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Title: The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 5, May, 1862 - Devoted To Literature And National Policy
Author: Various
Language: English
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[Transcriber's note: Footnotes at end of document]



THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

DEVOTED TO

LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY

VOL. I.--MAY, 1862.--No. V.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH IT?


The first blood that was shed in our Revolutionary struggle, was in
Boston, in March, 1770. The next at Lexington, in June, 1775.

The interval was filled with acts of coercion and oppression on the one
side and with complaints and remonstrances on the other. But the thought
of Independence was entertained by very few of our people, even for some
time after the affair at Lexington. Loyalty to the mother country was
professed even by those most clamorous in their complaints, and
sincerely so, too. The great majority thought that redress of grievances
could be obtained without severance from Great Britain.

But events hurried the people on, and that which was scarcely spoken of
at the beginning of the struggle, soon became its chief object.

Is it not the same with our present contest with the South? We took up
arms to defend the Constitution, to sustain our Government, to maintain
the Union; and in the course of performing that work, it would seem as
if Emancipation was forced upon us, and as if it was yet to be the prime
object in view.

Lo! how much has already been done toward that end, even though not
originally intended! As our armies advance into the enemies' country,
thousands of slaves are practically emancipated by the flight and
desertion of their rebel masters. The rules and articles of war have
been so altered by Congress as to forbid our military forces from
returning to bondage any who flee from it. The President has proposed,
and Congress has entertained, the proposition of aiding the States in
emancipation. Fremont, who has been regarded as the representative of
the emancipation feeling, has been restored to active command. And
multitudes of our people, who have hitherto considered themselves as
bound by the Constitution not to interfere with the subject, have become
open in the avowal that as slavery has been the cause of the evil, so it
must now be wiped out forever.

It would seem, therefore, as if it was inevitable that the question of
emancipation is to be thrust upon us, and we must be prepared to meet
it. It is in this view, and irrespective of the question of right and
wrong in slavery, that some considerations present themselves, which can
not be ignored.

The difference of race between the white and the negro will ever keep
them apart, and forbid their amalgamation. One or the other must
ultimately go to the wall, and it is worth our while to see what time
is doing with the question: 'Which must it be in this country?'

Hence it is important to note the progress of both the races with us.

In the course of seventy years, that is, from the census of 1790 to that
of 1860, the slave population has increased from 697,897 to 4,002,996.
So that our colored population is now six times as great as when our
Government was formed.

During the same period the free population has increased from 3,231,975
to 27,280,070, or nearly nine times as great as in 1790. Of this
increase about 3,000,000 is the result of emigration; so that the
native-born population has increased to about 24,000,000, or about eight
times as many as in the beginning of our Government. If due allowance be
made for those born of emigrant parents,[A] it would seem that the two
races have about kept pace with each other in their natural increase.

A more minute examination, however, will show that the natural increase
of the colored race has been in a greater ratio than that of the whites,
native-born to the soil.

The following tables will show how this is, both as to the colored and
the white races.

INCREASE OF SLAVE POPULATION.

Years.  No. of Slaves.  Increase.  Per ct. of Increase.

1790,      697,897
1800,      893,041       195,144       28
1810,    1,191,364       298,323       32
1820,    1,538,064       346,700       29
1830,    2,009,031       470,967       29
1840,    2,487,855       478,324       24
1850,    3,204,313       716,958       29
1860,    4,002,996       798,683       25

The average increase in every ten years during the seventy years has
been about 28 per cent.

INCREASE OF WHOLE POPULATION, INCLUDING SLAVES
AND EMIGRANTS

Years.        Population.     Increase.    Per ct. of
                                           Increase.
1790,         3,929,872       1,376,080
1800,         5,305,952       1,376,080        37
1810,         7,239,814       1,933,862        36
1820,         9,688,131       2,398,817        33
1830,        12,866,920       3,228,789        34
1840,        17,063,353       4,196,433        33
1850,        23,191,876       6,128,523        36
1860,        31,676,217       8,484,341        36

The average increase in every ten years would be about 35 per cent.

Deducting from this latter table the slaves, the emigrants, and children
born of emigrants, now included in it, and the ratio of increase is
below 27 per cent every ten years. So that if anything should occur to
check the tide of emigration, the blacks in this country would increase
in a faster ratio than the whites.

We can form some idea as to the danger of such a check, when we advert
to the fact that the emigration which in 1854 was 427,833, fell off in
1858 to 144,652.

To finish the picture which these figures present to us, let us carry
the mind forward a decade or two. At the average rate of increase of the
blacks, namely, 28 per cent, we shall have, of the slave population
alone, and excluding the free blacks, 5,060,585 in 1870, and 6,577,584
in 1880. And by that time they will be increasing at the rate of 150,000
to 200,000 a year.

Carl Schurz, in his speech at the Cooper Institute, in New-York, put to
his audience a pertinent inquiry: 'You ask me, What shall we do with our
negroes, who are now 4,000,000? And I ask you, What will you do with
them when they will be 8,000,000--or rather, _what will they do with
you?_ Surely, surely the question involves the greatest problem of the
age.

If our fathers had met the question seventy years ago, we should not now
behold the spectacle of 6,000,000 of our people in rebellion, and an
army of 400,000 men arrayed against the integrity of the Union. And we
may well profit by the example so far as to ask ourselves the question,
What will be the condition of our country and of our posterity, fifty
years hence, if we, too, shirk the question as painful and difficult of
solution?

Whether ultimate and universal emancipation will be one of the necessary
modes of dealing with it, time must show. In the mean time there is a
question immediately pressing upon us. Day by day our armies are
advancing among them, and every news of a contest that comes, brings us
accounts of the swarms of 'contrabands' who are flocking to us for
protection. At one place alone, Port Royal, S.C., the Government Agent
reports that there are at least fifteen thousand slaves deserted by
their masters, and thus practically emancipated. Untaught and unwonted
to take care of themselves--our armies consuming the fruits of the earth
and finding no employment for these 'National Freedmen'--the danger is
great that want, and temptation, and the absence of the government to
which they have been accustomed, may yet drive them to become lawless
hordes, preying on all.

The same state of things must of necessity exist wherever the
slave-owner flies from the approach of our armies; and we have now
presented to us the alternative of either allowing their state to be
worse by reason of their emancipation, or better, according as the wise
and the humane among us may deal with the subject.

Some measures, we learn, have already been initiated for the emergency.
'The Educational Commission' of Boston, at the head of which is Governor
Andrews; 'The Freedman's Relief Association,' in New-York, with Judge
Edmonds as its President; and a similar society in Philadelphia, of
which Stephen Colwell is Chairman, are societies of large-hearted men
and women, banded together, as they express it, to 'teach the freedmen
of the colored race civilization and Christianity; to imbue them with
notions of order, industry, economy and self-reliance, and to elevate
them in the scale of humanity, by inspiring them with self-respect.'

The task is certainly a high and holy one, and eminently necessary. How
far it will be sustained by the Government or the people, or how far the
purpose can be carried out with a race who have been intentionally kept
in profound ignorance, is part of the great problem that we are to
solve. But not all of it, by any means. There is much more for
enlightened patriotism and wise humanity yet to do, before the task
shall be accomplished and the work begun by the Revolution shall be
finished; and to prevent a conflict of races, which can end only in the
extermination of one or the other.

The 16,000,000 of natives who were once masters of this whole continent
are now dwindled into a few insignificant tribes, 'away among the
mountains.' Is such to be the fate of the negro also? Or has the spirit
of God's charity so far progressed among us that, unlike our fathers, we
can redeem rather than destroy, can emancipate rather than enslave?

Be the answer to those questions what it may, there are other
considerations, immediately affecting ourselves as a nation and a race.

Slavery would seem to retard our advancement in both respects.

During the ten years from 1850 to 1860, the total population of our
country increased about 37 per cent.

In 1790, there were seventeen States in the Union, and of those
seventeen, eight are now slave States, and the following table of those
States will show how the increase of slavery retards the advance of the
whites:

                                Ratio of                    Ratio of
                  Free Whites.   Increase       Slaves.      Increase
                  1850.    1860.            1850.     1860.

Delaware,        71,169  110,548    56      2,290     1,805       *
Georgia,        521,572  615,336    18    381,682   467,461      23
Kentucky,       761,417  933,707    22    210,981   225,902       7
Maryland,       417,943  646,183    55     90,368    85,382       *
N. Carolina,    552,028  679,965    23    288,548   328,377      14
S. Carolina,    274,567  308,186     9    384,984   407,185       7
Tennessee,      756,753  859,528    14    239,460   287,112      20
Virginia,       894,800 1097,373    23    472,628   495,826       5

* Decrease.

From these facts, it would seem that, in the two States in which slavery
has decreased, the increase of the whites has been 55 and 56 per cent,
exceeding the average ratio of increase in the whole nation. While in
all the other States, where slavery has increased, none of them have
come up to the average national ratio of increase, and in one of them,
(South-Carolina,) the increase is not one quarter the national average.

In respect to South-Carolina, it is a remarkable fact that while she has
now nearly four tunes as many slaves as she had in 1790, her whole
population (slaves and all) is not three times what it then was, and her
free population is only a little more than twice its number in 1790. In
other words, while in seventy years her slave population has increased
four-fold, her free population has only a little more than doubled.[B]

These facts teach their own lesson; but they compel all who value the
Union and the peace of the nation, to ask how far they have had to do
with the troubles of nullification and secession, which for thirty years
have been plaguing us, and have now culminated in a terrible rebellion!

       *       *       *       *       *

A PHILOSOPHIC BANKRUPT.


The great financial storm that swept over our country and Europe, in the
'fall of 1857,' overwhelming so many large and apparently staunch
vessels, did not disdain to capsize and send to the bottom many smaller
craft; my own among the number. She was not as heavily freighted (to
continue for a moment the nautical metaphor) as some that sunk around
her; but as she bore my all, it looked at first pretty much like a
life-and-death business, especially the latter. For a time, all was
horror and confusion; but as the wreck cleared away, I soon discovered
that there would, at any rate, remain to me the consolation that others
would not lose through my misfortunes; that the calamity, if such it
were, would affect no one but myself. My own experience, and my
observation of those around me, has led me, naturally enough, to ponder
a good deal on the subject of reverses in life, and as no page of
genuine experience can be considered wholly valueless, it may do no harm
to record my own. Though many have undergone reverses, few, with the
exception of ministers, ever seem to have written about them, a class of
men who, whatever their other troubles, in these days of bronchitis and
fastidious parishes, have usually been exempt from trials of this
peculiar character.

Bishop Butler, in one of his sermons on Human Nature, alludes to a sect
in philosophy, representing, I suppose, the 'selfish system,' one of
whose ideas is that men are naturally pleased on hearing of the
misfortunes of others. La Rochefoucauld expresses the same sentiment as
his own. Couched in plain language, this appears to be a gloomy and
heartless doctrine; but probably nothing more is meant than a refinement
of the common adage, 'Misery loves company,' and that very good and
benevolent persons, if themselves overtaken by misfortune, can not but
feel some alleviation for their sorrows, in reflecting that others have
trials equally great and that they are but partakers of a common though
bitter lot. If there be really any consolation in reflections of this
kind, history furnishes us many striking examples, and, as far as great
changes in worldly condition are concerned, the prince and the plebeian,
the emperor and the exile, have often found themselves for a time on the
same level.

The wheel of fortune, in its revolutions, generally produces changes of
two descriptions, either exalting the lowly or pulling down the great.
In rarer instances, not satisfied with giving the individual a single
turn, it grants him the benefit of a more varied experience. It carries
the country-boy to wealth and power, and then transports him back to his
native fields, whose pure air is not less wholesome, after all, than the
heated atmosphere of the ball-room or caucus-chamber; or it may roll the
wave of revolution over a kingdom, banishing the prince to wander an
exile, perhaps a schoolmaster, in distant lands, to contend with poverty
or duns, and then, on its receding tide, landing him once more safely on
his throne. Frequent revolutions have, however, taught princes wisdom in
this respect. Most of them now seem to be well provided for in foreign
countries, beyond the reach of contingencies in their own, and if time
is given them to escape with their lives, it is generally found that
they have 'laid up treasure' where at any rate the thieves of the new
dynasty can not 'break through and steal.' A very recent instance is
afforded us by his majesty Faustin I., who, notwithstanding his
confidence in the affection of his subjects, seems to have preferred
taking the Bank of England as collateral security.

The first French Revolution probably affords as striking examples of
change in worldly condition as any other period, and among those whom it
affected for the time, few were more remarkable than two persons whom it
sent to our own shores, Talleyrand and Chateaubriand. During the
residence of the former in Philadelphia, he appears at one time to have
been in the most abject poverty. We read of his pawning a watch and
smaller articles, to provide himself and his companion with food; any
care for their wardrobes, beyond the faded garments they were then
wearing, being apparently out of the question. If one who then met the
needy foreigner walking the wide streets of that respectable city, had
predicted that in a few years this shabby Frenchman would be looked up
to as the leader of the diplomacy of Europe, he might with perfect
justice have been regarded as a fit subject for one of that city's
excellent asylums. But a few years did witness this change, and saw him
powerful and the possessor of millions; unfortunately for the Abbé's
reputation, much of the latter being the wages of corruption.[C]

Chateaubriand speaks feelingly of the sufferings he and his companion
underwent in London, about the same period. Lodged in a dismal garret,
they were at one time obliged to economize their food almost as closely
as the inhabitants of a beleaguered town. He speaks of walking the
streets for hours together, utterly uncertain what to do, passing
stately houses and groups of blooming English children, and then
returning late at night to his attic, where his companion, 'trembling
with cold,' would rise from his ill-clad bed to open the door for him.
He strikingly contrasts his position then with his approach to London
twenty years later, as ambassador from France, driving in
coach-and-four through towns whose authorities came out to welcome him
in the usual pompous manner, and, while in London, giving magnificent
balls in one of the stately houses, and perhaps numbering among his
guests some of the blooming children he had once passed, now expanded
into full-blown and gorgeous flowers of aristocracy. These are, of
course, uncommon instances; but they teach that the most brilliant
present may have had the darkest past; that there is always ground for
hope, and that the caprices of fortune, if we take no higher view of
them, are mysterious enough.

The man who has been overtaken by reverses, need not look far abroad to
see that a system of compensation is pretty generally dealt out in this
life. Set him adrift in the world, with scarcely a dollar; let him walk,
almost a beggar, through the same streets he once trod, a man of wealth,
and it would be idle to assert that he will not be almost overwhelmed by
the force of bitter recollections. In proportion as other days were
happy, will these be miserable. As Dante has truly said, the memory of
former joys, so far from affording relief to the wretched, serves only
to embitter the present, as they feel that these joys have forever
passed away. But unless his lot be one of unusual calamity, as time
blunts the keenest edge of sorrow, he must be devoid of both philosophy
and religion, if he does not feel that life with a mere competence still
has many joys. It is unquestionably true that one's style of living has
not much to do with the sum of his happiness, though this is said with
no disposition to undervalue even the luxuries of life. So far from the
finest houses in a city having the greatest air of comfort about them, I
think rather the reverse is the case. No dwellings have a snugger look
than many of the plain, two-story houses in all our cities; no children
merrier than those that play around their doors; no manlier fathers than
those that struggle bravely for their support. One would suppose that
Stafford House, with its wealth of pictures and furniture, and its
beautiful views over Hyde Park, must contain much to add to the pleasure
of its possessors; but probably the sum of happiness enjoyed by this
noble family has been very little increased by these things. I believe
that palaces are more envied by 'outsiders' than enjoyed by their
owners. In proportion to the number of each, probably far more of those
dreadful tragedies that cast ineffaceable gloom over whole families,
have occurred in these splendid houses than in plainer ones. Our Fifth
Avenue, with all its grandeur, is one of the gloomiest looking streets
in the world, as strangers generally remark. But as all preaching is
vain against many a besetting sin, so will all the talking in the world
do little to convince men that happiness does not lie in externals. One
generation does not learn much from its predecessors in this respect; it
seems to have been intended that each should acquire its own experience.
The task of talking beforehand is therefore an unprofitable one; but it
is a satisfaction to feel that when much that is thought indispensable
has been taken from us, there still remains that which can afford us
happiness.

It is easy to recall instances in which it seemed as if adversity was
really required to bring out the noblest qualities in man, and enable
him to set an example calculated to console and stimulate those who are
treading the sometimes difficult path of duty. Portions of the diary of
Scott, written during the last and most troubled years of his life, have
for many a deeper interest than the most brilliant pages of his novels.
In these days of 'compromise,' which seems to be too often the cant term
for an eternal adieu to all previous obligations, no matter how just,
and no matter what good fortune the future may have in reserve for the
debtor, it is refreshing to read this record of perfect integrity and
long-continued sacrifice. Though carried, in his case, to a point beyond
the strictest requirements of honor, inasmuch as it involved the ruin of
his health, the example is noble and strengthening. It may be said, on
the other hand, that Scott was the possessor of a 'magic wand,' and did
right in attempting what to other men would be impossible. Carlyle, if I
remember his article, attributes Scott's conduct partly to worldly
pride, and thinks he should have owned at once that he had made a great
mistake, involving others in his ruin, and should have abandoned the
tremendous struggle still to bear up under such a weight. This is a
singular view of the matter, and one that a man of Scott's sense of
honor never would have felt satisfied in taking. The lives of Scott and
Charlotte Bronté are worth more than their novels, after all.

One of the minor evils of loss of fortune has, I think, been
exaggerated, and that is the idea that persons are frequently slighted,
sometimes even cut, by their fashionable acquaintances; and connected
with this is the other idea, that what some sneeringly call 'fashionable
society,' is generally more heartless than any other. For the honor of
human nature, I am glad to believe that the first is not the case, nor
does the second exactly stand to reason. In every city, there is a class
of persons, moneyed or not as the case may be, who, living only for
selfish enjoyment, pay court to those that can yield it to them, and are
sometimes rude enough to slight those who can not. Whether the
companionship of such persons is very desirable, or their loss much to
be deplored, each man must decide for himself. Persons who, when rich
themselves, have been overbearing to others, are perhaps those who
notice most difference when misfortunes overtake them. What is called
fashionable society, generally comprises a good deal of the education
and refinement of a city; with a portion of what is hollow and
worthless, it includes much that is substantial and true. Certainly, the
finer and more delicate feelings of our nature, and those which lead us
to sympathize with the unfortunate, are partly the result of education,
and we should naturally expect to find these in the higher rather than
in the humbler walks of life. There is a vast deal of genuine charity in
humble life, and the poor of every city derive a large part of their
support from those but moderately blessed with worldly goods themselves;
but many a well-meaning man will unintentionally make a remark that
wounds your feelings and makes you uncomfortable for hours afterwards,
while a person whose perceptions and sympathies have been more nicely
trained would spare you the infliction. A certain fortune is
indispensable to those who wish to keep with the party-going world, and
those who have not this competence can not indulge much in this more
expensive mode of life; but that they are forgotten is not because
persons wish to neglect them, but because men naturally forget those
they are not often in the habit of meeting. Might not the aged, even if
wealthy, say they are forgotten, excepting by their immediate
connection? They are forgotten because, in the rush and turmoil of life,
every thing is soon forgotten. The dead, who were beloved and honored
while living, are soon comparatively forgotten beyond their families and
familiar circle. This is not exactly owing to the heartlessness of men,
but rather to the fact that their minds are occupied with the persons
and things they see every day around them, and this is probably as much
the case with the poor as with the rich; but it seems to have become a
sort of custom to speak of the heartlessness of society. It is rather
owing to the imperfection of our constitution. Loss of fortune renders
us more sensitive, and we are apt to fancy slights where none were
intended; but we may be pretty certain that the better men and women of
society do not make money the index of their treatment of others.

Persons sometimes speak lightly and hastily of reverses sustained by
others as mere trifles, compared with loss of friends. I hold that these
persons are wrong, and believe that to many, and those not particularly
selfish and narrow-minded people either, loss of fortune may prove a
greater and more lasting sorrow than loss of dear friends; nay, that a
great reverse, such as a plunge from prosperity into utter poverty, (and
many such instances can be cited,) is perhaps the heaviest trial that
can be imposed on man. Let any one call up the instances he has known of
the tenderest ties being severed, and except in those rare cases we
sometimes meet with of persons pining away and following the beloved
object to the grave, do we not see the overwhelming grief gradually
subsiding into a gentler sorrow, and, as was intended by a merciful
providence, other objects closing in, and though not entirely filling up
the void, still furnishing other sources of happiness? This happens with
the best and tenderest beings on earth. The departed one is not
forgotten, nor have the survivors ceased to mourn him; but their
feelings now cling more affectionately than before to the remaining
members of the circle. This is not so in the case of a reverse such as I
have imagined, and many of us have seen. Where, as in the failure of
some great bank or 'Life and Trust Company,' reckoned perfectly
impregnable, the fortune of delicate ladies, always accustomed to
luxury, has been swept away; where there are no relatives able or
willing to render much assistance, and daughters have to seek employment
that will give themselves and an aged mother a bare competence, with all
my disposition to bear things bravely and philosophically, I contend
that human nature can hardly be visited with a heavier trial. For men,
it is comparatively easy; but there are instances, in every large city,
of ladies, once wealthy, now reduced to a sort of genteel beggary, that
a man would shrink from, but that women can not very well avoid. Fancy
the bitterness of such a life; the constant memory of happier days
contrasted with the present condition, which has no prospect of
improvement; the keenness of present sorrow rendered more acute by
education and refinement; the necessity not merely of economy, for most
of us can bear a large portion of this pretty cheerfully; but the
difficulty, with close economy, of supplying the decent comforts of
life, and tell me, as some who have never been visited by any trial of
this kind would tell me, if it is selfish and sordid to compare this
lasting sorrow with that great ordinance of death and separation which
all must share alike? Alas! these are objects not generally reached by
charitable societies; but not less deserving, and subjected to trials no
less hard than those whose lot has always been one of poverty.

Having admitted that, under some circumstances, the loss of property may
occasion grief so deep and lasting as to make it worthy of comparison
even with loss of dear friends, I would say, on the other hand, that
instances often occur where no comparison can be made between the two
evils. We hear sometimes of dreadful calamities at sea, where entire
families are swept away; where, as on the 'Austria,' the only
alternative is the _mode_ of death, whether it shall be on the burning
ship or beneath the cold, dark billow. What experience can be more
awful, in the life of any man, than that which compelled this father to
throw child after child into the sea, not with any hope of rescue, but
merely to prolong for a few moments a life that could no longer be
endured on the burning deck? Different, but scarcely less painful, the
burial of hope in a father's breast, as in the death of the sons of
Hallam. Industry may repair the wrecks of fortune; but the hopes and
affections that have centered here must be laid aside forever.

Are there many of us, after all, who would care for a career of unbroken
prosperity? Men of talent and worth have been crushed and hurried to
their graves by the iron hand of poverty; but for one such, there have
probably been ten who have passed through life with energies and talents
never fully called forth; because easy circumstances have never demanded
any great exertion from them. This leaves out a class larger probably
in our country than in any other, of children of fortune, who have
plunged headlong into ruin, finding an early and dishonored death, who,
had they been compelled to work, would at least have acquitted
themselves decently in life. Some of the most dreadful death-scenes on
record are those of men who have had few earthly trials to bear, men of
wealth, who have wrought their own ruin, and half of whose lives have
been passed in efforts to work the ruin of the young and innocent of the
other sex. If Chatterton and Otway are sad instances of genius subdued
and crushed by adversity, Beckford and many others show where the too
lavish gifts of fortune have perverted talent and rendered its possessor
far worse than a merely useless member of society.

The world-wide Burns Celebration probably caused many humble men to
think of the number of great minds who have been compelled to undergo
this ordeal of poverty. How perfectly, in some instances, does the man's
soul and intellect seem to have been separated from _the man himself_.
It does seem a marvel that seventy years ago _this_ man should have been
in want and harassed by fears for the family he was to leave behind him,
when now so many hundred thousand men seem ready to worship him. How
many envy fame! and how proud men are, for generations afterward, who
can trace back their descent to one who, while on earth, may have
suffered all the annoyances and discomforts of penury! The poet seemed
to know that he would be more highly esteemed after he had left the
world than while he was in it; but did this thought really afford him
much consolation, or would he have been willing, if possible, to
sacrifice a more prosperous present for a great posthumous fame? How
many great men have languished long years in dungeons, as some languish
in them even now. How many have borne years of bodily infirmity. How
many have died just as they seemed about to realize the fruit of years
of preparation and exertion. These reflections tend to make us contented
with a comparatively humble lot, as all great trials tend to lessen our
undue attachment to life.

Finally, it occurs to me that very few men have lost fortunes, without
spending too much time in unavailing regrets that they should have lost
them just in the manner they did. If they had only avoided this or that
particular investment, all would have been well. This is nonsense.
Undoubtedly, a great deal of money is lost very foolishly, but though no
fatalist, I do not believe that all the care and prudence in the world
will materially alter the great Scriptural law, that the riches of this
world will often take wings to themselves and flee away. There is far
too much recklessness, far too much of what is called in business
circles 'expansion;' but the time will never come, in our country, when
generation after generation, in one family, will keep on in the path of
success. Great fortunes will still melt away, and the shrewdest maxims
of those who built them up will fail sometimes. Nothing can be
considered certain in regard to worldly goods, beyond the fact that
industry, good principles, and average capacity will always, in the long
run, secure a competence; but wealth will still be the prize that only a
few need expect to draw.

I have endeavored to call up a few of the reflections that may console a
man under adversity, remembering that drooping fortunes may revive, that
many of the noblest men have suffered the same privations, and
remembering how much lighter this form of affliction generally is than
some others that Providence often sees fit to lay upon us. Trite as it
is, I can not help echoing the remark, how vastly the sum of human
happiness would be increased, if men could only learn to prize more
highly the blessings they have. Those of us who are in moderate
circumstances find it so much easier to envy our rich neighbors than to
think with gratitude of our happy lot, contrasted with the many thousand
of our needier brethren. We enjoy so many blessings, that we become
unmindful of them. We rarely think at all about our health, until a few
days' sickness reminds us of the boon we have been enjoying so
unconsciously. In the darkest days of the great crisis, accounts reached
us every week from India, telling us that refined and delicately-reared
English men and women were being brutally slaughtered or exposed to the
loathsome horrors of a lingering siege. What a paradise the humblest
cottage at home would have seemed to these poor creatures, though some
of them had been accustomed to 'stately homes.'

How beautifully this sentiment of gratitude for the common blessings of
life has been expressed by Emile Souvestre, one of the purest and
noblest writers of our time, and one whose early history presents an
instance of great obstacles and trials nobly met and overcome!

'If a little dry sand be all that is left us, may we not still make it
blossom with the small joys we now trample under foot. Ah! if it be the
will of God, let my labor be still more hard, my home less comfortable,
my table more frugal; let me even assume a workman's blouse, and I can
bear it all willingly and cheerfully, provided I can see the loved faces
around me happy, provided I can feast upon their smiles and strengthen
myself with their joy. O holy contentment with poverty! it is thy
presence I invoke. Grant me the cheerful gayety of my wife, the free,
unrestrained laughter of my children, and take in exchange, if
necessary, all that is yet left me.'

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS.



NO. III.


When Dogberry brought Conrade before Leonato, the only offense he seems
to have had a clear idea of, was the one against himself: 'Moreover,
sir, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass. I beseech you,
let it be remembered in his punishment.' Shakspeare has, by this 'one
touch of nature,' made Dogberry kin to the whole world. It would be the
most terrible of punishments to run the gauntlet of a company, every one
of which you had called an ass; whatever may have been the original
offense, this would be the one most remembered in your punishment, I
don't think it would be possible to believe any thing good of one who
had given you this appellation; on the contrary, the reputed long ears
would be worse than the famous 'diabolical trumpet' for collecting and
distorting the merest whispers of evil against him who planted them, or
discovered them peeping through the assumed lion's skin. Apollo's music
probably sounded no sweeter to Midas after he received his 'wonderful
ear.'

But my object in introducing Dogberry was not to give a dissertation on
this greatest of insults, but to illustrate our selfishness. Our
patience will bear great _crimes_ against others, but how it gives way
under the slightest _insult_ to ourselves. Now I am not going to
denounce selfishness; I'd as soon think of denouncing gravitation. There
is, in the best of us, an under-current of selfishness; indeed,
selfishness and unselfishness are convertible terms; this is a higher
kind of that, as the upper-current of the ocean is but the under-current
risen to the surface.

Saint James says: 'The love of money is the root of all evil.' I am not
exactly prepared to agree with him; it is a great branch, almost the
trunk; but I think selfishness is the root. You know Hahnemann thought
all diseases but a modification of one disease--_psora_. However it may
be with his theory, the one moral disease is not an itching palm. This
is but a modification of selfishness, which is not merely cutaneous.

But the form it is supposed to take in the system of Yankees, is the
above-named plebeian form. The supposition may be correct. Don't we most
feel our national troubles, the shock of the great national earthquake,
when it causes an upheaval from the depths of the pocket? If Uncle Sam's
sentiments are, as they are supposed to be, only a concentration of
those of the majority, isn't his lamentation over his run-away South,
who has changed her name without his consent, that of Shylock: 'My
daughter! Oh! my ducats!'? Though not exactly connected with this branch
of selfishness, I may as well, while speaking of our national
difficulties, mention what struck me very forcibly: It is said, that on
the eminence from which the spectators of the Bull Run battle so
precipitately fled, were found sandwiches and bottles of wine; and that
these refreshments actually lined the road to Washington. From this
might be inferred that 'to-day's dinner' not only 'subtends a larger
visual angle than _yesterday's_ revolution,' but that it also subtends a
larger angle than _to-day's_ revolution. If one could ever forget one's
own personal gratifications and comforts, it would be, I should think,
in overlooking a nation's battle-field--_our_ nation's battle-field. But
it is not for a humble lay member, whose business it is to practice
rather than preach, to criticise. Are not the honorable members
representatives of the people; and when they are cheered and refreshed,
are not the 'dear people' through them cheered and refreshed? Besides,
they may have so reluctantly dropped the wine and sandwiches because
they were loth to leave them to 'give aid and comfort to the enemy.'
There are always envious people to rail at those above them; pawns on
the world's chess-board, they pride themselves on their own
straightforward course; but let them push their way to the highest row,
how soon do they exchange this course for the 'crooked policy of the
knight,' or jump over principles with queen, castle, or bishop! Woe to
the poor pawn in their way.

How I have skipped! what connection can there be between members of
Congress and crooked policy, or jumping over principles? yet there must
have been a train of association that led me off the track; doubtless it
was purely arbitrary. Well, we'll let it go; poor pawn as I am, I have
but stepped aside to nab an idea.

But to return to the Yankee. The form which selfishness takes in his
system is not that of the most intensified exclusiveness. You know the
story of Rosicrucius' sepulcher, with its ever-burning lamp, guarded by
an armor-encased, truncheon-armed statue, which statue, on the entrance
of a man who accidentally discovered the sepulcher, arose, and at his
advance, raised its truncheon and shivered the lamp to atoms, leaving
the intruder in darkness. On examination, under the floor springs were
found, connecting with others within the statue. Rosicrucius wished thus
to inform the world that he had reïnvented the ever-burning lamp of the
ancients, but meant that the world shouldn't profit by the information.
Had a Yankee reïnvented those lamps, he would have got out a patent, and
some brother Yankee would have improved upon it, and invented one
warranted to burn 'forever _and a day_.' They would probably have thus
raked together a great deal of the 'filthy lucre;' _possibly_ this would
have been their main object; but the world would have been benefited by
them. All selfishness, to be sure, but exclusive selfishness benefits
the world.

[Speaking of _filthy_ lucre, I begin to see why those who have lost it
all are said to be '_cleaned_ out.' But this is only _par parenthèse_.]

But exclusiveness is not peculiar to the Rosicrucians; there is too much
of it in even the religious sects of this enlightened age; it is too
much, 'Lord, bless me and my sect;' 'Lord, bless us, and no more.'
There are self-constituted mountain-tops that would extract all the
mercy and grace with which the winds come freighted from the great ocean
of Love, so that they would pass over beyond them hot, dry winds of
wrath. But I am glad that this is impossible; that in the moral world
there are no Andes, no rainless regions.

I fear that I have not stuck very closely to the text furnished me by
thick-headed, thick-tongued Dogberry.

Allow me to compress into closing sentences, a few general remarks....
Those lakes that have no outlet, grow salt and bitter; we all know the
ennui and bitterness of those souls that receive many blessings, sending
forth none; better drain your soul out for others, than have it become a
_Dead Sea_.... Black, that absorbs all rays, reflecting none, is an
anomaly in nature; it is true, but one earthly character has reflected
all the rays of goodness, absorbing none, making the common light 'rich,
like a lily in bloom;' yet every man can reflect at least one ray to
gladden the earth.... It is not necessary, even in the cold atmosphere
of this world, to become contractedly selfish; cold expands noble
natures as it does water.... Lastly ...

Yours, MOLLY O'MOLLY.



NO. IV.


The old trout knows enough to keep off the fisherman's hook; the
squirrel never cracks an empty nut; the crow soon learns the
harmlessness of the scarecrow. But man, though he may have twenty times
wriggled off the hook, the patient angler catches him at last. He always
cracks the empty shell, then cries: 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'
This cry he might be spared would he learn a lesson from the squirrel,
who weighs his nuts and throws away the light, hollow shell.... And
there are scarescrows, the harmlessness of which the human biped learns
not in a a lifetime. How long is it since that horned, cloven-footed
monster whom the monks made of Pan _theos_ and called him _Devil_, was
an object of fear? How 'the real, genuine, no mistake' (savin' his
presence) must have laughed at his own effigy! Then there is Grim Death,
too, a creation of the Dark Ages, for in no age of light could this
horror have been ever conceived. Unlike the _other_, against him no
exorcism avails.... As if the soul about to be launched on the dim sea
Eternity, after all lights and forms of the loved shore have become
indistinct, must be cut loose from her moorings by this phantom. The
idea that 'Death comes to set us free,' would hardly make us 'meet him
cheerily, as our true friend,' were this his real shape. But were I
disposed to enumerate our scarecrows, the list would be incomplete; as
there are doubtless many that I have not the shrewdness to recognize as
such.

The only humbugs are not those that work on our fears. There are humbugs
that work on our hopes. These have been likened to bubbles that dance on
the wave, burst, and are no more. They are too often like bomb-shells,
that in exploding scatter ruin on all around. They have also been named
air-castles, _chateaux en Espagne_, 'baseless fabrics of a vision.' The
baseless fabric of a vision is built of 'airy nothingness;' but men
found on a wish, structures that tower to heaven, put real, solid
material into them, and when they fall, as fall they must--I'll not
attempt to give an idea of the utter desolation they leave, of the
_waste place_ they make of the heart, lest you should think I have thus
humbugged myself; for _self-humbug_ it certainly is; and this is the
most intensely _human_. Not a fish, or reptile, bird, or beast; not a
thing crawling, swimming, flying, or walking, but the human creature,
humbugs himself. 'Man was made to mourn,' I would change into, Man was
made to be humbugged. It is better to be greatly gullible, than a
'cunning dog,' for gulled we will be. It is better to be caught at once,
than to have our gills torn by wriggling off the hook the twenty times,
to be caught at last. It is better to walk straight into the net than to
fatigue ourselves by coming to it in a roundabout way. A Nova-Scotian
once rallied a Down-Easter on the famous wooden hams. 'Yaas,' was the
reply, 'and they say that one of you actilly _ate_ one and didn't know
the difference.' Well, it is better to swallow our humbugs, as the
Nova-Scotian did the Connecticut-cured ham, without detecting any thing
peculiar in their flavor, than it is to find our mistake at the first
cut or _saw_. By the way, saltpeter is so needed for other purposes,
that probably the _Virginia cured_ will not now have as fine a flavor as
formerly.

But, _in the way_: You dissent from some of these remarks? You've cut
your eye-teeth, have you? Possibly you forget that trip in the cars,
when you 'cutely passed by the swell in flashy waistcoat and galvanized
jewelry, and took a seat by a 'plain blunt man' in snuff-color; and
after he had left the cars at the first station, and the conductor came
to you and demanded, 'Your ticket, sir!' you probably forgot how in
fumbling for it in your pocket, you found it, but _not_ your
porte-monnaie. You perhaps set down in your mental memorandum, under the
head of Appearances, not to be deceived by plain bluntness and
snuff-color. There you were wrong; your boasted reason is of no avail in
detecting humbugs; there is no such thing as classifying them. Then,
too, we are in greater danger of being humbugged by another class of
appearances.

In material things we are compelled to acknowledge that things the most
reliable are the most unpretending. The star, by which the mariner has
steered for ages, is not a 'bright particular star;' the needle of his
compass is shaped from one of the baser metals, (though in a figurative
sense gold is highly magnetic.) The inner bears such a relation to the
outer, that the inner senses are named from the outer; we are slow to
perceive that also all objects of the outer senses, are but types of
those of the inner. You see how I have been obliged to borrow from the
outer vocabulary. I give this idea, in a nebular state, trusting that
you will consolidate it. Were we, in a figurative sense, to choose a
guiding-star, it would be a comet, we are so taken with flash and show.
A great truth, though angels heralded its birth, and a star were drawn
from its orbit to stand over its cradle, if that cradle were a manger,
we would reject it; if it assumed not the 'pomp and circumstance' of
royalty, though it worked miracles, we would cry, _Away with it_.
Eighteen hundred years have not completely transformed or transmuted the
world; we are yet ready to reject the true, and be humbugged by the
false. More than eighteen hundred and sixty-two years may yet elapse
before the bells that 'ring out the old and ring in the new,' will 'ring
out the false and ring in the true.' Then farewell humbug.

Yes, it is altogether probable that long before humbug is no more, you
and I will--I was about to say be in the narrow house, but prefer an
expression of Carlyle's--we will have 'vanished into infinite space.' I
prefer this for the same reason that one of Hood's characters was
thankful that 'Heaven was boundless.' She it was whom the physician
pronounced 'dying by inches.' 'Only think,' exclaimed the _consternated_
husband, 'how long she will be dying!' I suppose to the poor man Grim
Death appeared to hold in his skeleton fingers, instead of an
hour-glass, a twenty-year glass.

That the sands of his glass may, for you, married or single, neither run
too fast nor too slow, is sincerely the wish of

Your well-wisher,

MOLLY O'MOLLY.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALL TOGETHER.


  Old friends and dear! it were ungentle rhyme,
    If I should question of your true hearts, whether
  Ye have forgotten that far, pleasant time,
    The good old time when we were all together.

  Our limbs were lusty and our souls sublime;
    We never heeded cold and winter weather,
  Nor sun nor travel, in that cheery time,
    The brave old time when we were all together.

  Pleasant it was to tread the mountain thyme;
    Sweet was the pure and piny mountain ether,
  And pleasant all; but this was in the time,
    The good old time when we were all together.

  Since then I've strayed through many a fitful clime,
    (Tossed on the wind of fortune like a feather,)
  And chanced with rare good fellows in my time;
    But ne'er the time that we have known together:

  But none like those brave hearts, (for now I climb
    Gray hills alone, or thread the lonely heather,)
  That walked beside me in the ancient time,
    The good old time when we were all together.

  Long since, we parted in our careless prime,
    Like summer birds no June shall hasten hither;
  No more to meet as in that merry time,
    The sweet spring-time that shone on all together.

  Some to the fevered city's toil and grime,
    And some o'er distant seas, and some--ah! whither?
  Nay, we shall never meet as in the time,
    The dear old time when we were all together.

  And some--above their heads, in wind and rime,
    Year after year, the grasses wave and wither;
  Ay, we shall meet!--'tis but a little time,
    And all shall lie with folded hands together.

  And if, beyond the sphere of doubt and crime,
    Lie purer lands--ah! let our steps be thither;
  That, done with earthly change and earthly time,
    In God's good time we may be all together.

       *       *       *       *       *

A TRUE STORY.


Alone in the world! alone in the great city of Paris, a world in itself!
alone, and with scarcely a livre in my purse!

Such were my reflections as I turned away from the now empty house, in
which for two-and-twenty years I had dwelt with my poor, wasteful,
uncalculating father. My father was a scholar of most stupendous
attainments, particularly in Oriental literature, but a perfect child in
all that related to the ordinary affairs of life. Absorbed in his
studies, he let his pecuniary matters take care of themselves.
Consequently, when death suddenly laid him low, and deprived me of my
only friend and protector, his affairs were found to be in a state of
inextricable confusion. His effects, including the noble library of
Eastern lore which it had been the labor of his life to collect, were
seized, and sold to pay his debts, and were found insufficient.

My mother had died when I was a child, and my father had educated me
himself, pouring into my young and eager mind the treasures of knowledge
he possessed. I was--I say it without boasting--a prodigy of learning;
but in all that relates to domestic economy, as well as to the ordinary
attainments of woman, I was as ignorant as my father himself.

I lingered in the house until the sale was over and the last cart-load
of goods had been removed. Then I repaired to a wretched garret in the
Rue du Temple, where I had found a refuge, and where I designed to
remain until such time as I could, by the exercise of my talents,
replenish my purse and procure a better lodging. Here I sat down, took a
calm survey of my position, and questioned myself as to what employment
I was fit for.

Of the usual feminine accomplishments, I possessed none. I could neither
draw nor paint; I could not play a note of music on any instrument; I
could sing, it is true, but knew nothing of the science of vocal music;
I did not know a word of Spanish, or Italian, or German, or English;
even with the literature of France I was but little acquainted; but I
could read the cuneiform characters of Babylon and Persepolis as readily
as you read this page, while Sanscrit, Hebrew, Arabic, Syriac, and
Chaldaic, flowed from my tongue as freely as a nursery rhyme. As an
instructress of young ladies, therefore, I could not hope to find a
livelihood, but as an assistant to some learned man or body of men, I
knew that my attainments would be invaluable.

Full of hope, therefore, and with a cheerful heart, I set about
obtaining a situation.

Hearing that the Oriental department of the Bibliothèque du Roi was
about to undergo some alterations, and that an assistant librarian was
wanted to reärrange and re-catalogue the books, I applied at once for
the situation. I was closely examined as to my qualifications, and much
surprise manifested at the proficiency I had attained in these unwonted
studies; but my application was refused, because--I was a woman.

I next answered by letter the advertisement of a distinguished _savant_
who was about to undertake the translation of the Sacred Vedas, and was
in want of an amanuensis. To this I received the following reply:

    'MADEMOISELLE: If your attainments in Sanscrit are such as you
    represent them, I am convinced that you would exactly suit me,
    were you a young man. But I am a bachelor; there is not a single
    female in my establishment; your sex, therefore, renders it
    impossible for me to employ you as my amanuensis.'

_My sex_ again! Discouraged, but not daunted, I applied successively to
the Société Asiatique, to the librarian of the Institute, and to three
or four private individuals of more or less note. From all of them I
received the same answer--the situation was not open to women.

Meantime the few francs I had had at my father's death vanished, one by
one. The woman from whom I hired my room became clamorous for the rent.
I had a few superfluous articles of clothing. I disposed of them at the
Mont-de-Piété, and thus kept the wolf from the door a little longer.
When they were all gone, what should I do?

I persevered in my quest for employment. It was all in vain. Many people
added insults to their harsh refusal of my application, accusing me of
being an impostor; for who ever heard, said they, of a young girl like
me being acquainted with these abstruse studies! Day after day, week
after week, I plodded on through the mire and dirt, for it was winter,
the weeping winter of Paris, and the obscure and narrow streets
(traversed by a filthy kennel in the center, and destitute of sidewalks)
through which my researches led me, were in a dreadful condition. And
evermore the question recurred to me, What shall I do?

As day after day passed, and still no opening appeared, I thought of the
river, rolling darkly through the heart of the city, in whose silent
tide so many a poor unfortunate has sought a refuge from present misery.
One day, as in the course of my peregrinations I passed the Morgue, I
saw the dead body of a young woman which had been taken that morning
from the river, and laid out for recognition by her friends. As I looked
on her livid, bloated face, her drenched and tattered garments, her long
dark hair hanging in dank matted masses, and streaming over the edge of
the table on which she lay, my heart was moved with pity. Yet I half
envied her position, and might have followed her example, but for my
belief in a future state. Her body was free from every mortal ill, but
her poor soul, where was it?

But besides, looking at it from a merely human point of view, there is
in my nature a certain stern and rugged resolution, a sort of
'never-give-up' feeling, which induces me to hope and struggle on, and
leads me to think, with the great Napoleon, that suicide is the act of a
coward, since it is an attempt to fly from those evils which God has
laid upon us, rather than to bear them with a brave, enduring trust in
Providence.

Still, as I passed by the river, spanned by its noble bridges, and
covered with those innumerable barges in which the washerwomen of Paris
ply their unceasing trade, eating, sleeping, and living constantly in
their floating dwellings, I would think, with a shudder, that unless
relief soon arrived, I must choose between its silent waters and a
lingering death by starvation.

True, there are in Paris many employments open to women, but what was
that to me? Could I stand behind a counter and set forth with a glib
tongue the merits of ribbons and laces; or bend over the rich
embroidered robe of the fashionable lady; or even, like those poor
washerwomen, earn my scanty livelihood by arduous manual labor? I knew
nothing of business; I knew nothing of embroidery; and I had neither the
strength nor the capital necessary to set up the establishment of a
_blanchicheuse_.

I had returned home, one evening, after another weary tramp. As I looked
from my lofty attic, and saw Paris glittering with her million lights, I
said to myself: 'Must I perish of hunger in these streets? Must I starve
in the midst of that abundance which might be mine but for the fact that
I am _a woman_? No! I shall abjure my sex, and in the semblance of
themselves, win from men that subsistence which they deny to a woman.'

The thought was no sooner conceived than executed. Tearing off part of
my woman's attire, I threw around me an old cloak of my father's, which
now served as a coverlet to my lowly bed, and descended the long flights
of stairs to the street. Determined to have legal sanction for what I
was about to do, I went straight to the Prefecture of Police. It was not
yet very late, and the Prefect was still in his _bureau_. I entered his
presence, told him my story, and demanded permission to put on male
attire, and assume a masculine name, in order to obtain the means of
subsistence. He heard me respectfully, treated me kindly, and advised me
to ponder well before I took a step so unusual and unseemly. But I was
firm. Seeing my determination, he granted me a written permission.

Early next morning I took what remained of my feminine wardrobe and
hastened to the Marché de Vieux Linge, (old clothes market,) which was
not far distant from my place of abode. Built on the site of the ancient
Temple, the princely residence of the Knights Templar of old, and in
later times the prison of Louis XVI. previous to his execution--this
vast market, with its eighteen hundred and eighty-eight stalls, hung
with the cast-off garments of both sexes, and of every age, condition
and clime, presents the appearance of a miniature city. Men's apparel,
women's apparel, garments for children of all sizes, boots and shoes,
hats and bonnets, tawdry finery of every description, sheets and
blankets, carpets, tattered and stained, military accouterments, swords
and belts, harness, old pots and kettles, and innumerable other
articles, attract attention in the different stalls. There, on every
side, sharp-faced and shrill-voiced dealers haggle with timid customers
over garments more or less decayed. There the adroit thief finds a ready
market for the various articles he has procured from chamber and entry,
or purloined from the pockets of the unwary. There the petted lady's
maid disposes of the rich robe which her careless mistress has given
her, and the Parisian grisette, with the money her nimble fingers have
earned, purchases it to adorn her neat and pretty form for the _Bal paré
et masqué_, to which her lover takes her, at Belleville or Montmartre.
In yonder stall hangs a tattered coat which once belonged to a marquis,
but has gone through so many hands since then, and accumulated so much
dirt and grease in the process, that one wonders how the dealer would
have ventured to advance the few sous which its last wretched owner had
raised upon it.

