to our work. To
encourage such to act for us we offer the following very liberal


  TERMS TO CLUBS.


  Two copies for one year,         Five dollars.
  Three copies for one year,       Six dollars.
  Six copies for one year,         Eleven dollars.
  Eleven copies for one year,      Twenty dollars.
  Twenty copies for one year,      Thirty-six dollars.

  PAID IN ADVANCE.

  _Postage, Thirty-six Cents a year_, TO BE PAID BY THE SUBSCRIBER.

  SINGLE COPIES.

  Three Dollars a year, IN ADVANCE.--_Postage paid by the Publisher_.

  J. R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New-York,
  and 110 Tremont Street, Boston.

  CHARLES T. EVANS, 532 Broadway, New-York, General Agent.


  [Illustration: pointing finger] Any person sending us Three Dollars, for one year's subscription to "The
  Continental," commencing with the July number, will receive the Magazine and
  "Among the Pines," cloth edition; both free of postage.



       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: THE FINEST FARMING LANDS WHEAT CORN COTTON FRUITS &
VEGETABLES]

~EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!~

MAY BE PROCURED

~At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,~

Near Markets, Schools, Railroads, Churches, and all the blessings of
Civilization.

1,200,000 Acres, in Farms of 40, 80, 120, 160 Acres and upwards, in
ILLINOIS, the Garden State of America.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Illinois Central Railroad Company offer, ON LONG CREDIT, the
beautiful and fertile PRAIRIE LANDS lying along the whole line of their
Railroad. 700 MILES IN LENGTH, upon the most Favorable Terms for
enabling Farmers, Manufacturers, Mechanics and Workingmen to make for
themselves and their families a competency, and a HOME they can call
THEIR OWN, as will appear from the following statements:

ILLINOIS.

Is about equal in extent to England, with a population of 1,722,666, and
a soil capable of supporting 20,000,000. No State in the Valley of the
Mississippi offers so great an inducement to the settler as the State of
Illinois. There is no part of the world where all the conditions of
climate and soil so admirably combine to produce those two great
staples, CORN and WHEAT.

CLIMATE.

Nowhere can the Industrious farmer secure such immediate results from
his labor as on these deep, rich, loamy soils, cultivated with so much
ease. The climate from the extreme southern part of the State to the
Terre Haute, Alton and St. Louis Railroad, a distance of nearly 200
miles, is well adapted to Winter.

WHEAT, CORN, COTTON, TOBACCO.

Peaches, Pears, Tomatoes, and every variety of fruit and vegetables is
grown in great abundance, from which Chicago and other Northern markets
are furnished from four to six weeks earlier than their immediate
vicinity. Between the Terre Haute, Alton & St. Louis Railway and the
Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, (a distance of 115 miles on the Branch,
and 136 miles on the Main Trunk,) lies the great Corn and Stock raising
portion of the State.

THE ORDINARY YIELD

of Corn is from 60 to 80 bushels per acre. Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep
and Hogs are raised here at a small cost, and yield large profits. It is
believed that no section of country presents greater inducements for
Dairy Farming than the Prairies of Illinois, a branch of farming to
which but little attention has been paid, and which must yield sure
profitable results. Between the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, and
Chicago and Dunleith, (a distance of 56 miles on the Branch and 147
miles by the Main Trunk,) Timothy Hay, Spring Wheat, Corn, &c., are
produced in great abundance.

AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS.

The Agricultural products of Illinois are greater than those of any
other State. The Wheat crop of 1861 was estimated at 35,000,000 bushels,
while the Corn crop yields not less than 140,000,000 bushels besides the
crop of Oats, Barley, Rye, Buckwheat, Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes,
Pumpkins, Squashes, Flax, Hemp, Peas, Clover, Cabbage, Beets, Tobacco,
Sorgheim, Grapes, Peaches, Apples, &c., which go to swell the vast
aggregate of production in this fertile region. Over Four Million tons
of produce were sent out the State of Illinois during the past year.

STOCK RAISING.

In Central and Southern Illinois uncommon advantages are presented for
the extension of Stock raising. All kinds of Cattle, Horses, Mules,
Sheep, Hogs, &c., of the best breeds, yield handsome profits; large
fortunes have already been made, and the field is open for others to
enter with the fairest prospects of like results. Dairy Farming also
presents its inducements to many.

CULTIVATION OF COTTON.

The experiments in Cotton culture are of very great promise. Commencing
in latitude 39 deg. 30 min. (see Mattoon on the Branch, and Assumption
on the Main Line), the Company owns thousands of acres well adapted to
the perfection of this fibre. A settler having a family of young
children, can turn their youthful labor to a most profitable account in
the growth and perfection of this plant.