In this place I exchanged, without much difficulty, my female
habiliments for a suit of respectable masculine attire. I took it home,
and with a feeling of shame of which I could not get rid, but yet with
unflinching resolution, arrayed myself in it. As a woman I know I am not
handsome; my mouth is large and my skin dark; but this rather favored my
disguise; for had I been very pretty, my beardless face and weak voice
might have awakened more suspicion. I cut my hair off short, parted it
at one side, brushed it with great care, and crowned it with a jaunty
cap, which, I must say, was very becoming to me. In this dress I
appeared a tolerably well-looking youth of nineteen or thereabout, for
the change of garments made me look younger than I was.

As I surveyed myself in the little cracked looking-glass which served me
as a mirror, I could not forbear laughing at the transformation.
Certainly no one would have recognized me, for I could scarcely
recognize myself.

Folding the old cloak around me, I sallied forth. With the long, thick
braid of hair I had cut from my head, I purchased a breakfast, the best
I had eaten in a long time.

Then I went direct to the residence of the gentleman who had said I
would suit him exactly, if I were a young man. There had been something
in the tone of this gentleman's letter that attracted me, I could not
tell why. To my great joy, he had not yet found the person he wanted;
and after a short conversation he engaged me, at what seemed to me a
princely salary.

He told me laughingly that a young woman had applied for the situation a
short time previous; and seemed very much amused at the circumstance.

My employer was a man already past his prime. His hair was slightly
sprinkled with gray, and his form showed that tendency to fullness so
frequently found in persons of sedentary habits. But in his fine,
thoughtful eyes, and expansive brow, one saw evidence of that noble
intellect for which he was distinguished, while his beaming smile and
pleasant voice showed a genial and benevolent heart. The kindness of his
voice and manner went straight to my lonely and desolate heart, and
affected me so much that I almost disgraced my manhood by bursting into
tears.

He occupied a modest but commodious house in the Quartier Latin. His
domestic affairs were administered by a respectable-looking elderly man,
who performed the part of cook, to his own honor and the entire
satisfaction of his master; while a smart but mischievous imp of a boy
ran of errands, tended the fires, swept the rooms, and kept old
Dominique in a continual fret, by his tricks and his short-comings.

Here, in the well-furnished library of my new master, with every
convenience for annotation and elucidation, the translation of the Vedas
was commenced. Like my father, my employer was possessed of vast
erudition; but, unlike him, he was also a man of the world, high in
favor at court, wealthy, honored, and enjoying the friendship of all the
most noted savans and other celebrities of the metropolis. During the
progress of the work some of these would occasionally enter the study
where I sat writing almost incessantly, and I saw more than one to whom
I had applied in the days of my misery, and been rejected. But happily
no one recognized me.

My kind master expressed great astonishment at my proficiency in
Sanscrit, and frequently declared my services to be invaluable to him. I
was sometimes able to render a passage which he had given up as
intractable; and he more than once asserted that my name should appear
on the title-page as well as his own. My name? Alas! I had no name.

My master frequently chid me for my unceasing devotion to my work; and
would sometimes playfully come behind, as I sat writing, snatch the
manuscript from my desk, and substitute in its place some new and
popular book, or some time-honored French classic, to which he would
command me to give my whole attention for the next two hours, on pain of
his displeasure.

His kindness to me knew no bounds. He ordered Dominique and the boy Jean
to treat me with as much respect as himself. He took me with him to the
Oriental lectures of the Bibliothèque du Roi. He procured for me the
_entrée_ to the discussions of several literary and scientific bodies,
and afforded me every facility for the improvement of my mind and the
development of my powers. He introduced me to all that was noblest and
best in the great aristocracy of intellect, and constantly spoke of me
as a young man of great promise, who would one day be heard of in the
world.

He used to rally me on my studious habits, and often expressed surprise
that a young man of my years should not seek the society of his
compeers, and especially of that _other sex_, to which the heart of
youth usually turns with an irresistible, magnet-like attraction. Little
did he dream that the person he addressed belonged to that very sex of
which he spoke.

One day he startled me by saying: 'What pretty hair you have, Eugene; it
is as soft and fine as that of a young girl.'

The conscious blush rushed to my face, for I thought he had surely
discovered my secret; but one glance at his calm countenance reassured
me. In his large, open, honest heart there never entered a suspicion of
the 'base deception' that had been practiced upon him.

He did not notice my emotion, and I answered, in as calm a voice as I
could command: 'My mother had fine, soft hair; I have inherited it from
her.'

Thus passed a year, the happiest I had ever known. My master became
kinder and more affectionate every day. He would often address me as
'_mon fils_,' and seemed indeed to regard me with feelings as warm as
those of a father to a son.

And I--what were my sentiments toward this good and noble man who was so
kind to me? I worshiped him; he was every thing to me. Father and mother
were gone, sisters and brothers I had none, other friends I had never
known. My master was all the world to me. To serve him was all I lived
for. To love him, though with a love that could never be known, never be
returned, was enough for me.

I have said that I was happy; but there was one drawback to my
happiness. It lay in the self-reproach I felt for the deception
practiced on my benefactor. Many times I resolved to resume my woman's
garments, (a suit of which I always kept by me, safe under lock and
key,) fall at his feet, and confess all. But the fear that he would
spurn me, the certainty that he would drive me from his presence,
restrained me. I could not exist under his displeasure; I could not
endure life away from him.

Although he was, of course, unconscious of the intensity of the feeling
with which I regarded him, he knew--for I did not conceal it--that I was
much attached to him; and I was aware that I, or rather Eugene, was very
dear to him. On one occasion, as we sat together in the study, he said
to me, abruptly:

'How old are you, Eugene?'

'Twenty-two,' I answered.

He sat silent for some moments; then he said:

'If I had married in my early years, I might have had a son as old as
you. Take my advice, Eugene, marry early; form family ties; then your
old age will not be lonely as mine is.'

'O my dear master!' cried I, safe under my disguise, 'no son could love
you as dearly as I do. A son would leave you to win a place for himself
in the world; but your faithful Eugene will cling to you through life;
he only asks to remain with you always--always.'

'My good Eugene!' said my master, grasping my hand warmly, 'your words
make me happy. I am a lonely man, and the affection which you, a
stranger youth, entertain for me, fills me with profound and heart-felt
joy.'

Ah! then my trembling heart asked itself the question: 'What would he
think if he knew that it was a young girl who felt for him this pure and
tender affection?' Something whispered me that he would be rather
pleased than otherwise, and a wild temptation seized me to tell him
all--but I could not--I could not.

As my labors approached their completion, a gloomy feeling of dread
oppressed me. I feared that when the Vedas were finished my master would
no longer require my services. But he relieved my fears by reëngaging
me, and expressing a desire to retain me as his secretary until I became
too famous and too proud to fill the office contentedly.

Scarcely was this cause of dread removed when another, more terrible
still, overtook me.

One evening he took me with him to a literary _reünion_, at which every
_bel-esprit_ of the capital was to be present. At first I refused to go,
for I feared that the eyes of some of my own sex might penetrate my
disguise; but he seemed so much hurt at my refusal that I was forced to
withdraw it. The soirée was a very brilliant one. But little notice was
taken of the shy, awkward, silent youth, who glided from room to room,
hovering ever near the spot where his beloved, master stood or sat, in
conversation with the gifted of both sexes. How I envied the ladies
whose hands he touched, and to whom his polite attentions were
addressed. For, as I have said, my master was a man of the world,
wealthy and distinguished; and notwithstanding his advanced years,
ladies still courted his attentions.

There was one lady in particular, who spared no pains to attract him to
herself. She was the widow of a celebrated _litterateur_ and was herself
well known as a brilliant but shallow writer. She was not young, but she
was well-preserved, and owed much to the arts of the toilet. I saw her
lavishing her smiles and blandishments on my dear master; I saw that he
was not insensible to the power of her charms, artificial as they were;
and a cruel jealousy fastened, like the vulture of Prometheus, on my
vitals.

Could I but have entered the lists with her on equal ground; could I but
have appeared before him in my own proper person, arrayed in appropriate
and maidenly costume, I felt sure of gaining the victory, for I had
youth on my side; I had already an interest in his heart; but, alas! I
could not do this without first announcing myself as an impostor, as a
liar and deceiver, to the man whose good opinion I prized above all
earthly things.

A dreadful thought now rested on my mind day and night: What if this
woman should accomplish her designs? What if my master should marry her?
What would then become of me?

But I was spared this trial.

The translation was finished; it was in the hands of the publisher; and
the proof-sheets had been carefully revised, partly by my master, partly
by myself. He had insisted on putting my name with his own on the
title-page; but I refused my consent with a pertinacity which he could
not comprehend, and which came nearer making him angry than any thing
that had ever transpired between us.

One day, as I sat in the library, I saw my master come home, accompanied
by two gentlemen. He did not, as was his custom with his intimates,
bring them into the library, but received them in the little used
reception-room. They remained some time.

When they left, my master came into the library, rubbing his hands and
looking exceedingly well-pleased. But at sight of me, his countenance
fell. He approached me, and in a tone of regret, said:

'My poor Eugene! we must part.'

Part? It seemed as if the sun was suddenly blotted from the heavens.

I started up, and looked at him with a face so white and terror-stricken
that he came up to me and laid his hand kindly on my shoulder.

'My poor Eugene!' he repeated, 'it is too true--we must part.'

I tried to speak. 'Part!' I cried. 'O my master--'

Tears and sobs choked my utterance, in spite of all my efforts to
restrain them. I sat down again, and gave free vent to my irrepressible
grief.

My master was much affected by the sight of my emotion; and for some
minutes the silence was unbroken, save by my heart-wrung sobs.

'Nay, Eugene, this is womanish; bear it like a man,' said he, wiping the
tears from his own eyes. 'Most gladly would I spare you this sorrow;
most gladly retain you near me; but in this matter I am powerless. I
have received an appointment from government, to travel in Northern
Asia, in order to study the dialects of that vast region. Every
individual who is to accompany me has been officially specified, and
there is no place left for my poor Eugene.'

'O my dear, dear master!' cried I, with clasped hands and streaming
eyes, 'take me with you--I shall die if you, leave me--put me in the
place of some one else.'

'Impossible,' said he. 'The government has filled up every place with
its own creatures--except,' he added, with a faint smile, 'that they
have left provision for my wife--if married. I would I had the wand of
an enchanter, Eugene, that I might transform you to a woman, and make
you my wife.'

His wife! his wife! Had I heard the words aright? I sprang to my feet. I
tried to say, 'I _am_ a woman--I will be your wife!' but my tongue
refused its utterance--there was a rushing sound in my ears--I grasped
the air wildly--I heard my master cry, 'Eugene! Eugene!' as he rushed
forward to support me, and the next moment I lost consciousness.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I recovered my senses, I was still in the arms of my master. He had
borne me to the window, and torn open my vest and shirt-collar. I
looked up in his face. One glance revealed to me that my secret was
discovered.

Blushing and trembling, I tried to raise myself from his arms; but he
held me fast.

'Eugene,' said he, in earnest tones, 'tell me the truth. Are you indeed
a woman?'

'I am. My name is Eugenie D----, O my dear master! forgive the deception
I have practiced. Do not despise me.'

'Eugenie!' cried he, in joyful accents, 'you shall go with me to the
East! You shall go as _my wife! Vive I' Empereur_!

'But wherefore this disguise?' he added.

I told him my story in few words; and informed him that I was that very
_young woman_ who had applied to him for the office I now held.

'Is it possible?' exclaimed he. 'But, Eugenie, tell me--do you really
love me as you have so often protested you did?'

'Yes, my dear master,' I whispered.

'_Vive l'Empereur_!' cried he again; 'but for his strictness I should
never have found it out. Now go; array yourself in your woman's gear,
and let me see you as you really are.'

I went; and resumed, with a pleasure I can not describe, the garments I
had for a whole year forsworn.

When I returned, my master caught me to his heart, and thanked Heaven
for the 'charming wife' so unexpectedly sent him.

       *       *       *       *       *

MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

III.


ON THE CAMPAGNA.

There was an indefinable charm, to a lively man like Caper, in spending
a day in the open country around Rome. Whether it was passed, gun in
hand, near the Solfatara, trying to shoot snipe and woodcock, or, with
paint-box and stool, seated under a large white cotton umbrella,
sketching in the valley of Poussin or out on the Via Appia, that day was
invariably marked down to be remembered.

On one of those golden February mornings, when the pretty English girls
tramp through the long grass of the Villa Borghese, gathering the
perfumed violets into those modest little bouquets, that peep out from
their setting of green leaves, like faith struggling with jealousy,
Caper, Rocjean, and a good-natured German, named Von Bluhmen, made an
excursion out in the Campagna.

They hired a one-horse vetturo in the piazza di Spagna, and packing in
their sketching materials and a basket well filled with luncheon and
bottles of red wine, started off, soon reaching the Saint Sebastian
gate. Further on, they passed the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and saw
streaming over the Campagna the Roman hunt-hounds, twenty couples,
making straight tails after a red fox, while a score of well-mounted
horsemen--here and there a red coat and white breeches--came riding
furiously after. Along the road-side were handsome open carriages,
filled with wit and beauty, talent and petticoats; and bright were the
blue eyes, and red the healthy cheeks of the English girls, as they saw
how well their countrymen and lovers led off the chase. Englishmen
_have_ good legs.

Continuing along the Appian way, either side of which was bordered by
tombs crumbling to decay; some of them covered with nature's lace, the
graceful ivy, others with only a pile of turf above them, others with
shattered column and mutilated statue at their base--the occupants of
the vetturo were silent. They saw before them the wide plain, shut in on
the horizon by high mountains, with snow-covered peaks and sides, while
they were living in the warmth of an American June morning; the breeze
that swept over them was gentle and exhilarating; in the long grass
waving by the way-side, they heard the shrill cries of the cicadas;
while the clouds, driven along the wide reach of heaven, assuming
fantastic forms, and in changing light and shadow mantling the distant
mountains, gave our trio a rare chance to study cloud-effects to great
advantage.

'I say, driver, what's your name?' asked Rocjean of the _vetturino_.

'Cæsar, _padrone mio_,' answered the man.

'Are you descended from the celebrated Julius?' asked Caper, laughing.

'Yes, sir, my grandfather's name was Julius.'

  ''That every like is not the same, O Cæsar!
  The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon,''

soliloquized Caper; and as by this time they had reached a place where
both he and Rocjean thought a fine view of the ruined aqueduct might be
taken, they ordered the driver to stop, and taking out their sketching
materials, sent him back to Rome, telling him to come out for them about
four o'clock, when they would be ready to return.

While they were yet in the road, there came along a very large
countryman, mounted on a very small jackass; he was sitting side-saddle
fashion, one leg crossed over the other, the lower leg nearly touching
the ground; one hand held a pipe to his mouth, while the other held an
olive branch, by no means an emblem of peace to the jackass, who
twitched one long ear and then the other, in expectation of a momentary
visit from it on either side of his head. Following, at a dutiful
distance behind, came a splendid specimen of a Roman peasant-woman, a
true _contadina_: poised on her head was a very large round basket, from
over the edge of which sundry chickens' heads and cocks' feathers arose,
and while Caper was looking at the basket, he saw two tiny little arms
stuck up suddenly above the chickens, and then heard a faint squall--it
was her baby. An instantaneous desire seized Caper to make a rough
sketch of the family group, and hailing the man, he asked him for a
light to his cigar. The jackass was stopped by pulling his left ear--the
ears answering for reins--and after giving a light, the man was going
on, when Caper, taking a _scudo_ from his pocket, told him that if he
would let him make a sketch of himself, wife, and jackass, he would give
it to him, telling him also that he would not detain them over an hour.

'If you'll give me a _buona mano_ besides the _scudo_, I'll do it,' he
answered.

The _buona mano_ is the ignis fatuus that leads on three fourths of the
Italians; it is the bright spark that wakes them up to exertion. No
matter what the fixed price for doing any thing may be, there must
always be a something undefined ahead of it, to crown the work when
accomplished. It makes labor a lottery; it makes even sawing wood a
species of gambling. Caper promised a _buona mano_.

The man told his wife that the Signore was to make a _ritratto_, a
picture of them all, including the jackass, at which she laughed
heartily, showing a splendid set of brilliantly white teeth. A finer
type of woman it would be hard to find, for she was tall, straight, with
magnificent bust and broad hips. Her hair, thick and black, was drawn
back from her forehead like a Chinese, and was confined behind her head
with two long silver pins, the heads representing flowers; heavy,
crescent-shaped, gold earrings hung from her ears; around her full
throat circled two strings of red coral beads. Her boddice of crimson
cloth was met by the well-filled out-folds of her white linen shirt,
the sleeves of which fell from her shoulders below her elbows, in full,
graceful folds; her skirt was of heavy white woolen stuff, while her
blue apron, of the same material, had three broad stripes of golden
yellow, one near the top and the other two near each other at the
bottom; the folds of the apron were few, and fell in heavy, regular
lines. A full, liquid-brown pair of eyes gazed calmly on the painter, as
she stood beside her husband, easily, gracefully; without a sign from
the artist, taking a position that the most studied care could not have
improved.

'_Benissimo_!' cried Caper, 'the position couldn't be better;' and
seizing his sketch-book and pencils, unfolding his umbrella and planting
its spiked end in the ground, and arranging his sketching-stool, he was
in five minutes hard at work. As soon as he could draw the basket, he
told the woman she might take it from her head and put it on the ground,
for he believed the weight must incommode her. This done, she resumed
her position, and Caper, working with all his might, had his sketch
sufficiently finished before the hour was over to tell his group that it
was finished, at the same time handing the man a _scudo_ and a handsome
_buona mano_.

Rocjean and Von Bluhmen, who had assiduously looked on, now and then
joking with the _contadino_ and his wife, proposed, after the sketch was
finished, that Caper should ask his friends to help them finish their
luncheon; this was joyously agreed to, and the party, having left the
road and found a pleasant spot, under a group of ilex-trees, were soon
busy finishing the eatables. It was refreshing to see how the handsome
_contadina_ emptied glass after glass of red wine. The husband did his
share of drinking; but his wife eclipsed him. Having learned from Caper
that his first name was Giacomo, she shouted forth a rondinella, making
up the words as she went along, and in it gave a ludicrous account of
Giacomo, the artist, who took a jackass's portrait, herself and husband
holding him, and the baby squalling in harmony. This met with an
embarrassment of success, and amid the applause of Rocjean, Caper, and
Von Bluhmen, the _contadino_, wife, and baggage departed. She, however,
told Caper where she lived in the Campagna, and that she had a beautiful
little sister, whose _ritratta_ he should take, if he would come to see
her.

[It is needless to inform the reader that _he went_.]

Lighting cigars, Rocjean and Caper declared they must have a siesta,
even if they had to doze on their stools, for neither of them ever could
accustom himself to the Roman fashion of throwing one's self on the
ground, and sleeping with their faces to the earth. Von Bluhmen, a fiery
amateur of sketching, walked off to take a 'near view' of the aqueduct,
and the two artists were left to repose.

'I say, Caper, does it ever come into your head to people all this broad
Campagna with old Romans?' asked Rocjean.

'Yes, all the time. Do you know that when I am out here, and stumble
over the door-way of an old Roman tomb, or find one of those thousand
caves in the tufa rock, I often have a curious feeling that from out
that tomb or cave will stalk forth in broad daylight some old Roman
centurion or senator, in flowing robe.'

'Do you ever think,' asked Rocjean, 'of those seventy thousand poor
devils of Jews who helped build the Coliseum and the Arch of Titus? Do
you ever reflect over the millions of _slaves_ who worked for these same
poetical, flowing-robed, old senators and centurions? _Ma foi_! for a
Republic, you men of the United States have a finished education for any
thing but republicans. The great world-long struggle of a few to crush
and destroy the many, you learn profoundly; you know in all its
glittering cruelty and horror the entire history, and you weave from it
no god-like moral. Nothing astonished me more, during my residence in
the United States, than this same lack of drawing from the experience of
ages the deduction that you were the only really blessed and happy
nation in the world. Your educated men know less of the history of their
own country, and feel less its sublime teachings, than any other race of
men in the world. The instruction your young men receive at school and
college, in what way does it prepare them to become men fit for a
republic?'

'You are preaching a sermon,' said Caper.

'I am reciting the text; the sermon will be preached by the god of
battles to the roar of cannons and the crack of rifles, and I hope
you'll profit by it after you hear it.'

'Well,' interrupted Caper, 'what do you think of the English?'

'For a practical people, they are the greatest fools on the earth.
Thoroughly convinced at heart that they have no _esprit_, they rush in
to show the world that they have a superabundance of it.... It
interferes with their principles, no matter; it touches their pockets,
behold it is gone, and the cold, flat, dead reality stares you in the
face.'

'You are a Frenchman, Rocjean, and you do them injustice. Had Shakspeare
no _esprit_?' asked Caper.

'Shakspeare was a Frenchman,' replied Rocjean.

'We--ll!'

'Prove to me that he was not?'

'Prove to me that he was!'

'Certainly. The family of Jacques Pierre was as certainly French as
Raimond de Rocjean's. Jacques Pierre became Shakspeare at once, on
emigrating to England, and the 'Immortal Williams,' recognizing the
advantages to a poor man of living in a country where only the guineas
dance, took up his abode there and made the music for the money to jump
into his pockets.'

'Very ingenious. But in relation to Byron, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson,
and--as we are in Italy--Rogers?'

'_Mon ami_, if you seriously prefer ice-cream and trifle to venison and
_dindon aux truffes_, choose. If either one of the four poets--I do not
include Rogers among poets--ever conceived in his mind, and then
produced on paper, a work, composed from his memory, of things terrible
in nature, more sublime than Dante's _Inferno_, I will grant you that he
had _esprit_ and imagination; otherwise, not. It is of the English as a
nation, however, that I make my broad and sweeping assertion, one that
was fixed in my mind yesterday, when I saw a well-dressed and
well-_educated_ Englishman deliberately pick up a stone, knock off the
head of a figure carved on a sarcophagus, found in one of those
newly-discovered tombs on the Via Latina, and put the broken head in his
pocket.... What man, with one grain of _esprit_ or imagination in his
head, would mutilate a work of ancient art, solely that he might possess
a piece of stone, when memory had already placed the entire work forever
in his mind. _Basta_! enough. Look at the effect of the sunlight on the
Albanian mountains. How proudly Mount Gennaro towers over the desolate
Campagna! Hallo! Von Bluhmen down there is in trouble. Come along.'

Throwing down his umbrella, under which he had been sitting in the
shade, Rocjean grasped the iron-pointed shaft, into which the handle of
the umbrella fitted, and, accompanied by Caper, rushed to the rescue of
the German. It was none too soon. While sketching, a shepherd, with a
very large flock of sheep, had gradually approached nearer and nearer
the spot where the artist was sitting at his task; his dogs, eight or
ten in number, fierce, shaggy, white and black beasts, with slouching
gait and pointed ears and noses, followed near him. As Von Bluhmen paid
no attention to them, the shepherd had wandered off; but one or two of
his dogs hung back, and the artist, dropping a pencil, suddenly stooped
to pick it up, when one of the savage creatures, thinking or
'instincting' that a stone was coming at him, rushed in, with loud
barking, to make mince-meat of the German noble. He seized his
camp-stool, and kept the dog at bay; but in a moment the whole pack were
down on him. Just at this instant, in rushed Rocjean, staff in hand,
beating the beasts right and left, and shouting to the shepherd, who was
but a short distance off, to call off his dogs. But the _pecorajo_,
evidently a cross-grained fellow, only blackguarded the artists, until
Rocjean, whose blood was up, swore if he did not call them off, he would
shoot them, pulling a revolver from his pocket and aiming at the most
savage dog as he spoke. The shepherd only blackguarded him the more,
and, just as the dog grabbed him by the pantaloons, Rocjean pulled the
trigger, and with foaming jaws and blood pouring from his mouth, the dog
fell dead at his feet. The shot scared the other dogs, who fled, tails
under. The shepherd ran for the entrance of a cave, and came out in a
minute with a single-barreled gun: coming down to within twenty feet of
Rocjean, he cocked it, and taking aim, screamed out: 'Give me ten
_scudi_ for that dog, or I fire.'

'Do you see that pistol?' said Rocjean to the shepherd, while he held up
his revolver, 'I have five loads in it yet.' And then advancing straight
toward him, with death in his eyes, he told him to throw down his gun,
or he was a dead man.... Down fell the gun. Rocjean picked it up.
'To-morrow,' said he, 'inquire of the chief of police in Rome for this
gun and for the ten _scudi_!'

They were never called for.

'You see,' said Caper, as, shortly after this little excitement, the
one-horse vetturo, bearing Cæsar and his fortunes, hove in sight, and
they entered and returned to Rome; 'you see how charming it is to sketch
on the Campagna.'

'Very,' replied Von Bluhmen; 'but, my dear Rocjean, how long were you in
America?'

'Twelve years.'

'_Main Gott!_ they were not wasted.'


BACCHUS IN ROME.

It is not at all astonishing that a god who was born to the tune of
Jove's thunderbolts, should have escaped scot-free from the thunders of
the Vatican, and should prove at the present time one of the strongest
opponents to the latter kind of fire-works. We read, in the work of that
learned Jesuit, Galtruchius, that--

    'Bacchus was usually painted with a mitre upon his head, an
    ornament proper to Women. He never had other Priests but Satyrs
    and Women; because the latter had followed him in great Companies
    in his Journeys, crying, singing, and dancing continually. Titus
    Livius relates a strange story of the Festivals of Bacchus in
    Rome. Three times in a year, the Women of all qualities met in a
    Grove called Simila, and there acted all sorts of Villainies;
    those that appeared most reserved were sacrificed to Bacchus; and
    that the cries of the ravished Creatures might not be heard, they
    did howl, sing, and run up and down with lighted Torches.'

The May and October Festivals in Rome, at present, are substituted for
the Bacchanalian orgies, and are, of course, not so objectionable, in
many particulars, as the ancient ceremonies; still, no stranger in Rome,
at these times, should neglect to attend them. Caper entered Rome at
night, during the October festival, and the carriage-loads of Roman
women, waving torches and singing tipsily, forcibly reminded him that
the Bacchante still lived, and only needed a very little encouragement
to revive their ancient rites in full.

Sentimental travelers tell you that the Romans are a temperate
people--they have never seen the people. They have never seen the
delight that reigns in the heart of the _plebs_, when they learn that
the vintage has been good, and that good wine will be sold in Rome for
three or four cents _la foglietta_, (about a pint, American measure.)
They have never visited the _spacii di vini_, the wine-shops; they have
never heard of the murders committed when the wine was in and the wit
out. None of these things ever appear in the _Giornale di Roma_ or in
the _Vero Amico del_ _Popolo_, the only newspapers published in Rome.

'Roman newspapers,' said an intelligent Roman to Caper, 'were invented
to conceal the news.'

The first thing that a foreigner does on entering Rome is to originate a
derogatory name for the juice of the grape native to the soil, the _vino
nostrale_. He calls it, if red wine, red ink, pink cider, red tea; if
white wine, balm of gooseberries, blood of turnips, apple-juice,
alum-water, and slops for babes; finally ... if not killed off with a
fever, from drinking the adulterated foreign wines, spirits, and
liqueurs sold in the city, he takes kindly to the Roman wines, and does
not worry his great soul about them.

The truth is, that while other nations have done every thing to improve
wine-making, Italy follows the same careless way she has done for
centuries. Far more attention was bestowed on the grape, too, in ancient
times than now; and we read that vineyards were so much cultivated, to
the neglect of agriculture, that, under Domitian, an edict forbade the
planting of any new vineyards in Italy.

One brilliant morning, in October, Caper, who was then living in a town
perched atop of a conical mountain, descended five or six miles on foot,
and passed a day in a vineyard, in order to see the vintage. The vines
were trained on trees or on sticks of cane, and the peasant-girls and
women were busy picking the great bunches of white or purple grapes,
which were thrown into copper _conche_ or jars; these _conche_, when
filled, were carried on the head to a central spot where they were
emptied on fern leaves, placed on the ground to receive them. And from
these piles, the wooden barrels of the mules returning from the town
were filled with the grapes which were carried up there to be pressed.

The grape-crop had been so affected by the _malattia_ or blight, that
the yield being small, the fruit to an extent was not pressed in the
vineyards, and the juice only brought up to the town in goat-skins as
usual; but the fruit itself was carried up, by those having the proper
places, and was pressed in tubs in the _cantine_ or rooms on the
ground-floor, where the wine is kept. Across the huge saddles of the
mules, they swung a couple of truncated cone-shaped barrels, and filled
them with grapes; these were tumbled into tubs, ranged in the _cantina_,
good, bad and indifferent fruit all together; and when enough were
poured in, in jumped the _pistatore d'uve_ or grape-presser, with bare
legs and feet, and began pressing and stamping, until the juice ran out
in a tolerable stream. This juice was then poured into a headless
hogshead, and when more than half-full, they piled on the grapeskins and
stones and stems that had undergone the pressure, until the hogshead was
full to the top. A weight was then placed over all. In twenty days,
fermentation having taken place, they drew from the hogshead the new
wine, which was afterward clarified with whites of eggs.

In this rough-and-ready way, the common wine is made. Without selection,
all grapes, ripe, unripe, and rotten, sweet and sour, are mashed up
together, hurriedly and imperfectly pressed, and the wine is sent to
market, to sell for what it will bring. Having thus seen it made, let us
see it disposed of.

Of all the monuments to Bacchus, in Rome, the one near the pyramid of
Caius Cestius, and still nearer the Protestant burying-ground, is by far
the most noticeable. Jealous of the lofty manner in which it lifts its
head above the surrounding fields and walls of the city, the church has
seen fit to crown its head with a cross, which it seems inclined to
shake off. This small mountain of a monument is conical in shape, and is
composed entirely of broken crockery; hence its name, _Testaccio_. In
its crockery sides, they have found a certain coolness and evenness of
temperature exactly suited to the storage of wine, and to maturing it;
hence, all around the mountain are deep vaults, filled with red and
white wines, working themselves up for a fit state to enter into the joy
and the gullets of the Roman _minenti_.

If the reader of this sketch is at all of a philosophical frame of mind,
and should ever visit Rome, it is the writer's advice that, in the first
place, having learned Italian enough, and in the second place, having
his purse fairly filled--silver will do--he should, during the month of
October, on a holyday, go out to Monte Testaccio alone, or at least in
company with some one who knows enough to let him he alone when he wants
to be with somebody else, and then and there fraternizing for a few
hours with the Roman _plebs_, let him at his ease see what he shall see.
Then shall he sit him down at the door of the _Antica Osteria di
Cappanone_, at the rough wood table, on a rougher wooden bench; talk
right and left, with tailors, shoemakers, artists, soldiers, and God
knows what, drinking the cool, amber-colored wine of Monte Rotonda,
gleaming brightly in the sunlight that dashes through his glass, and so
cheerfully winning the good-will of them all--and of some of the young
women who are with them--that he shall find himself at some future time
either the sheath for a Roman knife, or the recipient of a great deal of
affection, and the purchaser of indefinite _bottiglie_ of _vino
nostrale_.

In his ardent pursuit of natural art, Caper believed it his duty to hunt
up the picturesque wherever it could be found, and it was while pursuing
this duty, in company with Rocjean, that he found himself at Monte
Testaccio, one October day, and there made his _débût_. After a luncheon
of raw ham, bread, cheese, sausage, and a _bottiglia_ of wine, they
ascended the mountain, and sitting down at the foot of the cross, they
quietly smoked and communed with nature unreservedly.

Crumbling old walls of Rome that lay below them; wild, uncultivated
Campagna; purple range of mountains, snow-tipped; thousand-legged,
ruined aqueducts; distant sea, but faintly revealed through the vail of
haze-bounded horizon; yellow Tiber, flowing along crumbling banks; dome
of St. Peter's, rising above the hill that shuts the Vatican from sight;
pyramid of Caius Cestius; Protestant burying-ground, with the wind
sighing through the trees a lullaby over the graves of Shelley and
Keats; distant view of Rome, slumbering artistically, and not
manufacturingly, in the sunlight of that morning--ye taught one man of
the two wild hopes for Rome of the future.

At the foot of the mountain, and adjoining the Protestant
burying-ground, there is a powder-magazine. Here a French soldier,
acting as sentry, paced his weary round. It was not long before a couple
of Roman women passed him. They saluted him; he saluted them. They
passed behind the magazine. The sentry, with the courtesy which
distinguishes Frenchmen, evidently desired to make his compliments and
pay his addresses to the _dames_. How could this be done? Before long,
two of his compatriots, evidently out for a holiday, passed him. He
beckoned to one of them, who at once took his gun and turned sentry,
while the relieved guard flew to display to the _dames_ his national
courtesy. Before Caper had time to smoke a second cigar, the soldier
returned to duty, and the one who had relieved him sprung to pay his
addresses. During the two hours that Caper and Rocjean studied the
scenery, guard was relieved four times.

'Ah!' said Rocjean, 'we are a gallant nation. Let us therefore descend
and mingle with what the high-minded John Bulls call 'the lower
orders.''

Down they went, and at the first table they came to, they found their
shoemaker, the Signore Eugenio Calzolajo, artist in leather, seated with
three Roman women. They all resembled each other like three pins. The
eldest one held a baby, the _caro bambino_, in her arms; she was
probably twenty years old. The next one was not over eighteen; while
the youngest had evidently not passed her sixteenth year.

The artist in leather saluted Caper and Rocjean with the title of
_Illustrissimi_, (they both paid their bills punctually,) and, as he saw
that the other tables were full, he at once made room for them,
introducing them to his wife and her two sisters. Caper, who saw that
the party had just arrived, and had not as yet had time to order any
thing from the waiters, told them that the day being his birthday, it
was customary among the North-American Indians always to celebrate it
with a feast of roast dogs and bottled porter; but, as neither of these
articles were to be found at Monte Testaccio, he should command what
they had; and arresting a waiter, he ordered such a supply of food and
wine, that the eyes of the three Roman girls opened wide as owls'. Their
tongues were all unloosened at once, as if by magic, and Caper had the
satisfaction of seeing that for what a bottle of Hotel Champaigne costs
in the United States, he had provided joy unadulterated, and happy
memories for many days, for several descendants of the Caesars.

While the wine circulated freely, the eldest, of the unmarried girls,
named Eliza, began joking Caper about his being a heretic and 'a little
devil,' and asked him to take off his hat, to see if he had horns. Caper
told her he was as yet unmarried, ... and that among the Indians,
bachelors were never allowed to take their hats off before maidens.
'But,' said he, 'what makes you think I am a heretic? Wasn't I at Saint
Peter's yesterday, and at the confessionals?'

'Yes, you were at them like an old German gentleman I once knew,' said
Eliza. 'Some of his friends saw him one morning at the German
confessional-box, and knowing that he was a heretic, asked him what he
was doing there? '_Diavolo!_' said he, 'can't a man have a comfortable
mouthful of German, without changing religions?''

'For my part,' said Rita, the youngest sister, 'I only go to
confessional, because I _have_ to, and I only confess what I want to.'

'Bravo!' exclaimed Rocjean, 'I must _paint your portrait_.'

'_Benissimo!_ and who will paint mine?' asked Eliza.

'I will,' said Caper, 'but on condition that you let me keep a copy of
it.'....

Arrangements completed, Rocjean ordered more wine; and then the artist
in leather ordered more; then Caper's turn came. After this, the
party--which had been gradually growing jolly and jollier, would have
danced, had they not all had a holy horror of the prison of San Angelo.
The married sister, Dominica, was a full-blooded _Trasteverina_, in her
gala dress, and had one of those beautiful-shaped heads that Caper could
only compare to a quail's; her jet-black hair, smoothed close to her
head, was gathered in a large roll that fell low on her neck behind, and
held by a silver _spadina_ or pin, that, if occasion demanded, would
make a serviceable stiletto; her full face was brown, while the red
blood shone through her cheeks, and her lips were full and ripe. Her
eyes of deep gray, shaded with long black lashes, sparkled with light
when she was aroused. Her sisters resembled her strikingly, except Rita,
the youngest, whose face was of that singularly delicate hue of white,
the color of the magnolia-flower, as one of our American writers has it;
or like the white of a boiled egg next to the yolk, as Caper expressed
it. Be this as it may, there was something very attractive in this
pallor, since it was accompanied by an _embonpoint_ indicating any thing
but romantic meagerness of constitution.

Dominica had, without exaggeration, the value of a dozen or two pairs of
patent-leather boots hung on her neck, arms, fingers, ears, and bosom,
in the shape of furious-sized pieces of gold jewelry; and it was solid
gold. The Roman women, from the earliest days--from the time when
Etruscan artists made those ponderous chains and bracelets down to this
present date--have had the most unbridled love for jewelry. Do we not
know[D] that--

  Sabina's garters were worth,... $200,000
  Faustina's finger-ring,... 200,000
  Domitia'a ring,... 300,000
  Cæesonia's bracelet,... 400,000
  Poppæa's earrings,... 600,000
  Calpurina's (Cæsar's wife) earrings,
    'above suspicion,'... 1,200,000
  Sabina's diadem,... 1,200,000

And after this, is it at all astonishing that the desire remains for it,
even if the substance has been plundered and carried off by those
_forestieri_, the Huns, Vandals, Goths, Visigoths, Norsemen, and other
heretics who have visited Rome?

While they were all busily drinking and talking, Caper had noticed that
the wine was beginning to have its effects on the large crowd who had
assembled at the Osterias and Trattorias around the foot of the Bacchic
mountain. Laughing and talking, shouting and singing, began to be in the
ascendant, and gravity was voted indecent.

'Ha!' said Rocjean, 'for one hour of the good old classic days!'

'What!' answered Caper, 'with those seventy thousand old Jews you were
preaching about the other day?'

'Never!--with the Bacchante. But here our friends are off: let us help
them into the carriage.'

As the sun went down, the _minenti_ began to crowd toward Rome. More
than one _spadina_ flashed in the hands of the slightly-tight maidens
who were on foot. Those of the men who had carriages, foreseeing the
inflammable spirit aroused, packed the women in by themselves, gave them
lighted torches, and cut them adrift, to float down the Corso; they
following in separate carriages.

       *       *       *       *       *

'Ah! really, and pray, Mrs. Jobson, don't you think that it's--ah! a
beautiful sight; they tell me--ah! it's the peasants returning from
visiting the shrine of the--ah! Madonna--ah?'

'And I think it is _most_ charming, Mister Lushington; and I remember me
now that Lady Fanny Errol, poor thing, said it would be a _charming_
sight. And the poor creatures seem _much_ happier than our own lower
orders; they do, to be sure.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'O Lord!' groaned Caper, as he overheard the above dialogue, 'allow me
to retire.'


CAPER 'STARTS' A MENAGERIE.

As an animal-painter, Mr. Caper was continually hunting up materials for
sketches. He made excursions into the Campagna, to see the long-horned
gray oxen and the hideous buffaloes; watching the latter along the
yellow Tiber, when, in the spring-time, they coquetted in the mud and
water. He sketched goats and sheep, tended by the picturesquely-dressed
shepherds and guarded by the fierce dogs that continually encircled
them. In four words, he studied animal-ated nature.

On his first arrival in Rome, he had purchased one of those sprightly
little _vetturo_ dogs, all wool and tail, that the traveler remarks
mounted on top of the traveling carriages that enter and leave Rome.
With a firm foothold, they stand on the very top of all the baggage that
may be piled on the roof of the coach; and there, standing guard and
barking fiercely, seem to thoroughly enjoy the confusion attendant on
starting the horses or unloading the baggage. They are seen around the
carriage-stands where public hacks are hired, and as soon as one moves
off, up jumps the _vetturo_ dog alongside the driver, and never leaves
the vehicle until it stops; then, if he sees another hack returning to
the city, he will jump into that, and be carried back triumphant. This
sounds like fiction; but its truth will be confirmed by any one who has
ever noticed the peculiarities of this breed of dogs, which love to
ride.

Caper kept this dog in his studio, and had already made several very
life-like studies of him. One morning, leaving his lodgings earlier than
usual, he met on the stairway of his house a countryman driving a goat
up-stairs to be milked; the Romans thus having good evidence that when
they buy goat's milk, they don't purchase water from the fountains. As
Caper was going out of the door that led into the street, he saw among
the flock of goats assembled there, a patriarchal old Billy, whose beard
struck him with delight. He was looking at him in silent veneration,
when the goats'-milk man came down-stairs, driving the ewe before him.
He asked the man if he would sell the patriarch; but found that he would
not. He promised, however, to lend him to Caper until the next day, for
a good round sum, to be paid when the goat was delivered at the studio,
which the man said would be in the course of an hour.

Our artist then went down to the Greco, where he breakfasted; and there
met Rocjean, who proposed to him to go that morning to the Piazza
Navona, as it was market-day, and they would have a fine chance to take
notes of the country-people, their costumes, etc. They first went around
to Caper's studio, where they had only to wait a short time before the
milk-man came, driving the old Billy-goat up-stairs before him. Caper
made him fast with a cord to a heavy table, the top of which was a vast
receptacle of sketch-books, oil-colors, books, and all kinds of odds and
ends.

Rocjean and he then strolled down to the Piazza Navona, where, while
walking around, Caper suddenly stumbled over the smallest and most
comical specimen of a donkey he had ever seen. The man who owned him,
and who had brought in a load of vegetables on the donkey's back,
offered to sell him very cheap. The temptation was great, and our animal
artist bought him at once for five _scudi_, alias dollars; but with the
understanding that the countryman would deliver him at his studio at
once. In twenty minutes' time, the donkey was climbing up a long flight
of stairs to Caper's studio, as seriously as if he were crossing the
_pons asinorum_. Once in his studio, Caper soon made arrangements to
have the donkey kept in a stable near by, when he was not sketching him.
This matter finished, Rocjean helped Caper pen him up in a corner of the
studio, where he could begin sketching him as soon as he had finished
portraying the billy-goat. The patriarch had made several attempts to
rush at the vetturo-dog; but the string held him fast to the table.
Rocjean mentioned to Caper that he ought to feed his menagerie, and the
porter being called and sent out for some food for the goat and donkey,
soon returned with a full supply.

Both artists now set to work in earnest; Caper with paints and brushes,
and Rocjean with crayons and sketch-book, determined to take the
patriarch's portrait while he was in a peaceful frame of body and
spirit.

With an intermission for luncheon, they worked until nearly four o'clock
in the afternoon, when Rocjean proposed taking a walk out to the Villa
Borghese, and as they returned, on their way to dinner, they could stop
in at the studio, and see that the donkey and goat were driven out to
the stable, where they could be kept until wanted again. Accordingly,
both artists walked out to the villa, and had only taken a short turn
toward the Casino, when they met a New-York friend of theirs, alone in a
carriage, taking a ride. He ordered the driver to stop, and begged them
both to get in with him, and after passing through the villa and around
the Pincio, to come and take dinner with him sociably in his rooms in
the Via Frattina. They accepted; and at ten o'clock that night, while
going home in a very happy frame of mind, it suddenly occurred to Caper
that his menagerie ought to have been attended to. Rocjean consoled him
with the reflection that, having the key in his pocket, they could not
possibly get out; so the former thought no more about it.

Early in the morning, having met as usual at the Greco, and breakfasted
together, Caper and Rocjean walked round to the former's studio. Before
they entered the door of the building, they noticed a small assembly of
old women surrounding the porter, and as Caper entered the passage-way,
they poured a broadside into him.

'_Accidente, Signore_, nobody around here has been able to sleep a wink
all night long. _Santa Maria!_ such yells have come from your studio,
such groans, such horrible noises, as if all the devils had broken
loose. We are going to the police; we are going to the _gendarmeria_; we
are going to--'

'Go there--and be hanged!' shouted Caper, breaking through the crowd,
and running up-stairs two steps at a time, he nearly walked into the lap
of a tall female model, named Giacinta, dressed in Ciociara costume, who
was calmly seated on the stair-case, glaring at another female model,
named Nina, who stood leaning against the door of his studio.

'Signor Giacomo, good morning!' said Giacinta, 'didn't you tell _me_ to
be here at nine o'clock?'

'To be sure I did,' replied he.

'Then,' continued she, 'what is _that person_ there taking the bread out
of my mouth for? _Cospetto!_'

'_Iddio giusto!_' cried Nina, 'hear her; she calls _me_, ME, a person! I
who have a watch and chain, and wear a hooped petticoat! _I_ take the
bread out of her mouth. I a person! I'm a lady, _per Bacco!_'

'Tace!' said Rocjean to Nina, 'or the Signore Giacomo will send you
flying. What do you want, Nina?'

'I only wanted to see if the Signore intended to paint the Lady Godeeva,
that he told me about the other day.'

'Wait till I open the studio-door, and get out of this noise. Those old
women down below, and you young ones up here, are howling like a lot of
hyenas. Here, come in!' ... As Caper said this, he unlocked the
studio-door and threw it open; the two models were close at his elbows,
while Rocjean drew to one side to let them pass in.

In the next minute, Caper, the two models, a he-goat, a dirty little
donkey, and a yelping dog, were rolling head over heels down-stairs, one
confused mass of petticoats and animals.

Rocjean roared with laughter; he could do nothing but hold his sides,
fearful of having an apopletic fit or bursting a blood-vessel.

The small donkey slid down-stairs on his back, slowly, gradually,
meekly; his long ears rubbing the way before him. But the billy-goat was
on his feet in an instant, and was charging, next thing, full force into
the knot of old women at the foot of the stairs, who, believing that
their last hour had come, and that it was old Nick in person, yelled
out,' 'Tis he; the devil! the devil!' and fled before the horns to come.

Giacinta was the first one on her legs, and after picking up the _caro_
Giacomo, _alias_ Caper, and finding he was not hurt, she then
good-naturedly helped Nina to arrange her tumbled garments.

Rocjean rushed to open the studio-windows, to air the room, for it had
not the odors of the Spice Islands in it. Caper hastened to pick up
paints, brushes, books, easel; but they were too many for him, and at
last, giving it up in despair, he sat down on a chair.

'_Well!_' said he, 'there _has_ been a HARD fight here! The dog must
have tackled the billy-goat; the goat must have upset this table, broken
his string, and pitched into that dirty little donkey; and the donkey
must have put his heels through that canvas; and all three must have
broken loose and upset us ... I say, Rocjean, send out for some wine;
_I_ am dry, and these girls are, I know.'

Peace was soon made. Nina was promised that she should sit for Lady
Godiva, as soon as the donkey was caught; for she was to be represented
seated on him instead of a horse. Giacinta poséd for a _contadina_ at a
fountain. Rocjean passed round the wine, and helped put the studio in
order; and Caper, brush in hand, painted away, determining that under
any circumstances, he never would open another menagerie, until he was
able to pay a keeper to look after the animals.

       *       *       *       *       *

FAIRIES.


  Our fathers, when the race was young,
    And therefore some say better,
  With fresh simplicity, believed
    In Dryad, Faun, and Satyr.
  The Zephyrs breathéd throughout the air,
    And when the scene was fitting,
  The Naiads combed their golden hair,
    Beside the waters sitting.

  And we ourselves in childhood loved
    A faith so sweet as this is;
  We felt the touch of rose-leaf palms,
    And almost felt their kisses:
  We tracked them through the shadowy grass,
    Or when the evening glistened,
  We lay in wait to see them pass,
    And to their singing listened.

  The hawthorn stretches wide its arms,
    And all the woods are fragrant,
  But Fancy walks in high-heeled shoes,
    And is no more a vagrant.
  No Satyrs from the greenwood peer,
    No more we see at gloaming,
  The Naiads sit, their golden hair
    Beside the waters combing.

  Alas! our early faith is cold,
    And all things are so real!
  Now, grown too wise, we shut our eyes,
    And laugh at the ideal.
  The charméd dusk still settles down
    Upon the happy prairies;
  But twilight's chiefest charm is flown,
    For where are now the fairies?

       *       *       *       *       *

JOHN BRIGHT.


The late misunderstanding between this country and Great Britain,
relative to Mason and Slidell, elicited a free expression of opinion
from the statesmen of the mother country, as to the contest now
proceeding in this country; and while we regretted to witness so many
proofs of the prejudice and jealousy which seem to hold possession of
the minds of our transatlantic cousins, we were gratified by the heroic
and brilliant defense of our cause by one so eminent in intellectual and
moral qualities as JOHN BRIGHT. The boldness and vigor of his efforts to
dispel the hostility of his compatriots toward America, and the masterly
ability with which he disarmed the weapons of our opponents, elicited
the respect of our people and have made his name one of veneration among
them. His position in our favor, amid the many discouragements which
beset him, justifies an attempt to lay before our readers an account of
his career and character, which, we doubt not, they will be interested
to hear.

John Bright, Member of Parliament for the great city of Birmingham, is
the son of respectable Quaker parents, and was born at Greenbank, near
Rochdale, in the year 1811. His family being largely interested in the
cotton manufacture, he was bred to a participation in this employment,
and is now the senior member of an extensive and enterprising firm, in
company with his brothers. It is hardly to be expected that one whose
early youth had been devoted to the restricted sphere of a
counting-room, would be remarkable for an extensive knowledge of men and
events, liberal opinions, freshness of intellect, and vigorous
brilliancy of declamation; and yet Mr. Bright has always manifested
superiority in these qualities. Known, while occupied exclusively in the
details of his proper avocation, for skill, promptness, and enterprise,
he has also been distinguished, since his sphere of usefulness has been
extended to the national councils, for the scope and accuracy of his
general information, the comprehensiveness of his mind, the richness of
his imagination, and the effective energy of his eloquence. He early
manifested an interest in politics, which was intensified by the
agitation of questions nearly affecting his own business interests. The
celebrated Anti-Corn-Law League, which was instituted in the time of
Lord Melbourne's ministry, by some eminent Whigs, for the purpose of
opposing the tariff erected by the corn-laws, excited his enthusiastic
coöperation, and afforded him an early opportunity of entering political
life. The enlightened ideas of the Reformers had already effected a
glorious renovation in the machinery of the government; and the
regeneration of the commercial system was next to be accomplished, by a
successful resistance to the selfish restrictions imposed upon trade by
the landed proprietors. In such a cause, John Bright embarked in his
twenty-seventh year; and his subsequent career has been a consistent
adherence to the same views which marked his entrance into public
notice. He espoused with ardor the principles avowed by the League, and
leaving the management of his private interests in the hands of the
junior members of the firm, began to discuss them publicly, with great
force and effect. The League soon perceived the valuable acquisition
they had made in the young Quaker, and not only encouraged him to
exertion but gave him opportunities to appear before many important
assemblages. On the list of orators whom the League commissioned to go
into the agricultural districts to advocate their cause, Mr. Bright's
name soon became prominent. By the irresistible cogency and energetic
expression which characterized his speech before many thousands in Drury
Lane Theatre, his reputation became national, and printed copies being
distributed throughout England, a desire to hear him on the important
question of the day became every where manifest. He went about among the
farmers and gentry, instilling with ability the principles of free
trade, developing arguments with telling effect, and rapidly organizing
branches of the League throughout the kingdom. The distrust of the lower
classes, which was awakened in some degree against the nobles and nabobs
who sustained the League, did not operate against him, who, as a man
directly from the people, educated in the stern school of labor, and as
the daily witness of and sympathizer with the suffering of the poor, at
once elicited their confidence in his honesty and their respect for his
intellectual power. Political advantage, which might be sought by
life-long politicians and hereditary nobles, could, they well knew,
offer no inducement to nor corrupt the ingenuous principles of one who
showed so little respect to party distinction, and who was entirely
independent of great connections.

The statesmen with whom he acted, in favor of free trade, were unwilling
to be without so valuable an ally on the floor of the House of Commons;
and, in April, 1843, he was placed in nomination by his numerous friends
at Durham, for the seat to which that city was entitled.

On the first trial, he was defeated; but a new election for the same
city becoming necessary in the following July, he was returned, by a
gratifying majority, to represent a place noted for its conservative
proclivities. He continued the member for Durham until 1847.

His first efforts, after entering Parliament, were directed to the
repeal of the Corn-Laws, in which beneficent measure he coöperated with
such men as Charles P. Villiers, brother of Lord Clarendon, Lord
Morpeth, now Earl of Carlisle, Lord John Russell, and his friend, Mr.
Richard Cobden. Sir Robert Peel, who was at that time Prime Minister,
had always adhered to the protective doctrines of Pitt and Wellington;
and it was mainly due to the clear and cogent reasoning of Bright and
his associates, that the illustrious statesman at the head of the
Treasury finally yielded, with a magnanimity never surpassed in the
annals of ministerial history, to the enlightened policy of free trade
in respect to corn. The distress which had for years resulted from the
stringent enactments of Lord Liverpool's government to the lower class,
was, by this patriotic sacrifice of the first minister, done away with;
and not least among those who contributed to the accomplishment of so
auspicious a result, we must reckon the subject of this sketch. The Tory
party, headed by such chiefs as Wellington and Lyndhurst, in the Lords,
and Stanley and Disraeli, in the Commons, made a stern and pertinacious
resistance to the repeal; and no one was more feared by the intellectual
giants of that party than was Bright. His severe wit, his plain, blunt
manner of exposing the defects of his opponents, and his impulsive and
overwhelming declamation, were hardly exceeded by the fluent exuberance
of Stanley and the keen sarcasm of the Hebrew novelist, Disraeli.

While he generally acted with the party of which Lord Russell and Lord
Landsdowne were the chiefs, he did not place himself supinely under the
dictation of the caucus-room. Professing to be bound by the precepts of
no faction, acting frequently with the conservatives, although oftener
with the liberals, independent of ministerial control, and disdaining to
attain power by the sacrifice of any principle, he was excluded from a
participation in the government, when those with whom he in general
sympathized succeeded to the administration in 1846. He early adopted
ultra-liberal views, and has always been known as the advocate of
universal suffrage, the separation of Church and State, and the
diminution of the influence of hereditary nobles; and although he could
not but be aware that many of his doctrines were repugnant to those of
his auditors, and a majority of his countrymen, he has not hesitated to
uphold and express them with great perseverance and ingenuousness.

Had he lived in the days of Russell and Sidney, he had perhaps shared
their fate, and paid the penalty of unpopular politics on the scaffold.
That bold spirit which he has ever manifested, exciting his great
talents in the advocacy of repugnant theories, would not have feared the
restraints which a ruder age encouraged despotic kings to put upon
freedom of political action. Luckily, he has been living in an age which
respects independent thought and proscribes the conscience of no man.
While he is certainly premature in his theories of equality, the
tendency of popular feeling is toward him rather than from him. Tory
policy to-day was Whig policy a century ago. Walpole would have
sustained the younger Pitt, and Derby and Lyndhurst will hardly dispute
the benefits of the reform of 1832.

Mr. Bright was returned to Parliament for Manchester, in 1847, and again
in 1852. This great town, which is the market for Rochdale, and
consequently in which he was well known, sent him to the Commons by a
handsome majority of eleven hundred. In the early session of 1857, Mr.
Cobden introduced a motion condemning the war into which the
administration had entered with China, on which the government was
defeated. Mr. Bright, though absent on account of ill-health, used his
influence in favor of the motion, by reason of which, on the appeal of
Lord Palmerston to the country, during the summer of that year, he was
defeated in his constituency by over five thousand votes; his successful
opponent, though agreeing with him in general, being a supporter of the
Chinese war.

In 1859, he was reinstated in Parliament, by the electors of Birmingham,
of whose manufacturing interests he had always shown himself a
consistent and ardent friend. For this constituency he is now member. He
has been twice married; first, to the daughter of Jonathan Priestley,
Esq., of Newcastle-on-Tyne, who died in 1841; and secondly, to his
present wife, the eldest daughter of W. Leatham, Esq., of Wakefield,
York.

His career of nineteen years in the House of Commons has been a series
of successful efforts, not only contributing to his lasting fame as an
orator and legislator, but achieving many important modifications in the
commercial system and in public sentiment. He has been the life of the
radical party, leading them on in their crusades against existing abuses
with fearless audacity, encouraging them to renewed contests, animating
them by the hopefulness and enthusiasm of his own soul, and by his lucid
logic attracting new converts to his views with every year. The Radicals
who, when he entered Parliament, were a mere handful, are already
assuming, under the vigorous lead of Bright, Cobden, and Villiers, the
proportions of a systematic and powerful element in the lower house.
Caring little for the impotent sneers of an aristocracy in its dotage,
and mindful only to advance systems of popular improvement and
alleviation, he has become a nucleus around which has gathered the
extreme wing of the liberal party. The last century beheld the
profligate Wilkes and the shallow Burdett at the head of the ultraists;
our own time is more fortunate in superseding vicious and unprincipled
radical leaders by men more virtuous and ingenuous. The great
manufacturing towns and districts, composed mainly of the lower orders
of society, and devoted to the interests of commerce, as opposed to the
narrow demands of the agricultural interest, have, owing in a great
degree to Mr. Bright's exertions, become pillars of his party. Lord
Palmerston, than whom a more sagacious politician does not or has not
existed, testified his knowledge of the influence of the Bright party,
by offering Mr. Cobden a seat in the Cabinet, and afterward by sending
him as special agent of England to negotiate a commercial treaty with
France.

John Bright has always shown himself a staunch friend to the prosperity
of the United States. Whenever an opportunity offered in which to
propose this country as an example worthy of the imitation of his own
countrymen, he has never failed to urge the superiority of our system.
His political ideas, approaching to republicanism, and abhorring the
dominance of hereditary aristocrats, and a political Church, have found
their theories realized in the admirable machinery of our own
government. Untainted with that jealous prejudice which appears to
animate many of his fellow-citizens, he can discern, and is ready to
acknowledge, the superior efficacy of the principles which underlie our
Constitution. No one has, of late, been more earnest in denunciation of
the irritating policy of Great Britain toward America, than Mr. Bright.

His personal appearance is that of a hearty, good-natured, and yet
determined Englishman, and both his form and face betoken the John Bull
as much as any member of the House. His morals are of a high order, his
honesty proverbial, his courage undoubted, his social character amiable,
and calculated to make him welcome to every circle. It is said, that
although opposed in the extreme to the political doctrines of Lord
Derby, his personal relations with that aristocratic nobleman are not
only friendly, but intimate; and that, after abusing one another lustily
at Westminster, they retire together arm in arm, chatting and laughing
as familiarly as if there never had been the least difference of opinion
between them. Like Fox, in this particular, he never allows his partisan
views to interfere with his social relations; and although he is a
fierce and bitter antagonist on the benches of Parliament, no one is a
more constant or a more zealous friend in private life. His efforts have
always been enlisted in behalf of the education of the masses;
conceiving that this is the foundation of a thoroughly popular political
system, such as he is desirous to introduce into the British
Constitution. Bred among a timid and peaceful sect, his opposition to
wars has been determined and earnest; and he was one of those who, in
1854, sent a deputation to the Emperor Nicholas to urge an abandonment
of his war policy, and the maintenance of peace, as the duty of a
Christian race. He is, however, rather fitted to be a reformer and
agitator than a statesman. He has all that enthusiasm, all that energy,
all that courage, all that stubborn perseverance in the pursuit of his
purpose, which distinguish the characters of those men who have
conducted the great revolutions of society to a successful issue.
Perhaps he would be found deficient in judging how far to proceed in
innovation; but this, though an important, is not an essential element
in the composition of the mere reformer. It is for him to lead on the
people to great and startling changes, to overturn tyrannies, to break
down old forms, to inculcate novel precepts, to regenerate public
sentiment. These rather require an impetuous spirit, a bold heart, an
active and restless mind, than calmness, judgment, and deliberation. It
is when a new polity is to be erected, when revolution has passed away,
and the crisis reached and left, when a constitution is to be framed,
and new principles are to be brought to their test, that the steady
process of a sound judgment is called into requisition. Then it is that
the reformer yields to the statesman; that impulse retires before
reason; that passion and confusion become subordinated to the elements
of order and the authority of intellect. Many have been both the
reformers producing and the statesmen correcting, revolutions; minds
which, with the fire of enthusiasm, and the hot impulse of indignation
at wrongs done, have united a judicious discrimination, a cool faculty
of reflection, and the power of separating the benefits from the evils
of revolution.

It is certain that Mr. Bright would be a fearless and zealous reformer;
it is doubtful whether he would not give place to others in the
after-work. Well qualified to lead an enthusiastic faction to a crusade
against precedent and authority, he has thus far failed to show himself
capable of conducting an administration. Among the statesmen of modern
times, honesty and enthusiasm are not qualities which control the policy
of the state. Compare the crafty demeanor, the dubious expressions, the
cautious statements of Earl Russell, with the plain, rude, blunt
harangues of Mr. Bright, and we perceive the qualities which have
elevated the former, and those which have kept the latter in the
background. Lord Russell thinks what is for his interest to think; Mr.
Bright thinks what that homely monitor, his conscience, urges on him.
Lord Russell might adopt all the consequences of universal suffrage, and
the principles of free trade, if he could still sit at the
council-board, and dictate dispatches with a double meaning to foreign
governments; but he fears to go beyond, though he nearly approaches, the
line which separates the popular from the unpopular reformer.
Expediency, on the contrary, forms no part of Mr. Bright's creed; and,
not being a scion of a noble and illustrious house, nor having attained
a position in the state which might have made him a conservative, he has
no hesitation in announcing his opinions in favor of universal suffrage
and free trade, in opposition of a dominant aristocracy, and in defiance
of a religious establishment, and dares with provoking coolness the
retaliation of the great and powerful of the land.

Mr. Bright's oratory is of a fresh, vigorous, and versatile character,
and never fails to draw a multitude to the House when it is announced
that he is to speak. Unlike the hesitating and timid delivery of
Russell, the rapid jargon of Palmerston, the rich and graceful
intonation of Gladstone, or the splendid sarcasm of Disraeli, his
eloquence is bold, masculine, and ringing, and gives a better idea of
intellectual and physical strength than any other speaker in the House.
Although blunt, and careless of the feelings of others, there is a
certain elegance in every sentence, which softens the rude sentiment
into a vigorous anathema. Accurate in fact, naturally easy in delivery,
bitter in irony, and ingenuous in argument, few are ready to meet him on
the floor of the Commons. He is a fair specimen of what we hear called
'the fine old English gentleman,' without the ignorance, the bigotry,
the awkwardness, and the peevishness, which go to make up the characters
of a large proportion of the country baronets and gentry; that is, he is
hearty, cordial, and merry, entering with enthusiasm into whatever he
proposes to do, and determined to leave no stone unturned to accomplish
it. If he should live to see the day when his countrymen shall adopt the
views of which he is the foremost champion, no honor of the state will
be denied him, and his name will rank with those of William of Orange,
and Lord Grey, as the regenerators of the British Constitution; and if
he does not, he can not but be respected, as Milton and Sidney are, by
future generations, for his honesty, his patriotism under difficulty,
and his fearless spirit.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ANTE-NORSE DISCOVERERS OF AMERICA.

(CONCLUDED.)


THE CHINESE IN MEXICO IN THE FIFTH CENTURY.

The reader who would ascertain by the map whether it was likely that at
an early period intercourse could have taken place between Eastern Asia
and Western America, will have no difficulty in deciding on the
geographical possibility of such transit. At Behring's Straits only
forty miles of water intervene between the two continents, while routes
by the Aleutian Islands, or through the Sea of Ochotsk, present no great
difficulties, even to a timid navigator. And the Chinese and Japanese of
earlier ages were by no means timid in their voyages. It is only within
two centuries that their governments, alarmed by the growing power of
the Western world, and desirous of keeping their subjects at home,
prohibited the construction of strictly sea-worthy and sea-faring
vessels. Even within the memory of man, Japanese junks have been driven
to the California coasts.

Impressed by the probability of such intercommunication, Johann
Friedrich Neumann, a learned German Orientalist, while residing in
China, during the years 1829-30, for the purpose of collecting Chinese
works, after investigating the subject, published its results in a work,
subsequently translated by me, under his supervision. Among the first
results of his inquiries, was the fact that 'during the course of many
centuries, the Chinese acquired a surprisingly accurate knowledge of the
north-east coast of Asia, extending, as their records in astronomy and
natural history prove, to the sixty-fifth degree of latitude, and even
to the Arctic Ocean.' From the Chinese _Book of Mountains and Seas_, it
appears that the Esquimaux and their country were well known to the
Chinese, and that in the sixth century, natives of the North and of the
islands bordering on America, came with Japanese embassies to China.
When it is borne in mind that the early Chinese geographers and
astronomers determined on the situations of these northern regions, with
an accuracy which has been of late years surprisingly verified by
eminent European men of science, and when we learn that the Year Books
or annals of China continually repeat these observations, and that their
accounts of the natives of the islands within a few miles of the
American shore are as undoubtedly correct as they are minute, we
certainly have good reason for assuming that their description of the
main land and its inhabitants is well worthy, if not of implicit belief,
at least of an investigation by the savans of the Western World. Be it
borne in mind, also, that during the first eight centuries of our own
Christian era, a spirit of discovery in foreign lands was actively at
work all over the East. In the words of Neumann:

    'In the first century of our reckoning, the pride and vanity
    induced by the Chinese social system was partly broken by the
    progress of Buddhism over all Eastern Asia. He who believed in the
    divine mission of the son of the King of Kaphilapura, must
    recognize every man as his brother and equal by birth; yes, must
    strive (for the old Buddhism has this in common with the Christian
    religion) to extend the joyful mission of salvation to all the
    nations on the earth, and to attain this end must suffer, like the
    type of the God Incarnate, all earthly pain and persecution. So we
    find that a number of Buddhist monks and preachers have at distant
    times wandered to all known and unknown parts of the world, either
    to obtain information with regard to their distant
    co-religionists, or to preach the doctrine of the Holy Trinity to
    unbelievers. The official accounts which these missionaries have
    rendered of their travels, and of which we possess several
    _entire_, considered as sources of information with regard to
    different lands and nations, belong to the most instructive and
    important part of Chinese literature. From these sources we have
    derived, in a great degree, that information which we possess
    regarding North-eastern Asia and the Western coasts of America
    during centuries which have been hitherto vailed in the deepest
    obscurity.'

The earliest account, given of extended travels on the North-American
continent describes a journey from Tahan or Aloska to a distance, and
into a region which indicates the north-west coast of Mexico and the
vicinity of San Blas. The following is a literal translation made from
the original Chinese report, by Neumann:

    'THE KINGDOM OF FUSANG, OR MEXICO.

    'During the reign of the dynasty _Tsi_, in the first year of the
    year-naming[E] 'Everlasting Origin,' (Anno Domini 499,) came a
    Buddhist priest from this kingdom, who bore the cloister name of
    Roci-schin, that is, Universal Compassion, (_Allgemeins
    Mitleiden_: according to King-tscheu it signifies 'an old
    name,[F]') to the present district of Hukuang, and those
    surrounding it, who narrated that 'Fusang is about twenty thousand
    Chinese miles in an easterly direction from Tahan, and east of the
    middle kingdom. Many Fusang-trees grow there, whose leaves
    resemble the Dryanda Cordifolia;[G] the sprouts, on the contrary,
    resemble those of the bamboo-tree,[H] and are eaten by the
    inhabitants of the land. The fruit is like a pear in form, but is
    red. From the bark they prepare a sort of linen, which they use
    for clothing, and also a sort of ornamented stuff.[I] The houses
    are built of wooden beams; fortified and walled places a unknown.

    'THEIR WRITING AND CIVIL REGULATIONS.

    'They have written characters in this land, and prepare paper from
    the bark of the Fusang. The people have no weapons, and make no
    wars, but in the arrangements of the kingdom they have a northern
    and a southern prison. Trifling offenders were lodged in the
    southern, but those confined for greater offenses in the northern;
    so that those who were about to receive grace could be placed in
    the southern prison, and those to the contrary in the northern.
    Those men and women who were imprisoned for life were allowed to
    marry. The boys resulting from these marriages were, at the age of
    eight years, sold for slaves; the girls not until their ninth
    year. If a man of any note was found guilty of crimes, an assembly
    was held: it must be in an excavated place, (_Grabe_.) There they
    strewed ashes over him, and bade him farewell, as if he were
    dying. If the offender were one of a lower class, he alone was
    punished; but when of rank, the degradation was extended to his
    children and grandchildren. With those of the highest rank it
    attained to the seventh generation.


    'THE KINGDOM AND THE NOBLES.

    'The name of the king is pronounced _Ichi_. The nobles of the
    first class are termed Tuilu; of the second, Little Tuilu; and of
    the third, Na-to-scha. When the prince goes forth he is
    accompanied by horns and trumpets. The color of his clothes
    changes with the different years. In the first two of the ten-year
    cyclus they are blue; in the two next, red; in the two following,
    yellow; in the two next, red; and in the last two, black.


    'MANNERS AND CUSTOMS.

    'The horns of the oxen are so large that they contain ten bushels,
    (Schaeffel.) They use them to hold all manner of things. Horses,
    oxen and stags, are harnessed to their wagons. Stags are used here
    as cattle are used in the Middle Kingdom, and from the milk of the
    hind they make butter. The red pears of the Fusang tree keep good
    throughout the year. Moreover, they have apples and reeds; from
    the latter they prepare mats. _No iron is found in this land; but
    copper, gold, and silver are not prized, and do not serve as a
    medium of exchange in the market._

    'Marriage is determined upon in the following manner. The suitor
    builds himself a hut before the door of the house where the one
    longed for dwells, and waters and cleans the ground every morning
    and evening. When a year has passed by, if the maiden is not
    inclined to marry him, he departs; should she he willing, it is
    completed. When the parents die, they fast seven days. For the
    death of the paternal or maternal grandfather they lament five
    days; at the death of elder or younger sisters or brothers, uncles
    or aunts, three days. They then sit from morning to evening before
    an image of the ghost, absorbed in prayer, but wear no mourning
    clothes. When the king dies, the son who succeeds him does not
    busy himself for three years with state affairs.

    'In earlier times these people lived not according to the laws of
    Buddha. But it happened that in the second year-naming 'Great
    Light,' of song, (A.D. 458,) five beggar monks, from the kingdom
    Kipin, went to this land, extended over it the religion of Buddha,
    and with it his holy writings and images. They instructed the
    people in the principles of monastic life, and so changed their
    manners.'

Such is the account of Mexico, as given by the old Buddhist monk
Hoei-schin. What is there authentically known of ancient America and its
inhabitants which confirms his account?

In the Fusang tree we have, according to the opinion of Neumann, the
_Agave Americana_ or Great American Aloe, called by the Indians Maguey,
which is remarkably abundant in the plains of 'New-Spain,' and which
supplies so many of the wants of its inhabitants even at the present
day. An intoxicating drink, paper, thread, ropes, pins, and needles,
(from the thorns,) and clothing, are all furnished by it, so that a
traveler, observing the ease with which these are obtained, declares
that in Mexico the Maguey plant must first be exterminated ere the sloth
and idleness which now so generally afflict them, can be checked. Such a
curious plant, supplying to such an extent, and so exclusively, so many
of the needs of life, would naturally be the first object noted by an
explorer.

Very remarkable is the observation that 'in this land no iron is found,
and that copper, gold, and silver, are not prized;' from which we may
infer that they were known, and probably abundant, and that they 'do not
serve as a medium of exchange in the market.' It is needless to point
out the fact that this was the case not only in ancient Mexico, but also
in Peru, and that these were probably the only countries on the face of
the earth where 'the precious metals' were held in such indifference. Be
it observed that the monk Hoei-schin says nothing of the abundance of
gold and silver; he simply remarks as a curious fact, that they were not
used as a circulating medium.

In commenting on this record, Neumann judiciously reminds the reader
that the information given by Hoei-schin and other Buddhist travelers,
goes back into a period long anterior to the most remote periods alluded
to in the wavering legends of the Aztecs, resting upon uncertain
interpretations of hieroglyphics. One thing we know, that in America as
in Europe, one wave of emigration and conquest swept after another, each
destroying in a great measure all traces of its predecessor. Thus in
Peru, the Inca race ruled over the lower caste, and would in time have
probably extinguished it. But the Incas themselves were preceded by
another and more gifted race, since it is evident that these unknown
predecessors were far more gifted than themselves as architects. 'Who
this race were,' says Prescott, (_Conquest of Peru_, chap. i. pp. 12,
13, ed. 1847,) 'and whence they came, may afford a tempting theme for
inquiry to the speculative antiquarian. But it is a land of darkness
that lies far beyond the domain of history.'

But as the American waves of conquest flowed South, it is no extravagant
hypothesis to assume that the race of men whom the monk encountered in
Mexico may possibly have had something in common with what was afterward
found further south, in the land of the Incas. One thing is certain;
that there is a singularly Peruvian air in all that this short narrative
tells us of the land 'Fusang.' Fortified places, he says, were unknown;
and Prescott speaks of the system of fortifications established through
the empire as though it had originated--as it most undoubtedly
did--with the Incas. Most extraordinary, however, is the remark of the
monk, that the houses are built with wooden beams. As houses the world
over are constructed in this manner, the remark might seem almost
superfluous. It is worth observing that the Peruvians built their houses
with wooden beams, and as Prescott tells us, 'knew no better way of
holding the beams together than tying them with thongs of _maguey_.' Now
be it observed, that the monk makes a direct transition from speaking of
the textile fiber and fabric of the maguey to the wooden beams of the
houses--a coïncidence which has at least a color of proof. It may be
remarked, by the way, that this construction of houses 'tied up,' was
admirably adapted to a land of earthquakes, as in Mexico, and that
Prescott himself testifies that a number of them 'still survive, while
the more modern constructions of the conquerors are buried in ruins.'

Most strikingly Peruvian is the monk's account of 'the Kingdom and the
Nobles.' The name Ichi, is strikingly suggestive of the natural Chinese
pronunciation of the word Inca. The stress laid on the three grades of
nobles, suggests the Peruvian Inca castes of lower grade, as well as the
Mexican; while the stately going forth of the king, 'accompanied by
horns and trumpets,' vividly recalls Prescott's account of the
journeyings of the Peruvian potentate. The change of the color of his
garments according to the astronomical cycle, is, however, more
thoroughly in accordance with the spirit of the institutions of the
Children of the Sun than any thing which we have met in the whole of
this strange and obsolete record. 'The ritual of the Incas,' says
Prescott, 'involved a routine of observances as complex and elaborate as
ever distinguished that of any nation, whether pagan or Christian. Each
month had its appropriate festival, or rather festivals. The four
principal _had reference to the Sun_, and commemorated the great periods
of his annual progress, the solstices and equinoxes. Garments of a
peculiar wool, and feathers of a peculiar color, were reserved to the
Incas. I can not identify the blue, red, yellow, and black, but it is
worthy of remark that the rainbow was his special attribute or
scutcheon, and that the mere fact that his whole life was passed in
accordance with the requisitions of astronomical festivals, and that
different colors were reserved to him and identified with him,
establishes a strange analogy with the narrative of Hoei-schin.

'Of this subject of the cycles and change of colors corresponding to
astronomical mutations, it is worth noting that Montesinos[J] expressly
asserts that the Peruvians threw their years into cycles of ten; a
curious fact which has escaped the notice of Neumann, who conjectures
that 'it may have been a subdivision of the Aztec period, or have even
been used as an independent period, as was indeed the case by the
Chinese, who term their notations 'stems.' It is worthy of remark,' he
adds, 'that among the Mongols and Mantchous these 'stems' are named
after colors which perhaps have some relation to the several colors of
the royal clothing in the cycles of 'Fusang.' These Tartaric tribes term
the first two years of the ten-year _cyclus_, 'green and greenish,' the
two next, 'red and reddish,' and soon, yellow and yellowish, white and
whitish, and finally, black and blackish.'

I am perfectly aware that Peru is not Mexico; but I beg the reader to
keep in mind my former observation, that Mexico _might_ have been at one
time peopled by a race who had Peruvian customs, which in after-years
were borne by them far to the South. The ancient mythology and
ethnography of Mexico presents, however, a mass of curious identities
with that of Asia. Both Mexico and Peru had the tradition of a deluge,
from which seven prisoners escaped; in the hieroglyphs of the former
country, these seven are represented as issuing from an egg.

It is remarkable that a Peruvian tradition declares the first
missionaries of civilization who visited them to have been white and
bearded. 'This may remind us,' says Prescott, 'of the tradition existing
among the Aztecs, in respect to Quetzalcoatl, the good deity, who, with
a similar garb and aspect, came up the great plateau from the East, on a
like benevolent mission to the natives.' In like manner the _Aesir_,
children of Light, or of the Sun, came from the East to Scandinavia, and
taught the lore of the Gods.

The Peruvian embalming of the royal dead takes us back to Egypt; the
burning of the wives of the deceased Incas, reveals India; the
singularly patriarchal character of the whole Peruvian policy is like
that of China in the olden time; while the system of espionage, of
tranquillity, of physical well-being, and the iron-like immovability in
which the whole social frame was cast, brings before the reader Japan,
as it even now exists. In fact, there is something strangely Japanese in
the entire _cultus_ of Peru, as described by all writers.

It is remarkable that the Supreme Being of the Peruvians was worshiped
under the names of _Pachacomac_, 'he who sustains, or gives life to the
universe,' and of _Viracocha_, 'Foam of the Sea,' a name strikingly
recalling that of Venus Aphrodité, the female second principle in all
ancient mythologies. Not less curious was the institution of the Vestal
Virgins of the Sun, who were buried alive if detected in an intrigue,
and whose duty it was to keep burning the sacred fire obtained at the
festival of Raymi.

    'Vigilemque sacraverat ignem Excubias divûm æternas.'

This fire was obtained as by the ancient Romans, on a precisely similar
occasion, by means of a concave mirror of polished metal. The Incas, in
order to preserve purity of race, married their own sisters, as did the
kings of Persia and other Oriental nations, urged by a like feeling of
pride. Among the Peruvians, _Mama_, signified 'mother,' while _Papa_,
was applied to the chief priest. 'With both, the term seems to embrace
in its most comprehensive sense, the paternal relation, in which it is
more familiarly employed by most of the nations of Europe.'

It should be borne in mind, that as in the case of the Green Corn
festival, many striking analogies can be established between the Indian
tribes of North-America and the Peruvians. Gallatin has shown the
affinity of languages between all the American nations; at the remote
age when the monk visited Mexico, it is possible that the _first race_
which subsequently spread southward occupied the entire north.

Let the reader also remember that while the proofs of the existence or
residence of Orientals in America are extremely vague and uncertain, and
supported only by coïncidences, (singular and inexplicable as the latter
may be,) the _antecedent probability_ of their having come hither, is
far stronger than that of the Norse discovery of this country, or even
that of Columbus himself. When we see an aggressive nation, with a
religious propaganda, boasting a commerce and gifted with astronomers
and geographers of no mean ability, (and the accuracy of the old Chinese
men of science has been frequently verified,) advancing century after
century in a certain direction, chronicling correctly every step made,
and accurately describing the geography and ethnography of a certain
region, we have no good ground to deny the last advance which their
authentic history claims to have made, however indisposed we may be to
admit it. One thing, at least, will probably be cheerfully conceded by
the impartial reader; that the subject well deserves further
investigation, and that it is to be hoped that it will obtain it from
those students who are at present so earnestly occupied in exploring the
mysteries of Oriental literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

STATE RIGHTS.


The theory of State Rights, as expounded by its advocates in its
application to the several States of the American Union, is subversive
of all government, and calculated to destroy our political organization.
Its tendency is to weaken the central government by minute division of
the power necessary for its maintainance. Without power to make its
authority respected, no government can live. The doctrine of State
Sovereignty detracts from this authority by lessening the power which
upholds it. Thirty-four-States, each claiming exclusive authority to act
independently on any given subject, have only one thirty-fourth part of
the strength that they would have, were they all acting under and
controlled by one central head. That central head in our Union is the
Federal Government, formed by and growing out of the Constitution, and
it must exist for the protection of each of its thirty-four members, as
well as for itself, the connecting power. Its acts must not be disputed
by any one of the States or by any number of them acting in concert. If
one or more States may defy the central authority or attempt to withdraw
from its government, any other States may do likewise, to the ruin of
the political fabric erected at so much cost, and in its place would
spring up scores of weak and unprotected communities. But, says the
State rights advocate, this central power will have too much authority,
too much control over the States; will become despotic, and in time
destroy the liberties of the people. How? By whom will those liberties
be destroyed? This central power, styled the Federal Government, is
formed by the people, is of the people, is for the people, and has only
such power as the people gave it; and thus being of and from the people,
it (or they) can not destroy its (or their) own liberties. Were our
government hereditary instead of elective; were our institutions
monarchical instead of republican; had we privileged classes perpetuated
by primogeniture, there might be some danger of placing too much power
in the hands of the Federal Government; but formed as our institutions
are, framed as our Constitution is, educated as our people are, there
can be no fear of having the central power or general Federal Government
too strong, or its authority supreme. Without strength there can be no
authority; without authority there can be no respect; without respect
there can be no government; without government there can be no
civilization. The doctrine of State rights as applied to the communities
forming the American Union, elevates the State over the nation, demands
that the Federal shall yield to the State laws, and completely ignores
the supremacy of the united authority of the whole people. This theory
carried out logically, would make counties equal to States; towns equal
to counties; wards and districts equal to towns; neighborhoods equal to
districts and wards; and to come down to the last application of the
principle, every one man in a neighborhood equal to the whole, in fact,
superior, if the State rights doctrine be true, that the State is
supreme within its own limits. The application of this principle ends
society by destroying the order based on authority, and placing the
State above the Nation, and the individual above the State. Civilized
societies are but the aggregation of persons coming or remaining
together for mutual interest and protection. This mutual interest
requires certain rules for the protection of the weak from the
encroachments of the strong in the society, as well as from outside
enemies. These rules take the form of laws. These laws must be
administered; their administration requires power. This power is placed
in the hands of certain members of this society, community, or State, as
the case may be, for the good of the whole State, and each individual
claiming protection from the State, or whose interest is promoted by
being a member thereof, is under moral as well as legal obligations to
submit to this authority thus exercised by the chosen executors of the
public will. Rights that might pertain to one man on an island by
himself, do not attach to man in civilized communities. There he must
not go beyond the landmarks established by law, and he agrees to this
arrangement by remaining in the State or community. The same principle
is equally applicable to the States of the American Union. Before the
adoption of the Federal Constitution, they were separate, distinct, and
so far as any central head or supreme governing power was concerned,
independent States, or, in fact, sovereignties. True, they had tried to
get along under a sort of confederation agreement, a kind of temporary
alliance for offensive and defensive ends, but which failed from its own
inherent weakness, from the lack of that cohesiveness which nothing but
centralization can give. Prior to the adoption of the Federal
Constitution, these different States were like so many different
individuals outside of any regular society; were merely so many isolated
aggregations of non-nationalized individuals. Experience showed them
their unfortunate condition; as separate States they had no strength to
repel a common enemy, no credit, no money, no authority, commanded no
respect. So it is with an individual outside of society. These States
were then in the enjoyment--no, not in the enjoyment but merely in
possession--of State rights to the fullest extent. They had the right to
be poor; the right to be weak; the right to get in debt; the right to
issue bills of credit, (was any one found who thought it right to take
them?) the right to wage war with any of their neighbors; the right to
do any and all acts pertaining to an independent sovereignty; but these
rights were not all that the people of these States desired; and after
trying the independent and the confederate State policy until experience
had shown the utter fallacy of both, they met in convention and passed
the present Constitution, and formed themselves into ONE NATION. This
Constitution, compact, copartnership, confederation, combination, or
whatever it may be called, was and is the written foundation
(voluntarily made) on which the NATION is built and maintained.

The charter, instrument, or Constitution, defines, by common consent and
mutual agreement of the parties voluntarily forming it, the powers,
rights, and duties of the national government growing out of and based
on this Constitution. Among the powers thus delegated to the National or
Federal Government, and to be used by the legislative authority thereof,
are the following:

    'ARTICLE I.--SECTION 8.

    'The Congress shall have power--

    '1. To lay and collect taxes, duties, imposts, and excises, to pay
    the debts, and provide for the common defense and general welfare
    of the United States; but all duties, imposts, and excises shall
    be uniform throughout the United States.

    '2. To borrow money on the credit of the United States.

    '3. To regulate commerce with foreign nations, and among the
    several States, and with the Indian tribes.

    '4. To establish a uniform rule of naturalization, and uniform
    laws on the subject of bankruptcies, throughout the United States.

    '5. To coin money, regulate the value thereof, and of foreign
    coin, and fix the standard of weights and measures.

    '6. To provide for the punishment of counterfeiting the securities
    and current coin of the United States.

    '7. To establish post-offices and post-roads.

    '8. To promote the progress of science and useful arts, by
    securing, for limited times, to authors and inventors the
    exclusive right to their respective writings and discoveries.

    '9. To constitute tribunals inferior to the Supreme Court.

    '10. To define and punish piracies and felonies committed on the
    high seas, and offenses against the law of nations.

    '11. To declare war, grant letters of marque and reprisal, and
    make rules concerning captures on land and water.

    '12. To raise and support armies; but no appropriation of money
    to that use shall be for a longer term than two years.

    '13. To provide and maintain a navy.

    '14. To make rules for the government and regulation of the land
    and naval forces.

    '15. To provide for calling forth the militia to execute the laws
    of the Union, suppress insurrections, and repel invasions.

    '16. To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining the
    militia, and for governing such part of them as may be employed in
    the service of the United States, reserving to the States
    respectively the appointment of the officers, and the authority of
    training the militia, according to the discipline proscribed by
    Congress.

    '18. To make all laws which shall be necessary and proper for
    carrying into execution the foregoing powers, and all other powers
    vested by this Constitution in the government of the United
    States, or in any department or officer thereof.'

The first two words in this section--'the Congress'--completely annul
the separate integrity of States. The Congress of what, and for what?
The Congress of the UNITED STATES, acting for the UNITED States, as a
UNIT, a WHOLE, a UNION. The only allusion in this section to any thing
like a right existing in any State after the adoption of the
Constitution, is the right to officer the militia, and these officers
are to 'train' the militia, _under the direction of Congress_, and not
under State laws--a clause which of itself strikes a decisive blow at
the theory of independent State rights. In no one of these
specifications is there a single allusion to any 'State.' Every power
enumerated is given to the '_United_ States,' to the 'Union' formed by
virtue of the Constitution. Never was there a more perfect absorption of
atoms into one mass, than in these specifications; but to make the
principle still stronger, and as if to remove any doubt as to 'State
rights,' the first clause of the Ninth Section of the same Article
expressly prohibits any State from importing certain persons after a
given date, which, when it arrived, (in 1808,) Congress passed a
national law stopping the slave-trade--a trade that some of the States
would have been glad to encourage, or at least, allow, if they had had
authority to do so. This right was taken from them by the Constitution,
in the year 1808; up to that time they had that right; but after that
date the right no longer existed, and Congress passed the law referred
to, in accordance with the power given them by this clause of the
Constitution.

But this First Article of Section Nine is not all in that section that
smothers State rights; for Article Five declares that vessels bound to
or from one State need not enter, clear, or pay duties in another. Why
this specification, if the States were to be supreme in their own
limits? (and this doctrine of State rights is, in its essence,
supremacy.) Independent states exact clearances and entrances, and
demand duties from foreign vessels, but never from their own. State
rights are ignored in this Article. But to prevent any possibility of
any State ever exercising the rights of sovereignty now claimed by the
advocates of this most pernicious doctrine, from which has grown the
present gigantic rebellion, Section Ten, of the same Article, goes on to
declare that--

    '1. No State shall enter into any treaty, alliance, or
    confederation; grant letters of marque and reprisal; coin money;
    emit bills of credit; make any thing but gold and silver coin a
    tender in payment of debts; pass any bill of attainder, _ex post
    facto_ law, or law impairing the obligation of contracts; or grant
    any title of nobility.

    '2. No State shall, without the consent of Congress, lay any
    imposts or duties on imports or exports, except what may be
    absolutely necessary for executing its inspection laws; and the
    net produce of all duties and imposts laid by any State on imports
    or exports, shall be for the use of the treasury of the United
    States; and all such laws shall be subject to the revision and
    control of the Congress. No State shall, without the consent of
    Congress, lay any duty on tonnage, keep troops or ships of war in
    time of peace, enter into any agreement or compact with another
    State or with a foreign power, or engage in war.'

Language can not be stronger; intentions were never more clearly
expressed; thoughts were never more explicitly set forth in words.
Nothing is left for doubt; all is concise, positive, and binding.
Nothing is left to be guessed at; nothing left that could be construed
to mean that States 'may' or 'may not.' 'SHALL' and 'SHALL NOT,' are the
words used to define what the States are to do or not to do. The very
slight 'right' given to the States to lay duties for executing their
inspection laws, carries with it a proviso, or command, that the
proceeds of such duties must be paid into the National Treasury, and the
very laws that the States might pass for this purpose must be approved
by 'THE CONGRESS.' What Congress? The Congress of the UNITED STATES--of
the UNION. Every vestige of State sovereignty, of 'State rights,' is
utterly annihilated in these clauses.

Independent, sovereign states may and do make treaties, alliances, grant
letters of marque, or coin money; in fact, no 'State' or sovereignty can
exist without these powers; and the fact that these powers are all taken
from and denied to the States of the American Union, is conclusive proof
that the framers of the Constitution did not intend to allow the States
the sovereignty now claimed for them, and which the rebellious States
are endeavoring to maintain. This heresy must be exorcised now and
forever.

Is there any thing more in the Constitution (and bear in mind that no
right is claimed for any State except in accordance with this
instrument, which is still in full force except in those rebellious
States where this disorganizing doctrine of 'State rights' has
uncontrolled sway) making the Union supreme and the States subordinate?
What says the following section?

    'Full faith and credit shall be given in each State to the public
    acts, records, and judicial proceedings of every other State. And
    the Congress may, by general laws, prescribe the manner in which
    such acts, records, and proceedings shall be proved, and the
    effect thereof.'

A State, therefore, _may_ so legislate, that is, it _may_ have acts and
records, but each other State SHALL give to the records and proceedings
of all the rest 'full faith and credit.' Does not this enactment
thoroughly negative all theories of the exclusive supremacy of State
rights? Independent sovereign States do not, in the absence of treaties,
give any faith or credit to the records or proceedings of other
independent states. Our States are not only compelled to do this, by
this section, but must do so in accordance with the manner prescribed by
'the Congress' of the UNITED STATES, of the UNION, and of the NATION. No
other congress is mentioned.

    'SECTION 2.

    'The citizens of each State shall be entitled to all privileges
    and immunities of citizens in the several States.'

By this clause a native or naturalized citizen of Maine can conduct
business, hold and convey real estate (the highest civil, social, and
judicial tests of citizenship) in the State of Georgia. The citizen of
Minnesota can do likewise in New-York, and so of each and in all the
States. Independent states or supreme sovereignties do not allow these
privileges to any but their own citizens. The United States do not,
neither do other nations. Citizenship must precede the right to hold and
convey real estate. All governments are naturally jealous of the alien.
By this clause, no American citizen can be an alien in any State of the
American Union. He is a citizen of the nation. No State can pass any law
demanding more of a citizen not born, though residing within its limits,
than from one born therein, or place him under any restrictions not
common to the native or other citizen of such State. Not a vestige of
'State' exclusiveness is there in the clause. Every idea of State
supremacy is blotted out by it. A heavier blow is, however, dealt at
State rights in the following section:

    'The United States shall guarantee to every State in this Union a
    republican form of government, and shall protect each of them
    against invasion, and, on application of the Legislature, or of
    the Executive, (when the Legislature can not be convened,) against
    domestic violence.'

The greatest of all rights that an independent state can or may have, is
the right to adopt its own form of government; but this clause
completely destroys such right on the part of any State of this Union to
frame its own form of government. No State, for example, can have a
monarchical government; since the United States are to guarantee a
_republican_ form: and no State can adopt an hereditary or theocratic
government, because the UNITED STATES are bound to give each State a
republican government. In like manner we might run through all the forms
of government that have ever blessed or cursed our race, without finding
one which can he adopted by any State of this Union, except the single
form of 'republican,' named in the Constitution. But can a State bereft
of the right to frame its own mode of government be said to be possessed
of '_sovereign_' 'State rights,' or could a more effectual provision
against their development have been formed than this?

    'This Constitution, and the laws of the United States which shall
    be made in pursuance thereof, and all treaties made, or which
    shall be made, under the authority of the United States, shall be
    the supreme law of the land; and the Judges in every State shall
    be bound thereby; any thing in the Constitution or laws of any
    State to the contrary notwithstanding.

    'The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the
    members of the several STATE LEGISLATURES, and all executive and
    judicial officers, both of the United States and of the SEVERAL
    STATES, shall be bound by oath or affirmation to support this
    Constitution.'

This Constitution, these laws, these treaties, _shall be the supreme
law_, no matter what 'State' constitutions and 'State' laws may declare.
'Shall!' is the word, and there can be no doubt as to its meaning.
Again, members of the State Legislatures, and all officers of the
several States 'shall' be bound to support the 'Constitution.' Where are
the 'State rights' in these clauses? Every State and every State
official is made subordinate to and an executive of the acts of the
'United States,' and the United States constitutes a '_nation_'. That is
the only word which meets our case. WE ARE A NATION, not 'a
tenant-at-will sort of confederacy.'

The waters of the Bay of New-York and of the Hudson river flow entirely
within the States of New-York and New-Jersey. One of the vested rights
of an independent state, is that known as 'eminent domain,' or supreme
ownership, implying control. Apply this doctrine of State rights in this
case, or rather, allow it to be applied by the States named above, and
they could prevent the navigation of these waters by any but their own
citizens or those to whom they might grant that privilege. If this
doctrine of State rights is sound, these two States would have the right
to levy tolls or duties on every vessel that sails those waters, as the
State of New-York exacts tolls on her canals. Such power thus exercised,
would cripple commerce, inconvenience the public, and utterly destroy
all comity between the States. This exacting tolls for navigation of
waters is one of the most offensive systems left us by past generations.
It is so odious that modern governments decline to submit to it in cases
where there is no doubt as to 'State rights,' as in that of the 'Sound
Dues' exacted by Denmark. If, however, the State is supreme within its
limits, it has a perfect right to exact such tolls. But no State in this
nation has any such right under the Constitution. Its existence would
destroy the Union by placing each State under the laws and exactions of
either one of the others. The troubles growing out of such exactions
would beget dispute; these disputes would beget open strife, which would
end in open rupture and the downfall of the NATIONAL UNION.

The 'UNITED STATES,' 'the Union,' 'the Nation,' are _supreme_. The
States, _as States_, are subordinate; as 'parts,' they are inferior to
the 'whole.' The 'State rights' doctrine is wrong, disorganizing,
destructive of national life, and must be destroyed.

Again, one grand evidence of a nation's or a people's civilization, is
found in the correspondence, written and printed, conducted by the
citizens. Barbarians have and need no correspondence. Civilization needs
it, and can not exist without it. A migratory people like ours have more
correspondence than older and less migratory nations. A citizen
emigrating from Vermont to Illinois must correspond with the friends of
his old home. The old friend in Vermont must know how the absent one
'gets along in the world.' To conduct this correspondence, the postal or
mail service was devised. Before its existence the communication between
separated friends and business people was uncertain, irregular, and mere
matter of chance, to be conveyed by stray travelers, or not interchanged
at all. The _necessities_ of civilization brought the postal or mail
service into action. To conduct this service over a nation, requires the
right of passage through the entire limits of the nation. This right, to
be available, must have power to enforce its own requirements. It must
be _central_, CONTROLLING, SUPREME. Without these, there would be no
safety, no system, no uniformity, no regularity. To insure these to all
the people of the States, the Constitution has wisely placed these
powers in 'THE CONGRESS' of the Union, of the 'NATION.' In accordance
with the powers thus vested in Congress, our present postal or mail
service has been created. No State has a right to set up its own mail or
postal system. No State has a right to interfere with the transportation
of the national mails. 'The UNITED STATES MAIL,' is the term used. If
any State had a right to establish a mail within its own limits, it
would also have the right to prohibit or curtail the transportation of
other States' mails through its limits. This right would destroy the
entire system, and break up the interchange of correspondence so
essential to our civilization. If the States had any such right, they
could affix discriminating tariffs on the correspondence of other States
passing through them. The State of New-York could, if this right
existed, make the letters sent over its roads by the people of
Massachusetts to the people of Ohio, pay just such tariffs for the
'right of passage' as it might choose. The absurdity and utter
unreasonableness of this claimed right is so apparent as to need no
argument against it.