THE ILLINOIS CENTRAL RAILROAD

Traverses the whole length of the State, from the banks of the
Mississippi and Lake Michigan to the Ohio. As its name imports, the
Railroad runs through the centre of the State, and on either side of the
road along its whole length lie the lands offered for sale.

CITIES, TOWNS, MARKETS, DEPOTS.

There are Ninety-eight Depots on the Company's Railway, giving about one
every seven miles. Cities, Towns and Villages are situated at convenient
distances throughout the whole route, where every desirable commodity
may be found as readily as in the oldest cities of the Union, and where
buyers are to be met for all kinds of farm produce.

EDUCATION.

Mechanics and working-men will find the free school system encouraged by
the State, and endowed with a large revenue for the support of the
schools. Children can live in sight of the school, the college, the
church, and grow up with the prosperity of the leading State in the
Great Western Empire.

       *       *       *       *       *

PRICES AND TERMS OF PAYMENT--ON LONG CREDIT.

  80 acres at $10 per acre, with interest at 6 per ct. annually
  on the following terms:

  Cash payment                 $48 00

  Payment in one year           48 00
     "    in two years          48 00
     "    in three years        48 00
     "    in four years        236 00
     "    in five years        224 00
     "    in six years         212 00


  40 acres, at $10 00 per acre:

  Cash payment                 $24 00

  Payment in one year           24 00
     "    in two years          24 00
     "    in three years        24 00
     "    in four years        118 00
     "    in five years        112 00
     "    in six years         106 00


       *       *       *       *       *


Number 10                25 Cents.

The

Continental

Monthly


Devoted To Literature and National Policy.



OCTOBER, 1862.



NEW-YORK AND BOSTON:
J. R. GILMORE, 532 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK,
AND 110 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON.
NEW-YORK: HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY.
PHILADELPHIA: T. B. CALLENDER AND A. WINCH.




CONTENTS.--No. X.

  The Constitution as it Is--The Union as it Was! C. S. Henry, LL.D.,  377
  Maccaroni and Canvas. Henry P. Leland,                               383
  Sir John Suckling,                                                   397
  London Fogs and London Poor,                                         404
  A Military Nation. Charles G. Leland,                                413
  Tom Winter's Story. Geo. W. Chapman,                                 416
  The White Hills in October. Miss C. M. Sedgwick,                     423
  Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Two, U. S. Johnson,                       442
  Flower-Arranging,                                                    444
  Southern Hate of the North. Horace Greeley,                          448
  A Merchant's Story. Edmund Kirke,                                    451
  The Union. Hon. Robert J. Walker,                                    457
  Our Wounded. C. K. Tuckerman,                                        465
  A Southern Review. Charles G. Leland,                                466
  Was He Successful? Richard B. Kimball,                               470
  Literary Notices,                                                    478
  Editor's Table,                                                      481


ANNOUNCEMENT.

The Proprietors of THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, warranted by its
great success, have resolved to increase its influence and usefulness by
the following changes:

The Magazine has become the property of an association of men of
character and large means. Devoted to the NATIONAL CAUSE, it
will ardently and unconditionally support the UNION. Its scope
will be enlarged by articles relating to our public defenses, Army and
Navy, gunboats, railroads, canals, finance, and currency. The cause of
gradual emancipation and colonization will be cordially sustained. The
literary character of the Magazine will be improved, and nothing which
talent, money, and industry combined can achieve, will be omitted.

The political department will be controlled by Hon. ROBERT J.
WALKER and Hon. FREDERIC P. STANTON, of Washington, D.C.
Mr. WALKER, after serving nine years as Senator, and four years
as Secretary of the Treasury, was succeeded in the Senate by
JEFFERSON DAVIS. Mr. STANTON served ten years in
Congress, acting as Chairman of the Judiciary Committee and of Naval
Affairs. Mr. WALKER was succeeded as Governor of Kansas by Mr.
STANTON, and both were displaced by Mr. BUCHANAN, for
refusing to force slavery upon that people by fraud and forgery. The
literary department of the Magazine will be under the control of
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND of Boston, and EDMUND KIRKE of
New-York. Mr. LELAND is the present accomplished Editor of the
Magazine. Mr. KIRKE is one of its constant contributors, but
better known as the author of 'Among the Pines' the great picture true
to life, of Slavery as it is.

THE CONTINENTAL, while retaining all the old corps of writers,
who have given it so wide a circulation, will be reinforced by new
contributors, greatly distinguished as statesmen, scholars, and savans.


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by JAMES R.
GILMORE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New-York.






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 September, 1862, by Various

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