The exercise of this pretended right by the Southern States has caused
the present rebellion. But for this doctrine we should not be expending
a million a day in supporting six hundred thousand men in camp, who
ought to be producers for the support of life instead of missionaries of
death. This war is the legitimate result of this heresy of 'State
rights.' If this doctrine had never been put in practice, we should not
now have slavery to curse us with its degrading, inhumanizing
influences. Slavery exists in _violation_ of the Constitution. Slavery
was never established by that document. The States violated it in their
attempts at legalizing it. All their laws declaring that the _status_ of
the child must be that of the mother, are but so many 'BILLS OF
ATTAINDER,' working 'CORRUPTION OF BLOOD;' and every State, as well as
Congress itself, was and is positively prohibited by the Constitution
from passing any such bill or law; and should we ever succeed in having
any but a pro-slavery, slave-catching Supreme Court, all these laws will
be annulled by their own most positive unconstitutionally. True, there
were slaves at the time the Constitution was adopted, but all then
living are now dead; and but for this doctrine of 'State rights,' there
never would have been any State law making the child of a slave mother
also a slave; but for this doctrine no such bill of attainder would have
been passed, or if passed, it never could have been enforced; and we
should not to-day be listening to the cries of four millions of slaves,
nor have the homes of thousands of honest citizens made desolate by the
absence of loved ones. But for this terrible doctrine, 'the click of
hammers closing rivets up,' would not now be giving 'dreadful note of
preparation.' But for this heresy, subversive of all law, of all order,
of all nationality, we should not to-day be at war for our existence.
But for this doctrine, and the right claimed by some of the States to
extend their 'bills of attainder,' working corruption of blood over the
entire Union, we should not have our homes filled with grief and our
streets covered with the funeral pageants of brave men killed in defense
of the Union. We want no more evidence of the accursed nature of the
doctrine of 'State rights.' We are a UNION--a NATION. We must have
NATIONAL LAWS, NATIONAL INSTITUTIONS, NATIONAL FREEDOM. We have had too
much of State law, too much of State rights, too much of State slavery.
The NATION MUST BE SUPREME. The States must be subordinate. As we uphold
and perpetuate the National authority, so will be our existence as a
people. As we detract from this, so will be our weakness and downfall.

GOD PRESERVE THE NATION!

       *       *       *       *       *

ROANOKE ISLAND.

THE SITE OF THE FIRST ENGLISH COLONY IN AMERICA.

    'I know that historians do borrow of poets, not only much of their
    ornament but somewhat of their substance.'--_Raleigh's History of
    the World._


The name of Roanoke Island awakens in the mind of every lover of
American history, sentiments of veneration and respect. It carries us
back to the days of England's great Queen, to ruffs and rapiers, and
calls up the memories of the gallant but unfortunate Raleigh, and of the
brave knights, Grenville, Lane, and White, men who made their mark in
history even in that golden era of chivalry and enterprise.

Let us go back through the vista of nearly three centuries, and trace
the history of this spot where our language was first spoken and written
on this continent. When we recall the first occupation of this island by
the English, and picture to ourselves the Indians in their normal state,
with their dress, habitations, and implements, so picturesque and
unique, as well as the gallant gentlemen in the costume of that
picturesque age, it seems almost to border on romance. But there is a
dark side to the picture. The sombre veil of uncertainty hangs over the
fate of two entire colonies, which, if lifted, would consecrate this
spot to the extremes of suffering and bloodshed. It was, no doubt,
better to have these scenes buried in oblivion, and for each succeeding
historian to fill up this chapter with his own fancies, than to be able
to give the minute details of long days and months of probable famine,
pestilence, war, captivity, and torture, which have occurred here or in
the immediate vicinity. The certain knowledge of them would have
awakened in their countrymen sentiments of retaliation and vengeance,
and a fearful retribution would have been meted but to the natives, and
have fallen upon the innocent as well as the guilty.

It was not until about the commencement of the sixteenth century that
England could be considered one of the great maritime powers in Europe.
Although Henry the Seventh had authorized Cabot to prosecute a voyage of
discovery as early as 1497, in which he discovered the continent, thus
actually anticipating Columbus, who did not discover it till the
succeeding year, no real attempts at colonization took place until a
century afterward. In 1578, Sir Humphrey Gilbert obtained a patent from
Queen Elizabeth to colonize such parts of North-America as were not then
occupied by any of her allies. Soon after, he, assisted and accompanied
by his step-brother, Sir Walter Raleigh, fitted out an expedition and
sailed for America; but they were intercepted by a Spanish fleet, and
returned unsuccessful.

In 1583, they equipped a new squadron, in which Raleigh did not embark.
This enterprise failed, and Sir Humphrey perished at sea. Still Raleigh
was not disheartened. He had been a soldier in the religious war then
raging in France, and associated with the Protestant admiral, Coligny,
and many of his officers, whose ill-fated colony met so bloody a fate
near the river St. John. Doubtless, during his intercourse with these
men, their experience in Florida often became the theme of discourse,
and it may be that from it he imbibed that passion for discovery and
colonization in America, which ended only with his life. He doubtless
learned of the voyage of Verranzo, who, in the employ of France, had, in
1524, coasted from Cape Fear to Rhode Island; but still our shores were
hardly more than a myth, and the country north of the peninsula of
Florida a _terra incognita_. Early in 1584, Raleigh, then a gallant
courtier, received a grant from Elizabeth to 'discover and find out such
remote and heathen lands, not actually possessed or inhabited by any
Christian King, or his subjects, and there to have, hold, fortify, and
possess, in fee-simple to him and his associates and their heirs
forever, with privileges of allegiance to the crown of all that might
there reside; they and their descendants.'

This grant would apply to any portion of the globe not claimed or
inhabited by the subjects of a Christian prince. The grant bears date
March 25th, in the twenty-sixth year of the reign of Queen Elizabeth,
1584. Raleigh anticipated its passing the great seal, and probably had
for some months been making preparations for a voyage of discovery under
this patent. So energetic was he, that two barks were prepared and
dispatched from the west of England on the 27th of April. They were
under the commands of Captains Amidas and Barlow, with Simeon Fernando
as pilot, who, it may be presumed from the name, was a Spaniard, and no
doubt had been on this coast before. They took the route by way of the
Canaries and West-India Islands, and by the tenth of May had reached the
former, and by the tenth of June the latter, where they staid twelve
days.

Continuing their voyage, on the second of July they found shoal water,
where they say[K]: 'We smelled so sweet and strange a smell, as if we
had been in the midst of a delicate garden, abounding with all kinds of
odoriferous herbs and flowers, so we were assured that the land could
not be far distant; and keeping good watch, and bearing but slack sail,
the fourth of the same month we arrived upon the coast, which we
supposed to be a continent, and firm land; and we sailed along the same
a hundred and twenty miles, before we could find any entrance or river
issuing into the sea.'

They entered the first inlet which appeared, 'but not without
difficulty, and anchored on the left-hand side.' Subsequent historians
have written much to settle the long-disputed question, by what channel
or inlet the earliest English navigators entered. After a careful
examination of the early and of later authorities, and with some
practical acquaintance with the localities, I am of the opinion that
they must have entered by what is now known as Hatteras Inlet. 'The
island twenty miles long and not over six miles broad,' was that part
of the banks or shore between this inlet and that now known as Ocracoke.

So soon as they had given thanks to God for their safe arrival, they
landed, and took possession in 'the right of the Queen's most excellent
majesty,' and afterward delivered it over to the use of the grantee.
They found the land sandy and low, and expressed their admiration of the
abundance of wild grapes, as well as the pines and cedars; but saw no
inhabitants. The third day, they espied a small boat, with three
persons, who came to the shore. There they were met by the two captains
and the pilot, and one of the natives boldly commenced a conversation
entirely unintelligible to the Englishmen, but most friendly in its
tones. Having received a shirt and hat, the Indian, after viewing the
vessels, fell to fishing, and in less than half an hour loaded his boat
as deep as she could swim with fishes, which he soon landed on the shore
and divided between the ship and pinnace. The next day, there came
divers boats, containing forty or fifty natives, 'a very handsome and
goodly people, and in their behavior and manners as civil as any in
Europe.' Among them was the king's brother, 'Grangamimeo,' who said the
king was called Winginia. They commenced trading with the Indians, no
doubt greatly to their own advantage. The natives were, of course, much
astonished at the splendor and profusion of the articles offered; but of
all things which he saw, a bright tin dish most pleased Grangamimeo. He
clapped it on his breast, and after drilling a hole in the brim, hung it
about his neck, making signs that it would defend him from his enemies.
This tin dish was exchanged for twenty deerskins, worth twenty crowns,
and a copper kettle for fifty skins. In a few days, they were visited by
the king and his family. The women had bracelets of pearl and ornaments
of copper; the pearl was probably nothing but pieces of shell, and the
copper must have been obtained from near Lake Superior, where the mines
had been worked ages before the advent of the white man. The Indians
told them of a ship that had been wrecked near there twenty-six years
previously, and that the crew attempted to escape in their boat, but
probably perished, as the boat was afterward found on another island.
This story has usually been looked upon with doubt; but recent
researches in the Spanish archives have shown that they had a fort and
colony at Port Royal in 1557, and about the same period, another in the
Chesapeake. There can be but little doubt that the story was true, and
that the ship contained Spaniards passing between these two places. They
also told curious stories of a great river 'Cipo,' where pearl was
obtained, which has puzzled later historians to locate; but we now know
that _Cipo_ or _Sepo_, in the Algonquin language, which was spoken from
Maine to about this point, means simply a river, and probably referred
to either the Moratio, now called the Roanoke, or to the Chowan.

These narratives give a glowing account of the natives and of their
ability to construct their houses and canoes and weirs for fish. As this
was their first intercourse with Europeans, it undoubtedly shows what
their true condition was and had been for centuries. Situated, as this
territory is, under a mild climate, where corn, beans, and melons can be
so easily raised, and having a great abundance of game and fish, it must
have been a paradise for the Indians. Of the king's brother, it is said:

    'He was very just of his promise; for many times we delivered him
    merchandise upon his word, but ever he came within the day and
    performed his promise. He sent us every day a brace or two of fat
    bucks, conies, hares, and fish, the best in the world. He sent us
    divers kinds of fruits, melons, walnuts, cucumbers, gourds, peas,
    and divers roots and fruits, very excellent and good; and of their
    country corn, which is very white, fair, and well-tasted, and
    grows three times in five months. In May, they sow; in July, they
    reap: in June, they sow; in August, they reap: in July, they sow;
    in September, they reap. They cast the corn into the ground,
    breaking a little of the soft turf with a wooden mattock.
    Ourselves proved the soil, and put some of our peas into the
    ground, and in ten days they were fourteen inches high. They have
    also beans, very fair, of divers colors, and wonderful plenty;
    some growing naturally and some in their gardens.'

Their advent to Roanoke Island is thus described:

    'After they had been divers times aboard our vessels, myself with
    seven others went twenty miles into the river that runs toward the
    city of Skicoak, which river they call Occum, and the evening
    following, we came to an island which they call Roanoke, distant
    from the harbor by which we entered seven leagues. At the north
    end thereof was a village of nine houses, built of cedar and
    fortified round about with sharp trees, to keep out their enemies;
    and the entrance into it made like a turnpike, very artificially.
    When we came toward it, standing near unto the water side, the
    wife of Grangamimeo, the king's brother, came running out to meet
    us very cheerfully and friendly; her husband was not then in the
    village. Some of her people she commanded to draw our boat on
    shore; others she appointed to carry us on their backs to the dry
    ground, and others to bring our oars into the house, for fear of
    stealing. When we were come to the outer room, having five rooms
    in her house, she caused us to sit down by a great fire, and
    afterward took off our clothes and washed them and dried them
    again. Some of the women washed our feet in warm water, and she
    took great pains to see all things ordered in the best manner,
    making great haste to dress some meat for us to eat. After we had
    dried ourselves, she brought us into the inner room, when she sat
    on the board standing alongside the house, and placed before us
    some wheat fermented, sodden venison, and fish, sodden, boiled,
    and roasted, melons, raw and sodden, roots of divers kinds, and
    fruits. We were entertained with all love and kindness, and with
    as much bounty as we could possibly desire. We found these people
    most gentle, loving, and faithful; void of all guile and treason,
    and such as live after the manner of the golden age.'

    'Beyond this island, called Roanoke, a main stands, very plentiful
    in fruits and other natural increase, together with many towns and
    villages alongside the continent, some bordering upon the islands,
    and some standing further into the land.'

    'When we first had sight of this country, some thought the first
    land we saw to be a continent; but after we entered into the
    haven, we saw before us another mighty long sea, for there lieth
    along the coast a tract of island two hundred miles in extent.'

Thus they picture the country with the rosy tint so natural to all
discoverers. They speak of the island as being sixteen miles long, which
recent surveys show nearly correct. Many of the trees, animals, and fish
were new to them, and like all travelers, they did not neglect to give a
fair embellishment in their report to Raleigh. Their stay in the country
was brief, less than sixty days, and on their return, they carried with
them two of the Indians, named Wanchese and Mantco, who were regarded as
a great curiosity by the English. They were exhibited at London to
thousands, and gave Raleigh great satisfaction, as they were the first
natives of America who had visited England.

The return of Amidas and Barlow, with their flattering report of the
discovery and beauty of Virginia, created great excitement throughout
England, and with it a desire to visit the new land. The soldiers of
fortune, of which that reign was fruitful, were ready to embark in any
cause that promised wealth or fame; and the nobility and merchants, with
sanguine views of trade and extensive domains containing the precious
metals, were ready to furnish the means to transport a colony to the new
El Dorado. It was not difficult to procure men, under such dazzling
aspects; a sufficient number was soon enrolled, but the material was not
of a kind to make a successful and permanent settlement. Disbanded
soldiers from foreign service, and London tradesmen out of business, and
enlisting only with the hope of soon obtaining wealth, and returning
home to enjoy it, were not the men to clear away forests, cultivate the
soil, or develop industry, the only true source for success in America.
The fleet consisted of seven vessels, the 'Tiger' and 'Roebuck,' each of
one hundred and forty tons; the 'Lion,' of one hundred; and the
'Elizabeth,' of fifty tons; with a small bark and two pinnaces, which
were without decks.

In this fleet were several, eminent among the gallant men who have
contributed so much to render the reign of the Virgin Queen illustrious
in history. The commander, Sir Richard Grenville, distinguished himself
at the battle of Lepanto, and afterward lost his life in a desperate
encounter with a Spanish fleet off the Azores. He was a cousin of
Raleigh, and always his friend. The next in real rank was Ralph Lane, to
whom was delegated the office of governor, and of whom we shall speak
hereafter. Thomas Cavendish commanded one of the vessels. He was a
wealthy and dashing adventurer, who, after his return, fitted out an
expedition and captured some Spanish ships with great treasure; but
after a reckless life, he found an early grave. Lewis Stukely, another
cousin of Raleigh, had some prominent station. He proved a base
character, and assisted, by his intrigues, in bringing his patron to the
block. Amidas, who was in the first voyage, also found place here, with
the title of 'admiral.' Simeon Fernando, the former pilot, was now in
command of the 'Tiger.'

The fleet sailed from Plymouth on the ninth of April, 1585, and made one
of the West-India Islands, where they had many adventures, on the
fourteenth of May. Thence proceeding on their voyage, they reached the
coast of Florida on the twentieth of June; on the twenty-third, they
barely escaped wreck on Cape Fear shoals; and on the twenty-sixth
anchored at Wocokon, now known as Ocracoke. Three days afterward, in
attempting to cross the bar, the 'Tiger' struck, and remained for some
time; the first of many similar accidents on that wild and dangerous
spot. On the third of July, they sent word of their arrival to Winginia,
the Indian king at Roanoke; and the same day dispatched Captain Arundell
across the sound to the main land, where he found two men who had
arrived twenty days before, in one of the smaller vessels. For the next
ten days, they were engaged in visiting the Indian towns on the main.
Here one of the Indians stole a silver cup. To recover it, a party
visited a town, and not obtaining the cup, burned the houses and spoiled
the corn; 'a mean revenge,' destined to meet a bloody retaliation.

Soon after, the fleet sailed to Hatorask; not the cape or the inlet
which we now call by nearly the same name, but an inlet then nearly
opposite Roanoke, where all those intending to remain were probably
landed. On the twenty-fifth of August, the fleet sailed for England.

The colony, landed on Roanoke, consisted of one hundred and seven
persons, of whom Ralph Lane was the Governor, Amidas, the admiral,
Hariot, the historian and chaplain, and John White the artist. So soon
as they were settled at the island, they began the exploration of the
country. This was done in boats, and entirely toward the south. Visiting
the Neuse and the western shore of Pamlico Sound, they explored
Currituck, on the east; while on the north, they penetrated to the
distance of one hundred and sixty miles, and ascended Moratio, now known
as the Roanoke river, probably more than fifty miles from its mouth.
This was done with extreme labor and peril, as the Indians had deluded
them with a story of mines of gold, and having notice of Lane's coming,
were prepared to attack him. So sanguine were the party of finding
mines, and yet so reduced, that they still pushed on, though they once
found that they had but a half-pint of corn for a man, besides two
mastiffs, upon the pottage of which, with sassafras leaves, they might
subsist for two days. They returned safe, however, without any of the
precious metals which they had made such exertions to find. Lane also
explored the Chowan, or, as he called it, the Chowanook. The king of
this country gave him much information respecting the territory, which
proved to be perfectly truthful.

From the Indians, Lane had received intimations of the existence of
Chesapeake Bay,[L] and was desirous of visiting it.

The story of this 'king' of the Chesapeans was full of interest, he
knowing well the route, which Lane communicates, with the plans he
intended to carry out, but which the sudden departure of the colony left
unfulfilled, so that the great bay remained for a few years longer a
mere myth to the English. Of this native king, Lane says:

    'He is called Menatonon, a man impotent in his limbs, but
    otherwise, for a savage, a very grave and wise man, and of a very
    singular good discourse in matters concerning the state, not only
    in his own country, and the disposition of his own men, but also
    of his neighbors round about him, as well far as near, and of the
    commodities that each country yielded. When I had him prisoner
    with me for two days that we were together, he gave me more
    understanding and light of the country than I have received by all
    the searches and savages that I or any of my company have had
    conference with.' 'He told me that by going three days' journey up
    the Chowanook, (Chowan,) you are within four days' journey over
    land north-east to a certain king's country, which lays upon the
    sea; but his greatest place of strength is an island,[M] as he
    described to me, in a bay, the water round about it very deep.

    ... He also signified to me that this king had so great a quantity
    of pearl as that not only his own skins that he wears and his
    gentlemen and followers are full set with the pearl, but also his
    beds and houses are garnished with them.' 'He showed me certain
    pearl the said king brought him two years before, but of the worst
    sort. He gave me a rope of the same pearl,[N] but they were black
    and nought;--many of them were very large, etc. It seemed to me
    that the said king had traffic with white men that had clothes as
    we have.' ... 'The king of Chowanook promised to give me guides to
    go into that king's country, but he advised me to take good store
    of men and victual with me.' ... 'And I had resolved, had supplies
    have come in a reasonable time, to have undertaken it.'

He goes on to state that he would have sent two small pinnaces to the
northward, to have discovered the bay he speaks of, while he, with all
the small boats and two hundred men, would have gone up the Chowanook
with the guides, whom he would have kept in manacles, to the head of the
river, where he would have left his boats, and raised a small trench
with a palisado on it, and left thirty men to guard the boats and
stores. Then he would have marched two days' journey, and raised another
'sconce,' or small fort, and left fifteen or twenty men near a
corn-field, so that they might live on that. Then, in two days more, he
would have reached the bay, where he would have built his main fort, and
removed his colony.

It is interesting, at this time, to see how Lane would, with the caution
and boldness of a good soldier, have passed up the broad estuary of the
Chowan to 'where it groweth to be as narrow as the Thames between
Lambeth and Westminster,' and so on, and turning into the Blackwater,
which he would have navigated probably to where it is now crossed by the
railroad, he would have been within fifty or sixty miles of the bay.
While we write, General Burnside is pursuing the same route, not to
capture from a savage tribe, but from a rebellious and traitorous
people, the same domain.

The same chief or king gave Lane a fanciful account of the Moratio
river, which we now call the Roanoke. He says:

    'This river opens into the broad sound of Weapomeiok, (Albemarle,)
    and the other rivers and sounds show no current, but in calm
    weather are moved by the wind. This river of Moratio has so swift
    a current from the West, that I thought it would with oars scarce
    be navigable; the current runs as strong as at London bridge. The
    savages do report strange things of the head of the river, which
    was thirty days' voyage; that it springs out of a great rock, and
    makes a most violent stream; and that this rock stands so near
    unto the South Sea, that in storms the waves beat into the stream
    and make it brackish.'

This river he afterward explored. But ere long, either from oppression
or fear of the English, the Indians assumed a hostile attitude, and laid
plans to surprise them. The English had to be continually on their
guard, and in the mean time famine compelled them to leave Roanoke in
large parties, to obtain subsistence from the corn-fields, or proceed
along the coast for shell-fish.

About the first of June, 1586, Lane, with a party, left the island,
proceeding across the sound, and by a stratagem, hardly authorized in an
honorable soldier, captured and killed the chief of the country and many
of his people.

In the mean time, he was on the look-out for ships from England, with
supplies, and had sent Captain Stafford, with a party, to 'Croatan,'
probably at or near what is now known as Cape Lookout, to discover their
approach. Suddenly, he reported a great fleet of twenty sail in sight,
which proved to be the squadron commanded by the celebrated Sir Francis
Drake, who was returning from one of his expeditions among the Spanish
settlements in the West-Indies. When Drake left England, he was directed
to look after Raleigh's colony, and had accordingly brought a letter to
Lane. He anchored his fleet opposite Roanoke, (probably just off 'Nagg's
Head,' now celebrated as the scene of the temporary sojourn and flight
of Governor Wise,) and supplied them with the needed provisions. He also
made them an offer of one of his small vessels, which they very gladly
accepted.

But a storm, which continued for many days, came upon them; the promised
bark was driven to sea; the open roadstead, where the larger ships were
compelled to anchor, made Roanoke an undesirable location, and as the
time had long expired when the promised reinforcements should have
arrived from England, this disappointment, together with the hostilities
of the Indians, so discouraged the leaders of the colony, that they
solicited and obtained from Drake a passage to England. On the
nineteenth of June, after a little less than a year's residence in the
new land, they all sailed for home, and Roanoke Island was left in
solitude.

It is somewhat singular that with all the wars, famine, and privations
of these adventurers, not a solitary death occurred during the time they
spent here.

It certainly speaks much for the salubrity of the climate, as well as
for the care of the officers who were in command. They all arrived
safely in England, about the last of July.[O]

[Foonote O: After Lane returned home, he obtained some celebrity as a
soldier, in various wars, and was knighted. His narrative, addressed to
Raleigh, as printed in Hakluyt, would prove him possessed of much
energy. As the first Governor of an American colony, his name has been
kept in remembrance. Had the supply-ship arrived but a few weeks sooner,
he might have remained, and his colony have been the progenitors of the
English race on this continent.]

Among the eminent men who accompanied Lane, and passed nearly a year at
Roanoke, was Thomas Hariot, an Oxford scholar and a celebrated
mathematician. He went out in the expedition as historian and
naturalist, to make a topographical and scientific survey and report of
the country and its commodities, duties fulfilled by him in the most
faithful manner. His report was published in London, in 1588, under the
title of _A Brief and True Report of the New-found Land in Virginia, of
the Commodities found there, etc._ It was, in 1590, put into Latin, and
published by Theodore de Bry, at Frankfort, with about thirty curious
engravings, from the designs of John White, the artist who accompanied
the expedition. These pictures are exceedingly well executed, by eminent
Dutch artists, and a number of them give undoubtedly the exact portraits
of many of the principal Indians, with their costumes and habits, as
they were before they were changed by intercourse with the Europeans,
showing us their original condition.

The Aborigines were certainly further advanced in agriculture and
civilization than has been generally supposed, and probably much more
than the tribes who resided further north. To all who are curious in the
history of the early inhabitants of North-America, this work will be
found of extraordinary interest. It may be observed that the maps of the
coast which it contains are remarkably correct, and at the same time
indicate many important changes to have since occurred. But its greatest
value is its description of the 'commodities' or valuable productions,
of daily use and commercial value, which were found here. Thus, under
the Indian name of _Uppowoc_, Hariot gives a description of the
tobacco-plant,[O] which had been previously known to the Spaniards.
This, however, seems to have been its earliest introduction to the
English, and it was carried home by them 'to the nobility.' In the
account of this plant, we are told that it is so esteemed by the Indians
that they even think their gods are delighted with it. Our chronicler
further says: 'We were in the habit of using this plant for our
diseases, as the natives did, and have continued the practice since our
return.' It was only used to smoke; the natives were never guilty of
chewing it.' Among the roots, it mentions _Openauk_, which must have
been what we call the pea-nut, which is now largely cultivated along
that coast, and is quite an article of commerce. They also found here
the sweet potato and various kinds of squashes and melons, as well as
many varieties of beans, some of which are still cultivated extensively
in that region.

It also describes a root which grows sometimes as large as a human head;
this must have been what is now known as the _tanger_. But the greatest
discovery of all was the potato, which has been of such inestimable
benefit to mankind. This, which they carried home, was cultivated by
Raleigh, on his estate in Ireland, and thence disseminated through
Europe. Doubt has been thrown over this statement by the fact that
botanists have been unable to find this plant in North-America in an
indigenous state, and so have concluded that it never grew here at all.
Our volume, however, proves that it was cultivated by the natives, as
were corn, beans, and tobacco. Of it, Hariot speaks as follows:

    '_Kaishuopenauk_ is a kind of white root of the size of a hen's
    egg, and almost similar in form; it did not seem to be of a very
    pleasant taste, and consequently we did not take any particular
    pains to learn its history, yet the natives cook and eat them.'

Scarcely any part of our country has a greater variety of plants and
trees than this vicinity. It will be found an interesting field for
botanists.

Only a few days had elapsed after the departure of the colonists, when a
ship, prepared and furnished with supplies from Raleigh, arrived at
Roanoke. After some days spent by her commander in searching for his
countrymen, he set sail for home. Fifteen days after the departure of
this supply-ship, three vessels, under the command of Sir Richard
Grenville, made their appearance before the place, and when he
ascertained the state of affairs, his disappointment was extreme. He,
however, made extensive explorations, and leaving fifteen men to reside
at Roanoke and keep possession of the country, departed for home. One
would suppose that Raleigh, by this time, would have become disheartened
by his disappointments in America; but he was now at the hight of his
prosperity, and seemed never to despair of the final success of this his
favorite project. The following year, 1587, a new expedition was fitted
out under the charge of John White, as Governor, with twelve assistants.
They were to found the city of Raleigh, in Virginia. This fleet of three
ships left Plymouth on the fifth of May, and after making a short stay
at the West-India Islands, sailed for our coast, reaching it on the
sixteenth of July. They a second time barely escaped a wreck on Cape
Fear shoals, but anchored safely at Hatorask, on the twenty-seventh of
the same month. They had been directed by Raleigh to visit Roanoke, and
then proceed to the Chesapeake and there land the colony which they had
transported. The Governor and party landed on Roanoke Island, and
proceeded to the place (probably on the side next the sea) where Sir
Richard Grenville left fifteen men the year previous. They found,
however, only the skeleton of one, who with his companions had probably
been slain by the savages. The next day they repaired to the south end
of the island, where Lane had built his fort and houses. No human being
was to be seen, and thus the fate of the fifteen was confirmed.

The commander of this fleet was Simeon Fernando, a prominent officer in
the two previous expeditions, who no doubt had given satisfaction to
Lane, for his name was given to the fort at Roanoke. But the chronicles,
in this instance, have charged him with treachery, he having refused to
proceed to the Chesapeake. In consequence of this refusal, the colony
remained here, occupying the buildings erected by Lane. The Indians soon
gave proof of hostility by attacking and murdering one of the
assistants. Master Stafford, who had previously been with Lane,
accompanied by the Indian Manteo, (who came with them from England,)
with twenty others, passed over to the mainland, and renewed their
former intercourse with the Indians. The natives claimed to be friendly,
and related how the fifteen were murdered by the tribe that once
inhabited Roanoke. This party again visited the mainland on the ninth of
August, and falling in with a party of natives, whom they supposed to be
hostile, attacked and killed a number, but subsequently learned that
they were of a friendly tribe. On the thirteenth of August Manteo was
christened and announced as Lord of Roanoke, in reward for his faithful
service. How far he understood the meaning or value of the rite, we are
unable to state; but the tendency of the act to influence the natives to
regard the Europeans with more favor, can be readily implied.

The first child of English blood born upon this continent, (August
18th,) was 'Virginia' Dare, a granddaughter of the Governor. At the
expiration of the time when the ships were to return home, it was
thought advisable to send one of the principal men with them to make
sure that supplies should be forwarded by their friends; but so
satisfied were the majority with their present prospects, that it was a
difficult matter to find one willing to go. At the last moment, finding
all else so reluctant to leave, the Governor, John White, decided to
return in person, and sailed, in company with the returning ships, on
the twenty-fifth of August, leaving at Roanoke one hundred and seventeen
persons to an unknown fate. He, with his vessel and her consorts,
arrived safely in England.

The ship in which the Governor embarked, reached England in November,
1587. The succeeding year was, perhaps, as trying for that country as
any it had ever experienced, the fear of the Spanish invasion and its
consequences, being the absorbing theme of public attention. No doubt
White had in view the best interests of his colony; he knew the
condition of the colonists, and that their prosperity and perhaps their
lives depended on his reinforcing them. But the war was imperative, and
demanded the services of all. Raleigh, Lane, and White had important
positions assigned them, and all gained a reputation for valor. It was
not, therefore, till two years later, that White was able to embark for
the colony, and then without either men or provisions; as he expresses
it, 'with only myself and my chest.'

The ships put to sea on the twentieth of March, and lingered among the
West-India Islands till the last of July, when, proceeding on their
voyage, they anchored off old Hatorask Inlet on the fifteenth of August.
Here they descried a great smoke issuing from Roanoke, which gave White
great hopes of meeting the friends he had left three years before. The
party landed with much difficulty, explored the island, and found that
the smoke proceeded from the burning of grass and dead trees. Footprints
of savages were seen in the sand, but to the sound of their voices and
their trumpet-calls there was no response.

Circumnavigating the island, they went to the north end, where a colony
had been left, and where they saw letters cut in the bark of a tree,
indicating that the settlers had gone to Croatan, (Cape Lookout.)

They found the fort deserted and dilapidated, and within it, guns, bars
of iron, and lead, thrown on the ground, with weeds growing over them;
and they afterward discovered buried in a trench, several chests, some
containing property of White, and among it his own armor.

He was now anxious to proceed to Croatan, but a severe storm coming on
compelled the ships, after losing men and anchors, to put to sea. As it
continued, they bore away for home, leaving Roanoke to solitude.

It is probable that the colony found the Indians hostile, and despairing
of relief from home, abandoned the island and proceeded to Croatan,
where they ultimately perished. However, a writer who resided in the
country more than a century after, says there were traditions among a
tribe that inhabited the coast, that their ancestors were white people,
and could talk in a book, and many of the children had gray eyes, which
are never seen among natives of pure blood.

Raleigh is said to have sent three several times to ascertain their
fate, but without any success. In some of the memoirs of the later
Virginia settlements, which have recently been printed, there are
references to persons said to have been recovered from Raleigh's colony
on Roanoke, but they are indirect, and only show that tradition was busy
with their fate. There can be no doubt every soul perished on this
isolated coast.

The ancient history of Roanoke closed with the departure of Raleigh's
last ship, and the natives resumed possession of their favorite spots.

The Chesapeake was entered, and Jamestown settled, in 1607; and although
the bold explorer of the bay and rivers, Captain John Smith, was
desirous of sending a party to look after the lost colony, it was never
done. Years passed away, and the grant of Carolina embraced all the
country once claimed and occupied by Raleigh and his colonists.

In 1653, an adventurer from Virginia, with a small craft, entered
Currituck Inlet and visited Roanoke. Here he found residing a great
Indian chief, with whom he made a treaty of peace and alliance, which
led to a purchase of land and to a long intimacy. A house for the chief
was built like the English dwellings, and his son was confided to the
English to be educated. The young chief embraced Christianity, and was
baptized.

At this time the ruins of Lane's fort were plainly visible, and the
natives were familiar with its history.

The first permanent settlement in what is now North-Carolina, can not be
traced to an earlier date than 1656. It was on the shores of Albermarle
Sound, some forty miles from Roanoke.

Almost coëval with this came small vessels from New-England, to trade,
first for furs and peltry, and soon after to exchange their own
productions and those of the West-Indies for the tobacco, corn, naval
stores, and lumber of the country; and for the succeeding century our
people were almost entirely the merchants and carriers of all this
region. As a consequence some of them permanently settled here, and many
of the merchants of Boston held extensive tracts of land obtained by
grants or purchase.

Our public records contain many references to these, and among others we
find a grant of the Island of Roanoke, as early as 1676, to Joshua Lamb,
of New-England. It would seem that it was then settled, and had houses
and buildings,[P] and probably had been occupied for many years, and
perhaps antedated the settlements before referred to, thus making it the
first place permanently settled in North-Carolina.

In 1785, more than a century after, the following appears in the
inventory of the estate of a resident of Boston:

'In the State of North Carolina--one half of Roanoke Island, valued at
£184 6s. 8d.'

Lawson, the very truthful historian of this country, who wrote about
1700, says:

    'A settlement had been begun on that part of Roanoke Island, where
    the ruins of a fort are to be seen this day, as well as some old
    English coins, which have been lately found, and a brass gun, and
    a powder-horn, and one small quarter-deck gun, made of iron
    staves, hooped with the same material, which method of making guns
    might probably be used in those days for infant colonies.'

In time, the settlers extended over the Island, and slowly and quietly
partially cultivated it. They were from the humblest class. Slavery,
with its consequences, never came here, and the small farms were
'worked' by their owners and their sons.

Many years ago the writer visited Roanoke. It was then, to a great
extent, covered with its original growth of pines and oaks; the whole
population, being only three or four hundred, a simple, industrious
community, who alternated their agricultural labors with fishing in the
adjacent waters, and sometimes navigating their small vessels to
neighboring ports. He then visited the site of Lane's fort, the present
remains of which are very slight, being merely the wreck of an
embankment. This has at times been excavated by parties who hoped to
find some deposit which would repay the trouble, but with little
success, a vial of quicksilver being the only relic said to have been
found. This article was doubtless to be used in discovering deposits of
the precious metals by the old adventurers. While walking through the
lonely forests the mind of the visitor is involuntarily carried back to
the scenes that took place there, as well as to the actors who centuries
ago passed away. Now silence broods over the place once so active with
life, and nothing but nature remains, while the distant surf is ever
sounding an everlasting requiem to the memory of the brave colonists.

If this brief history had been penned a year ago, the task would have
ended here; but Roanoke has now another chapter to add to the annals of
our country. The great rebellion of 1861 had overshadowed the land, and
its instigators were endeavoring to overthrow a Government whose power
had only been felt by them as the dew of heaven, and with as beneficent
results. The authority of Government was called into action, and Roanoke
Island once more felt the tread of armed men. Hatteras Inlet, now the
principal entrance to these sounds, and well fortified by the
insurgents, was in August of 1861, captured by the Federal forces. The
rebels then concentrated at Roanoke, which is the key to Albemarle
Sound, and an important military position. Here they assembled a large
body of troops and erected strong fortifications, deeming themselves
secure against any force that could be sent against them. General
Burnside left the Chesapeake with a large fleet, and having succeeded in
passing Hatteras Inlet and the bars which encircle it, sailed up the
sound and came to anchor off the lower end of the Island on the sixth of
February, 1862.

On the morning of the seventh the fleet under the command of Captain
Goldsborough, attacked that of the enemy, and after a sharp cannonade,
the rebel vessels were, with one exception, captured or destroyed. As
soon as the naval action ceased, General Burnside landed his troops at
the lower part of the island, where they were forced to wade through mud
and water; but nothing could retard the valor of these New-England
soldiers, who, pressing on toward the centre of the Island, carried the
entrenchments and drove the enemy before them. The rebels retreated to
the northern end of the island and surrendered as prisoners of war, in
number about twenty-five hundred men, with all their stores and
implements.

The fleet and army subsequently visited Edenton, Pascotank, the Chowan,
Neuse, and Roanoke rivers, and planted the National flag over
them--visiting nearly the same shores so long ago explored by Lane and
his adventurers, and like him returning victorious to the headquarters
at Roanoke Island.

       *       *       *       *       *

A STORY OF MEXICAN LIFE.


'You are an unbelieving set of fellows, and though you admire my rings,
my breastpin, and my studs, and though you willingly accept any stray
gems that I occasionally offer you, still you sneer and laugh at my
mine; but it is no laughing matter, and now that we are all here
together, I suppose I may as well gratify you by telling you all about
it. However, as the yarn is a long one, I will first of all put the
cigars and the wine within reach, so that you can help yourselves during
the recital.

'Soon after our forces had evacuated Mexico, on my return from a long,
tedious journey across the Cordilleras, I hired, what for the city of
Mexico, might be deemed sumptuous apartments, overlooking the Cathedral
Square; so luxurious, in fact, that my Mexican friends were lavish in
their praises, though I confess my American visitors said much less. But
my domicil consisted of only two 'pieces,' one answering for both
bedroom and parlor, while in the other I dressed. Never mind the latter,
for it contained little else than one shelf, which was adorned with a
brown earthen pitcher and a gourd cut in two, for all my washing. My
drawing-room, however, deserves a more elaborate description. The walls
were frescoed, in a peculiarly gorgeous style; garlands of flowers were
represented as twining around piles of fruit, and it was hard to say
whether the profusion of the fruit, or the colors of the flowers, were
the severest tax on the imagination, though I always thought myself,
that they were both surpassed by incredible swarms of impossible
humming-birds, with very gold and silver wings. The floor was covered
with bran new matting, and the bedstead of cedar-wood was also new,
though the bullock-skin on which the mattress rested, had rather an
antiquated air. Moreover, I _had_ a pair of sheets which were not of a
bad color, although slightly patched. In addition, there was a Madonna
hanging on one wall, and a Saint looking at her from the other; and
against a door near the foot of my bed, stood a rocking-chair, which on
my conscience I believe must have been worth at least a dollar and a
half. As the door was fastened up, this rocking-chair was the favorite
resort of my first morning visitor, all subsequent callers having to
choose between the window-sill, the matting, and the bedstead.

'As for the neatness and cleanliness of my sanctum, it was
marvelous--for Mexico. I don't remember ever seeing more than ten
scorpions at one time there, and two or three tarantulas on the ceiling
were too much a matter of course to attract notice. Still, I had been so
long away from civilized society, and endured so many privations, that I
confess, notwithstanding the attractions that my home offered, I spent
but little of my time there, for I was warmly received by several
American families, and gladly availed myself of their hospitality and
friendly attentions. To own the honest truth, ere a month had elapsed, I
had so well compensated myself for past privations, that I had a serious
attack of illness.

'To this illness was I indebted for my second interview with my worthy
landlady, Donna Teresa Lopez, who had been invisible since the day on
which my lucky stars first guided me to her roof. This worthy woman, who
was somewhere between forty and sixty years of age, (Mexican women, be
it understood, when once they pass thirty, enter on a career of the most
ambiguous antiquity,) had two branches of business, of which she claimed
a thorough knowledge--tobacco and medicine. My sickness, therefore, was
to her a source of intense gratification. She was everlastingly bringing
me some new remedy of her own invention, in spite of which, thanks be to
God, and a good constitution, I at length rallied, and grew gradually
convalescent.

'One night, while lying half-asleep and half-awake, dreamily promising
myself, if the weather were favorable on the morrow, that I would
venture out of doors, I fancied I heard a voice, muttering words in my
own mother tongue. I rose, and resting on my elbow, listened
attentively--but then a profound silence reigned around me. Persuaded,
that feeble as I still was, I had mistaken a dream for a reality, I
languidly let my head fall back upon my pillow. Scarcely a minute,
however, had elapsed, ere a voice whose tone denoted anguish and
distress, and which seemed to come from the middle of the room,
exclaimed, in distinct English: 'My God! my God! take pity on my
anguish, and in mercy help me!'

'Assured this time that I was no longer dreaming, I started up again,
and laboring under much excitement, cried out: 'Who is there?'

'Again all was perfectly silent. Just as I was about to jump out of bed
and explore the mystery, my eye fell upon a faint streak of light, which
glimmered through a crack in the door behind my rocking-chair, near the
foot of my bed. From the same direction, also, came the sound of a
nervous, unequal, jerking tread, which fully explained a portion of the
mystery. It was pretty evident, first, that I had a neighbor; secondly,
that he spoke English; and thirdly, that he was either a somnambulist or
a soliloquist.

'This discovery, ordinary and common-place enough in itself, for
Englishmen and Americans are plentiful enough in Mexico now-a-days,
still made a very serious impression on my mind, for the words I had
overheard, and above all, the tone in which they were uttered, seemed to
imply something mysterious, and to be the key-note of some dramatic
fragment. For hours I tossed about, pondering over those words, and day
was dawning ere I fell asleep.

'The entrance of my learned landlady with a cup brimful of her latest
concoction, awoke me.

''Here, Señor,' said she, presenting the dose to me with a serene air of
matronly confidence, 'Here, Señor, is a tea containing no less than
seventeen different ingredients; and I have a presentiment that this is
the very thing to perfect your cure.'

''Thank you a thousand times,' I said, 'but I feel perfectly well this
morning.'

''That is no matter--'

''No matter! _what_ is no matter?'

''Why, no matter how well you fancy you feel; this is a sovereign
remedy, so just drink it off to please me.'

''For mercy's sake, Señora, put down your medicine, sit down in the
rocking-chair and draw near to the bedside, for I have several questions
to ask.

''How long has my present neighbor lodged with you, Señora,' said I,
when she had duly ensconced herself. She gazed inquiringly at me, but
when I pointed to the door behind her, she replied, with apparent
_nonchalance_:

''Somewhere about three months.'

''And who is he?'

''That is a question I can not answer?'

''Why not?'

''Because, over and above his rent, he paid me five dollars to hold my
tongue.'

''If I were to offer you ten to let it go, how would it be then?'

''_Ten_ dollars!' replied my hostess, in a ruminating tone of voice.

''Yes, _ten_ dollars.'

''I should feel it my duty to my fatherless children to speak,' said
this excellent mother of the bereaved heirs of the defunct Lopez.
'Yes--holy Virgin, forgive me--but I should feel _bound_ to speak.'

''It is a bargain, then; Señora, proceed.'

''Your neighbor, Señor,' replied my hostess, in a low voice, 'is a
heretic--an Englishman.'

''Not an American?'

''English or American--what is the difference, any way? I tell you he is
a heretic, and you know we Mexicans make no difference between those
heathens--we call them all _Inglez_.''

'The fair Teresa, I may remark, had always taken me for one of her
fellow-countrymen, as I spoke the language fluently, and had been
thoroughly sun-burnt years before.

''He arrived here, as I have already had the honor of saying, about
three months since. He appears very sickly and exhausted, and from the
look of his clothing I judge he had just returned from a long journey in
the interior. 'Señora,' said he, when paying his bill in advance, 'I
wish you to speak to no one of my residence in this house. I have no
family, no country, and no name; I hate the world; I do not know a soul
in this city, and I do not want to. I expect two inquiries to be made
for me, one by a man, the other will be by a woman. I will not see any
others. Should either of them call, their first salutation to you will
be: 'The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.' Without that pass-word,
I forbid you to allow any one to have access to my room.''

''Well, Señora Lopez, have these folks with the eternal pass-word turned
up yet?'

''No, Excellency, during the whole three months he has not had a single
visitor. Every morning when I take him his chocolate, he promises a
dollar if I can find him a letter at the post-office. So every day I go,
but unfortunately I have only found two for him in all that time.'

''But, of course, if you go for his letters, you must know his name, and
surely you noticed where the two came from, which you received for him.'

''They were addressed to Albert Pride, and bore the stamp,
'New-Orleans.' But who knows whether that is his real name?'

''How does he spend his time?'

''He alone can answer that question. Since the first hour of his
entering the house he has shut himself up in that room, and no one has
seen him quit it. Between you and me, I confess candidly, that my
opinion of him is by no means favorable. Why, would you believe, that
though he is as thin as a rail and as pale as a ghost, he won't admit
that he is even slightly indisposed. If I ask him about his symptoms, he
gets angry; and if I offer him any of my specifics, he has the
ill-manners to exclaim: 'Bosh! Oh! that man is a wicked fellow; I have
no confidence in him!'

''Many thanks, Señora Lopez, for your information,' said I, handing her
the promised reward'--_vaya vm; con Dios!_'

'After her departure I began to reflect that my own conduct had not been
much less dishonorable than hers. What right had I to tear aside the
vail of mystery in which my neighbor wished to wrap himself? I owned to
myself that I was very clearly in the wrong. And yet, having made this
concession to the claims of conscience, my fancy was busy putting
together the scraps I had gleaned. The field of speculation was so vast
and unbounded that I knew not where to stop. The starting-point was
easy. Curiosity began by asking, Why the deuce, Albert Pride was so
carefully hiding himself away in the city of Mexico? He must be a
fellow-countryman; because an Englishman, no matter how branded at home,
by fraud or dishonor, could boldly strut about New-Orleans or New-York,
without submitting to voluntary self-imprisonment in the city of Mexico.
Was he a fraudulent merchant, or a bank-defaulter? Good heavens! such
gentlemen generally assume such a graceful _nonchalance_, or else laugh
at their little transactions so good-naturedly that such a supposition
was ridiculous. Well, then, perhaps he had had a personal difficulty? I
think that is the phrase, is it not, for sending a fellow-mortal on his
last long journey? What of that? that even would be no reason for
concealment, for once in Mexico, what had he to dread? Thus I went on,
tormenting my mind with suppositions and conjectures without end, until
at last I resolved to dispel my apparently inextricable tangle of
mystery by taking a walk, as soon as I had finished my breakfast.
Accordingly I sallied forth, turned my steps toward the Alameda, and at
no great distance from one of the fountains I sat down on a bench,
beneath the shade of one of the grand old trees.


II.

'The Alameda, during the early part of the day, is perhaps the most
unfrequented spot in the whole city of Mexico; in fact, almost deserted.
It would be, therefore, unsafe to traverse, were it not that the absence
of victims insured the stray loiterer against any well-grounded fear of
robbers. Great, therefore, was my surprise at hearing, shortly after I
had taken my seat, two persons in animated conversation behind the spot
which I had selected. A thicket of climbing plants and prickly cactuses
alone separated me from them; but while it prevented me from catching
even a glimpse of their persons, I lost not one word of their
conversation.

''Pedro,' said a full, sonorous voice, 'I am by no means satisfied with
you. In the management of this business, you have shown a carelessness
that I can not tolerate. Why, zounds! your acquaintance with Pepito was
a most excellent pretext for gaining access to the enemy's camp. You
might have pretended to be very anxious about Pepito, who I most
heartily wish was at the devil, and what could be more natural than
going to make inquiry after him?'

''Well, General, the fact is this,' said the invisible individual, who
had been addressed as Pedro, 'much as I am attached to Pepito, I am by
no means anxious to have a bullet through my brains.'

''Bullet through your brains! what do you mean?'

''Simply what I say. Now, look here, Señor General, the other day, last
Friday, I succeeded in slipping, during the old woman's absence, to the
door of the fellow's room. 'Who is there?' exclaimed the 'Inglez,' in a
loud voice, just as I was about to give the third kick at his door. 'Me,
Pedro,' I replied. 'Don't know you,' was the answer, 'you must have
mistaken the room,' 'Not at all, Señor,' said I, 'I come to seek some
tidings of my _compadre_, Pepito.' 'Tidings of Pepito,' repeated the
Inglez, 'tidings of Pepito--wait--' So I did wait, congratulating
myself on the success of my scheme, and handling my knife with a
confident expectation of making sure work of my man, when I heard the
floor creak, and looking through the key-hole, I saw the confounded
Inglez cocking a pistol and putting a fresh cap on it. And do you know,
General, it somehow happened that when he opened the door, I was at the
bottom of the stairs.'

''Which means, Pedro, that you ran away like a coward as you are.'

''_Coward!_--nay, General, you must be joking. The truth is, I
experienced a new sensation; I felt for the first time the emotion of
fear; yes, that must have been what passed over me. It was something
quite new to me, and for the moment I did not know what ailed me.'

''Idiot! do you suppose a foreigner would be fool enough to amuse
himself by shooting a Mexican at mid-day, in the very heart of the
capital?'

''Oh! I know very well, General, that it would cost him a small fortune,
if he was rich, and his life if he was poor. But then these Inglez are
so imprudent, so rash, so headstrong, and I felt that I had no wish to
have a bullet in my head, just to put money into the pocket of the best
judge in the city.'

''Nonsense; but about those papers. I must have them. What steps do you
propose taking?'

''General and chief, were I to put my hand upon my heart, and tell you
the sacred truth, I should say that I propose for a time to lie quiet
and--do nothing.'

''Do nothing--lie quiet! Do you forget that I have paid you already one
hundred dollars in advance, and that four hundred more are ready for you
when your job is finished?'

''Oh! I know our bargain, General, and I have the greatest confidence in
your honor. As for abandoning the enterprise, that I have never dreamed
of; but the fact is, my motive in remaining inactive for a season is,
that I am certain if I make a move now I shall be undoubtedly checked,
perhaps mated.'

''How so?'

''Well--because I find at the monte-table, where I usually try my luck,
that there has been for nearly a week a run on odd numbers. Now, I
always remark that when there is a run on odds, I always lose in every
thing I put my hand to. Stop, then, General, till the tables turn, and
when I strike a new vein, you shall hear from your servant, Pedro.'

'Of course I waited, expecting to hear the General burst forth in
violent denunciations on his servant, Pedro, or at any rate supposed he
would ridicule such an excuse; but I was deceived.

''Well, Pedro, your excuse is not so bad; had you explained yourself at
the outset, I should not have been so angry.'

'The Mexicans, it may be remarked, are influenced in the most important
and momentous actions of their life, by superstition; this fact is
readily explained, when we reflect that the vast majority of them are
utterly devoid of the very first rudiments of education, and owe the
position they occupy to the fortune of civil war or of the
gambling-table. Except in the mere texture and richness of their
costume, nothing else in that strange country of the grotesque and
picturesque, distinguishes the man of rank from the beggar or the
_lazzaroni_. In every class, in every rank, you meet with the same
simplicity, the same vanity, the same prejudices, the same superstition,
the same purity of language, the same grace of elocution. The beggar,
wrapped in his tatters, displays the self-same exquisite polish of
manners, the same courteous bearing, as the senator or the millionaire,
in velvet and gold. After all, it must be ever remembered that perhaps
the senator was once a beggar, and that ere long the beggar may be a
senator. One or two lucky hits at monte, and in a few, short hours, lo!
the metamorphosis is complete.'

'You can readily believe that the conversation I had thus overheard
interested me greatly; however the promptings of curiosity would have
riveted me to my seat, the dictates of prudence warned me to retire as
quickly and stealthily as possible.

'With a tread as noiseless as practicable, I therefore turned my
footsteps to the main avenue, and keeping an eye always on the spot I
had left, I took another seat near the main entrance. Not much more than
a quarter of an hour could have elapsed, when along the same path I had
myself taken, I saw two men approaching. One of them was a tall and very
handsome man; he flourished in his hand a cane with massive gold head,
and walked with a military air, in fact, with the air of a hero and a
conqueror; perfectly well-dressed, in the latest European fashion;
indeed, had it not been for the immense profusion of gold chain, and
sparkling rings upon his fingers, instead of gloves, you might have
almost mistaken him for a _gentleman_. His companion presented the most
striking contrast. His face, shaded by a torn, slouched hat, was dirty
and coffee-colored. Of short stature, slight build, and
round-shouldered, he followed his master, with an humble, abject look,
and from his tread, you would almost have imagined that he was anxious
not to leave any track behind, of his footsteps on the gravel walk. A
velvet cloak, so worn and patched that a _lazzaroni_ would only have
yielded to the temptation of stealing it, from a love of art and not
from any hope of its being of any earthly use to him, was thrown across
his shoulders, beneath which appeared pantaloons ornamented on the outer
seam of each leg with long-shanked brass buttons, covered with
verdigris, and boots of Spanish leather, outrageously dilapidated.

'As they drew nearer to my seat, I became more and more impressed that
the handsome flourisher of the gold-headed cane was not unknown to me. I
was not mistaken, for as he passed me his eye caught mine, and with a
friendly wave of the hand, he honored me with a most polite recognition.
It was General Valiente, one of the most celebrated or rather notorious
'ladies' men' in Mexico.

'From the fact of his companion having addressed him as General, and
from the direction in which I had watched them come, I was at no loss to
identify General Valiente and his companion with the invisible talkers
who had so unwittingly imparted their secrets to me.

'I noticed that immediately on leaving the Alameda, General Valiente and
his friend Pedro separated, without further parley, and each took
directly opposite roads.

'This adventure took firm hold of my mind, and for nearly two hours I
remained seated in the Alameda, revolving it over and over. Personally,
I knew but little of this General Valiente; but by hearsay, much. His
name was connected with various strange stories, in which jealous
husbands, duels, poniards, and poison figured very largely, and it had
been hinted that had Eugene Sue been acquainted with Valiente, there
might have been forthcoming one of the most intensely interesting
histories relative to the mysteries of Mexico.


III.

'Time passed on, until the promptings of an empty stomach began to
remind me that my dinner-hour was at hand, if not already passed; but I
still sat there, ruminating. At last, however, I arose, and slowly
walked up the magnificent _Calle des Plateros_, which leads directly
into the Cathedral Square. Whilst thus sauntering along, my gaze fell on
a young and lovely female, whose eyes were intently fixed on me, and
who, I fancied, to my extreme surprise, was preparing to address me.
Fearing, however, that I might be laboring under a delusion, and
dreading to involve myself in a ridiculous dilemma, although I had
instinctively almost halted, I quickened my step, when, to my great
delight, she stepped toward me, her lovely face suffused with blushes.

'Doubt was at an end. Raising my hat, and approaching her most
respectfully, I inquired if fortune had so favored me as to enable me to
be of any possible service to her, and if so, I was at her orders.

''Señor, I have simply to beg some information; can you direct me which
street will lead me to the Cathedral Square?'

''I am myself going thither, Señora, and if you will permit me to walk
beside you, I shall be most happy to show you the way.'

'For a few moments, she hesitated, and I seized the opportunity to
examine her more attentively. Hair as black as the raven's wing, large
blue eyes, a face perfectly oval, a mouth of the smallest and the most
expressive mold, lips the reddest and most faultless it is possible to
imagine, composed the details of the lovely whole, which at the first
glimpse had dazzled and attracted me. Probably my respectful admiration
was legible on my countenance, for after a few seconds, the youthful
beauty accepted my proffered guidance.

''Would you deem me too impertinent, were I to ask you one question,
Señora?' said I, after we had proceeded a few steps.

''Of course that will in a great measure depend on the question you are
about to ask,' she replied, giving at the same time a sweet smile.

''Are you a native of Mexico, Señora?'

''No, Señor,' answered she, after a momentary pause, 'I am not a
Mexican; but may I, in return, inquire what induced you to doubt it?'

''Madame, if you will excuse my candor, my doubts were excited by your
Spanish.'

''O Señor! I am aware that I speak it very poorly.'

''If I am not greatly mistaken, you are a native of _la belle_ France.'

'The beautiful stranger turned pale. 'What possible interest, Señor, can
it be to you as to who or what I am?' This she asked with an earnest
look, so piercing and fixed as to astonish me in any woman.

''No interest, madame, but it would be a pleasure; for my mother's
ancestors were French, and I am, therefore, ever happy to have an
opportunity to be of any service to one whom I am permitted to look upon
as in some degree a country-woman.'

''I am not from France, Señor, although my ancestry, like yours, is
French. I am a native of New-Orleans.'

''Better still, madame,' Said I, 'for then I am indeed your
fellow-countryman; for I was born in the Sunny South, not far distant
from Mobile--but, madame, I fear you feel ill?'

''Oh! no--ill--it is nothing--the heat--and I am fatigued, sir; pray,
are we far from the Cathedral Square?'

''Three minutes more will bring us to it, madame; you can already see
the steps of the cathedral.'

''Then, sir, I have only to thank you for your kindness,' she replied,
bowing her head most gracefully.

'There was no mistaking her thanks for any thing but a desire to dismiss
me, so I once more bowed to her, and she, to dispel every possibility of
doubt, quickened her pace, so as to be rid of me as soon as possible.

'Without altering my gait, I pursued the even tenor of my way, when,
what was my surprise to see her stop before the door of my domicile.

'As she was in the act of ascending the steps, she turned round, and as
I was not many yards behind her, it happened that I was the first person
who met her eye. I noticed she seemed for a few moments to hesitate, and
then apparently obeying some sudden impulse, she walked toward me.

''Sir,' said she, with the same earnest, piercing glance, which had
before struck me; 'Sir, this conduct is neither polite nor honorable,
and if you really are an American, you must know that to play the spy on
a lone female is not manly.'

''Good heavens! madame,' said I, as coolly as possible, 'perhaps you
will allow me to explain, that my conduct is simply that of a man who is
returning home to dine.'

''Home! why, is this your residence?'

''Exactly so, madame.'

'This explanation evidently annoyed her, but she added coldly:

''Excuse, then, sir, the error into which my hastiness has betrayed me.
I regret my ill-judged impetuosity. May I inquire, sir, if you are
acquainted with any of the persons dwelling in this house?'

''With the exception of Donna Lopez, the landlady, I do not know a
single soul.'

''Would you inform her, sir, that I wish to speak with her?'

''With much pleasure.'

'Opening the door, I immediately proceeded to summon Donna Teresa.

''Señora,' said I, 'here is a lady who is anxious to see you.'

'My beauteous countrywoman gave a most expressive look, which very
clearly signified that my instant departure would be satisfactory to her
feelings, but my curiosity was so far kindled that I pretended not to
understand, but remained standing near the door. My want of tact seemed
once more to vex her, but after a moment's reflection, she addressed the
worthy Teresa.

''Señora,' said she, in a low voice, but still not so low but I could
overhear, 'The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.'

''If you will follow me, Señora, I will show you to Mr. Albert Pride's
rooms,' said mine hostess, as she led the way up-stairs.


IV.

''Well, Doctor of mine,' said I, addressing the disinterested Teresa,
when after a delay of some twenty minutes she appeared with my dinner,
'what do you think of our last new arrival? Matters are beginning to
grow a little complicated.'

''What do I think? Why, I think that she is marvelously beautiful; such
a perfect beauty I never saw before. But yet, her eye displeases me.'

''That, allow me to remark, is not a very logical conclusion.'

''Oh! as for a logical conclusion, I don't know what that is; but I know
just what I feel, though perhaps I can't tell you in words, why I do
feel so; but I am candid, I am; and I tell you, I don't like her eye.'

'After Donna Teresa's departure, I sat with the book which usually
served me as a companion at meal-times, wide open on the table, but it
remained unread. My strange encounter with this beautiful stranger had
taken entire possession of my mind. What could be the link between her
and this Albert Pride, who had for three months been awaiting her
arrival? Why should she be as anxious as he to avoid recognition? For
every thing conspired to prove this--her emotion when I asked if she
were French, her pallor and faintness when I claimed to be a
fellow-citizen, her indignation at the thought of my playing the spy
upon her, and her hesitation to speak in my presence to Donna Lopez--all
tended to show she desired to preserve the strictest _incognito_.

'The convent-bells of all Mexico were ringing the _Angelus_, and I was
still seated at the dinner-table, absorbed in deep thought. My
imagination had been so racked that it passed from the domain of the
real, and reveled in the most fantastic regions of the ideal, and it
required a strong effort of the will to bring back my mind to the dull
matter-of-fact aspects of actual life.

'As the evening promised to be magnificent, I determined to refresh my
mind by taking a brisk walk.

'Passing down the Calle del Arco, I met an acquaintance, at whose
solicitation I entered one of the most fashionably-frequented
gambling-houses in the city; it was about nine o'clock, and quite a
number of players were assembled.

'Soon after taking my stand at the board of green cloth, so as to have a
good view of the game, and to watch the conflicting emotions depicted
on the countenances of these devotees of the fickle goddess, I felt a
gentle tap on the shoulder, and turning round, beheld at my side General
Valiente.

''Would you, Señor Rideau, have the goodness to give me an ounce in
exchange for sixteen dollars?'

''Certainly, General.' And I immediately handed it to him, placing the
dollars he gave me in return, on the table immediately before me.

''You had better see if it is all right,' said he.

''It is not necessary, General.'

''Oh! I beg of you to count them, an error is so easily committed.'

'Accordingly I counted the pile, and found there were only fifteen.

''You see now, Señor, how necessary it is to be particular. I am
delighted now that I pressed upon you to examine them; you see I owe you
a dollar.' Saying which, he turned to the table and put down his stake.

'After two or three games, I suggested to my friend that it was about
time to leave, but before retiring, I just put down five dollars as my
one offering to chance. A very short suspense was all that I had to
endure, for in a minute my card won.

'The croupier, after raking in his winnings and paying two or three of
his losses, took up my stake, and after quietly glancing at each coin,
held them out toward me, and said:

''I do not feel bound to pay.'

''Why not, I should like to know?'

''Because, Caballero, your dollars are spurious.'

''General Valiente,' said I, raising my voice, 'here is this croupier
pretending that the money I received from you just now, is false.'

''The croupier is an impertinent rascal, whose ears I would crop off if
I had him any where else than where we are,' said the General. 'As for
your dollars, my dear Caballero, I really can not vouch for their
purity, you know there are such gangs of counterfeiters throughout the
country. You see how far I was right in begging you to examine them just
now. This little accident now will impress it on your mind and make you
more cautious in future.'

'I knew too much of Mexican life to be surprised at this cool reply. As
for resenting the General's conduct, I did not for an instant dream of
it. Military men in Mexico assume, and in fact enjoy such extensive
privileges, that to have made a fuss about such a trifle would been
looked on by all civilians as sheer madness. I therefore merely examined
my pile very carefully, and congratulated myself at finding that three
out of the fifteen were genuine. It was very evident that despite his
very sound advice, my friend General Valiente had neglected to examine
them with any great nicety.

'While thus engaged, the clocks struck ten, and at the sound the players
arose to stretch their legs and take part in the interlude. Servants
appeared with what passed for refreshments, that is to say, tumblers and
decanters containing three or four different kinds of liquor, all of
domestic manufacture, and which differed only in their colors. Glasses
and decanters soon circulated freely, and each man helped himself
without stint.

'Seated near the door, chatting to two or three Americans, my attention
was attracted by the entrance of a ranchero, gayly dressed in the rich
national costume of the country. His jaunty air amused me, and I
moreover fancied I recognized his features. After running his eye over
the assemblage, his countenance brightened up, and with an air of
boldness he walked directly toward a window, where with his back to us,
was standing my delectable friend, the General.

'I can scarcely define the feeling which prompted me, but instinctively
I changed my seat for one not far distant from the window.


V.

'On beholding the ranchero, Valiente was unable to suppress an outburst
of ill-humor.

''What do you come here for, Pedro?' said he, lowering his voice; 'you
know well enough that I have forbidden you to accost me in public.'

'This flattering reception, however, did not disturb Pedro's equanimity.

''Before you fly off into a passion, General,' said he, 'perhaps you
will deign to cast a glance at my change of attire. How does it strike
you?'

''Oh! good enough, good enough, Pedro, but--'

''Suits me admirably, I think, don't you? I need not say it's the
first-fruits of a lucky hit. The run on the odds gave up, and I went in
and won twice running on the evens. I find it impossible to express to
you, General, my delight, the intense joy I experienced, when I threw
that villainous old suit of mine out of the window, it was a hideous
abomination, and I really felt ashamed to walk with you this morning
across the Alameda. But now luck has changed; Pedro and the evens win,
and I feel ready to undertake what other men might deem
impossibilities.'

''I am very glad your luck has turned, Pedro, and I appreciate your
willingness to act; but as I before told you, you must not be seen
talking to me, thus publicly, so be off quickly.'

''Yes, I know all that, General, but first let me hand you a letter that
I received just now from Brown and Hunt.'

''Hush! Are you drunk or mad, to mention names in such a place as this?'

'The General looked around him, but the precision with which I was
comparing my watch with the clock over the mantelpiece, saved me from
suspicion, and he resumed his conversation, in a voice which evidently
betokened suppressed rage.

''Listen, Pedro; twice have I expressly forbidden you holding any
communication with that firm; beware, lest I find you daring again to
disobey me. This once more I will overlook it; but keep this well in
mind, that it is far better to have me for your friend than your enemy.
Now not another word; begone!'

'Pedro, whose consequential air had gradually faded into one of deep
humility, as soon as the General ceased speaking, bowed very low and
left without uttering a sound. The voice of the croupier was soon heard
announcing that the monte would recommence, and yielding to the pressing
invitation of those around me, I resumed my position at the table.

'It was past midnight ere the bank closed, and I rose the winner of some
ten ounces. Not being at all ambitious of exciting the cupidity of the
less fortunate brethren around me, I was very particular in intrusting
all my money to the croupier and taking his receipt for it, payable to
my order. This precaution settled in the most public manner, I bade my
friends good night.

'At the foot of the stairs I found General Valiente waiting for me,
apparently, for he accosted me in the most gracious tone, and bowed with
the most exquisite air of well-bred politeness.

''Believe me, Señor Rideau, I feel extremely mortified about that little
affair of the counterfeit dollars.'

''You are altogether too considerate, General, to think about the matter
in any way.'

''O Señor! such a circumstance jars upon my feelings; those confounded
villains! we must have a strong government, and make an example of some
of them. I feel anxious to make amends to you--something more than a
mere apology. Now an idea struck me as I came down-stairs. Will you
oblige me by allowing me to buy the spurious dollars? Well, now, suppose
I give you four good ones, it will be so much out of the fire.'

''Willingly, General, most willingly; but the fact is, I can only return
you twelve; I have a particular use for the other three.'

''Ah! you sly rogue, you passed off three on the croupier, eh? Well,
that is not so bad.'

''General, you flatter me too highly. I assure you I have a special
purpose for three of them.'

''Oh! well,' said he, 'it is not of the least importance; I happen to
have four dollars in my pocket, and I will give them to you in exchange
for your twelve, rather than see a friend lose all.'

''General, I thank you a thousand times; here are your twelve
counterfeits.'

''O Señor! pray do not mention thanks; between caballeros, there is no
need for thanks; I have only done the right thing; here are four genuine
dollars. Good-night--pleasant dreams.'

'Half-past twelve was striking as I reached, without further adventure,
the door of my habitation.

''Who is there?' cried I, as I suddenly beheld, a few steps from the
door, wrapped in a large cloak, leaning against the railing, a tall man.

'The unknown made no reply. I therefore stepped back and drew out my
revolver. Dialogues carried on by knives and fire-arms are by no means
of rare occurrence at mid-night in the streets of Mexico; but I was
anxious, ere proceeding to extremities, to have a good look at my
antagonist. Although the Cathedral Square was illumined by a magnificent
moonlight, still I could not succeed. His hat was forced down over his
brow; his ample cloak was raised, and the folds covered the lower
portion of his face entirely. I could distinguish only a pair of glaring
eyes, and also discover that his long hair, which nearly reached his
shoulders, was almost perfectly white.

'The contemptuous silence and disdainful listlessness of my cloaked
adversary tended rather to enrage than calm me; so, with my revolver in
full view, and my arm stretched forth, I advanced toward him.

''I have already once demanded who you are, and you have not seen fit to
answer me. As I intend entering this house, and can not do so in safety,
since you block my passage, and may have a dagger hidden beneath your
cloak, I warn you, unless you clear the way, I shall be obliged to
proceed to violent means to enforce my demand.'

'Whether the unknown was duly impressed with wholesome prudence, by the
tone of my voice and the sight of my pistol; whether, finding he had
woke up the wrong customer, he determined to change his tactics; or
whether he had no sinister motives, I could not then determine; suffice
it to say, he evacuated the disputed territory, and with a measured and
majestic step, moved away some eight or ten paces, reminding me of a
stage bandit, in some Bowery melodrama.

'Keeping my face toward him, and letting no movement of his body escape
me, I knocked loudly at the door, and in a minute more Donna Lopez
herself opened it, and I entered.

'Mexican houses all are provided with two doors, and my hostess and I
had not crossed the vestibule leading to the inner one, when the knocker
fell on the outer door, with a force that fairly startled the obese
Teresa.

''Holy Virgin!' exclaimed she, 'who can be there at this hour? But
angels defend us, why, Señor, have you your pistol in your hand?'

'In a few words, I explained to her the adventure which had befallen me
at the door; but ere I had fairly ended, the door shook with the
increased violence with which the knocker now fell upon it. I rushed
forward to open it.

''For mercy's sake, Señor, be prudent; do not open it,' said my
terrified hostess, 'wait--wait, I will go myself.'

'Poor Donna Teresa, overpowered by fear, was slower than even was her
custom, in obeying the impetuous summons, and as she reached the door,
it shook for the third time beneath the rapid blows of the knocker.

'Who is there?' said she, in a faltering tone, opening a little slide
which was so protected by bars and cross-bars as to prevent the
intrusion of a dagger or even the muzzle of a pistol; 'who is there?'

''_The price of liberty is eternal vigilance_,' was the answer from
without.


VI.

'Donna Lopez looked at me with terror and amazement.

''This must be the man Señor Pride has been so impatiently waiting for
during the past three months,' said she, 'he must be admitted.'

''One moment, Señora, let me first put one question to this impetuous
stranger; perchance he may have uttered these words without knowing
their full import.'

''Friend,' said I, approaching the grating, 'it is very true that 'the
price of liberty is eternal vigilance;' but allow me to suggest that
this is not a very appropriate hour for uttering truisms, however
excellent, especially in the way you do. Let peaceable people retire to
rest, and take my advice and get you to your own home.'

''I must see Albert Pride without delay; imminent danger threatens him.
If you persist in refusing me admittance, on your head be the
consequences.'

'This reply dissipated all doubt. I opened the door immediately. A man,
wrapped in a large cloak, entered, whom I instantly recognized as the
same person I had found leaning against the rails. His face, no longer
concealed, betrayed evidence of deep emotion.

'Taking a small lamp in her hand, Donna Teresa, after casting a piteous
glance toward me, as though she were begging me not to lose sight of
them, told the stranger to follow her, and she would show him the way.
He followed, without uttering a word.

''This is the door of Señor Pride's room,' said she, on reaching the
head of the stairs.

''Señora,' said the stranger, 'it may be that he is a sound sleeper, and
may not answer my first rap. I will therefore, with your permission,
take the lamp, and will not detain you longer.'

'How far this proposition suited my worthy hostess, I can not say; at
any rate, she made no opposition. As we retired, we heard a firm hand
rattling the handle of Pride's door.

'The sleeping-room I occupied, although contiguous to and on the same
floor with Albert Pride's, was reached by another staircase. It was very
narrow; but I was so familiar now with the house, that I did not wait
for my hostess to bring a light, especially as I had candles in my room.
As I entered my room, I fancied I heard a gentle tapping at the door,
which was closed up near the foot of my bed, and to which I have already
alluded. If opened, I knew it must lead into Pride's apartments.

'Again I heard the tapping, and exclaimed: 'Who is there?'

''Open the door, for Heaven's sake, open the door,' was the reply, in a
low tone; 'quick, my life is in danger!'

'I approached the door, and in equally low tones asked: 'Who are you?'

''A woman--but quick, open--open the door, for every moment is precious.
I tell you my life is at stake!'

'It seemed to me it was rather a time for action than for explanations,
so, taking an excellent Spanish dagger, which I had had in my possession
many years, I succeeded in wrenching out the two staples which fastened
the door on my side, and then putting my mouth to the key-hole, I asked:
'Have you the key?'

''Yes.'

''Then unlock the door, and bring the key with you to this side.'

'A few moments more, and a woman, to judge from the lightness of the
tread, for I was still without light, precipitated herself into, rather
than entered, the room.

''Oh! thanks; from my heart I thank you, Señor, whoever you are; I owe
my life to your kind assistance.'

'The sound of her voice, which I at once recognized, changed the
suspicion which had from the first moment flashed upon my mind, into
full assurance.

''Do not be afraid, madame,' said I, 'you are in perfect safety here.
Do you lock the door, while I look to my candles.'

'The first object my candle brought to light was the pale but still
charming face of my beautiful country-woman.

''You, sir!' she exclaimed, scarcely able to suppress her astonishment.
'In mercy I implore you, save me from the fury of my husband.'

''Of Mr. Albert Pride?'

''No, sir, Albert is not my husband; but, listen!--do you not
hear?--they are quarreling--they are struggling.'

'I listened. She was not mistaken. In spite of the two partitions which
separated us from the scene of this angry interview, we distinctly heard
the furious accents of passion. All at once a violent shock made the
wall--thin enough, it is true--creak and rattle; then, a moment
afterward, we heard the fall as of a body, accompanied with a low moan.

''Albert is dead! He has murdered him; but woe be to him. I will be
revenged yet,' exclaimed my companion, her eyes glaring with unearthly
fire.

'At this moment, hasty footsteps sounded in the adjoining room, which I
subsequently discovered was Pride's bed-chamber.

''Sir,' said a voice choked with anger, 'you are a coward, and shall
give me satisfaction for this insult.'

''You brought it on yourself, by your own obstinacy. Had you not opposed
my entrance to this room, I should not have used violence toward _you_,
at any rate. As for the satisfaction you claim, I will think about
that.'

''Well, you see that your wife is not here,' replied Albert, after a
short silence, during which we could hear the furniture being moved,
closets opened, and the curtain-rings rattle.

''True, sir; but her absence only proves one thing, that in one
particular I have been misinformed.'

''Confess rather, egregiously duped.'

''_Duped!_--nay, you are the dupe. Will you, Arthur Livermore, give me
your word of honor as a gentleman, that my wife, Adéle Percival, has not
followed you to Mexico? Will you deny that she is now your mistress?'

''Yes, sir, I give you my word of honor,' replied Albert or Arthur, in a
low, husky voice.

''And I tell you, Arthur Livermore, to your teeth, you are a miserable,
contemptible liar! Nay, seek not to deny it, it is useless; for I hold
here the proof, in your own writing. Look, here is your last letter; it
arrived two days after Adéle left New-Orleans. You acknowledge that--for
you turn pale at your own treachery. I bribed the tool who acted as your
go-between, so you see I attached some importance to securing proof. You
spoke, I think, of being duped. Arthur, I am amazed at your effrontery;
but I wait to hear your defense.'

'A fresh silence followed this outburst of the outraged husband, a
silence which was only broken by the heavy, rapid breathing of the two
adversaries.

''You must indeed have passionately loved that woman, or you, Arthur,
could never have been led to forswear your word of honor. O Arthur,
Arthur! be warned; I swear to you before heaven, that woman, with all
her beauty--a beauty that I once deemed angelic--is possessed by devils
whose name is legion; her heart is the receptacle of a monstrous,
hideous crowd of vices--vices the most opposite, there nestle together:
brazen effrontery and cringing cowardice; sordid cupidity and the most
lavish, reckless prodigality. With her, every act is the result of deep,
cool calculation. No generous impulse ever beat within her breast; and
love, except for self, never yet was awakened from its deathlike torpor.
She married me because I was reputed rich; she deserted me because she
deemed me ruined. What motive impelled her to follow you to Mexico, I
know not. But of this I warn you, rest assured it is not love for
you--you perchance, may be useful to her; the necessary instrument to
further some new scheme. But remember General Ramiro's fate, and take
heed lest you be the next dupe--the next victim.'

'I turned involuntarily toward the youthful creature beside me, as her
husband's voice ceased to ring on my ears. Despite the mastery she
exercised over her feelings, I nevertheless perceived she trembled; but
who, save the Judge of all, can tell whether it arose from fear, rage,
or the first emotion of repentance.

''Mr. Percival,' replied my neighbor, in a constrained voice, 'this
interview, after the violence which commenced it, must naturally be most
painful to me, and I presume equally so to you. Allow me, in as few
words as possible, to bring it to a close. I own that I was wrong in
pledging my word of honor to what was not wholly true. Until you claimed
Adéle here this night, as your wife, I had for months supposed you had
abandoned all title to the name of husband; that you had mutually
consented to a divorce, and under that impression I denied that Adéle
was my mistress, for in February last, I was married to her at Baton
Rouge. In presence of the proofs you possess, it were useless to deny
that Adéle is at this moment in this city. I have seen her this very
day, and I own that I know where she resides. More than this, it will be
useless for you to attempt to extort from me. I refuse beforehand to
answer any further interrogatory. I can fully conceive the hatred my
presence must inspire within your breast; I will not even pretend to
regret it; for this hatred, springing from a sense of dishonor, will
preclude the possibility of any thing save the death of one of us,
terminating the appeal for satisfaction which I have already claimed. I
have done, sir, and wait your reply.'

'Some seconds elapsed ere Adéle's husband replied. His voice had grown
calmer and more restrained, and I imagined that he had recovered his
self-control.

''Arthur,' said he, 'I shall not challenge you, neither will I accept a
challenge from you.'

''You refuse to meet me,' said my neighbor, 'and for what reason?'

''Because I do not hate, I merely pity you; because he who first defiled
my home, lies in his sandy grave beside the waters of Lake Ponchartrain;
because beside that grave I vowed to my Maker and my God never again to
dare to take into these blood-stained hands the holy scales of justice.
Yes, Arthur, it is four long years since I sent that wretched victim of
that woman to his last solemn reckoning. Look at me to-day; my locks are
white; 'tis not with age: I have not yet lived out the half of man's
allotted span on earth. But that bleeding corpse; the trickling, oozing
drops from out that breast; the gurgling sound of the unuttered
death-words of Adéle's first seducer--these have made me prematurely
old. Oh! woe to him who dares to seek and takes revenge. Vengeance has
been claimed as Heaven's sole, supreme prerogative. Arthur, I must, I do
refuse your challenge.'

''Sir, I shall not deign to notice your calumnies about Adéle, for I am
anxious to terminate this interview. May I ask why you seek to prolong
it, and why, if you so loathe Adéle, you persecute me by following her?'

''Because I am resolved on two points--to see her, and to learn from her
where she has secreted our child.'

''Unless you pledge yourself, Mr. Percival, not to make any further
attempt to see Adéle, you shall not, if I can prevent, leave this room
alive.'

''Oh! oh! finding I won't fight, you fancy you can frighten me by
threats of assassination. It is rather creditable to your ingenuity, Mr.
Livermore, but I had provided for such a contingency. The United States
Minister has been apprized of my arrival, and I left certain papers with
his Secretary to be opened to-morrow, in case I should not return by
noon, explaining our mutual relations very concisely yet definitely.
Now you know that the Mexican idea of justice, though lenient in the
extreme to natives, is just as extremely severe to foreigners, so that I
would hardly advise you to tempt the gallows, unless, indeed, you have
less objection to suicide, for I really think that is the only way you
can possibly cheat the hangman, unless you condescend to allow me to pay
my respects to the American Legation to-morrow, in the forenoon.'

'On the stage, especially in the sanguinary melodrama, it is astonishing
how little respect is paid to the gallows; but somehow in the humbler
walks of every day life, it exercises a very salutary, deterring
influence on a very large class of minds; and I was, therefore, in no
way surprised to hear my neighbor resume the conversation in a tone
decidedly an octave or two lower.

''You have entirely misinterpreted my meaning. I may have thought of
here forcing a quarrel on you, but the commission of the crime you dare
insinuate, never entered my brain. But, now, sir, one last question: Why
do you persist in seeking an interview with the woman you pretend to
hate?'

''Pretend to hate! nay, there is no pretense, I hate, detest, and loathe
her; not because she betrayed me; not because she stained an honorable
name; not because she made me kill her lover; not because she has ruined
my happiness; but because knowing--feeling all this, and more than words
have power to convey--because knowing her infamy and shame, I still,
still love her.'

''_You_ love her still!' cried Arthur. 'Oh! thanks for that one avowal;
that explains fully the bitterness with which you calumniate her.'

''Calumniate her! oh! that were impossible for the very basest fiend to
do. But I was wrong to desecrate the word, and say I _love_ her. No, no;
I tell you I hate her, I loathe her; but in spite of hatred, in spite of
loathing, she exercises over my imagination an irresistible
fascination--a fascination you can never feel in that intensity which
haunts my dreams of early manhood. You knew her not a guileless, artless
girl just blooming into early maidenhood. But enough of these maddening
memories of the past. It were better, doubtless, that I never see her
more, for in my hatred I might kill her. But mark you, Arthur, I _will_
find my child; she is now the only tie that binds me to humanity; the
only link that chains me to this mortal coil which men call life. I must
have my darling child. The day after to-morrow I will return here to
know where she is secreted; if that be divulged to me, I swear by all
that men hold as sacred, whether in heaven or earth, to depart in peace,
and leave you to your fate, and Adéle to the vengeance of the Most High.
Adieu.'

''Farewell. You shall be told all that you require,' said my neighbor.

''Oh! excuse me,' said Percival, returning, 'where does this door lead
to?'

''To some room to which I have never had access.'

''Occupied by whom?'

''I do not know.'

'A violent blow, which we had not expected, was given on the door, close
to which we were standing, listening. I instantly retreated to my bed.
Adéle remained motionless as a statue; and when the second blow fell
upon the panels, I cried out most lustily:

''Who the deuce is there?' mingling therewith, moreover, sundry forcible
Spanish expletives.

''No one. Excuse me, Señor, I mistook the door.'

''Well, clear out, and don't do it again!' I retorted.

''Please show me the way out of this house, Mr. Livermore,' was all we
heard, until after a painful pause the street-door was closed, and
Arthur's footstep sounded returning up-stairs. I looked fixedly at my
companion; her face wore a deathlike pallor, but a soft, melancholy
smile played upon her lips.

''Poor Edmund!' said she, in a sad, soft tone, 'despite the wrongs I
have endured at his hands, the jealousy he has now evinced is such a
proof of his undying love, that I am almost constrained to forgive his
former cruelty.' Adéle gave vent to a sigh, and added, with downcast
eyes:

''The world, doubtless, will blame me; they will believe every charge,
scout every palliative plea. For a season, I must endure its frown, and
resign my will to drink the bitter cup of scorn and contumely; for I
have gone astray, I have sinned against the judgment of my
fellow-mortals; and yet, oh! it were so easy to gain sympathy, were I to
disclose the secrets of the inner dungeons of my prison-house--that spot
which poets sing as blessed--Home! O man, man! there _is_ no place like
home, but how readily may it be turned into a hell--for--a wife!'

'I was still weak--nervous; and her words breathed such tones of bitter
anguish, and her whole frame evinced such tokens of emotion, that in
spite of all that I had overheard, tears welled up to my eyelids, and
compassion overcame my still lurking distrust; her sobs alone broke the
silence which ensued, and I was never in my life more painfully
embarrassed. Fortunately the return of my neighbor relieved me from my
peculiar predicament. No sooner did Adéle hear him enter the adjoining
room, than she opened the door of communication, and threw herself upon
his breast.


VII.

''Dearest Arthur,' said she, the tears still running down her cheeks,
'how fearfully you must have suffered throughout this long interview!'

''Oh! fear not, Adéle, all will yet be well. I will protect you and
avenge your wrongs.'

''Fear not?' said she, 'do you think that I dread death for my own sake?
No, Arthur, death is nothing terrible to me _now_.'

'Then suddenly appearing to become conscious of my presence, they both
seized me by the hands and overwhelmed me with the profusion of their
thanks.

''Any one would have acted precisely as I have, under similar
circumstances. I therefore beg you to spare me from further thanks. But,
my dear sir, do you feel ill? Madame, allow me to support Mr.
Livermore.'

'A sudden change came over his features; a deathlike paleness overspread
his countenance, his eyelids became half-closed, his breathing grew
short, his hands clenched, and a nervous tremor shook his entire frame.
For a few moments I feared he was at the point of death. I promptly
assisted him to his couch.

''Are you surgeon enough to bleed him?' inquired Adéle.

''Yes, I will not hesitate if you desire me to do so.'

'We soon divested Arthur of his coat, stripped his arm, and while I went
in search of an impromptu lancet, Adéle prepared the needful bandages.

''Be quick, I implore you,' said she. 'Once before I saw him as he now
is; there is not a moment to be lost.'

'Need I confess that the entrance of a guardian angel in the shape of a
skillful disciple of Esculapius would have been hailed by me as an
especial joy? However, no such angel came, neither was he within call;
so as the danger struck me as imminent, and his condition appeared
growing every moment more critical, I argued, without bleeding he would
undoubtedly die, whereas by my attempt, however clumsy, he might rally.
I plucked up my courage to the sticking-point, and stuck my patient. I
drew several ounces of blood. My fair assistant displayed the most
undeniable, I can hardly say irreproachable, coolness, for really, to my
fancy, she was a little too much self-possessed. As soon as the bandages
were applied, Arthur's consciousness returned.

''Ah! thanks, thanks,' said he, addressing me in a low, faltering tone.
'The crisis has now passed.'

''Over-excitement, doubtless, produced it?'

''Yes,' said he, 'any excitement is dangerous for one like me. You see
in me a man condemned to death by every member of the faculty that I
have ever consulted. I dare say you mean kindly, and by that look of
incredulity, you would seek to comfort me.'

''Well, doctors are often mistaken,' I said.

''True; but I am convinced their predictions in my case will be
literally fulfilled, for when this terrible disease of the heart once
lays its hold upon a man, it never relaxes its deadly grasp. But,' said
he, raising himself to a sitting posture, 'but I _will_ not die, I
_must_ live. One fixed purpose, one great aim sustains me, and I feel
that till I have accomplished this, the thread of life, frail as I know
it is, strained as I feel it oft to be, still, still I have a firm
presentiment it will hold out.'

''Arthur, dear Arthur!' broke in the voice of Adéle, as she leaned over
his shoulder, 'you know after such a paroxysm, repose is necessary. No
more conversation to-night; strive to calm your nerves, and to enjoy the
tranquil influence of sleep. Do this, I beg, I implore you.'

'With the docility of a petted child he yielded, and reclining his head
upon his pillow, soon sank into a deep sleep. It was now verging upon
three o'clock, and at my solicitation Adéle retired to my apartment,
while I kept watch beside my patient's couch.

'The mysterious individual whose conduct had so puzzled me, and to whom
I had been so strangely introduced, seemed to be a man of about thirty,
decidedly handsome, and of striking mien, of elegant manners, and
evidently accustomed to refined society. His hair, which curled
naturally, was, however, growing thin; a few deep lines were furrowed on
his brow, and the corners of his mouth wore, as it were, unconsciously,
at times, a disdainful air, and as he slept I could trace how the fire
of youthful passion had brought his manhood to premature decay.

'Although the veil of mystery had been rent, my curiosity was only
whetted, by no means gratified. Who could this man be for whose arrival,
according to my hostess' account, he had been waiting with such feverish
impatience? What journey could he have returned from, in such shattered
health; and finally, what was this great purpose, on the successful
issue of which, he seemed to stake his all, on which he declared his
life to hang?

'Again the undefinable spell that seemed to attach to the fascinating
Adéle, filled my mind with reveries of wondrous interest. What was her
part in this drama that was enacting so close beside me? Was she the
victim or the enchantress? During the long vigils of that night, I asked
this question of myself many a time and oft, and yet could arrive at no
solution of my doubts. The soft, regular sound, produced by her
breathing, in the next room, the door of which remained ajar--for she
had thrown herself upon my bed, without removing her apparel--fell upon
my ear, and proved she slept in all the tranquillity of innocence. And
yet the very tranquillity of that sleep almost excited my displeasure;
for it seemed to evince a listless, reckless indifference to danger, a
lack of tender, womanly sympathy for suffering and sickness, that might
indeed arise from a heart untouched by any love, save that of self.

'I was just rolling up another cigarette, when, as the day dawned, Adéle
entered. She was lovely, and radiant with smiles. The closest and most
sagacious observer would have failed to discern the slightest trace of
the excitement through which she had passed but a few short hours
before. She thanked me for my kind assistance, with a bewitching grace,
almost girlish in its simplicity, and begged me to retire, and take the
rest she felt assured I must need. Before so doing, however, it was
agreed that the door leading to my room should in future remain
unfastened, in case of a recurrence of the danger that had menaced her
the previous night.

'Feeling no drowsiness, but rather a desire for fresh air, I mounted to
the cupola that adorned the roof of our house, and for a couple of
hours I sat there, enjoying the delicious breeze and the picturesque
panorama that lay beneath my feet, and the motley groups that swarmed to
early prayers up the Cathedral steps.

'At last, I felt like strengthening the inner man, and determined to
step down as far as Véroley's, the fashionable café of the city, and
there to take a right good breakfast. I returned to my room to replenish
my purse, and to take my dagger and revolver. I found the purse and
revolver on the shelf where I had left them, untouched, but my search
for the dagger proved fruitless. Yet with it I had wrenched out the
staples that fastened the door, and to my knowledge no one had had
access to my room since that time, save Adéle.

'After taking my breakfast, and calling for my letters, I paid one or
two visits, and ere I returned home, it was well nigh three in the
afternoon.

'I had not been seated long, ere Mr. Livermore entered. He appeared to
have completely recovered from his attack.

''Of two evils, the adage advises us to choose the lesser. I would,
therefore, prefer to appear intrusive rather than ungrateful; so excuse
me if I trespass on your time or your patience. After the generous
devotion you displayed last night, and after what Adéle moreover has
told me, I feel I am bound to inform you whom you have thus befriended;
for, as you have already learned, Albert Pride is not my real name.'

'I hastened to offer to my neighbor the seat of honor, my magnificent
rocking-chair, not only as a mark of politeness, but thinking that as he
was about to tell me something, if he were only comfortably ensconced,
very interesting, he might find himself so much at his ease that he
would make a much cleaner breast of it.

'My little surmise proved correct; he accepted my proffered civility,
and proceeded to give me a long and very interesting account of his
parentage and youth. Suffice it to say, that he was a native of
Tennessee, and being left an orphan at an early age, had, like thousands
of others, passed through a brief career of folly and extravagance. He
had become acquainted with Adéle and her family some two years
previously, and had been married to her about four months, under the
impression, as he had told her husband on the previous night, that a
divorce had been obtained.

'What most excited my surprise, in his recital, was, that while Percival
had accused her of having deserted him because she deemed him ruined,
Arthur told me that she married him, knowing him to be almost penniless.
But I will give you his own words:

''I explained to her my desperate position, when she replied: 'It
matters not; in return for the fortune you have squandered, I will give
you that which shall produce an income far beyond your boyish dreams.'

''A horrible suspicion flashed across my mind; I feared her reason was
impaired.

'''Adéle,' I exclaimed, 'in mercy, jest not; but explain yourself.'

'''I will, Arthur; but first of all, I must exact from you the most
solemn vow, that under no circumstances will you divulge to mortal man
or woman, the secret I am about to confide to you.''

'At this point, Mr. Livermore checked himself suddenly, as if he had
said too much, and then added:

''I regret, my dear sir, that I can merely add, that I gave Adéle the
solemn pledge she required, and that my presence here, in the city of
Mexico, to-day, is merely the result of the secret then intrusted to
me.'

'I was still under the impression that this narrative had produced, when
Adéle softly entered the apartment.

''Arthur,' said she, in a low whisper, 'there is some one knocking at
the door of the ante-chamber.'

''Remain here,' said he, rising from his seat, 'I will go and open it.'

''Do not let him go alone, I beg of you,' said Adéle. 'Who knows of
what service your presence may be to-day, or of what value your
testimony may be hereafter? Possibly, it may save money, if not life;
but why go without your hat and gloves?' she added, as I was leaving the
room bare-headed, 'you must pass for a visitor, not for a
fellow-lodger.'

'Lost in admiration of her ready tact and coolness, I reached Arthur
Livermore's sitting-room, just as he opened the door.

''Pepito,' exclaimed he.

''Ay, Caballero, Pepito himself, in perfect health, and ever your most
devoted servant.''


[TO BE CONCLUDED.]

       *       *       *       *       *

CHANGED.


  I can not tell what change has come to you,
    Since when, amid the pine-trees' murmurous stir,
  You spoke to me of love most deep and true:
    I only know you are not as you were.

  It is not that you fail in tender speech;
    You speak to me as kindly as of old;
  But yet there is a depth I do not reach,
    A doubt that makes my heart grow sick and cold.

  True, there has been no anger and no strife;
    I only feel, with dreary discontent,
  That something bright has vanished from my life;
    I know not what it is, nor where it went.

  You chide my grief, and wipe my frequent tears;
    But to my pain what art can minister?
  Oh! I would give all life's remaining years
    If you would be again as once you were!

  As, dipped in fabled fountains far away,
    All living things are hardened into stone,
  So strange and frozen seems your love to-day,
    Its sweet, spontaneous growth and life are gone:

  And it is changed into a marble ghost,
    Driving away all happiness and rest;
  In whose chill arms I shiver faint and lost,
    Bruising my heart against its rocky breast.

  Nay, no regrets, no vows: it is too late,
    Too late for you to speak, or me to hear:
  We can not mend torn roses: we must wait
    For the new blossoms of another year.

       *       *       *       *       *

HAMLET A FAT MAN.


I have seen on the stage several Hamlets, more or less successful in
that sublime dramatic creation of Shakspeare, to say nothing of
small-calfed personifications at private fancy balls. Young Booth, in
these days, is doubtless the most ideal and accurate interpreter of the
great Dane; although Mrs. Kemble's rendition is certainly beyond the
reach of hostile criticism.

In this paper I propose to consider Hamlet not as he is represented on
the stage, but as he is described in the original text. At the theatre,
he usually appears as a dark-complexioned, black-haired, beetle-browed,
and slender young man, wearing an intensely gloomy wig, eyebrows corked
into the blackness of preternatural bitterness, while on thin and
romantic legs, imprisoned in black silk tights, he struts across the
stage, the counterfeit presentment of the veritable prince.

I once read a brief line or two in a work by Goethe, alleging that
Hamlet was 'a fat man.' At first I was inclined to regard this as a joke
of the majestic German. Later reflection induced me to examine this
surmise in detail, and to conclude finally that the theory is true, and
that the enigma of Hamlet's character can be solved through calculations
of pinguitude.

Eurêka. Perfect tense, indicative mood, 'I have found it!' In fact, the
whole Hamlet problem must be regarded in an obese, or adipose point of
view. The Prince of Denmark is not the conventional Hamlet of the
theatre, nor the Hamlet of Shakspeare. He was a Northman, and like the
greater number of the inhabitants of Northern Europe, was, doubtless, a
blue-eyed and flaxen-haired blonde. My lord was far from appearing thin
or delicate; on the contrary, he carried on his belly a large
portmanteau well-rounded by the swell of the digesting nutriment.

That our honored prince was a fat man, is proved by his own confession,
as well as by the evidence of the queen. Tossed about in a hot desert of
doubt and despair, he exclaims in one of his incomparable soliloquies:

  '_Oh! that this too, too solid flesh_ WOULD MELT!'

What thin man would melt away even in the hot solstice of June? In the
fencing scene, (Act IV.,) his flabby muscles are soon fatigued, and the
queen exclaims:

  '_He's fat, and scant of breath:
  Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows_.'

However, to be serious, it must be confessed that there are splendid
traits in the mental character of the prince; every grandeur or folly
can be found in him. From the lowest pit of despair, his soul debates
the question of suicide as a logical proposition, forgetting the divine
prohibition against 'self-slaughter.' Eloquence, genius, and brilliant
fancies, are constantly manifested, and also a gorgeous imagination.

It may be mentioned, incidentally, that Hamlet's character has been
contrasted with that of Orestes, the Greek, who, when he arrived at
years of manhood, avenged his father's death by assassinating his
mother, Clytemnestra, and her adulterer, OEgisthus. In other words, he
avenged a crime by a crime.

And now let us drop these serious comments, and return to the more
humorous side of our theory--the plumpness of the prince, overlooked as
a mere accident, by critics and actors. It is a physiological propriety
that he should be of a phlegmatic temperament--a temperament often
united to an acute intellect, but also, to a sluggish and heavy person.
A weak, wavering inactivity, fickleness of purpose, a keen sensibility,
or sensitiveness, are also noticeable; while the subtlety of his
theories is sharply penetrating, and forms the keystone to the arch of
his character.

Truly, Hamlet's intellect is that of a giant; his strength of will,
that of a child. He has, so to speak, no executive talent. He is the
doubting philosopher, the subtle metaphysician, the self-analyzer,
always 'thinking too precisely upon the event.' He sees so far into the
consequences of human action that he is fearful of taking decided steps.
He has the nerve to kill neither his uncle nor himself, although he
debates the latter question with great dexterity. He never _effected_
any one of the plans upon which he had deliberated. Any one who reads
_Hamlet_, under the influence of this theory, will see that it is
confirmed by every incident in the tragedy.

A series of accidents hurried the prince to the final catastrophe. His
was a lovely, great, and noble nature; but it lacked one element of
heroism--strength of will. It was an exquisite touch in the mighty poet
to make Hamlet gross in figure, as he was phlegmatic, inactive, and
irresolute in temperament. Had he been a thin, brown, choleric, and
nervous man, the tragedy would have ended in the first Act. Had he been
a fiery Italian, instead of a doubting, deliberating Dane; had he been
of a passionate, or yellow complexion, instead of a calm blonde; had he
possessed a wiry, high-strung, and nervous constitution; had he, in a
word, proved himself a man of action, and not a man of metaphysical
tendencies, his sword would have soon cut the perplexing meshes which
surrounded him, and he would have executed instant vengeance upon the
authors of his misfortune and disgrace. Else he would have put an end to
a life too wretched to be endured.

The conventional critic may smile at the conceit of a _fat_ Hamlet, but
I am satisfied that my theory is amply sustained by the text, as well as
by the true solution of the alleged knotty points of Shakspeare's mental
character, over which the ponderous but inflated brain of Dr. Johnson
stultified itself. He accuses the Avon bard of introducing spirits,
ghosts, myths, and fairies; of being guilty of exaggerations,
absurdities, vulgar expressions, and other naughtiness. (_Boswell's
Johnson_, Vol. IV. pp. 258, etc.) All of which proves that the Doctor
was sometimes prejudiced, ill-natured, jealous, and ponderously silly on
certain points.

But they who have cracked the kernel of this grand tragedy, and formed a
just conception of the real disposition and peculiarities of the true
hero, must admire and appreciate the marvelous skill of the great bard
who understands the relations between physiology and the passions, and
can analyze the temperament physical, as well as dissect the soul
immortal.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE.


Within a very few years, the friends of Emancipation in the North and
West, as well as all opposed to the increase of 'Southern power' in our
national policy, have been from time to time interested by rumors of a
secret association termed that of the _Knights of the Golden Circle_, or
as it is familiarly described, 'the K.G.C.' It was understood to be a
secret society, instituted for the purpose of extending, by the most
desperate means and measures, the institution of slavery, and with it,
of Southern Secession and all those social and political principles
which have been of late years so unscrupulously advocated by Southern
statesmen. It is, however, only of late that any thing definite relative
to this order has been published.

In July, 1861, the Louisville _Journal_ gave a full _exposé_ of the
order, which has been recently republished in a pamphlet, by 'the U.S.
National U.C.,' a copy of which now lies before us. 'Of the authenticity
of this exposition,' says the introduction, 'there can be no doubt.'
George D. Prentice, Esq., the editor of the _Journal_, gives his solemn
assurance, as an editor and as a man, that the documents from which he
derived his information are authentic. He asserts, moreover, that he
received them from a prominent Knight of the Third Degree. The
genuineness of these documents has never yet been denied by any man
whose word can be regarded as valid testimony in the case. Corroborative
testimony was furnished in a violent newspaper quarrel which occurred
soon after the first publication was made, in which several 'Knights of
the Third Degree' were participants, the question in dispute being as to
the authorship of the revelations made to Mr. Prentice. After the
warfare had subsided, he informed them that they were all mistaken, and
that each one of the parties implicated was equally guiltless.

On the first page of the introduction referred to, the editor, after a
succinct statement that the K.G.C. is the direct descendant of the order
of the Lone Star and other secret fillibustering societies, and that
many of the 'old landmarks' of those unions may be traced in its
organization, quotes from an article in the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY for
January, 1862, as follows:

    'This organization, which was instituted by John C. Calhoun,
    William L. Porcher, and others, as far back as 1835, had for its
    sole object the dissolution of the Union and the establishment of
    Southern Empire--Empire is the word, not Confederacy or
    Republic--and it was solely by means of its secret but powerful
    machinery, that the Southern States were plunged into revolution,
    in defiance of the will of a majority of their voting population.
    Nearly every man of influence at the South, (and many a pretended
    Union man at the North,) is a member of this organization, and
    sworn, _under the penalty of assassination_, to labor, 'in season
    and out of season, by fair means and by foul, at all times and on
    all occasions, for the accomplishment of its object.'

The editor of the pamphlet in question declares that he knows not upon
what evidence the above statement from the CONTINENTAL is based, but
admits that there can be no reasonable doubt that these men and their
associates _did_ resort to secret and powerful means for the spread of
their views and for the instruction of the Southern mind in the
doctrines of disunion and treason which they originated.

As regards our source of information, let it suffice to say that we
derived it from a gentleman who was himself a K.G.C., who was familiar
with its history, and of whose character for honor and veracity strict
inquiries made by us of men of high standing in the community left no
shadow of room for doubt. From his statements, it was transferred by one
of our establishment to the author of the article in question.

To the eye of the student of history, who has closely traced in many
ages and countries the vast action of secret societies in events, the
whole Southern movement bears, however, intrinsic evidence of that
peculiar form of hidden political power. The prompt and vigorous action
of the whole Secession movement, by which States with a majority
attached to the Union were hurled, scarce knowing how, into rebellion,
would never have been accomplished save by a long established and
perfectly drilled organization. It is not enough to sway millions that
the leaders simply know what they wish to do, or that they have the
power to do it. There must be _organization_ and _subordination_, if
only to control the independent action of demagogues and of selfish
politicians, who abound in the South as elsewhere. Had the existence of
the K.G.C. never been revealed, the historian would have detected it by
its results, and been compelled in fairness to admit that it was
admirably instituted to fulfill its ends--evil as they were--and that
its work was well done.

The editor of the pamphlet has good grounds for asserting that the
K.G.C. embraces among its members thousands of secretly disloyal men in
the North, and that these are of all grades of society. Let it, however,
be remembered that previous to the breaking out of this war there were
many who did not see Disunion as they now view it, and that their ties
with the South were often of the most brotherly kind. Indeed, when
Secession was first openly agitated, and until Sumter fired the Northern
heart, myriads who would now gladly disown those words were wont to say:
'Well, if they are determined to go, I suppose we must lose them.' Would
Fernando Wood have ever _dared_ at that time to publish a proclamation
recommending the secession of New-York as a free city had there not then
existed a singular apathy, or rather a strange blindness, to the
horrible results which must flow from disunion? In those days the
country _was_ blind--it has seen many an old error and delusion
dispelled since then--unfortunately too many among us have still much to
learn! Let those who still oppose _Emancipation_ remember that a day
will come when they, too, will unavoidably appear as the tories of the
great Revolution now in progress!

Our informant declared that should he write an exposition of the K.G.C.,
it would differ in many respects from that given in the _Journal_,
forgetting apparently, that Mr. Prentice had already explicitly stated
that since the great question of Disunion sprung up, the K.G.C. had
materially changed its character, and must unavoidably, from its very
nature, continue to change and modify details to suit new exigencies.
The whole history of _secret society_, whether in its forms Masonic,
Templar, Illuminée, Carbonari, Philadelphian, or Marianne; whether
universal, political, social, military, or revolutionary, is a history
of modifications of mere detail, compelled by circumstances. The mere
forms of initiation, the Ritual of the Order, pass-words, grips, and
signs, are of comparatively small importance, in fact, they appear
supremely silly; and were it not undoubtedly true that the mass of the
initiated were correspondingly silly, though very wicked, fellows, we
might almost wonder that such rococo nonsense should be deemed essential
to the management of a powerful political organization. The weaker
brethren, unable to penetrate by the strong will and by 'spontaneous
secresy,' to coöperation with the leaders and to the arcana, have always
required the tomfoolery of ceremony, and among the K.G.C. it has not
been spared. Those desirous of learning what the forms were or are in
which the action of the Order has been enveloped, we refer to pamphlet
itself, premising that, of its kind, it is quite curious, ingenious, and
interesting. The formula of the Obligation of the First Degree, as given
by Mr. Prentice, shows that the first field of operation, as originally
intended, was Mexico, but that it is also held to be a duty to offer
service to any Southern State to aid in repelling a Northern army.
'Whether the Union is reconstructed or not, the Southern States must
foster any scheme having for its object the Americanization and
Southernization of Mexico, so that, in either case, our success will be
certain.' The initiation of the Second Degree is unimportant, save that
it declares that the head-quarters of the Organization are at Monterey.
From the Third Degree we learn that 'candidates must be familiar with
the work of the two former degrees; must have been born in '58,'
(meaning a slave State,) or if in 59, (a free State,) he must be a
citizen; 60, (a Protestant,) and 61, (a slaveholder.) A candidate who
was born in 58, (a slave State,) need not be 61, (a slaveholder,)
provided he can give 62, (evidence of character as a Southern man.)' The
'object' of it all is 'to form a council for the K.G.C., and organize a
government for Mexico.' It is to be remarked that a stanch '57,' or
knight of the Golden Circle, is made to swear that he will never
dishonor the wife or daughter of a brother K.G.C., _knowing them to be
such_, that he be made to kneel and say his prayers to God, and
immediately after is requested to pay ten dollars, and to declare that
he will to the utmost of his ability oppose the admission of any
confirmed drunkard, professional gambler, rowdy, convict, felon,
abolitionist, negro, Indian, minor, or foreigner to membership in any
department of the Circle.

Abolitionists are to be found out, and reported to George Bickley, a
miserable quack and 'confidence man,' a person long familiarly spoken of
by the press as a mere Jeremy Diddler, but who has been a useful tool to
shrewder men in managing for them this precious Order. The member is to
do all in his power to 'build up a public sentiment in his State
favorable to the K.G.C., and to aid in the expulsion of free negroes
from the South, that they may be sent to Mexico.' Roman Catholics,
foreigners, abolitionists, and Yankee teachers are all to be watched and
reported. In ease of success in conquering Mexico, every thing possible
is to be done in order to prevent any Roman Catholic from being
appointed to any office of profit or trust. 'I will endeavor to cause to
be opened to the public all nunneries, monasteries, or convents. Any
minister, holding any place under government, must be Protestant.' When
we reflect on the fact that the Southern system aims at a perfectly
oligarchic unity and consolidation of power, this dread of any external
possible influence, whether religious or civic, will appear natural
enough. Mexico is, however, to be the great field of future action, and
Mexico must be cleared of its priests. The _peon_ system is to be
reduced to '89,' (perpetual slavery.) The successor of 'quack and
confidence Bickley' has a most unenviable task. For this Coming Man--the
present incumbent being occupied with other duties--is expected to
extend slavery over the whole of Central America, with the judicious
saving clause, 'if it be in his power;' to, acquire Cuba, and to control
the Gulf of Mexico. Having sworn himself to all this, and much other
nonsense, and last--not by any means least--also taken oath to forward
to Confidence Bickley all the fees of every candidate whom he may
initiate, the new Knight listens to the following specimen of elegant
oratory from the Secretary:

    'You had better hear the whole degree, and then sign; for unless
    we have your entire approbation, we do not wish to commit you to
    any thing. I am well aware that this whole scheme is a bold and
    daring one, that can but surprise you at first, as it did me, and
    for this reason I beg to state a few facts for your consideration.
    In the rise and progress of democracy in America, we have seen its
    highest attainment. In the very outset it was based on high
    religious principles, and adopted as a refuge from despotism. In
    the North, Puritanism molded it, and went so far as to leave out
    the natural conservative element of all democracies--domestic
    slavery. As a result, we have presented now social, religious, and
    domestic anarchy. From Millerism, and Spiritualism, every Utopian
    idea has numerous advocates. The manufacturer is an aristocrat,
    while the working-man is a serf. The latter class, constantly
    goaded by poverty, seek a change--they care not what it may be.
    Democracy unrestrained by domestic slavery, multiplies the
    laboring classes indefinitely, but it debases the mechanic.
    Whoever knew a practical shoemaker, or a maker of pin-heads, to
    have a _man's_ ambition? They own neither land nor property, and
    have no ties to the institutions of the country. The Irishman
    emigrates, and the Frenchman stays at home. The one hates his
    country, the other adores his. The Frenchman, is a slaveholder and
    a _man_--the Irishman is a serf and an outcast. The South is
    naturally agricultural; and the farmer being most of the time in
    the midst of his growing crops, seeing the open operation of
    nature, his mind expands, he grows proud and ambitious of all
    around, and feels himself a man. He wants no change, either in
    civil, religious, or political affairs. He cultivates the soil,
    and it yields him means to purchase labor. He becomes attached to
    home and its associations, and remains forever a restrained
    Democrat, restrained by moral and civil laws from any and all
    overt acts. He needs and makes a centralized government, because
    his property is at stake when anarchy prevails.'

The reader is doubtless by this time well weary of this vulgar trash of
the K.G.C., which is only not absolutely ridiculous, because so nearly
connected with most sanguinary aims. Be it borne in mind that the
Southern character has always been eminently receptive of the puerile
and nonsensical, while the vast proportion of semi-savage,
semi-sophomorical minds in Dixie, half-educated and altogether idle and
debauched, has made their land a fertile field for quack Bickleys,
brutal and arrogant Pikes, and other petty tools of greater and more
powerful knaves. The Order becomes, however, a matter for more serious
consideration, when we reflect on the number of Northern men who, to
testify their Southern principles, have become 'Knights,' 'There is
ample and positive proof that the order of K.G.C. is thoroughly
organized in every Northern State as auxiliary to the Southern
rebellion.' It has acted here, as is well known, directly or indirectly,
under different names, such as the Peace Society, the Union Party, the
Constitutional Party, the Democratic Society, Club, or Association, the
Mutual Protection and Self Protection. For much information relative to
these traitors among us, who, whether sworn to the K.G.C. or not, are
working continually to further its aims, we refer our readers to the
pamphlet itself. There can be little doubt that those self-styled
democrats who continually inveigh against Emancipation in every form,
even to the condemning of the moderate and judicious Message of
President Lincoln, are all either the foolish dupes or allies of this
widespread Southern league, many being desirous of directly reinstating
the old Southern tyranny, while the mass simply hope to keep their
record clear of accusation as Abolitionists, in case Secession should
succeed. 'I was a K.G.C. during the war,' would in such case be a most
valuable evidence of fidelity for these bat-like birds-among-birds and
beasts-among-beasts. Deluded by the hope of being all right, no matter
which side may conquer, thousands have sought to pay the initiation fee,
and we need not state have been most gladly received. It is at least
safe to beware of all men who, in times like these, impudently avow
principles identically the same with those which constitute the _real_
basis of Secession. We refer to all who continually inveigh against
_Abolition_ as though that were the great cause of all our troubles, who
cry out that Abolitionists must be put down ere the war can come to an
end, and clamor for the immediate imprisonment of all who are opposed to
slavery.

And while on this subject, we venture to speak a few words on this
oft-reiterated accusation, that the Abolitionists have directly caused
this war, and from which they themselves by no means shrink. Whatever
influence or aid they may have given, it is now becoming clear as day
that no opposition to slavery was ever half so conducive to Secession
and rebellion as _Slavery itself_. Had there never been an Abolitionist
in the North, the self-generated arrogance of the 'institution' must
have spontaneously impelled the Southern party to treason. The exuberant
insolence which induced the most biting expressions of contempt for
labor and serfs, was fully developed in the South long before the days
of Garrison; long even before the Quakers of Pennsylvania put forth
their protest against slavery, a full century ago. The North was accused
by the Southern wolf of troubling the stream, though its course was
directly toward the wished-for victim. It is time that the absurd cry
ceased, and that the South be made to bear its own load of guilt. Ever
arrogant, chafing at the intellectual supremacy of the North, envious of
its prosperity, despising with all the rancor of a lawless 'chivalry'
our regard for the rights of persons, prone to dissipation, and densely
ignorant of the great tendencies to progress which characterize the
civilization of the nineteenth century, the Southerner has ever felt the
same tendency to break away, and be off, which a raw, fiery, conceited
youth feels to sunder wholesome domestic ties. The stimulus was within,
not from without.

It is to be regretted that the editor of this, in so many respects
valuable, pamphlet, in speaking of Northern men of influence who belong
to the K.G.C., or its other aids, should have cited under the vague
heading of 'said to be,' the New-York _Herald, Journal of Commerce,
Express_, 'and a French newspaper' in New-York City, the Boston _Courier
and Post_, the Hartford _Times_, the Albany _Atlas and Argus_, the
Rochester _Union_, the Buffalo _Courier_, the Cincinnati _Enquirer_, the
Detroit _Free Press_, the Chicago _Times_, and the Milwaukee _News_.
While we entertain no doubt that among the editors of these newspapers
are men who are at heart as traitorous and as Southern as their
colleagues of any Richmond journal, [we have ourself seen a small
Secession flag paraded on the desk of an editor of one of the
above-mentioned publications,] we must still protest against any other
than _definite_ charges, even against men whose daily deeds and
utterances of treason have been of more real service to the South than
all the trash and trickery of Quack Bickley himself. It is indeed
charged that 'these are the principal names on the lists of traveling
messengers for those States,' but it should be remembered that such
accusation requires clear proof. With this single exception, we commend
the pamphlet in question as a document well worth perusal and
investigation. The subject, as it stands, appears trashy and
melodramatic; but be it remembered the Southern mind is prone to trash
and romance, and quacks and adventurers would be more likely to be found
actively working to aid treason founded on folly than would men of real
ability.

       *       *       *       *       *

COLUMBIA'S SAFETY.


  Where lies thy strength, my Country--where alone?
    Let ages past declare--
  Nay, let thine own brief history make known,
    Thy sure dependence, where.

  'Tis not in boasting--that's the poltroon's wit,
    The coward's shield of glass,
  A coin whose surface, silver's counterfeit,
    With fools alone shall pass.

  'Tis not in threats--these are the weapons light
    Of brutes, and not of men:
  A barking dog's despised; but if he bite,
    Wo to his clamors then!

  'Tis not in bargains made to cover wrong!
    There open weakness lies;
  A righteous cause is in itself most strong,
    And needs no compromise.

  Ten thousand bulwarks which should mock the might
    Of armies compassing,
  Secure not those, who hold one human right
    A secondary thing.

  There are some souls so fearful to offend,
    They lay their courage low;
  And sooner trample o'er a prostrate friend,
    Than fail t' embrace a foe.

  Safety proceeds from Him alone who lays
    Foundations formed to last:
  This simple truth concentres all the rays
    Of all the ages past.

  Th' omnipotence of right, its own shall save,
    Though hell itself oppose;
  One faithful Abdiel may fearless brave
    Unnumbered rebel foes.

  Faith, Freedom, Conscience--these are words which give
    The true metallic ring!
  For these to _die_, were evermore to _live_--
    Man's noblest offering.

  Rise, then! Columbia's sacred rights restore!
    Bid all her foes to flee,
  Or perish! Then shall Washington once more
    His country's Father be.

       *       *       *       *       *

URSA MAJOR.


'Once, I went with a giant and a dwarf, to see a bear.'

'Fiddlestick! what a story to tell!' retorted Aunt Hepsibah, 'and these
children, just as like's not, will believe every word of it.'

'O cousin Dick!' chirped those innocents, [_strepitu avido, multum nido
minuriente_], 'tell us all about it; it sounds just like a fairy-tale!'

'Why, there isn't much to tell. Late one evening, not in a great wood,
but a great city, I fell in with an old couple, a huge, hulking fellow,
nearly eight feet high, with a heavy, loutish air, and the most pitiful
little woman you ever saw, hardly taller than his knee. Her arms were
not longer, than a baby's, and her poor little legs trotted along as
fast as they could, to keep up with his sluggish stride. In a clownish,
lubberly sort of way, he seemed to be taking good, kind care of her.
They were on exhibition, it appeared, and (their own show being over for
the night) were going, poor things, to see a certain famous performing
bear.

'Of course, I went with them. We found the showroom nearly deserted. The
bear, a monstrous fellow, bigger than Samson by half, lay on his back,
his huge, hairy chest heaved up like a bullock's, and a great paw,
holding lazily on to one of his bars. His owner, quite fatigued, and
apparently a trifle in liquor, brightened up when he saw his strange
audience, and at once volunteered to repeat the performance.

''This animal, gentlemen,' said he, 'is considerable tired, for I've
been a workin' on him mighty hard to-day. He knows that he's done his
work for the night, and I wouldn't go in with him again for a
fifty-dollar bill, but I shall do it, seeing I've got such distinguished
company,' and he made a sweeping obeisance, comprehending the giant, the
dwarf, and my humble person.

'The performance was really quite remarkable; but I was more interested
in observing my fellow visitors. The dwarf looked up with her bright
little eyes, and the giant looked down with his great leaden ones, while
the bear jumped over the man's head, and pretended to fight him and hug
him, and finally, walking on his hind-feet, stooped down, and took his
head into the horrid cavern of those great jaws. Out of breath, and red
in the face, the enthusiastic operator wound up by plucking a handful of
long hair from the flank of the much-enduring creature, and presented it
to us, as a souvenir of our visit.'

'I say, when he had him in his mouth, it was 'bear and forbear,' wasn't
it?' put in that scapegrace, Tom, who is always doing something of the
sort.

'Silence! and don't interrupt the court, unless you can say something
better than that. Well, let me tell you, I have been in very genteel
society, without feeling any thing so human, so catholic, so
pantheistical, (in the right sense,) as I did in making one of that
queer company. The great lout of a giant, with not soul enough in him to
fill out his circumference; the sad little dwarf, with not room enough
for hers; the poor, patient, necromanted savage of a bear; the smart,
steely, grog-loving, praise-loving keeper; the curious, bookish,
indolent traveler. Expressions, all of the grand, never-weary
Life-Intention, how widely variant! yet all children, and equally
beloved, of the Infinite Father.

'In four of the five cases, it should seem, the creative energy had set
about to fashion its supposed ultimate and perfect work, and with what
result? At first blush, the failure seemed most conspicuous in my
companions, especially the big and the little one; but a small
introspection might, perhaps, have disclosed a deeper disappointment in
a nobler aim. The bear was the only success among us. He was perfect in
his line, though sadly at a disadvantage; ravished from his
forest-world, and bedeviled with alien civilization. And note (as that
splendid prig, Ruskin, would say) with what mathematical accuracy
nature, in her less ambitious essays, goes to the proposed end. The
bee's flight--a specimen wonder--is not straighter than her course. In
her lower business, she needs no backers. Meddling only monsters her. It
is only when she comes to the grand, resulting combination, for which
she has so long been fussing and preparing--when she tries her hand
('her 'prentice han', I fear,) on man, that she falters, hesitates, and
lastly compromises for something lamentably less than she bargained for.

'Her apparent purpose seems almost inevitably thwarted by some
influence--shall we call it malign? or rather shall we consider (as
perhaps we should in all short-comings) that 'tis only a matter of time
and the comparative degree? a piece of circuition needed for variety of
development, and, of necessity, to eventuate in forms fresher, more
_prononcés_, nearer perfect than any thing we now wot or conceive of.

'To my thinking, the hitch is, that just at this point, she has got
complicated with the wills and motions of intelligences already
individualized and eliminated, and forever alienated from her immediate
impulse. And if this be so, depend on it, the _onus_ of the attempted
perfection comes a good deal upon us. The mighty Mother, unsatisfied in
her fantastic longings, and troubled generally [_Greek: dia to
tiktein_], should be helped and not bothered by her children. We can
remove vexations, can arrange conditions, keep the house quiet
generally. At any rate, we can take such care as may be of the smaller
young ones, help them up-stairs, or at least keep them from tumbling
down again--we bigger babies that have crawled or been pushed a few
steps up the awful stairway of the Inconceivable Ascending-Spiral.'

'I say, Dick, stop your metaphysics.'

'You are quite right, Tom, they are threadbare enough; but these happen
to be _physics_. I don't mean such as you had to take last week, after
that sleigh-ride. Well, I remember feeling this intense communism, this
voltaic _rapport_ with nature in a like way once before, on seeing a
covey of strange creatures, Aztecs, Albinos, wild Africans, busied, by
chance, in a game of romps together, the pure overflow of animal
spirits. It was a curious scene. They made eerie faces at each other;
they feigned assaults; they wove a maze, more fantastic and bizarre than
any thing in _Faust_ or _Freysehutz_. It was the mirth of Fauns, the
mischief of Elves and Brownies. The glee, that lighted up those strange
faces was not of this earth; but a thrill, pulsated through infinitude,
of that joy of life which wells forever from the exhaustless fountain of
the Central Heart; a scintillation, from how afar off! of the
Immeasurable Love, of the Eternal Pity; though it seemed hardly more
human than the play of kits and puppies, or than the _anerithmon
gelasma_ (the soulless, uncontrollable titter) of the tossed spring
spray, or the blue, breezy ripple, for which overhaul your _Prometheus_,
master Tom, and when found, make a note of it.'

'Well, that's not so bad,' allowed Hepsibah, a good deal mollified.
Greek, I have observed, always has an excellent effect upon her.

'And it has a good moral, my dears,' said grandmother, 'I always like a
good moral.'

'And was the bear always good to him?'

'Well, my dear, I am sorry to say that he had once bitten off three of
his fingers. You may think this was proceeding to extremities; but, on
the whole, I give him credit for great moderation. They will bite
sometimes, however--_me teste_, who once in my proper person verified
the old proverb, which I had always taken for a bit of unnatural
history.'

'I know; 'been a bear, 'twould a bit you,' eh?'

'Your customary sagacity, Tom, is not at fault. Yes, the bear bit me.'

'Dick,' said my uncle, 'it strikes me, all this wouldn't make a bad
magazine article, if you'd only leave out your confounded speculations;
and Tom, as your cousin says, I wish you _would_ stick a little closer
to your classics.'

'Cousin Dick!'

'Well, little No-no!'

'You tell a real good story.'

'Do I? then come and pay me for it.'

'No-o! you sha-a-ant! aeou!! there now, tell us another; tell us about
the bear that bit you?'

'There isn't much to tell about that either. It was on a steamer, in the
Gulf. On the forecastle lay a stout oaken box, and in it--all his
troubles to come--was a young bear. In the top of it was an inch
auger-hole, and at this small port the poor devil used to keep his eye
all day so pitifully, that I had compassion on him, saw he would get
etiolated, and besought the captain to let him out.

''Not if I know it,' responded Dux, severely, 'he'd clear the decks in a
minute! We had one aboard once before--a big rascal, in a cage, 'tween
decks--and one dark, stormy night, he broke adrift and stowed himself
away so snug that we never found him till next day. You may judge what a
hurrah's nest there was, every body knowing this d----d bear was
_somewhere_ aboard, and afraid of running foul of him in the dark. No,
no, better let him alone!'

'Howbeit, I over-persuaded him. We managed to get hold of a bit of chain
fastened to his collar, bent a line on to it, gave him reasonable scope,
belayed the bight, and knocked off one end of his box. Out he bolted! It
was a change from that dark den to the glaring tropical sunshine, the
blue sea foaming under the trades, the rolling masts, and the hundreds
of curious eyes that surrounded him. Sensible to the last, he tried to
go aloft, but the line soon brought him up. Down he came, and steered
for'ard. The cooks and stewards, their hands on the combing, filled the
fore-hatch. He made a dive for them, and they tumbled ignominiously down
the hatchway. We laughed consumedly. Then he cruised aft, the
dress-circle considerately widening. He came up to me, as if knowing his
benefactor by instinct, looking curiously about him, and curling and
retracting his flexile snout and lip, after the manner of his kind. Now,
I had often dealt with bears, tame and semi-tame, had 'held Sackerson by
the chain,' as often as Master Slender, had known them sometimes to
strike or hug, (which they always do standing,) but had never known one
to bite. So I didn't take the trouble to move, and--the first I
knew--the villain had me by the leg!'

'Sarved yer right, for lettin' on him out,' interposed that grim utilist
Jonas, our hired man. He had entered, pending the narrative, and stood,
_arrectis auribus_, by the door.

'Mercy on us! didn't it hurt?'

'Yes; but not more than might easily be borne. It didn't seem like
biting--more like the strong, hard grip of a vice than any thing
else--puncture quite lost in constriction. My viznomy, I am told, was a
study: supreme disgust, tempered with divine philosophy.'

'And how on earth did you get away from him?'

'By not trying to; kept as still as a mouse, till he had bitten all he
wanted to, which took about a minute. Then he let go, and walked quietly
off, to see if he couldn't bite somebody else. I afterward improved our
acquaintance by giving him sugar-cane and a licking or two; but he was
always an ill-conditioned brute, not amenable to reason, and when we
came to New York, gave no end of trouble, by getting over the side and
running up the North River on the ice--I dare say he scented the
Catskills--the whole waterside whooping and hallooing in chase after
him. Ah! I could tell you a better story than that, of a wild beast
aboard a ship!'

'Do, then.'

'It was told me by an ancient mariner, who knows how many years ago? for
I'm getting to be an old fellow myself, children.'

'What nonsense, Dick! talk about _your_ being old.'

'Well, never mind. I'll try to give it to you in his own words. Said he:

"I never see a nigger turn white but once, and that was aboard of the
old 'Emperor.' We was bound from Calcutta, to Boston, and had aboard an
elephant, a big Bengal tiger, and a lot of other wild creturs, for a
menagerie. Well, one forenoon, blowing a good topsail breeze, as it
might be to-day, but more sea than wind, we was going large, and I up on
the main-yard, turning in a splice. All to once, I heerd a strange
noise, and looked down. There was the black cook, shinning of it up,
making a great hullibaloo, and shaking the tormentors behind him--that's
a big iron fork he has in the galley. His face was as white as a
table-cloth. Close behind him was the tiger, who had got out of his cage
somehow, and, snuffing the grub, had made tracks for the coppers.

"All the watch, by this time, was tumbling up the rigging, fore and aft.
The tiger he tried two or three of the ratlins, but thought it onsafe,
so he let himself down, mighty careful, to the deck. The companion-way
was open, and he dived into the cabin. The captain lay asleep on the
transom, and never waked up. The cretur didn't touch him, but come up
agin, and poked his nose into, the door of the mate's room, that was a
little on the jar. The mate see him, and gin him a kick in the face, and
slammed the door agin him. That made him mad, and he tried to get in at
the little window; but his head was so big, he couldn't begin. Did you
ever mind what eyes them devils has? They've got a kind of cruel,
murderin' look that no other beast has, that I ever see. Well, he give
it up, and went aft. Then, a kind of a sick feelin' come over me; for,
d'ye see, there was _one_ man that couldn't leave no way!'

"The man at the wheel?'

"Ay, shipmet! He saw the tiger comin', for he turned as pale as death;
but he didn't look at him, and never stirred tack or sheet. He stuck
right on to the spokes, and steered her as true as a die; and well he
did, for if he hadn't, we'd a broached to in five seconds, and that
would a been wuss than the tiger. Well, the cussed beast went close up
to him, and actually snuffed at him. You may judge what a relief it was
to us when he left him, at last, and come for'ard. There was a sheep in
the long-boat, and, as he was cruising about decks, he smelt it, and
grabbed it, and was suckin' its blood in a jiffy; so we managed to get a
slip-knot over him, and hauled taut on it from aloft. Then a young
fellow went down with a line, and wound it round and round him, till he
couldn't stir, and at last, with a heap of trouble, we got him stowed in
his cage again, sheep and all; for he never let go on it.'

"And what was done for the man at the wheel?'

"Well, sir, nothing; he was only doing his duty."

'That was too bad! Now tell us another--tell us some more about shows?'

'Shows, chickabiddy? I've not seen any of late. The last was the
What-Is-It.'

'Well, and what _was_ it?'

'That is more than I can tell you. The proprietor is constantly asking
the question, and has even gone to the expense of repeatedly
advertising. I shouldn't wonder if, by this time, he had gotten a
satisfactory response. I went and listened to the customary description.
The silence that ensued was broken by a miserable skeptic, whose
ill-regulated aspirations betrayed his insular prejudice, 'Vot is it?
arf hanimal, eh? t'other day, I stuck a pin into him, and ses he, '_Dam
yez!_' Vot is it, eh?'

'Thus did this wretch, by implication, endeavor to unsettle the opinions
of the audience, none too definite, perhaps, before.

'It is singular the distrust with which a thankless public has long come
to regard the efforts of one whose aim it has ever been to combine
instruction with amusement. Do you remember an itinerant expedition sent
forth, years ago, by the same grand purveyor? There was a Car of
Juggernaut, you may recollect, drawn by twenty little pigs of elephants.
That show I also attended, and was well repaid for going. Near the
entrance of the tent was a large cage, peopled with the gayest denizens
of tropic life, macaws, cockatoos, paroquets--what know I?--a feathered
iridescence, that sulked prehensile or perched paradisiacal in their
iron house. Two youths entered; one paused admiringly. 'Come along,
Jack,' remonstrated the other, hurrying him on by the arm, 'them darned
things is only painted.' He wasn't going to see his friend imposed upon
and his admiration extorted under false pretenses. Not if _he_ knew it!
Mr. B---- couldn't do _him!_

'Painted! Ay, Jonathan--and if Church or Kensett, look you, could only
get at those pigments! could find the oil-and-color men that filled that
order! ah me! what opaline skies! what amethystine day-breaks! what
incarnadine sunsets we should have! The palette for that work was laid
by angels, from tubes long hidden in the choicest crypts of the vast
elaboratory, and those transcendent tints.

  'Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on,'

Painted! to be sure.

'For this wicked specimen of infidelity, I was presently overpaid by a
charming bit of belief. At the further end of the great tent was a case,
containing divers wax effigies of eminent personages; the Czar, Prince
Albert, General Spitzentuyfel--what know I? You may see them any day,
(if you happen to have two York shillings,) at the sumptuous home to
which they have returned from those travels. There they stood, side by
side, an imposing company, forever shiny in the face, like Mrs.
Wittitterly's page, and with eyes magnificently superior to any thing so
sordid as speculation. All were finely befrogged, and ruched, and
epauletted, and, for the most part, they sported moustaches. It happened
that I had the latter adornment--a variety then--on my own mug.

While recognizing them--they were old acquaintances--I felt a gentle
pull at my skirt, and looking down, was aware of a little _tot_, some
three years old, who asked, pointing to the counterfeit presentments in
the show-case: 'Did _you_ come out o' there?' The innocent! he little
knew what an extinguisher he was clapping on me. 'No, sonny,' said I,
looking down on the little nose, itself a bit of wax, between two
peaches. The soft impeachment proceeded--'Well, where do yer belong? do
yer belong in with the _bear_?' for there was a plantigrade there too.
But I reckon that will do for bears, this time.'

'I should think so! They'll be dreaming about 'em all night.'

'Dick, how much of all this is true?'

'The whole, barring a few verbal interpolations.'

'Wal, I've seed shows,' moralized Jonas, 'a good many on 'em; but I
couldn't tell the yarns about 'em that Mr. Richard, here, does. He
figurs on 'em considerable, I 'xpect.''

       *       *       *       *       *

FUGITIVES AT THE WEST.


A distinguished French writer once remarked, that the position of the
colored race in America includes in itself every element of romance. The
fortunes of this great human family; its relations to the white race,
with which it is growing up side by side; its developments, its
struggles, and its coming destiny, must hold in the future an historic
interest of which it would be difficult beforehand to form an
intelligent appreciation. The political events of the last few months
have fairly opened this new historic page; and though, for the most
part, its recording lines still lie behind the cloud, the first few
words, charged with deep import to us and to all men, are becoming
legible to every eye.

We can no longer view the colored race as a mere mass of ignorance and
degradation lying quiescent beneath the white man's foot, and, except as
a useful species of domestic animal, of little consequence to us or to
the world. We see to-day, its fortunes and those of our own race blended
together in a great struggle based on political, moral, and religious
questions, and leading to a series of events of which not one of us as
yet can foretell the conclusion.

The collective romance of the race is now but just opening to us; but
its individual romance dawned upon us years ago. Long as we can
remember, we have heard of one and another of that depressed people
struggling to escape from an overwhelming bondage. We have known that
such attempts were marked by scenes of thrilling interest, by intense
earnestness of purpose, by the most powerful emotions of hope and fear,
by startling adventures, ending sometimes in hopeless tragedy, sometimes
in a dearly-bought success. Before the fugitive lay on one hand death,
or worse than death; on the other, liberty beneath the cold North-star.

Some years ago, these elements of romance, with the moral principles
lying at their root, were laid hold of by Mrs. Stowe. The wonderful
enthusiasm with which her work was received, the avidity with which it
was read all the world over, showed how wide and deep was the sympathy
which the position of the colored race in America was calculated to
excite.

I suppose there are few people living on the border-line dividing the
North from the South, who can not recall exciting incidents and scenes
of painful interest connected with the fugitive slave, occurring within
their own knowledge, and often beneath their own eyes. During the few
years when I grew from childhood to youth, in the neighborhood of
Cincinnati, I can recall many such incidents. I remember being startled,
from time to time, by sorrowful events of this nature that so frequently
occur in Western cities, owing to their close proximity to the South,
and to the continual arrival of steamboats from the slaveholding States.
Once I remember, it was a family of half-caste children, brought to the
very levee by their white father. He had made the journey during his
death-struggle, hoping to leave his children free men upon free ground:
but just as he approached the levee, he died; and his heir, in eager
pursuit, seized the children around their father's lifeless form, before
they had time to land, and hurried them away, his hopeless, helpless
slaves. Then it was a woman with a child in her arms, flying through the
great thoroughfares of the city, with her pursuers behind her--a mad,
wild, brutal chase. Then it was a pretty mulatto child, the pride and
delight of its parents, abstracted in the evening by prowling thieves,
from a colored family in our immediate vicinity. Lost forever! never
more to be heard of by its terrified and sorrowing parents! Then came
the terrible tragedy of that poor mother who, being seized as she was
escaping with her children, and thrown into jail, 'preferred for her
dear ones the guardianship of angels to the oppression of man,' and
killed them in the prison with her own hands, one by one, the jailer
only entering in time to arrest the knife as she was about to strike it
into her own despairing heart.

But though from time to time circumstances such as these were noised
abroad and made known to all, I knew that there were innumerable
thrilling stories, often less tragic in their conclusion, known only to
the more successful fugitive and his own immediate friends. I heard
rumors of an underground railway, as it was termed, a mysterious agency
keeping watch for fugitives, and assisting them on their journey,
passing them on secretly and speedily from point to point on their way
to Canada. I knew that such a combination existed on my right hand and
on my left, and under my very eyes; but who might be concerned in it, or
how it might be managed, I could not in the least divine. One day a
gleam of light came to me upon the subject. Our minister, a good old
man, who preached with great eloquence on the subject of human
depravity, and pointedly enough upon many of the sins of the age, but
who had never taken any clear and open ground on the subject of slavery,
had a daughter who was warmly and avowedly anti-slavery in principle. We
became friends; and as my intimacy with her increased, we sometimes
spoke of the fugitives.

One day she owned to me that she had some connection with this
underground railway, principally in the way of providing with old
clothing the destitute creatures who were arriving--generally at
unexpected moments--barefoot, and with scarce a rag upon their backs to
protect them from the bitter cold of the Canadian winter, which even
under the best circumstances is so sadly trying to the negro
constitution.

She told me that as the agents in the neighborhood were few and poor,
and as these sudden calls admitted of no delay, they were sometimes
unable to provide the required clothing; and she asked me, in case of
such an emergency, if she might sometimes apply to me for some of the
articles of which they might be in especial need. From that time Canada
became the ultimate destination of all my old clothes. I could imagine
superannuated cloaks and shawls wrapped around dusky and shivering
shoulders, and familiar bonnets walking about Canada in their old age on
the woolly heads of poor fugitive negro women.

It was but a short time after our conversation that the first call came.
One bitter winter's night, word was sent me that a family had
arrived--father, mother, and several young children, all utterly
destitute. The articles which their friends were least able to provide,
and which would therefore be particularly acceptable, were shoes for the
boys, and warm clothing of every kind for the woman. The latter
requirement was soon provided for. An old purple bonnet that had already
seen good service in the world, a quilted skirt, and sundry other
articles were soon looked up and repaired to meet the poor creature's
necessities--but shoes for the boys! The message had been very urgent
upon that point. Shoes! shoes! any sort of shoes! Now our boys had, for
the most part, grown up and departed, and in vain I rummaged through the
garret--that receptacle of ancient treasures--for relics of the past, in
the way of masculine shoes and boots. I was giving it up in despair,
when suddenly an idea occurred to me. It had happened, in days long
past, that a French lady of our acquaintance had broken up housekeeping,
and we had stored a part of her furniture in our spacious garrets. Ere
long it had all been reclaimed except two articles, which had somehow or
other remained behind. The first was a handsomely mounted crayon
drawing, representing a remarkably ugly young man with heavy features
and a most unprepossessing expression of countenance. Below this
drawing, maternal pride and affection had caused to be inscribed in
clear, bold letters, these two words: 'My Son.' The second piece of
property remaining behind with 'my son's portrait, were 'my son's
elegant French boots--a wonderful pair, shiny as satin, and of some
peculiar and exquisite style, long and narrow, with sharp-pointed and
slightly turned-up toes. They were of beautiful workmanship, but being
made of a firm and unaccommodating material, and in form utterly
unadapted to any possible human foot, they had probably pinched 'my
son's feet so unendurably that no amount of masculine vanity or
fortitude could long support the torture, and with a sigh of regret he
had no doubt been forced to relinquish them ere their first early bloom
had departed, or the beautiful texture of the sole-leather had lost its
delicate, creamy tint. These two articles had long lain in a corner of
the garret, to the infinite amusement of the children of the family, who
were never weary of allusions to 'my son,' and 'my son's boots. In
process of time the portrait also was reclaimed, but the deserted boots
still occupied their corner of the garret, year after year, until there
were no children left to crack their jokes at their comical and
dandified appearance. Upon these elegant French boots I pounced, in this
sore dilemma, and as my messenger was waiting, without time for a
moment's reflection, I bundled them in with the rest of the articles,
and dispatched them at once to their destination.

Scarcely had the messenger departed than I sat down to laugh. I thought
of the brother, who had especially distinguished himself in his boyish
days, by witticisms upon those famous boots, and I recalled to mind,
also, a slightly exaggerated description of the negro foot, with which
he had been wont to indulge his young companions. This foot he would
describe as very broad and flat, with the leg planted directly in the
centre, leaving an equal length for the toes in front and for the heel
behind.

Now, although I had never given credence to these exact proportions, I
still remained under the impression that there was a peculiarity in the
negro foot, that the heel was somewhat more protuberant than in the
European foot, and rather broad, it might also well be supposed to be,
in its natural and unpinched condition. The whole scene came vividly
before my imagination; the unfortunate family handing round in dismay
those exquisite French boots, vainly striving, one after another, to
insert their toes into them, but finding among their number no
Cinderella whom the wonderful shoe would fit. I figured them at last
descending to a little fellow six years old, or thereabouts, whose poor
little feet might possibly be planted in the centre of the boots, and
thus, in default of any other protection, be saved for a time from frost
and snow. My mind was divided between amusement at the final destination
of these celebrated relics, and regret that I had nothing more suitable
to send. I could only hope that this part of the poor fugitives' outfit
might be more successfully provided for from some other quarter.

Winter passed by; spring came, succeeded by long, hot mid-summer days of
the western summer. Our neighbors, for the most part, were scattered to
the North and East--gone to the lakes, to New-York, to Boston, or to
some summer resort upon the Atlantic coast--all who could, breaking the
long-continued and oppressive heat by a pleasant excursion to some
cooler clime. My friend, the minister's daughter, and most of our own
family, had gone like the rest, and I was left in a somewhat solitary
state to while away the long hours of those burning summer days, in the
monotony of a large and empty country-house.

One day at noon, I strolled to the door, seeking a breath of air. I
stood within the doorway, and looked out. Before me extended a level
tract of green grass, thinly planted with young shade-trees. At some
distance beyond, melting away in haze beneath the glowing sun, a little
wood extended toward the north-east, meeting at its extremity another
and denser wood of much greater extent. This first little wood had been
in our young days our favorite resort. We had explored every turn in it
again and again; we knew well every tree upon its outskirts, beneath
whose shade some little patch of green grass might serve for a
resting-place, or a pic-nic ground; we were familiar with every old
trunk with wide-extending roots, in whose protecting cavities that
little, speckled, pepper-and-salt-looking flower, the spring harbinger,
nestled, peeping forth toward the end of March, ere the ice and snow had
well melted, or any other green thing dared show itself. Deeper in the
shade lay the soft beds of decaying leaves, where somewhat later the
spring beauties would start forth, clothing the brown and purple tints
of the ground with touches of delicate pink. With them would come that
fair little wind-flower, the white anemone, and the blue and yellow
violets, soon to be followed by that loveliest of all Ohio wild flowers,
called by the country people, 'Dutchman's breeches,' but in more refined
parlance, denominated 'pantalettes,' looking for all the world as if the
fairies had just done a day's washing and hung out their sweet little
nether garments to dry, suspended in rows from the tiny rods that so
gracefully bend beneath the pretty burden. Pure white are they, or of
such a delicate flesh-tint, the fairy washerwoman might well be proud of
her work. Other spots were sacred to the yellow lily, with its singular,
fierce-looking leaf, spotted like a panther's hide, growing in solitary
couples, protecting between them the slender stalk with its drooping
yellow bell. Later in the season come the larger and more brilliantly
tinted flowers, the wild purple larkspur, the great yellow buttercup,
and the lilac flox. There were dusky depths in the wood, too, into
which, book in hand, we sometimes retreated from the mid-summer heat
into an atmosphere of moist and murky coolness. There we found the
Indian pipe, or ghost-flower--leaf, stem, and flower, all white as wax,
turning to coal-black if long brought into light, or if pressed between
the leaves of a book.

This first little wood, then, though somewhat dark and damp, had its
pleasant and cheerful associations; but the wood beyond was weird and
dismal, with its dense shade, its fallen trees rotting in dark gullies,
its depth of decaying leaves, into which your feet sank down and down,
until in alarm you doubted whether there were really any footing
beneath, or if it would be possible ever to extricate yourself again.
These two woods touched only at one point, included in an angle between
a little burying-ground, whose solemn associations increased the gloom
of the farther wood. As children, we had been wont, in adventurous
moods, to cross one corner of the burying-ground, and striking into a
ravine within this wood, down which trickled a little dark stream, wade
up it barefoot, with grave, half-awe-stricken faces, until the stream
sank again beneath the dead leaves, emptying itself I know not where. We
had given wild and fantastic names to some of the ways and places about
this ravine, but the rest of the wood was so little attractive and
enjoyable that we generally avoided it, unless in some ramble of unusual
length, we wished to strike across one portion of it, making thereby a
somewhat shorter cut into the turnpike road a mile or two beyond.

As I stood this hot summer-day looking toward the woods, suddenly there
stood before me a strongly-made middle-aged negro woman. Whether she had
glided round the house, or in what way she had come so suddenly and
quietly before me, I do not know; but there she stood, bare-headed, and
humbly asking for a piece of bread, or any cold food that I could spare.
Her appearance struck me with surprise; her skin was of a deep, rich,
yellow brown, her face soft and kindly in expression, but wonderfully
swollen, and with the appearance of being one mass of bruises. Her red,
inflamed eyes seemed to weep incessantly and involuntarily; whatever
might be the expression of her mouth, so inflamed and suffering were
they, that they were pitiful to see; and to complete the picture, the
stump of one of her arms, which had been severed at some former period,
close to the shoulder, was but partially hidden by her ragged,
low-necked dress. Her whole appearance struck me as the most pathetic I
had ever beheld.

I speedily brought the poor thing some bread and cold meat, which she
received with warm expressions of gratitude; and she then told me that
she was a fugitive slave, and having come here at night with her
husband, at the approach of day they had hidden themselves within the
wood.

'And oh!' she said, 'you would be sorry if you could see my husband. He
is not an old man at all, but you would think he was very old, if you
could see him; his hair is so white, his face is so wrinkled, and his
back all bowed down. He is so cowed and frightened that he doesn't dare
come out of the wood, though he is almost starving. We ran away a little
while ago, and they caught us and took us down the river to Louisville;
and there they just knocked us down on the ground like beeves that they
were going to kill, and beat us until we could neither stand nor move.
The moment we got a chance, we ran away again. But my poor husband
shakes like a leaf, and can not travel far at once, he is so
frightened.'

Then she spoke of her bruised face, and said that the sun hurt her eyes
so dreadfully, begging me to give her some old thing to cover them with
and keep off the light. 'It would be such a mercy,' she said, and
'Heaven will bless you for helping us when we are so distressed.'

I betook myself again to the garret; there were plenty of old bonnets,
to be sure; but, alas! all of them were of such a style that they might
serve, indeed, to adorn the back of the head, but were none of them of
any manner of use to shelter a pair of distressed eyes. While rummaging
about, I came at length upon something which struck me as just the thing
required; it was an ancient relic, more venerable even than 'my son's
boots,' but in excellent preservation. It was a head-dress that had been
manufactured for my mother, some twenty years ago, before the invention
of sun-bonnets, or broad hats. It was called a calash, and was
constructed of green silk outside and white silk within, reeved upon
cane, similar in fashion to the 'uglies,' which, at the present day,
English ladies are wont to prefix to the front of their bonnets when
traveling or rusticating by the seaside; but instead of being something
to attach to the bonnet, it was a complete bonnet in itself, gigantic
and bow-shaped, which would fold together flat as a pancake, or opening
like an accordeon, it could be drawn forward over the face to any
required extent, by means of a ribbon attached to the front. It was
effective, light, and cool, and the green tint afforded a very pleasant
shade to the eyes. I seized upon it and carried it to the poor woman,
who received it with transport, clapped it immediately upon her head and
drew it well down over her face. She took up the bread and meat, telling
me with many thanks, that as soon as she and her husband had eaten, they
should continue on their way, not waiting for the night, as they were
very anxious to find themselves further from the Kentucky border. I
wished her God speed, and watched her as she crossed the open turf, her
bundle in her hand, and the great green calash nodding forward upon her
head, until she disappeared within the wood.

She had scarce been ten minutes out of my sight when a very unpleasant
misgiving came over me. That great green calash that she had been so
glad to receive--what an odd and unusual head-dress it was! Surely, it
would attract attention; it would render her a marked object. If her
pursuers should once get upon her traces, it would enable them to track
her from point to point. I wished, with all my heart, it had been less
conspicuous, and I began to think that my researches in the garret were
not destined to be particularly fortunate. I wished exceedingly that my
friend the minister's daughter, had been at home, that I might have
taken counsel with her and have had the benefit of her experience in
such matters.

As I was still standing in the doorway, ruminating upon the subject with
a troubled soul, I saw in the distance the figure of a student of
theology, whom I knew to be a friend of our old minister and his
daughter, and thoroughly anti-slavery in principle. I hastened after
him, told him the circumstances of the case, and imparted to him my
misgivings. He promised me to put the matter into safe hands, and to
have a look-out kept for the wanderers. After a few hours he returned to
me with the welcome intelligence that the fugitives had been overtaken
on the turnpike road a mile or two beyond, by one of the emissaries of
the underground railway in a covered cart, in which they had been
comfortably stowed, and safely forwarded on their way, and that from
that time forth they would be speedily and quietly passed from point to
point and from friend to friend, until they reached their destination.

A weight was lifted from my heart, I could have danced for joy; and I
learned with astonishment, that the agent, who had come like an angel to
the relief of the poor fugitives, was no other than a little ugly negro
man, who had often worked in our garden, and who was usually employed to
do the roughest and dirtiest work in the neighborhood. His crooked
figure, his bandy legs, and little ape-like head, had always led me to
regard him as the most unpromising specimen of his race that I had ever
beheld; but from that time forth I regarded him with respect. The poor
crooked form, distorted by hard toil, contained a heart, and the little
ape-like head a brain, to help his outcast brethren in the hour of need.

As time passed on, the borders of the wood of which I have already
spoken, began to be invaded by the woodman. Rough, ragged bits were
cleared, and cheap, slight, frame houses sprang up, some of them erected
and owned by the workmen in the neighborhood, some of them put up by
speculators, and rented to a poor class of tenants. Playing about
outside one of these shanties, a pretty child might soon be seen, a
fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of five years old or thereabouts. So regular
were his features, so white his skin, it would hardly have been
suspected that he had any but European blood in his veins, had it not
been known that the house was occupied by colored people, to whom he
seemed to belong. An old man was said to be lying ill in the house,
which was rented by two colored women, who were anxious to get work in
the neighborhood, or washing and sewing to do at home. At that time I
was preparing for rather a long journey; and on inquiring for some one
to sew for me, Sallie Smith was sent to me. When she came, I learned
that she was an inmate of one of the new cottages, and the grandmother
of the pretty child of whom we have spoken.

Sallie Smith came and went, carrying home pieces of work, which she
dispatched quickly and well. She was a fine-looking mulatto-woman, in
the prime of life, with wavy black hair and sparkling eyes, though her
features preserved the negro cast. Her manners had a warmth and
geniality belonging to good specimens of her race, with a freedom that
was odd and amusing, but never offensive. When she brought home her
work, with some comical expression of fatigue, she would sink upon the
ground, as if utterly exhausted by the walk and the heat, and sitting at
my feet, would play with the hem of my dress, as she talked over what
she had done, and what still remained to be done; or related to me, in
answer to my inquiries, scraps of her past history, her thoughts about
her race in general, her religious experiences, and the affairs of her
church in Cincinnati, of which she was an enthusiastic member.

On inquiring about the health of her old, bed-ridden husband, I learned,
to my surprise, that he was a white man.

'You see,' she said, 'he wasn't a gentleman at all; he was one of those
_mean whites_ down South.' As she said this, the scornful emphasis on
_mean whites_ was something quite indescribable. Truly, the condition of
poor whites at the South must be pitiable indeed, to be regarded with
such utter contempt by the very slaves themselves.

'We lived,' she continued, 'in a miserable little hut, in a pine wood,
and I was his only slave. I kept house, and worked for him. He was one
of the shiftless kind, and there was nothing _he_ could do. Oh! he was a
poor, miserable creature, I tell you, always in debt! Well, we had two
children, a girl and a boy.'

'Did he ever have any other wife?' I inquired.

She fired up, indignantly. 'No, indeed; I guess I'd never have stood
that! Well, he was always promising to come to a Free State; but he was
always in debt, and couldn't get the money to come, and Jane, she was
growing up a very pretty girl, and when she was about seventeen, the
creditors came and seized her, and sold her for a slave, to pay his
debts.'

'What! sold his own daughter!' I exclaimed.

'Why, yes. She was _my_ daughter, too, you know; so she was his
property, and so he couldn't hinder them from taking her.'

'How he must have felt!' I exclaimed.

She caught me up quickly. '_Felt!_ why, you know how a father _must_
feel in such a case. It broke him down worse than ever. Yes, we felt bad
enough when they carried Jane away. Well, she was bought by the
principal creditor; he was a rich man, with a large plantation, and a
wife and children, and lots of slaves, and he kept Jane at the house, to
sew for him, and by-and-by she had a child that was almost as white as
his other children. You see,' she added apologetically, 'Jane didn't
know it was wrong; she was only a poor sinner, who didn't know nothing.
She had never been to church or learned any thing, and I didn't know
much either _then_. It was only when I came North and joined the church,
that I began to know about such things. But I grieved day and night for
Jane, that I couldn't get her back. Well, for a time we were out of
debt, you see, and I persuaded my husband to come right up North, for
fear he should get into debt again, and they should seize the boy too;
so we came to Cincinnati, and we got the boy a place there, and he's
doing very well.

'There I joined the Church; but I couldn't help thinking of Jane, and
grieving after her all the time, and I prayed to the Lord for her, and I
prayed and prayed, and by-and-by, I don't know how it happened, but her
master let her bring the child and come and pay me a visit. It seemed as
if the Lord had blinded him, so that he did not know that if she came
North, she might be free. He was that stupid, he had not the least
suspicion that she'd stay; he thought she'd come right back to him. And
when she did not come, he wrote to her, and wrote again; and when still
she didn't come, he came himself to fetch her. But I took care to have
Jane out of the way, and saw him myself. And he coaxed and persuaded,
and he stormed and he threatened; oh! he was awful mad. But I jist shook
my fist in his face, and said, 'You ole slaveholder, you, you jist go
back to ole Virginny; you niver git my daughter agin!''

As she uttered these words, Sallie compressed her mouth with a look of
dogged resolution; her black eyes glowed with smothered anger, and she
shook her fist energetically in the air, as if the phantom of the
Virginian slaveholder were still before her. After a pause, she
recovered herself and continued:

'How he did go on! He cursed and he swore; but it was of no manner of
use; I'd nothin' else to say to him, and by-and-by he had to go away;
you see, he couldn't do nothin', because Jane had come North _with his
consent_. So Jane and I, we came up here, and we get what work we can,
and take care of the child, and nurse the old man. He's miserable! he
don't often leave his bed, and he's not likely to get much better, for
he's old and completely broke.'

So Sallie had told me her history; but she had not done. Her active mind
had found an outlet in the little negro church at Cincinnati, of which
she was a member. Her intense religious enthusiasm mingled with her deep
perception of the wrongs and cruelties inflicted upon her race. Her soul
lay like a glowing volcano beneath that easy, careless Southern manner,
which might have led one at first to regard her as merely a jolly,
ignorant, negro-woman.

At a word which one day touched upon this chord, her work fell from her
hands, her eyes flashed, and she poured forth, in old Scripture
phraseology, her indignation, her aspirations, and her glowing faith.
She wholly identified her race with the Jews in their wanderings and
their captivity, and the old descriptive and prophetic words fell from
her lips, as if wrung from her heart, startling one by the wondrous
fitness of the application. There was such magnetic power in her intense
earnestness, her strong emotions, and her certain and exultant trust in
God and his providence, that it held me spell-bound. I listened, as if
one of the old prophets had risen before me. I never heard eloquence
like it; for I never witnessed such an intense sense of the reality and
force of the cause which had called it forth. I can not recall her
words; but I remember, after describing the cruelty and apparent
hopelessness of her people's captivity, their groans, their prayers to
the Lord, day after day and year after year, their darkness and despair,
their still-continued crying unto God for help, she concluded by
describing how the Lord at length would appear for their relief. 'He
will come,' she said; 'he will shake and shake the nations, and will
say: 'Let my people go free.' And though there should seem to be no way,
he shall open the way before them, and they shall go forth free. They
shall sing and give thanks, for in the Lord have they trusted, and they
shall never be confounded.' She paused. Her words made a deep impression
upon me. At that time, how dark and hopeless seemed the way! nothing
then pointed to a coming deliverance. Blind faith in God alone was left
us; but how cold seemed the faith and trust of the warmest advocate of
Emancipation among us, to the glowing certainty of God's help, which
possessed the soul of this poor, ignorant negro-woman. Sallie took up
her shawl and bonnet, and was about to go. I roused myself, and looking
at her with a half-smile, 'You speak in church?' I said.

An instant change passed over her face. Her eyes twinkled a moment, with
a shrewd appreciation of my guess. She drew herself up, with a gleam of
pride and pleasure; she nodded an assent, and wrapping her shawl around
her, she turned away.

I have never seen her since; but her truly prophetic words often recur
to me now, when the Lord is shaking the nations; when, if we fail to
listen to his words, and to let his poor, oppressed people go, he must
surely shake and shake again. Every day, our concern in the negro race
becomes a clearer and more self-evident fact. Every bulletin impresses
it anew upon our thoughts. Every soldier laid to rest upon the
battle-field engraves it still deeper upon the nation's heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE EDUCATION TO BE.


1. _Principles and Practice of Early and Infant School Education_. By
James Currie, A.M. Third edition. Edinburgh: 1861.

2. _Papers for the Teacher_. No. 1: American Contributions to Pedagogy.
Edited by Henry Barnard, LL.D. New York: 1860.

3. _Education; Intellectual, Moral, and Physical_. By Herbert Spencer.
New York: 1861.

4. _A Series of School and Family Readers_. Compiled by Marcius Willson.
New York: 1860-1.

5. _Primary Object Lessons, for a Graduated Course of Development_. By
N.A. Calkins. New York: 1861.

6. _Annual Reports of Superintendents of Schools_: City of New York,
1861; Oswego, 1860; Chicago, 1861.

7. _The New York Teacher_. Monthly. Albany, Vols. 7-10: 1858-61.


'The most certain means,' Beccaria wrote in the preceding century, 'of
rendering a people free and happy, is, to establish a perfect method of
education.' If, in this conclusion, Beccaria only reiterates an opinion
at least tacitly held long before his time by some of the Grecian sages,
still, the later assertion of the principle should, it seems, derive
some additional weight from the circumstance of the time allowed in the
interim for repeated reconsiderations of the question. The theologian
may interpose, that, toward rendering a people free and happy, the
influences of religion must constitute the most efficacious, the
dominant agency. But when we admit that man is _one_,--that heart and
hand are not only alike, but together subjects for culture,--then it
will be seen that religion falls into its place in the one comprehensive
scheme of human education; and we discover that Beccaria's position,
instead of being assailed from this point of view, becomes, according as
our conception of the case is truthful and clear, correspondingly
strengthened.

The ease, however, with which we utter those little qualifiers, 'free'
and 'happy,' observed to stand here in the positive or absolute degree,
and not in any degree of comparison, is noticeable. For 'degrees of
comparison' are always concessions of steps _down_, even when they most
stoutly present themselves as steps _up_. Were all men simply wise and
just, all predicating of certain men that they were _more_, or _most,
wise_ or _just_, would be at once absurd and without utility. It is our
intensified adjective that confesses fatally the prior fact of a coming
short, and by an amount indefinitely great, of the simple, absolute
standard. So, to come once for all to ridding ourselves of comparative
forms of speech, and to be warranted to look for the rendering of a
people, in the simple, positive sense, free and happy, would be, in the
expressive language of one 'aunt Chloe' respecting the 'glory' to which
she aspired, 'a mighty thing!' On the other hand, so far have our race,
up to this moment, and without a single decided instance in exception,
fallen short of aught that could be styled a perfect method of
education, and so closely must educational training affect every nascent
man or woman in those vitalest particulars,--character and
capability,--that, could the perfect method sought once be brought into
effective operation on the plastic child-manhood of a nation, or of all
nations, we are not prepared to deny the possibility of any results
therefrom to humanity, even the grandest utterable or conceivable.
Admitting such method found, and in process, Beccaria could have
dispensed with his tell-tale 'most,' and written, The certain means of
rendering a people free and happy, is, to establish a perfect method of
education.

To secure, therefore, so great an end: First, find--the perfect
educational method! The recipe is brief; the labor it imposes is more
than Herculean. To measure it, we should have to find the ratio in
which mind transcends matter, or that in which the broad generalizations
of genius in the materials of science surpass the poor conceptions that
the wild Australian must almost utter audibly in his own ear to realize
that he at all possesses them.

In the 5,865 years which the most unquestioned belief accords to the
history of man on our planet, could we suppose the average duration of
life throughout equal to that of a generation now, there would have been
time for 177 generations of working, planning, inventive men--of men
desiring at each period the best they could conceive of, and framing the
best schemes they were capable of to attain it. Here has been space for
the slow rise and fall of nation after nation,--vast solitary tides
heaving at long intervals the face of a wide, living, sullen sea: and
history reports that the nations have actually risen, flourished, and
fallen. Here has been space for exquisite triumphs of art; for the late
birth, and nevertheless large progress, of the sciences concerned about
phenomena of physical nature; the art triumphs have been achieved, and
the germs of sciences are in our possession. Here has been space for the
multiplication, upon all imaginable themes, of books, to a number and
volume utterly beyond the powers of the most prolonged and assiduous
life even to peruse; and the books crowd our alcoves, and meet us
wherever men are wont to make their abode or transit. Here has been
space for the organization, though so long impracticable and late
conceived, of a system of daily diffusion of intelligence, and to such a
pitch as almost to bring the world freshly photographed to our eyes with
each returning sun; and, lo! the photographs are here; they await us at
the breakfast or the counting table. Here has been space for the
springing up among the people, at distances of years or centuries, of
profound educating intellects, marked by clear insight, large human
love, and patient self-sacrifice, and contributing to the growth of
humanity by worthy examples, and by propounding successively more and
more rational modes for the informing and developing of youthful minds;
and, see! Confucius, Socrates and Plato, Petrarch, Bacon, Comenius,
Pestalozzi, Père Girard, Arnold of Rugby, and Horace Mann--to make no
mention of many co-laborers among the dead, and earnest successors among
the living--stepping from their niches in the vanishing corridors of
history, lay at our feet the treasures accumulated through their patient
and clear thought and their faithful experience.

Will it then readily be believed--and yet it is unquestionably
true--that, to this hour, neither the schools nor the teachers can be
found that are in possession and practice of a well-defined, positively
guiding, and always trustworthy _method_ of intellectual, and other
means and steps by which to conduct and consummate the education of our
children? Note, we do not here declare the want of the true and
universal method of educating, if there can be such a thing; but we
distinctly assert that no school and no living teacher employs or
conforms to any well-defined, positive, and, in and for its purposes,
completed method of educating the young; nor, since this latter is a
supposition better pleasing certain critically-minded gentlemen, have we
in anything like clear delineation and positive practice the _several_
methods that may be imagined requisite for minds of varying bent and
capacity. If we sum up in one word the most pervading, constant, and
obvious characteristic of our schools, and of the teaching and the
learning in them to this day, that word must be, _immethodical_.
Although admitting that the education of the young should distinctly
embrace the four departments of a training, _physical_, _intellectual_,
_moral_, and _social_, yet, for the sake of clearness in our discussion
and its results, not less than through the necessities of a restricted
space, we shall here confine our remarks wholly to education in its
intellectual aspect.

To move, for each subject, and for each part of it essayed, always along
the right way, and by the true character and order of steps,--that is
the thing to be desired, and which is, as yet, unattained. As a
consequence, the prosecution of studies is by attempts and in ways that
are generally imperfect, at best make-shift or provisional, often
radically erroneous or worthless. Doubtless, the defects in method are
now less glaring and influential at the two extremes of the
sensibly-conducted infant school, and the well-appointed and leisurely
collegiate course. There is no true study that is not what the origin of
the word implies--STUDIUM, a work of _zeal, fondness, eager desire,
voluntary endeavor, interest_. Such study has two essential
characteristics; where these are wanting, study does not exist; the
appearance of it is a sham; and though results disconnected and partial
are attained, real acquisition is meager, and apparent progress
deceptive.

Of these characteristics, the first is what the word directly
expresses--zealous exertion on the part of the student's own
intellectual powers, a zeal literally pre-venting all other incentives,
or, at the least, subordinating them, through pure love of finding out
that which is new and curious, or true. In two words, this first
essential of study, and fraught with all the desirable results of study,
is genuine INTELLECTUAL WORK. It is the _nisus_ of the intelligent
principle to bring itself into ascertained and well-ordered relations
with the facts, agencies, and uses of nature, alike in her physical and
spiritual domains. The bright-minded boy or girl who may not comprehend
the feeling or thought when so uttered, nevertheless _knows_ it, and,
for his or her range of effort, as keenly as does the adult explorer.

But, when a mind thus _works_, the truth that it can never advance
beyond missing or unfound links in the chain of thought does not need to
be taught to it. The impossibility of so doing has become a matter of
experience and of certain conviction. The mathematician knows, that,
beyond that form of his equation containing an actual mis-step, or a
positively irresoluble expression, all subsequent forms or values
involving that step or expression are vitiated, and the results they
seem to show substantially worthless. Now, every actually working mind,
and at every stage, from schoolboy perplexities over algebraic signs, up
to philosophic ventures in quest of one remove further of solid ground,
in respect to the interrelations of physical forces, or the law of
development of organized forms, finds itself in precisely the
predicament of the mathematician: it feels no footing and accomplishes
no advance beyond that link in the chain of fact and thought, which, to
its comprehension, stands as uncertain, erroneous, wanting, or
inexplicable. This is so from the very nature of our knowing faculties
and of knowledge. The true intellectual worker, encountering
interruption through any of these conditions, goes back to view his
difficulty from a better vantage ground, or attempts to approach it from
either side, or, failing these resources, bows to the necessity, and
suffers no harm, other than stoppage and loss of time. Thus, the second
characteristic of true study is in the rigidly natural and unfailing
CONSECUTION of the steps and processes by which the intellectual advance
is made. A mind so advancing never flatters itself of being able to
grasp that which, in the nature of knowledge, must be a consequent
truth, until the antecedent or antecedents german to the question in
hand have first been possessed by it. But in our schools, how vastly
much is _supposed_ to be taught, in which consequents come before
antecedents, or are promiscuously jumbled up with them, or assert
themselves, without so much as the grace to say to antecedents of any
sort, 'By your leave.' Obviously, however, such could not be the
character of so much of our teaching, did not the character of most of
our books for schools exactly correspond with it. And the books do
correspond: they not only give to a faulty teaching its cue, but, now
that the _theory_ of education is being so much discussed, and in good
degree improved, they constitute one of the most influential causes of
the almost hopeless lagging of its practice.

Now, how is it that pupils get on at all with such lessons and such
books? The explanation is a simple one; but the consequences it is
fraught with are not trifling. The simple fact is, pupils are not yet
allowed to _study_ (in the best sense and manner of that process) the
subjects they are prosecuting. When, now, they undertake in earnest to
study, they are but too constantly confused and delayed by the no-method
of the treatises they are being carried through. In a course of earnest
intellectual work, the pupil must too often, with his present aids,
become aware of absence of comprehension; he is ever and anon brought to
stand still and cast about for the unsupplied preliminary facts and
truths, for the unhinted hypotheses and inferences, which his situation
and previous study do not enable him to supply, but which are necessary
to a _comprehension_ of the results set down for him to deal with.
Barren results, _per se_, our learners are now too much required to
ingest; and such they are expected to assimilate into intellectual life
and power! As well feed a boy on bare elements of tissue--carbon,
sulphur, oxygen, and the rest; or, yet more charitably, dissect out from
his allowance of tenderloin, lamb, or fowl, a due supply of ready-made
nerve and muscular fiber, introduce and engraft these upon the nerve and
muscle he has already acquired, and then assure our _protegé_, that, as
the upshot of our masterly provision for his needs, we expect him to
become highly athletic and intellectual--that so he is to evolve larger
streams of muscular energy and more vivid flashes of spiritual force!

As it is, we too nearly put the pupil's intellect asleep by our false
method; and he endures it because of his unnatural condition. He thinks
he 'gets on' with it; and in an imperfect way and degree does so.
Rarely, we find, does such a one get so far as into the 'conics;' and he
is not certain to be in the habit of reading reviews: if we were sure,
however, that he could comprehend and would meet with our simile, we
would say to him, that the tardy inclination up which he now plods
painfully, must, if graphically represented, be shown by an oblique line
_descending_, in fact, below the curve of his possibilities, more
rapidly even than it _ascends_ above the horizontal cutting through the
point of his setting out. True, with pupils who are spontaneously
active-minded from the first, or who at some point in their course
become positively awakened to brain-work, very much of the repressive
influence of imperfect methods is prevented or overcome. The number of
those so fortunate is doubtless small in the comparison. The few who
_would_ know, by a necessity as imperative as that by which they _must_
feed, and sleep, and probably toil with hands or head for subsistence,
are able to supplement many of the deficiencies, and supersede some
erroneous processes of our methods, by the play of their own powers of
investigation upon and about their subject. To these, a false method can
bring perplexity and delay, but not repression nor veritable
intellectual torpor.

We assert, then, that from a course or manner of instruction from which
those characteristics of true study--real work of the learner's
faculties, and a just consecution of steps--are largely omitted or
excluded, the best sort of intellectual education can not, in the
majority of instances, accrue. On the other hand, the method embodying
these characteristics must present that unity, certainty, and guiding
force hinted at in the outset. Concisely summed up, it is a method
proceeding throughout by discovery, or, as we may say, by _re-discovery_
of the truths and results to be acquired in each department of knowledge
undertaken by the learner. In the absence of the one true method of
intellectual advance, what should we expect but a confusion of clashing,
imperfect, or tentative processes of instruction? He who could, to-day,
ciceroned by some pedagogic Asmodeus, visit one hundred of our schools,
or listen successively to a recitation on a given topic, conducted by
one hundred qualified and faithful instructors, would find the methods
and no-methods of introducing to the century of classes the truths of
this self-same subject to be--and we do not mean in the personal
element, which ought to vary, but in the radical substance and order of
the theme--quite as numerous as the workmen observed; in fact, a
conflicting and confusing display. Now, do causes, in any realm of
being, forbear to produce fruit in effects? Are the laws of psychologic
sequence less rigid and certain than those laws of physical sequence
which determine in material nature every phenomenon, from planet-paths
in space to the gathering of dew-drops on a leaf? If it were so, falsity
or confusion in intellectual method might be pronounced a thing of
trifling import, or wholly indifferent. But such suppositions are the
seemings only of postulates floating through the brains of Ignorance or
Un-heed, who really postulate nothing at all. If, on the contrary, we
admit this inflexible relation of cause and result in the mental, as
well as in the material world, and if we admit also that our
school-methods are yet fragmentary, varying and tentative, then we are
compelled to the conclusion, that at least the greater number of our
schools are falling short, in the time and with the outlay invested, of
doing their best and largest work, while in very many of our schools
there must be steadily going forward a positive and potent
mis-education!

If it be urged that these are in a degree deductive conclusions, let
them be submitted to the test of fact. At least two important
circumstances, it is admitted, will come in to complicate the inquiry:
first, one purpose of school training is to divert the forming mind in a
degree from sense toward thought, the latter being a less observable
sort of product than that curiosity and store of facts attendant on
activity of the merely perceptive powers; secondly, there is the growing
absorption of the mental powers with increase of age in the practical,
in meeting the necessities of life, which more and more displaces
intellectual activity as a set pursuit, and leaves it to be manifested
rather in the means than the ends, rather in the quality than in the
products of one's thinking, and, at the best, rather as an embellishment
than as the business of a career. And yet, in the mind which has passed
through a proper school-training, there should be apparent certain
decided qualities and results, which are manifested as, and as often as,
opportunity for their exercise presents itself. The schooled mind should
surely not possess a less active curiosity to observe and to know than
did the same mind before entering school, but even a stronger, more
self-directed, purposive and efficient zeal in such direction.
Intellectual vivacity and point, clearness of conception, and
truthfulness of generalization and of inference,--all these should
appear in more marked degree, along with the increased sobriety and
judgment, and the improved facility of practical adaptation, which
properly characterize maturity of mind and habit. Now, we suggest the
careful observation of any number of children, not yet sent to school,
and that are favored with ordinarily sensible parents, and ordinarily
happy homes; and then, the equally careful study of a like number who
have just emerged from their school course, or have fairly entered on
the business of life; and we warn the really acute and discriminating
observer to look forward (in the majority of instances) to a
disheartening result from his investigation! We are convinced that the
net product of our immensely expansive, patient, and ardently sought
schooling will, in a large proportion of all the cases, be found to
consist in the imperfect acquirement and uncertain tenure of knowledge,
upon a few rudimentary branches, often without definite understanding or
habit of applying even so much to its uses, and usually without the
conception or desire to make it the point of departure for life-long
acquisition; and all this accompanied, too often, with actual loss of
that spontaneous intellectual activity which began to manifest itself in
the child, and which should have been fruiting now in, at the least,
some degree of sound and true intellectuality. So, we are still left to
expect mainly of Nature not only the germs of capacity, but the maturing
of them; the latter, a work which Education surely ought to be competent
to. Meanwhile, like a wearied and fretted pedagogue, Education complains
of the bad materials Nature gives her, when she ought to be questioning
whether she has yet learned to bring out the excellence of the material
she has.

Is it not an expensive process, that thus amasses a certain quantity of
knowledge at cost of the disposition, sometimes of the ability, to add
to it through the whole of life? Really, schooling is short, and,
contrasted with it, life is long; but what mischiefs may not the latter
experience from the former! Let us clearly conceive, once, the aversion
many of our boys and girls persistently feel toward the school, and of
their leaving it, at the last, with rejoicing! Are we astonished that
when they have fairly escaped, frivolity is, with the young woman, too
apt to replace mental culture, and with the young man, vulgarity or
exclusive living for 'the main chance?' That the men and women so
educated are too receptive, credulous, pliant and unstable; that in too
large a degree they lack discrimination, judgment, and the good sense
and executive talent which plan understandingly, and work without
sacrifice of honor, manhood, or spiritual culture, to a true success?
But, if our instructors could find out, or if some other could find out
for them, _just how_ and _by what steps_ it is that the young mind
engages with nature and harvests knowledge, and if they should see,
therefore, how to strike in better with the current of the young,
knowing and thinking, to move with it, enlarge, direct and form it
aright, properly insuring that the mind under their charge shall do its
own work, and hence advance by consecutive and comprehended steps, we
ask with confidence whether much of the notorious short-comings now
manifest in the results of our patient efforts might not be replaced by
an approach toward an intellectual activity, furnishing, completeness,
and bent, more worthy of the name and the idea of education? We are not
alone in questioning the tendencies of existing methods. Other pens have
raised the note of alarm. Speaking on the character of the _product_ of
the English schools, Faraday says, 'The whole evidence appears to show
that the _reasoning faculties_ [mark, it is here the failure occurs, and
here that it shows itself], in all classes of the community, are very
imperfectly and insufficiently developed--_imperfectly, as compared with
the natural abilities, insufficiently, when considered with reference to
the extent and variety of information with which they are called upon to
deal_.' Does not this strong language find equally strong warrant in
current facts of individual conduct and of our social life?

That there is yet no recognized complete method in, and no ascertained
science of education, the latest writings on the subject abundantly
reiterate and confirm. The best of our annual School Reports, and the
most recent treatises,--among which, notwithstanding the abatement we
must make for their having been, through adventitious circumstances,
pushed in our country to a sudden and not wholly merited prominence,
Sir. Spencer's republished essays may be named,--while they acknowledge
some progress in details, disclose an undertone of growing conviction of
the incompetency and unsatisfactoriness of our present modes of teaching
and training. The Oswego School Report, speaking of primary education,
tells us 'There has been too much teaching by formulas;' and that 'We
are quite too apt, in the education of children, to "sail over their
heads," to present subjects that are beyond their comprehension,' etc.
Its way of escape 'out of the rut' is by importation into our country of
the object-lesson system, as improved from the Pestalozzian original
through the labors of Mr. Kay, now Sir J.K. Shuttleworth, and his
co-laborers, of the Home and Colonial Infant and Juvenile School
Society, London. In the report of Mr. Henry Kiddle, one of the four
making up the collective School Report of the City of New York for 1861,
the radical error of our present teachers is very forcibly
characterized, where the danger of the teachers is pointed out as that
of becoming 'absorbed in the mechanical routine of their office, losing
sight of the _end_ in their exclusive devotion to what is only the
_means--teaching the_ THING, _but failing to instruct the_ PERSON--eager
to pour in knowledge, but neglecting to bring out mind.' Is there not
indicated in these words a real and a very grave defect of the manner in
which subjects are now presented, studied, recited, and finished up in
our schools? We think there is. And then, what is the effect of this
study and teaching, with so much less thought toward the _end_ than
about the _material_?--what the result of this overlooking of the mind,
the individuality, the person?--what the fruitage, at last, of having
given so much time to the 'finishing up' of arithmetic, geography, and
the rest, as to have failed _to bring out the mind_ that was dealing
with these topics, and is hereafter to have so many others to deal with?
The physiologists have to tell us of a certain ugly result, occurring
only in rare instances in the _bodily_ organization, such that in a
given young animal or human form the developing effort ceases before
completion of the full structure; the individual remaining without
certain fingers or limbs, sometimes without cranium or proper brain.
They name this result one of 'arrest of development.' Is it not barely
possible that our studies and recitations are yet in general so
mal-adapted to the habitudes of the tender brain and opening faculties
of childhood, as not merely often to allow, but even to inflict on the
intellectual and moral being of the child a positive arrest of
development? And if it be possible, what question can take precedence of
one concerning the means of averting such a mischief? Pestalozzi
intuitively saw and deeply felt the existence of this evil in his day,
when, we may admit, it was somewhat more glaring than now. But Mr.
Spencer truly characterizes Pestalozzi as, nevertheless, 'a man of
_partial_ intuitions, a man who had occasional flashes of insight,
rather than a man of systematic thought;' as one who 'lacked the ability
logically to co-ordinate and develop the truths he from time to time
laid hold of;' and, at the same time, he accredits the great modern
leader with a true idea of education, 'the due realization of [which]
remains to be achieved.' How doubly important every rational attempt to
achieve such realization--every well-considered effort to improve the
method of the studies and the lessons--becomes but too apparent when we
note the early age at which, as a rule, pupils must leave the schools,
and the consequent brief space within which to evoke the faculties and
to establish right intellectual habitudes. As an illustration drawn from
the cities, where of course the school period is soonest ended, take the
incidental fact disclosed by Mr. Randall in the New York School Report,
that in that city the course of studies must be so framed as to allow of
its completion, with many, at the preposterously early age of _fourteen
years_--really the age at which study and mental discipline in the best
sense just begin to be practicable!

In all directions, in the educational world, we are struck with the
feeling and expression of a great need, though the questions as to just
what it is, and just how to be met, have not been so distinctly
answered. Let us agree with Mr. Currie, that 'Practical teaching can not
be learned from books, even from the most exact "photographing" of
lessons: it must be learned, like any other art or profession, by
imitation of good models, and by practice under the eye of a master.'
Yet it is true, however paradoxical the statement may appear, that
practical teaching will gain quite as much when the school-books shall
have been cast into the right form and method, as when all the teachers
shall have been obliged to imitate good models, in a system of sound
normal and model schools. What has given to the teaching of geometry its
comparatively high educating value through centuries, and in the hands
of teachers of every bent, caliber, and culture? What but the well-nigh
inevitable, because highly perfected and crystalline method of one
book--_Euclid's Elements_? Doubtless we want 'live' men and women, and
those trained to their work, to teach: quite as imperatively we then
want the right kind of text-books, in the pupils' hands, with which to
carry forward their common work. If mind is the animating _spirit_, and
knowledge the shapeless _matter_, still method--and to the pupil largely
the method of the books--is the organizing force or _form_ under which
the knowledge is to be organized, made available and valuable. We shall
suffer quite as much from any lack of the best form, as through lack of
the best matter, or of the most earnest spirit. In education, the
teacher is the fluent element, full of present resources; the book
should be the fixed element, always bringing back the discursive
faculties to the rigid line of thought and purpose of the subject. We
have now the fluent element in better forwardness and command than the
fixed. We have much of the spirit; an almost overwhelming supply of the
matter; but the ultimate and best _form_ is yet largely wanting, and
being so, it is now our most forcible and serious want.

But, rightly understood, all that we have said in reference to the
short-comings of our modes of educating the young, constitutes by no
necessity any sort of disparagement of teachers, or of the conductors of
our school system. If a re-survey of the ground seems to show very much
yet to be done, it is in part but the necessary result of an enlarging
comprehension as to what, all the while, should have been done. It is by
looking from an eminence that we gain a broader prospect, and
coincidently receive the conviction of a larger duty. Much that we
deplore in present methods is the best to which investigation has yet
conducted us, or that the slow growth of a right view among the patrons
of schools will allow. Then, how hard it is to foresee, in any direction
of effort, the effects our present appliances and plans shall be
producing a score of years hence, or in the next generation--hardest of
all to those whose work is directly upon that extremely variable
quantity, mind! And in what other human business, besides that of
education, are there not in like manner remissnesses and errors to point
out? Justice, in truth, requires the acknowledgment that probably no
other body of men and women can take precedence of the teaching class,
in devotion to their work, in self-sacrifice, or, indeed, in willingness
to adopt the new when it shall also commend itself to them as
serviceable; while, in a world of rough, material interests and
successes, like ours, the teacher's avocation still remains by far
underpaid, and by parents, and even by the very pupils on whom its
benefits are conferred, too rarely appreciated at anything like its just
deserts.

If further extenuation of present short-comings should be deemed
needful, the history of science--and let us not forget that this history
is almost wholly a very _recent_ one--presents it in abundant force.
Though practical arts have led to sciences, yet they have never advanced
far until after they have felt the reactive benefits of the sciences
springing from them. Finally, in its highest phases, the art becomes
subordinated to the science; thenceforth, the former can approach
perfection only as the latter prepares its way. Education has advanced
beyond this turning point: the art is henceforward dependent on the
sciences. But a science of education is an outgrowth from the science of
mind; and among sciences, the latter is one of the latest and most
difficult. Thus, our investigations result, not in casting blame upon
educators, but in revealing, we may say, what is still the intellectual
'situation' of the most cultivated and advanced nations. We have our
place still, not at any sort of consummation, but at a given stage in a
progress. And still, as ever in the past, the things that in reality
most closely touch our interests are farthest removed from our
starting-points of sense and reason, and by a necessity of the manner
and progress of our knowing, are longest in being found. And in this we
have at least the assurance that the perfection of our race is to occur
by no sudden bound or transformation, but by a toilsome and patient
insight and growth.

Granting, however, all that has now been said in palliation of existing
defects in education, that the whole business is a thing remote from
immediate interests, and not less so from immediate perceptions and
reasonings--a thing that, to all eyes capable of seeing in it something
more than so many days devoted to spelling, penmanship, and arithmetic,
begins at once to recede from the vision, and to lie in the hazy
distance, obscure and incomprehensible--granting all this, and yet any
one who realizes what education is, a formative and determining process,
that for so many years is to operate persistently upon the plastic and
intrinsically priceless mind, will assuredly be surprised in view of the
actually existing indifference about questions as to the _method or
methods_ by which the work can most fully and satisfactorily be
accomplished. We have enacted laws, built school-houses, provided
libraries, employed teachers, and in a tolerable degree insisted on the
attendance of pupils, duly equipped with treatises of knowledge. We have
lavished money on a set of instrumentalities, more or less vaguely
considered requisite to insure qualification of the young for active
life, and the perpetuity of the national virtue and liberty. What we, in
America, however, have least essayed and most needed, has been to get
_beneath the surface_ of the great educational question; to look less
after plans of school buildings, and the schemes of school-districts and
funds, and more into the structure of the lessons and studies, and the
relationships, applications, and value of the ideas secured or attempted
during the daily sessions of the school classes. It will be a great day
for us, when our principals and schoolmasters cease to put forward so
prominently, at the end of the quarter or term, its smartest
compositions and declamations, and when the over-generous public shall
begin to attend on 'examinations' with a less allowance of eyes and
ears, and a more vigorous and active use of the discriminating and
judging powers of their own minds. In the externals of education,
England, France, and Germany must take rank after some of the States of
our country; but in the matter of seeking the right interior qualities
and tendencies of instruction, they have been in advance of us; though
just now the anti-progressive spirit of their governments is interposing
itself to hinder the largest practicable results by the schools, and to
what extent it will emasculate them of their best qualities, time only
can show. Among our teaching class, the apathy is not confined to the
ill-rewarded incumbents of the lower positions; with rare exceptions, it
is even more decided at the other extreme of the scale. Of all the
gentlemen holding place in our over-numerous college faculties, and
commanding, one would expect, the very passes to the _terra incognita_
of the human soul, how few seem disposed to prove their individual
_faculties_ by any thoroughgoing and successful incursions into unknown
regions of the psychologic and pedagogic realm! The spirit of this
should-be influential and leading class among us is one of serene assent
in the iteration of the old steps, with of course some minor
improvements, but with no attempts at a grand investigation and
synthesis, such as gave to philosophy her new method, and to the world
her growing fruitage of physical sciences.

If proof were needed of the comparative apathy under which we labor in
respect to activities and progress in the more abstract and higher
planes of intellectual effort, we find it in the contrast between the
rewards meted out to the successful in this and in more material fields,
in the general estimation awarded to the two classes of workers, and in
the present expressions of the public bereavement when leading
representatives of the two classes are removed from the scenes of their
labors. Compare the quiet with which the ordinary wave of business
interests and topic closed almost immediately over the announcement of
the death of Horace Mann, with the protracted eulogy and untiring
reminiscence of person, habits, work, and success, that, after the
decease of William H. Prescott, kept the great wave of current topics
parted for weeks--as if another Red Sea were divided, and the spirit of
the historian, lingering to the chanting of solemn requiems, should pass
over it dry-shod! For the great historian this was indeed no excess of
honor, because grand human natures are worthy of all our praises; but
was there not a painful want of respect and requital to the equally
great educator? Prescott wrote admirable volumes, and in our libraries
they will be 'a joy forever.' Horace Mann secured admirable means of
instruction, made admirable schools, awakened to their best achievements
the souls of our children; and his work is one to be measured by
enlarging streams of beauty and joy that flow down through the
generations. Would that, in the midst of so much justice as we willingly
render to self-sacrifice and worth, we could less easily forget those
whose labor it is directly to fit mankind for a higher nobleness, and
for higher appreciation of it when enacted in their behalf!

       *       *       *       *       *

GUERDON.


  Every life has been a battle
    That has won a noble guerdon--
  Every soul that furls its pinions
  In proud Fame's serene dominions,
    Wearily has borne its burden.

  Through long years of toil and darkness,
    Years of trial and of sorrow--
  Days of longing, nigh to madness,
  Nights of such deep, rayless sadness,
    Hope herself scarce dared to-morrow.

  Therefore bear up, O brave toiler
    In the world's benighted places!
  Though Truth's glory light your forehead,
  Purer souls than yours have sorrowed,
    Tears have flowed on angel-faces.

  Therefore, bear up, O ye toilers!
    Teachers of the earth's dull millions.
  _Keep_ Truth's glory on each forehead,
  And the way so blank and sorrowed
    Shall lead on to heaven's pavilions.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERARY NOTICES


LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN. By the Author of 'The Recreations of a Country
Parson.' Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1862.

'The Country Parson' is one of those writers whose hap it generally is
to be overpraised by friendly reviewers, and unduly castigated by those
who appreciate their short-comings. Incurably limited to a certain range
of ideas, totally incapable of mastering the great circle of thought,
unpleasantly egotistical, jaunty, and priggish, he is any thing but
attractive to the large-hearted cosmopolite and scholar of broad views,
while even to many more general readers, he appears as a man whom one
would rather read than be. On the other hand, the generous critic,
remembering that small minds must exist, and that great excellence may
be developed within extremely confined bounds, will perhaps take our
Parson cordially for just what he is, and do justice to his many
excellencies.

And they are indeed many, the principal being a humanity, a
sensitiveness to the sufferings of others, and a tenderness which causes
keen regret that we can not 'just for once,' by a few amiable
pen-strokes, give him nothing but praise, and thereby leave him, by
implication, as one of the million _ne plus ultra_ authors so common--in
reviews. We can hardly recall a writer who to so much firmness and real
energy, allies such warm sympathy for suffering in its every form. The
trials and troubles of young people awake in him a pity and a noble
generosity which, could they be impressed on the minds of all who
control the destinies of youth, would make the world far happier than it
is. Had he written only Concerning the Sorrows of Childhood, the Country
Parson would have well deserved the vast 'popularity' which his writings
have so justly won. 'Covenanting austerity' and Puritanical
ultra-propriety are repulsive to him and, he deals them many a brave
blow. He sees life as it is with singular shrewdness, catches its lights
and shadows with artistic talent, and like all tender and genial
writers, keenly appreciates humor, and conveys it to us either
delicately or energetically, as the point may require. He writes _well_,
too, always. Clear as a bell, always to the point, refined enough for
the most fastidious gentleman and scholar, and yet intelligible and
interesting to any save the very illiterate. If any young aspirant for
literary honor wishes to touch the hearts of the people, and secure the
first elements of popularity, we know of no living writer from whom he
may draw more surely for success than from the Country Parson. Pity that
when we come to higher criticism, to the appreciation of truly great and
broadly genial views, he should fail as he does. Out of his canny
Scotch-English corner of thought, he is sadly lost. Thus, in one place
we have the following avowal, which is only not _naïf_ because evidently
put in to please the prejudices of sympathetically narrow readers. After
arguing, with most amusing ignorance of the very first principles of a
general æsthetic education, that there is really no appeal beyond
individual taste, or beyond 'what _suits_ you,' he says:

    'For myself, I confess with shame, and I know the reason is in
    myself, I can not for my life see any thing to admire in the
    writings of Mr. Carlyle. His style of thought and language is to
    me insufferably irritating. I tried to read _Sartor Resartus_, and
    could not do it.'

Almost in the same paragraph our Parson proclaims for all the world that
'no man is a hero to his valet,' and says that there are two or three
living great men whom he would be sorry to see, since 'no human being
can bear a too close inspection.' 'Here,' he declares, 'is a sad
circumstance in the lot of a very eminent man: I mean such a man as Mr.
Tennyson or Professor Longfellow. As an elephant walks through a field,
crushing the crop at every step, so do these men advance through life,
smashing, every time they dine out, the enthusiastic fancies of several
romantic young people.'

Is this just? Is it _true_? The Parson, be it observed, speaks not
solely for 'romantic young people,' but for 'you' and for himself. Had
he read Carlyle's _Sartor Resartus_, he might there have learned that no
man is a hero to his valet, not because he is not always great, but
because that valet has a poor, flunkey, valet's soul. He who quotes such
an aphorism as a truth, calls himself a valet.

But let the reader forget and forgive these drawbacks, which are rarely
manifested, and bear in mind that our pleasantly gossiping, earnest,
honest writer is, within his scope, one of the most delightful essayists
in our English tongue. A man need not be a far-reaching thinker and
scholar to be kind, good, and _true_, manly and agreeable. He may have
his self-unsuspected limits and weaknesses, and yet do good service and
be a delightful writer, cheering many a weary hour, and benefiting the
world in many ways. Such a writer is the Country Parson, and as such we
commend him to all who are not as yet familiar with his essays.


CADET LIFE AT WEST-POINT. By an Officer of the United States Army. With
a Descriptive Sketch of West-Point, by BENSON J. LOSSING. Boston:
T.O.H.P. Burnham. 1862.

The American public has long needed a work on West-Point, and we have
here a very clever volume, by one who has retained with great accuracy
in his memory its predominant characteristics, and repeated them in a
very readable form. Occasional stiffness and 'mannerism' are in it
compensated for by many vivid pictures of cadet-life, and we can well
imagine the interest with which every page will be perused by old
graduates of the institution, and others familiar with its details.

We regret to say that, on the whole, the work has not left with us a
pleasant impression of the system of instruction followed at West-Point.
There appear to be too many studies, too little time to master them, and
too much stress laid on trifles. Certainly a strictly military school
must be different from others, and there can be no doubt that old
officers know better than civilians how young men should be trained for
the army. But we cannot resist the impression that if this work be
truthful, the author has, often unconsciously, shown that there is much
room for reform at West-Point.


A DISCOURSE ON THE LIFE, CHARACTER, AND POLICY OF COUNT CAVOUR. By
VINCENZO BOTTA, Phil. D. New-York: G.P. Putnam, No. 532 Broadway. 1862.

This excellent address which, in its present form embraces 108 octavo
pages, first delivered in the Hall of the New-York Historical Society,
has since been repeated to one of the most cultivated audiences ever
assembled in Boston, on both occasions eliciting the most cordial
admiration from all who were so fortunate as to be present. Of the
ability of the eminent Dr. Botta to write on this subject, it is almost
needless to speak. A late member of the Italian Parliament, and formerly
Professor of Philosophy in the College of Sardinia, intimately
acquainted with the great men of modern Italy, as with those of the
past, in their writings, and cast by personal experience amid stirring
scenes, he is singularly well qualified to write of Cavour, for whom it
was reserved to achieve, in a great measure, the work which the vain
longings of an enslaved people, and the heroic efforts of centuries,
had been unable to accomplish.' The work before us is, in fact, far
more than its very modest title would lead us to infer. It is, in fact,
a comprehensive and excellent history of all that great political
revival of Italy of which Cavour was the centre--a work as admirable for
scholarly clearness as for the evidently vast knowledge on which it is
based. It is needless to say that we commend its perusal, with right
good-will, to all who take the slightest interest in historical studies
or in the politics of modern Europe.


THE KORAN. Translated by GEORGE SALE. With a Life of Mohammed. Boston:
T.O.H.P. Burnham. 1862.

Good authority in Arabic has declared that, after all the many versions
of the Koran extant, there is none better than that by 'George Sale,
Gentleman,' first published in 1734. We therefore welcome the present
edition, and with it even the very old-fashioned Life of Mohammed given
with it--a 'life' so very narrow in its views and antiquated in its
expression, that it has acquired a certain relish as a relic or literary
curiosity. We learn with pleasure that this is the first of a series of
the Holy Books of every nation, to embrace translations of the Vedas,
the Zend-Avesta, the Edda, and many others. Thoreau suggested many years
ago--we think in _Walden_--that such a collection should be published
together for the world's use, and we rejoice to see his wish realized.


JEFFERSON AT MONTICELLO. The Private Life of Thomas Jefferson. From
entirely new materials, with numerous fac-similes. By Rev. HAMILTON W.
PIERSON, D.D., President of Columbia College, Ky. New-York: Charles
Scribner, No. 124 Grand street. Boston: A.K. Loring. 1862.

'The Private Life of Jefferson at Monticello' is too ambitious a title
for a little work of 138 pages, octavo though they be. It is, however,
an extremely valuable and interesting collection of anecdotes,
fac-simile documents, and casual reminiscences of Thomas Jefferson, as
preserved by Captain Edmund Bacon, now a wealthy and aged citizen of
Kentucky, and who was for twenty years the chief overseer and
business-manager of Jefferson's estate at Monticello. In it we see the
author of the Declaration and the statesman as he was at home, generous,
peculiar, and far-sighted. Very striking is the following reminiscence
of Captain Bacon:

    'Mr. Jefferson did not like slavery. I have heard him talk a great
    deal about it. I have heard him prophesy that we should have just
    such trouble with it as we are having now.'


A BOOK ABOUT DOCTORS. By J. CORDY JEAFFRESON. From the English edition.
New-York; Rudd and Carleton. Boston: A. Williams and Company. 1862.

An amusing and interesting collection of anecdotes of English physicians
of all ages, copious enough in detail, and well enough written to escape
the charge of being a mere _pièce de manufacture_ and deserve place
among the curiosities of literature. It is a work which will find place
in the library of many a _medico_, and doubtless prove a profitable
investment to the publisher. Hogarth's 'Undertaker's Arms' forms its
appropriate and humorous vignette.


A POPULAR TREATISE ON DEAFNESS, ITS CAUSES AND PREVENTION. By Drs.
LIGHTHILL. Edited by E. BUNFORD LIGHTHILL, M.D. With Illustrations.
New-York: Carleton, Publisher, No. 413 Broadway, (late Rudd and
Carleton.) Boston: A. Williams and Company. 1862.

Many persons suffer from defective hearing, or lose it entirely, from
want of proper attention to the subject, or knowledge of the structure
of the auricular organs. Thus the old often become incapable of hearing,
yet let it pass without recourse to medical advice, believing the
calamity to be inseparable from the due course of nature. The present
work will, we imagine, prove useful both to practitioner and patient,
and be the means of preserving to many a sense which, in value, ranks
only next to that of sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

EDITOR'S TABLE


If any one doubts that there is a powerful Southern influence in active
operation in the Union, let him reflect over the movement in Washington
'for the purpose of reviving the Democratic party.' A more treacherous,
traitorous, contemptible political intrigue was never organized in this
country; and the historian of a future day will record with amazement
the fact, that in the midst of a war of tremendous magnitude, when our
national existence and our whole prosperity were threatened, the enemy
were still allowed to plot and plan unharmed among us, under so shallow
a disguise that its mockery is even more insulting than would be open,
brazen opposition.

They have ingeniously taken advantage of the cry against the management
of the war by McClellan, these covert disunionists, to form a McClellan
party, and 'to support General McClellan's war policy'! A more ingenious
and more iniquitous scheme of fomenting disunion could not be devised.
By resolving to resist President Lincoln's moderate, judicious, and wise
Message, while on the other hand they indorsed in express contrast
McClellan, these treacherous disunion Democrats hoped to foment discord
among us and thereby extend important aid to the enemy.

If the people would know where their foes are most active, let them look
at home. Months ago they were warned that this very trick would be tried
among us on behalf of the South. Months ago the Louisville _Journal_, in
speaking of the manner in which Southern spies in the North were working
by treachery, declared that 'they wound a net-work of influences around
Congress and the powers that be, to retain men in the departments and to
get others in--especially in the War Department--who were shining lights
in the 'castles' of the K.G.C. _for the avowed and express purpose of
aiding the enemy_ by treacherously watching and conveying the secrets of
the Government to the rebel army.'

Has not this accusation been abundantly proved? Does not the whole
country know that traitors, 'democratic' traitors, have acted so
successfully as spies that nothing has been kept secret from the enemy?

'Men were selected in the States and sent hundreds of miles to
Washington, with strong influences to back them for this purpose. Better
to carry out their project, they adroitly raised the 'No Party' cry,
_and by professing the most exalted and devoted loyalty_, claimed the
best places in which to betray the Union cause.' 'They claim a large
number of the officers of companies, regiments, brigades, and divisions,
and even have the audacity to whisper that General McClellan understands
their programme and is not unfavorable to working up to it.'

Fortunately the great mass of the Northern people can not be affected by
such traitorous tricks. There is but one party in the country, and that
is the Union and the War party. Here and there a coward may waver and be
frightened at the prospect of a Democratic opposition raising its head
successfully to withstand the great onward movement, but his quavering
voice will be unheard in the great cry for battle. We have accepted this
war with all its fearful risks, and we will abide by it. We will be true
to our principle of a united country, we will be true to our word to
crush rebellion, and we will be true to our brave soldiers who are
fighting manfully for the right. If we adhere steadfastly to these
resolutions, we shall have no cause to dread traitors within or foes
without the loyal Union.

When the World's Fair was held in 1851, in London, _Punch_, moved by the
intensest spirit of British conceit, politely suggested that it would be
a good plan to have placards containing the words, 'It is good to have
the conceit taken out of us,' in all languages, hung all over the
Exhibition--the intention being to courteously intimate to foreigners
their general inferiority to John Bull. Certainly it is a good thing to
have the conceit taken out of us--with the saving clause added by our
contributor, H.P.L.--'so that it be not done with the corkscrew of
ignorance,' or of conceit itself, as is generally the case when English
wit attempts such extraction. Yet it must be admitted that in one thing
Brother Jonathan has very fairly had the conceit taken out of him--which
need not have been, had he only attended to the lessons taught him by
John Bull and Jean Crapaud.

We refer to the matter of iron-clad vessels of war. England already had
her 'Warrior,' and France her 'Gloire,' with all their resistant powers
fully tested by experiment, and yet this war had progressed one year
without finding our Government in possession of a single iron-mail
steamer. Our foes, with many disadvantages, had more wit, and gained a
victory the more galling, because in naval matters we of the North claim
in ability to rank with England herself. Perhaps history contains no
parallel instance of such negligence, such weakness. It is a matter
calling for investigation and exemplary punishment. The guilt lies
somewhere, and must be atoned for.

It is, however, interesting to remark, that in this, as in so many other
matters, science is very rapidly changing the character of warfare. In a
few years the war-navies of the world will consist almost exclusively of
iron-mail steamers, since no other vessel can resist their attacks. Yet
these steamers, though far more expensive than the old wooden hulks--so
expensive that the 'Warrior' alone caused an outcry in England as a
national burden--can readily sink one another in a few minutes by the
use of the prow, or by returning to the primitive cock-fighting fashion
in vogue among the iron-beaked galleys of earliest antiquity.

Will it pay, under such extraordinary conditions of naval warfare, to
fight at all? will probably be the next question, asked. When a few
minutes may witness the literal sinking of a few millions of dollars,
tax-paying people will begin to stand aghast. The very idea of England
and America playing a game of war with such checks, is as terrible as it
is startling; it is like the suggestion to fight out a duel with
columbiads, or as the two Kentucky engineers are said to have done, with
full-steamed locomotives in collision. No patriotism, no wealth, no
sacrifice, can endure such drafts as the loss of iron-clad navies would
involve. War would eat itself up.

Possibly genius may contrive vulcanized gutta-percha or other resistant
steamers which can neither be billed nor gaffed, shot nor slashed into
sinking--vessels beyond all capacity for bathos, and no more to be
persuaded into going under than was the black Baptist convert of David
Crockett's story. What would naval battles amount to between such
invulnerables? The Roman mythology had a fable of a hare which had
received from the gods the gift that it was never to be caught, while at
the same time there was a hound which was destined to catch every thing
he pursued. One day the hound began to chase the hare; Jupiter settled
the question by changing them both to stone. Paradoxes can only be
solved by annihilation. When war becomes, by the aid of science,
all-destructive, yet all-resistant, it must perish. History shows a
gradual decrease of deaths in proportion to improvements in destruction
of life. It is gratifying to reflect, that this war, by developing the
full capacities of iron-plated vessels, has made a most important
advance toward the impossibility of warfare.

It is amusing to see how decisively, yet with what preposterous
ignorance of any thing like the true state of affairs in this country,
the English press informs the public as to the 'ex or inexpediency' of
President Lincoln's Message.

Not one of its editors has, as yet, had the grace or wit to discover
that, simply as a precedent and as a record, it puts an entirely new
face on the war, by manifesting a _policy_ on the part of Government.
Not one seems to appreciate that the slaveholder who, after its
publication, loses his human chattels by the hap of war, has only
himself to thank for his loss. If Cuffy runs away, when the army comes,
by what earthly show of sense or justice does the master complain, who
has refused to accept payment for him? _Dans la guerre, comme a la
guerre_--in war-time, people must accept of war's chances.

To voluntarily offer to literally ease the fall of the enemy, as Mr.
Lincoln has done, is a stretch of magnanimity which would be
incomprehensible to any Old World rulers. How long would a Napoleon or a
Wellington, unembarrassed by aught save the direst military conduct of a
war, have hesitated to free the blacks, and win victory by every or any
means? Mr. Lincoln has had more difficult and complicated elements to
deal with. He has the enemy not only in the field, but by myriads at
home, among those who pretend to urge on the war. He has them 'spying
and lying' every where--_promoting cabals in favor of a General, and
exciting opposition, in order to eventually crush him_--urging Southern
rights and amnesties--deluding and confounding every thing. No wonder,
after all, that the London _Times_, comprehending nothing, should have
been so wildly asinine as to see in the Message only a bid to conciliate
the South!--a timid, making-up measure. The _Times_ is behind our times,
and no wonder, when a Russell flounders about for it among us, becoming
more densely befogged and confused with every new idea which entangles
itself with his pre-conceived English opinions.

The country is rejoiced to hear that General Wool has ordered Russell
away from Fortress Monroe. When the latter quits the country, it will be
as though it had heard some very good news for our nation's benefit.

       *       *       *       *       *

We were not at first disposed to believe in the many revolting stories
so generally circulated, stating that the rebels had actually, in many
instances, boiled the bodies of the Federal dead, for the purpose of
obtaining the bones as relics. So frequently, however, has the story
been repeated, and from so many trustworthy quarters, that we are
reluctantly compelled to admit that such paragraphs as the following,
from the Southern correspondence of the Boston _Journal and Transcript_,
are very possibly founded in fact:

    '_Washington, 1st_.

    'The certainty that the graves of the members of the Chelsea and
    Boston Fusilier companies who fell in the advance on Bull Run,
    last July, have all been despoiled, with a probability that their
    bones were sent South, as relics, causes a deep feeling of
    indignation here.

    'A citizen of Cambridge, Mass., who went to Bull Run to recover
    the remains of his brother, who belonged to a Boston company,
    gives a sad account of the sacrilege committed upon the graves of
    our soldiers by the rebels. About twenty of a Boston company and a
    Chelsea company had been buried near each other, but every skull
    had been taken away, and nearly all the principal bones of the
    bodies were gone. Some of the bodies had been dug out, and others
    pried out of the graves with levers, and in some the sleeves of
    uniforms were split to obtain the bones of the arms. It was
    described as a sickening spectacle.'

When we recall the savage, half-Indian nature of many of the lower
Southern troops, and the threats of scalping and mutilating, in which
they so often indulged; and when we remember that even in Richmond, the
body of John Brown's son is still exposed, as the label on it intimates,
not as a scientific preparation, but as a warning to Abolitionists; we
see nothing extraordinary in such tales. If professors, men of science,
and 'gentlemen' can wreak vengeance on the harmless bodies of the dead,
and place a placard, expressing the hope that it may be thus with those
who simply differ with them in political opinions, it is not to be
wondered at that their rude and ignorant _confrères_ should dig up dead
bodies, and send the bones home as relics. It is just possible, however,
that we do not appreciate the true motives of these Ghouls. When
Scanderbeg died, his enemies fought among themselves to obtain the
smallest fragment of his bones, believing that their possession would
confer on the lucky wearer some of the courage of the great hero
himself. And so it may be that these craven savages hope to get a little
real Northern pluck and stubborn endurance.

       *       *       *       *       *

We cheerfully find place for the following, dated from 'Willard's,
Washington, D.C., April 2d:'

'DEAR CONTINENTAL: I know that the CONTINENTAL publishes nothing but
original articles, and therefore beg you, at the request of your large
and highly respectable Washington constituency, to find a shelf for the
following, which is original with Bill H. Polk _and_ the Louisville
_Dem'docrat_:'

    THE EXPERIENCES OF GEORGE N. SANDERS--HOW HE LEFT NASHVILLE, AND
    HOW HE HOPES TO GET TO RICHMOND.

    'There is no one better known in the country as a scholar, a
    politician, and a wit, than Wm. H. Polk, of Tennessee. He has a
    plantation some forty miles from Nashville, lives comfortably, has
    a joke for every one, and is, withal, a resolute man in his
    opinions. He was the opponent of the evanescent Harris, who has
    disappeared mysteriously, and voted for by the coöperationists in
    the election for Governor of that State. About a month ago notice
    came to him that he must leave the State: a notice which, however,
    he did not obey. His description of the terror of the rebels on
    the taking of Nashville is said to be supremely rich. Among other
    incidents, is one of peculiar interest to us Kentuckians,
    concerning the fate of the late Provisional Government.

    'Colonel Polk, a few days before the arrival of our army at
    Nashville, and, indeed, before he heard of the fall of Fort
    Donelson, in going down the road from his farm, descried a fat,
    ragged, bushy-headed, tangled-mustached, dilapidated-looking
    creature, (something like an Italian organ-grinder in distress,)
    so disguised in mud as to be scarcely recognizable. What was his
    surprise, on a nearer approach, to see that it was the redoubtable
    George N. Sanders.

    'George had met the enemy, and he was theirs--not in person, but
    in feeling. His heart was lost, his breeches were ragged, and his
    boots showed a set of fat, gouty toes protruding from them. The
    better part of him was gone, and gone a good distance.

    ''In the name of God, George, is that you?' said the
    ex-Congressman.

    ''Me!' said the immortal George; 'I wish it wasn't; I wish I was
    any thing but me. But what is the news here? is there any one
    running? They are all running back there,' (pointing over his
    shoulder with his thumb.)

    ''No,' said Mr. Polk; 'not that I know of. You needn't mind
    pulling up the seat of your pantaloons; I'm not noticing. What in
    the ---- are you doing here, looking like a muddy Lazarus in the
    painted cloth?'

    ''Bill,' said George to the Tennesseean confidentially, and his
    tones would have moved a heart of stone: 'Bill, you always was a
    friend of mine. I know'd you a long while ago, and honored
    you--cuss me, if I didn't. I said you was a man bound to rise. I
    told Jimmy Polk so--me and Jimmy was familiar friends. I intended
    to get up a biographical notice of you in the _Democratic Review_,
    but that ---- Corby stopped it I'm glad to see you; I'll swear I
    am.'

    ''Of course, old fellow,' said the charitable Tennesseean, more in
    pity of his tones than even of the flattering eloquence: 'but what
    is the matter?'

    ''Matter!' said George; 'the d----d Lincolnites have seized
    Bowling-Green, Fort Donelson, and have by this time taken
    Nashville. Why,' continued he, in a burst of confidence, 'when I
    left, hacks was worth a hundred dollars an hour, and, Polk, (in a
    whisper,) I didn't have a d----d cent.'

    'The touching pathos of this last remark was added to by the
    sincere vehemence with which it was uttered, and the mute
    eloquence with which he lifted up a ragged flap in the rear of his
    person that some envious rail or brier had torn from its position
    of covering a glorious retreat.

    ''Not a d----d cent,' repeated he; 'and, Polk, I walked that
    hard-hearted town up and down, all day, with bomb-shells dropping
    on the street at every lamp-post--I'll swear I did--trying to
    borrow some money; and Polk, do you think, there wasn't a
    scoundrel there would lend any thing, not even Harris, and he got
    the money out of the banks, too?'

    ''No?' said Polk, who dropped in a word occasionally, as a sort of
    encourager.

    ''Bill,' repeated Sanders: 'Bill, I said you was a friend of
    mine--and a talented one--always said so, Bill. I didn't have a
    red, and I've walked forty-five miles in the last day, by the
    mile-stones, and I haven't had any thing to buy a bit to eat;
    and,' he added with impassioned eloquence, 'what is a cursed sight
    worse, not a single drop to drink.'

    'This is complete. It is unnecessary to tell how the gallant and
    clever Tenneseean took the wayfarer home, gave him numerous, if
    not innumerable, drinks, and filled him with fruits of fields and
    flesh of flocks. When George was filled, however, he signified by
    numerous signs, and finally by words, that he wished the servants
    to leave the room. 'Polk,' said he, 'I knew you were a man with a
    heart in your bosom; I told 'em so. I said no better man than Bill
    Polk could be found. I told 'em so.'

    ''Told who so?' asked Mr. Polk, rather surprised at the sudden and
    mysterious language, accompanied by the removal of the servants.

    ''Mr. Polk,' said Sanders, 'I want your horses and carriage for a
    time.'

    ''Certainly, Mr. Sanders, if you wish them.'

    ''Mr. Polk,' said George, 'I do not appear before you in any
    ordinary character to-day; I am clothed with higher authority; I
    am an emissary.'

    'The tone and manner indicated something fearful--perhaps to
    arrest his host.

    ''I am an emissary,' repeated Mr. Sanders, speaking in very large
    capitals, 'from the State of Kentucky, and hope to be received as
    such. The fact is,' continued he, coming down to the level of
    familiar conversation, 'I left the Provisional Government of
    Kentucky a mile or so back, on foot, finding its way southwardly,
    and I demand your horses and carriage in the name of that noble
    State.'

    'Of course, the carriages were harnessed up at once, and Mr.
    Sanders proceeded to bring the Provisional Government to Mr.
    Polk's house.

    'How shall we describe this part? Hon. George W. Johnson, as much
    a Clay man as the sacred soil of Tennessee could afford, but still
    preserving his light and active step; McKee, late of the
    _Courier_, following; Walter N. Haldeman, with all his industry
    and perseverance, trying to keep up with his associate; and Willis
    B. Machen, vigorous, active, slightly sullen, but in earnest, with
    every boot he drew out of the snowy, muddy soil giving a groan of
    fatigue. Imagine them safely ensconced at Mr. Polk's, on their
    road South.

    ''Mr. Sanders,' said the Governor with dignified suavity, after
    the walnuts and wine, 'claimed to be an acquaintance of yours, and
    we were very glad to send him forward.'

    'The Honorable Governor maintained throughout that easy, self
    possessed manner which characterizes the gentleman.

    'The emissary--for he ought to be so known--shortly after
    suggested to the Provisional Government that he was 'broke,' and
    wished to represent the Seventh Congressional District of
    Kentucky, that is, the Louisville District: 'For,' said he, in his
    persuasive, confidential tones, 'that is the only way I know of
    for a man without money to get to Richmond.'

    'A session was at once held of the State Council, and it is our
    pleasure to record that Mr. Sanders is now authorized by the
    Provisional Government to proceed to Richmond and represent our
    interest in the Rebel Congress, vice H.W. Bruce, removed or
    resigned.

    'Mr. Polk at this time addressed the new Congressman, saying that
    he had a particular favor to ask.

    ''Bill,' said George to his host, speaking out of a full heart and
    a full chest: 'Bill, you are a boy after my own heart; whatever
    request you make I grant.'

    ''It is only a trifle,' said Mr. Polk, 'which you can easily
    grant, and which will please you.'

    ''It is granted,' interrupted the grateful Sanders.

    ''I may be arrested,' continued Mr. Polk, 'within a few minutes,
    for disagreeing with some measures which Governor Harris has urged
    upon the people.'

    ''Never mind that,' said the impetuous Sanders; 'I'll stand by
    you.'

    ''All I want,' continued Mr. Polk, 'is for you to return to
    Nashville as a hostage for my wife and family.'

    ''Bill Polk,' said George gravely, but firmly, 'you are a man I
    love; I love you, and I love your wife and family; but if ever I
    go back to Nashville, may I be d----d!'

    'Of course, there was no reply to this, and the redoubtable George
    and the Provisional Government soon went on their way rejoicing.

    'We do not pretend to give this in the language or manner of Mr.
    Polk, which is said to be inimitable; neither do we claim him as a
    'Union man.' He has remained quietly at home, and taken no part in
    the contest; but we are indebted to him, or to some one who has
    reported it as coming from him, for a genial and laughable account
    of the exit of what once promised to be very injurious to our
    State, and still more for his characterization of that wise,
    pushing, incomprehensible character, George N. Sanders, Member of
    Congress from the Seventh District of Kentucky to Richmond.'

We have long wondered what became of Sanders, the illustrious author of
that excellent term, 'the Tobacco States,' which so exactly defines the
Southern border. The last time we saw him was while talking with Arctic
Dr. Hayes, a few days before his departure for the Unknown Sea. Just
then Sanders went by arrayed in all the glory of a perfectly new _pareil
partout_ suit of spring clothes. Days passed by, and we heard of him as
frantically endeavoring to galvanize the C.S.A. at Montgomery, Alabama,
into faith in his exceeding Southern proclivities. It was up-hill work,
as we were told--almost as hard as several other small renegade literati
and politicians found it, when they, too, went over into Dixie about a
year ago. In vain did George N. Sanders utter the largest size secession
words--no office rewarded him, no foreign mission fell into the fat
fingers of the deserter. The change from the comfortable quarters of the
New-York Hotel to hurried war-marches and wild retreats must have been
indeed trying; only that so many politicians have of late fared quite as
badly, that pity would seem wasted. Meanwhile we would suggest, as a
good question for youthful democratic debating-societies: 'When we catch
the enemy, what shall be done with George N. Sanders?'

       *       *       *       *       *

Notwithstanding our war--to say nothing of our want--we have had the
OPERA this winter; had it in great variety and perfection, and, as many
a reader can testify, with by no means thin houses. Grau has been
busy--the most courteous and indefatigable polyglot and active of
impresarios, with the good-natured Gosche, heralding a troupe of all the
stars, D'Angri, Hinckley, Kellogg, Brignoli, Susini, and all the rest,
including divers new singing birds. Maretzek has led, and we have had a
range from Mozart to Verdi, which was, on the whole, well-chosen. We
have had Brignoli singing, if possible, better, and acting, if possible,
worse than usual--a nightingale imprisoned in a pump; Mme. D'Angri, with
her _embonpoint_ voice, pouring forth like an inexhaustible fountain of
Maraschino; Miss Hinckley, pleasant and pretty as ever, steadily singing
her way star-ward; and Susini, who combines German strength with Italian
fire--a true _Tedesco Italiana-zato_. Something, too, we would say of
Mancusi, whose clear and rapid execution, in _Figaro_, and whose real
Spanish _majo_ rollicking style of acting were quite spirited enough,
even for that very spirited part. Formes was indeed under the impression
that he himself was the _Figaro Figarorum_, the incarnate half-Spanish
ideal of that wonderful barbaresque conception; but then, the Formes
_Figaro_ was 'developed from the depths of his subjective moral
consciousness,' whereas the _Figaro_ of a Southern European is _the
thing itself_--like Charles Mathews playing the part of Charles Mathews,
or like the Greek comedian's imitation of a pig's voice, by pinching a
veritable pork-let, which he bore concealed within his mantle.

Perhaps no character is so little appreciated by Anglo-Saxon audiences
as this of _Figaro_. To them he is little more than a buffoon. To
Southern Europe, he is the bold, prompt, shrewd, popular ideal, suiting
himself by craft to every superior, regarding all things with a
shoulder-shrugging, quizzical philosophy; a democratic Mephistopheles; a
lurking devil, equalizing himself, and the people with him, by wit and
insolence, with nobility itself. Among the Latin races, as in the East,
such Figaros often rise, like Oliver le Daim, to power, and the people
understand it.

Fast-Day, in Boston, was operatically fêted with 'the light and
melodious _Martha_,' by that arch-thief of melodies, Flotow. Would
not--considering the day in question--_I Puritani_ have been more
appropriate for 'a day of fasting and prayer'? It has already been
discovered (by the sagacious Ullman, we believe) that the _Huguenots_
was appropriate to sacred concerts. A friend suggests that _Masaniello_
for high mass, and _Don Giovanni_ for St. John's day would be a great
advance in these dramatic unities.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are indebted to a new contributor for the following sketch:

    We are all familiar with Hayden's dinner-party, and the
    Comptroller of Stamps, and Charles Lamb's 'Diddle diddle
    dumpling,' and 'Allow me to look at the gentleman's phrenological
    development.' I am always reminded by it of a circumstance which
    occurred between the Rocky and Alleghany mountains. A certain
    witty professor of a certain Western college, had been invited to
    deliver a poem before the Phi Beta Society of Athens--not the
    capital of Greece, nor the Athens of America, but a sort of
    no-town, without even the advantages of an established groggery,
    or mutual admiration society. The poet, not having attained that
    celebrity which is incompatible with keeping one's word with small
    towns, small lyceums, and small profits, and the roads not being
    stopped up, in short, 'Providence permitting, and nothing
    happening to prevent,' the poet made his appearance at the proper
    hour, like any ordinary mortal, and acquitted himself with such
    rhythmical eloquence, such keen, silvery humor, as brought the
    house down, and himself _vice versa_.

    The audience having dispersed in a state like the afflatus of
    laughing-gas, the poet and a privileged clique proceeded to the
    house of the Baptist elder, to prolong the night with metaphysical
    wassail. From the froth of poetry, they rose to a contemplation of
    the old classics; Homer, Euripides, Sophocles, Virgil, rising
    grandly from their dust, ensphered in vibratory eloquence.

    The elder, whose, education had been accomplished simply by a New
    Testament and three-inch rope, sat, or rather twisted through the
    rhapsody, as a dunce twists through his Greek roots, and at the
    first pause, drawing himself erect with the self-complacent air of
    a man who applies the clincher, ejaculated, with the Western
    twang: 'What do you think of Hi-awa_thy_?' The professor, giving
    him one look, to be sure of his sanity, and a second to be sure of
    his obtusity, answered gravely, above a convulsion of laughter:
    'Hi-awathy was a genius!'

    Athens has since then grown to be some town, with an aristocracy
    composed of a few old maids, who attain the distinction from being
    the oldest inhabitants, and a poet of its own. The latter has
    immortalized himself by a poem in the Chatterton obsolete style,
    on 'Ye Cobwebs in my Attick,' supposed to be an 'Allegory on my
    Brain,' and from having once astonished one of the very _élite_ of
    the aristocracy by requesting her to lend him her book, 'On the
    Dogs of Venice.' Her ladyship assured him that she was not in
    possession of the volume; but, on his insisting, conducted him to
    her library, (six shelves, one and a half by four,) where he
    seized upon a moth-eaten volume, illustrated on the front page by
    a man of obesity, clad in very flowing robes, and an immense
    crown, in the act of casting a ring into a black little stream
    ornamented by six rushes and two swans, with this inscription
    beneath: 'Venice wedding the Adriatic through the person of her
    Doge.' A wit having suggested to this votary of the muse that he
    should compose an epic on the royal canine of Venice, he is now
    zealously devoting himself to the task, as the literary public are
    respectfully invited to observe.

    The Athenians were not long since electrified by the patriotic
    eloquence of an itinerant Methodist evangelist, who wound up a
    burst of rhapsodical patriotism with this, climax: 'If this
    glorious Union is dissolved, what will become of the American
    Eagle, that splendid bird with 'E Pluribus Unum' in his bill, the
    shafts of Peace in his talons, and 'Yankee Doodle' tied to his
    tail?'

    One more _bon mot_, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an
    appreciative public.

    The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin
    hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of
    the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet
    lost their _freshness_.'

    Exit Athens and fresh salt.

       *       *       *       *       *

YE KNIGHT OF YE GOLDEN CYRCLE.


  A veray parfit gentil knight,
  Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight,
    One day yridden forth;
  But ne to finde a fayre mayde,
  He went on errants of his trade,
    To fight or filch ye North.

  He was a wight of grisly fronte,
  And muckle berd ther was upon 't,
    His lockes farre down did laye:
  Ful wel he setten on his hors,
  Thatte fony felaws calléd Mors,
    For len it was and grai.

  Ilk knight he hadde ne vizor on,
  His busynes were then undone,
    All time was for attack;
  More than, he hadde ne mail, either,
  But arméd with a revolvér,
    He like-_Wise_ chawed toback.

  He sayde his was a mightie hond,
  Ne better in ye Southron lond
    To yearn anly battail:
  Mony a dewel hadde he fought,
  And put his foe alway to rout,
    Withouten ony fail.

  Eke fro his sheld ther stroke the ee,
  These letters golden, 'F.F.V.,'
    Thatte mony a clerk did pain;
  Which guessed it, '_Forte Fuor Vi_!'
  The people giggled, 'l' your ey;
    It's Fume and Fight in Vain!'

  Eftsoons hire cloke ye awful Night,
  Yspreaden roun ilk warrihour wight,
    Ye glasse of chivalrie;
  But nothing daunt, he kept his course,
  As well as mote his sorry hors,
    Farre to the North countrée.

  And thus in darkesse all yclad,
  He hied him, gif he weren mad,
    O'er feld and eke through thicket;
  When 'Stop, by God!' some one began,
  'You'er mine--'or any other man!''
    Jesu! a Yankee picket!

  'Gent knight, yclept of Golden Cyrcle!
  Why in the devil don't one dirk all?
    Where now's your chivalrie?'
  'Goode sir,' quod he, 'twas ne for fight
  I hied me out ilk murkie night,
    It was for poulterie!'

  'Wal, damn your 'poulterie'--and you!
  Such deed no generous knight would do!
    So I mote thee deter!
  I'll show thee, though, the _coop_, sir knight,
  Where _chickens_ such as thee are blight--
    You are my prisoner!'

  Mony maydens weren grieved--
  Cleopatras, slouchy-sleeved--
    Darksome maydes of work all;
  And mony felaws of much might
  Ydrink the hades of ye Knight
    Of ye grete Golden Cyrcle.

We much fear that it may be said of the chief cavalier of the Golden
Circle, what the old German _lanzknecht_, in Rabelais, said of the
Gascon adventurer: 'The knight pretends that he wants to fight, but is
much more inclined to steal; therefore, good people, look out for your
property.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The following story, it is averred, can be vouched for, to any
reasonable extent, by a large crowd of witnesses.

    DEAR CONTINENTAL: Possibly you would not give 'a Continental dime'
    for that which I am about to pen. Possibly, too, you may damn it
    into the waste-basket. I have often _heard_ of a 'Continental
    damn'--it never occurred to me before what the article really was.
    Dante has, I know, provided a corner for those who were
    _in_-continentally condemned; but it was reserved for you to
    abridge the word, and so _make a vice of a virtue_!

    I once lived in a village: to that village came an itinerant
    dramatic company; and that company advertised to play a grand
    moral temperance drama, entitled _Down the Hill_.

    The principal actor called himself Eglantine Mowbray. I believe
    that the latter syllable of the last name was the only portion
    thereof to which he was really entitled. He _did_ bray.

    The bills appeared, with the following heading:

  UNPARALLELED ATTRACTION.

  On Monday Evening,

  THE YOUTHFUL ROSCUSS!

  EGLANTINE MOWBRAY!!

  Will appear in his great rôle,

  DOWN THE HILL.

    Our simple villagers _had_ seen circuses; but youthful Roscusses
    were entirely beyond their experience. Quite as unfamiliar was the
    word _rôle_, which, to their badly-lettered fancy, stood for
    movement, by 'turning on the surface, or with a circular motion,
    in which all parts of the surface are successively applied to a
    plane, 'as to roll a barrel or puncheon.' [You use Webster?]

    So, when the 'show' opened, there was a large attendance, and in
    that vast multitude of two hundred and thirty men, women, and
    children, there was not one who did not anticipate an acrobatic
    performance.

    The play pleased them, however. Temperance was rife among us in
    those days; it was 'in our midst,' as people ought _not_ to say,
    and the drunken disgraces of John the Inebriate were appreciated.
    Still, there was an evident feeling of unsatisfied anticipation,
    which grew with every act, and in all the house there was not a
    soul who did not murmur to his or her neighbor, 'I wonder when
    he's goin' to roll down-hill.'

    The play terminated. The Inebriate died, under a strong pressure
    of delirium tremens, groaning and braying loud enough to scare
    away the fiends which gathered around. But, to the amazement of
    all parties upon the stage and behind the scenes, the fall of the
    curtain was accompanied by a thunder-roar of disgust, and the
    rain-like sound of numerous hisses.

    The audience voted the play a humbug. The village was disgusted.
    Eglantine Mowbray stock went down to nothing.

    But the manager was a shrewd fellow. He found out what was
    wanting, and resolved to remedy it. So, the next morning's posters
    announced that on that evening Mr. Eglantine Mowbray would
    perform, at the conclusion, his terrific and unparalleled feat of
    _rolling_ down the hill!

    And he did. At the last moment, the Inebriate appeared, bottle in
    hand, agonizing and howling on the summit of a high rock, from
    which a slope, at an angle of forty-five degrees, went down to a
    mysterious craggy pit, thickly grown around with briers and
    shrubs, all bearing spiky thorns of the most fish-hooky and
    ten-penny nail description imaginable. The _flat_ or back-scene,
    suddenly lighted up from behind, presented, as a transparency,
    that terrible collection of devils which you may have witnessed in
    a popular engraving entitled, 'Delirium Tremens.' The Inebriate,
    taking one parting drink, staggered--fell--rolled over and over
    _down the hill_ into the abyss, from which flames burst forth,
    red, green, and blue, and the audience were wild with delight.
    Three times was Eglantine Mowbray compelled, by the rapturous
    encores, to roll down that hill into the fiery pit. No wonder
    that, at the last trial, there rose from the abyss a wild cry of
    'I'll be _blessed_ if I do it again.'

    MORAL.--When in country villages, don't talk about rôle-ing,
    unless you mean to do it!

       *       *       *       *       *

Since the _gilet de matin_ has superseded the _robe de châmbre_, or
dressing-gown, it is marvelous to see with what wrath the fast men,
club-men, and other highly civilized forms of humanity, pursue the
ancient garment. One of the most vigorous assaults on the gabardine in
question, comes to us as

    A FLING AT DRESSING-GOWNS.

    My name is Albert Fling. I am an active, business, married man,
    that is, wedded to Mrs. Fling, and married to business. I had the
    misfortune, some time since, to break a leg; and before it was
    mended Madame Fling, hoping to soothe my hours of convalescence,
    caused to be made for me a dressing-gown, which, on due
    reflection, I believe was modeled after the latest style of
    strait-jacket. This belief is confirmed by the fact that when I
    put it on, I am at once confined to the house, 'get mad,' and am
    soberly convinced that if any of my friends were to see me
    walking in the street, clad in this apparel, they would instantly
    entertain ideas of my insanity.

    In the hours of torture endured while wearing it, I have appealed
    to my dear wife to truly tell me where she first conceived the
    thought that there was a grain of comfort to be found in bearing
    it on my back? She has candidly answered that she first read about
    it in divers English novels and sundry American novels, the latter
    invariably a rehash of the first. In both of these varieties of
    the same species of books, the hero is represented as being very
    comfortable the instant he dons this garment, puts his feet in
    slippers, picks up a paper and--goes to sleep.

    A friend of mine who has discovered that Shakspeare knew all about
    steam-engines, electric telegraphs, cotton-gins, the present
    rebellion, and gas-lights, assures me that dressing-gowns are
    distinctly alluded to in _The Tempest_:

    'TRINCULO: O King Stephano! look, what a wardrobe here is for
    thee!

    CALIBAN: Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

    Having thus proved its age, let us next prove that it is in its
    dotage, and is as much out of place in this nineteenth century as
    a monkey in a bed of tulips.

    We find in the Egyptian temples paintings of priests dressed in
    these gowns: proof that they are antiquely heathenish. And as we
    always associate a man who wears one with Mr. Mantilini, this
    proves that they are foolish. _Ergo_, as they are old and foolish,
    they are in their dotage.

    I have three several times, while wearing this gown, been mistaken
    for Madame Fling by people coming to the house. The first time I
    was shaving in my chamber: in bounced Miss X----, who believed, as
    it was rather late, that I had gone down-town. She threw up her
    hands, exclaiming:

    'Good gracious, Fanny! do you shave?'

    N.B.--Fanny is my wife's first name.

    The second time I had brought the woodsaw and horse up from the
    cellar, and was exercising myself sawing up my winter's wood, in
    the summer-kitchen, according to Doctor Howl's advice, when the
    Irishman from the grocery entered, bearing a bundle. My back was
    to him, and only seeing the gay and flowery gown, he exclaimed, in
    an awfully audible whisper to the cook:

    'Shure yer mistriss has the power in her arms, jist!'

    Think of my wife, my gentle Fanny, having it shouted around the
    neighborhood that her brute of a husband made her saw all their
    winter's wood--yes! and split it, and pile it too, and make all
    the fires, and so on and cetera, and oh! I _am_ glad my husband
    isn't such a monster!'

    I turned on the Irishman, and when he saw my whiskers, he quailed!

    The third time, I was blacking my boots, according to Dr. Howl's
    advice, 'expands the deltoid muscles, is of benefit to the
    metacarpis, stretches the larynx, opens the oilsophagers, and
    facilitates expectoration!' I had chosen what Fanny calls her
    conservatory for my field of operation--the conservatory has two
    dried fish-geraniums, and a dead dog-rose, in it, besides a
    bad-smelling cat-nip bush; when, who should come running in but
    the identical Miss X---- who caught me shaving.

    'Poor Fanny,' said she, before I could turn round; 'do you have to
    black the boots of that odious brute?'

    'Miss X----,' said I, turning toward her, folding my arms over my
    dressing-gown, spite of having a damp, unpolished boot on one arm
    and a wet blacking-brush in the other hand, for I wished to strike
    a position and awe at the same time; 'Miss X----, I am that odious
    brute himself!'

    If you had observed her wilt, droop, stutter, fly!

    My wife went to the sea-shore last summer. I kept the house open,
    and staid in town; cause, business. When she returned, Miss X----,
    who lives opposite, called to see her. In less than five minutes,
    my wife was a sad, moaning, desolate, injured, disconsolate,
    afflicted, etcet. woman.

    'How-ow-ow c-could you d-do it, Al-lal-bert?' she ejaculated,
    flooding every word as it came out with tears.

    'Do what?'

    'Oh-woh! oh-woe-wooh-wa-ah!'

    Miss X---- here thought proper to leave, casting from her eyes a
    small hardware-shop in the way of daggers at me, as much as to
    say, You are vicious, and I hate cheese! (theatrical for hate ye.)

    Fanny, left to herself, revealed all to me. Miss X----, through
    the Venetian blinds, had seen a--_gown_ in my room, late at night.

    'It is too true,' said I, 'too, too true.'

    'Al-lal-al-bert! you will b-b-break my h-heart. I c-could tear the
    d-d-destroy-oy-yer of my p-p-peace to p-p-pieces!'

    'Come on,' said I, 'you shall behold the destroyer of your peace.
    You shall tear her to pieces, or I'll be d--dashed if I don't. I
    am tired of the blasted thing.'

    I grasped her hand, and led her to the back-chamber. 'There,
    against the wall.'

    'It is--'said she.

    'It is,' said I, 'my dressing-gown! I will never again put it on
    my shoulders, never. Here goes!' Rip it went from the tails up the
    back to the neck.

    'Hold, Albert! I will send it to the wounded soldiers.'

    'Never! they are men, bricks, warriors. Such female frippery as
    this shall never degrade them. Into the rag-bag with it, and sell
    it to the Jews for a pair of China sheep or a crockery shepherd.
    _Vamos_!'

The age for dressing-gowns has passed away, Rococo shams are hastening
to decay!

       *       *       *       *       *

He who writes a book on Boston should have something to say on the
ladies at lectures, in the libraries, and at Loring's--at which latter
celebrated institution for the dissemination of _belles lettres_
lettered belles do vastly congregate of Saturday, providing themselves
with novel--no, we mean novelties [of course of a serious sort] for
their Sunday reading. Which may serve as an introduction to the
following characteristic of

    YE BOSTON YOUNGE LADIE.

    The Boston belle is a reader, and knoweth what hath lately
    appearyd in ye worlde of bookes as welle as in that of bonetts.
    Shee whispereth of Signore Brignoli and of Hinkley, and of ye
    Philharmonic, or of Zerrahn his concertes, and eftsoones of
    aeriall pleasures att parties and concertes, and anon flitteth to
    Robertus Browning his poetrie, or to Emerson hys laste discourse
    att ye Musicke Halle. Whan so be itt that twentie of ye sisterhode
    be gatheren together, lo! seven thereof wyll haue blonde tresses
    and nineteen be of fayre ruddie complexion, whych a man wolde gife
    hys lyfe to kisse--yea, and itt oftwhyles passeth that ye
    twentieth also hath more whyte and rudd in hir sweete face thann
    ye wolde see in other landes.

    Ye Boston demoisselle weareth an waterproof guyascutus, [for so
    methinketh I haue hearde them calld,] and whan that itt rayneth or
    snoweth, shee rusheth forth as to a carnavall, and heedeth not yf
    ye powderie snowe-flakes falle on hir daintie littyl nose, or pile
    up like untoe a chancellor's wigg on hir hed. Arounde hir whyte
    necke shee ever bindeth a scarlett scarfe, to shewe thatt she ys
    an well-redd woman; and whan shee turneth homewardes, she aye
    beareth in one hande a pamflet, whyle the other holdeth a bouquet
    of flowres or a pacquette of sugirplummes or confitures. Whyles
    that she is yett younge and reckeless, and gif shee bee faste, and
    hathe naughte to beare homewards, lo! shee stiketh bothe tinie
    fistes intoe hir small syde-pockets, and propelleth onward
    mightilie independente, caring naught for nobodie. I haue herd
    from dyvers graue and reuerend menn, who oughte to know, [sith
    that ther wyves hadd tolde them,] that manie of these demoiselles
    do wear verie longe bootes, but howe long they may bee I knowe
    not.

    Hee who walketh in Beacon streete on Sundaye, whan thatt the skies
    be fayre, seeth, after church out-letting, manie of these sweete
    maydens walking wyth ther cavalleros up and doune hille, talkyng
    of manie thynges. For ye Boston demoiselle is a notable talker,
    and doth itt welle, knowing manie thynges whereof ye firste is _de
    omnibus rebus_, ye seconde _et quibusdam aliis_, and ye third
    _alterum tantum_. He who complayneth thatt women know nothinge,
    and haue noe witte, hathe nott mett ye Boston Yonge Lady; if that
    he dothe, and telleth hir soe, he wyll probablie remember for
    manie dayes what shee saide in answere. For shee holdeth _dixi et
    solvavi animam meam_ to bee a goode rule, and thatt it is nott a
    goode thinge to goe away with wrathe pente up in ye boosum.

    She worketh harde for ye armie; yea, she knitteth stockyngs and
    maketh shertes for ye contrabandes, whereof I haue scene one
    whiche a contrabande with his wyfe and children didde all were at
    once, so nobly greate was it. And shee belyveth in ye warre with
    alle hir braue little hearte and soule, for shee is Uncle Samuel
    hys oune daughter, if there ever was one, having greate loue for
    ye Union, alwaies hoping firstly for ye Union politicall, and
    secondlie for ye wedding union of hertes and ye union of handes,
    whych is nedeful, that ye countrie shall not perishe for lacke of
    sturdie urchins to growe upp into soldieres. And thatt theye aye
    all thus become goode wives and brave mothers, and bee bleste and
    happie in alle thynges, is ye heartes prayer of

    CLERKE NICHOLAS.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following extract from the Washington correspondence of the
Philadelphia _Press_ is significant:

    'As pertinent to these questions, let me ask if you have ever gone
    back to the time when most of the Breckinridge papers in the free
    States were in danger of being mobbed and torn out after the fall
    of Fort Sumter?

    'I will not ask why these demonstrations occurred, but I will ask
    if you can point to any one of these journals that is not _now_
    filled with strong denunciations of the Administration and its
    friends, and timid reproaches of the rebels in arms? Are they not
    all clamorous for the reörganization of the Democratic party? Are
    they not all against any combination of patriotic men under the
    name of a Union party? Their object is as plain as their early
    treason was notorious, and the end of their victory will be the
    recognition of the armed rebels, or their full forgiveness. The
    armed rebels are watching their movements with eagerness and joy.'

That they are doing so, is amply evidenced by the recent 'democratic'
and treasonable movements in Washington. In time of war, and especially
of such a war as this, there can be, as Mr. Douglas said, 'but patriots
and traitors.' Away with all parties--till the enemy are ours, the only
parties should be those of the North and South.

       *       *       *       *       *

The municipal authorities at Nashville met Governor Johnson's appeal,
urging them to take the oath of allegiance, by a prompt refusal--falling
back 'for reasons' on State rights. There should be, in these times, but
one way of dealing with all such State rights gentlemen--arrest as
traitors, and trial under military law. This is no day for
dilly-dallying and quibbling about 'State rights.' There is only one
right in such cases--the right of the Union, and fidelity to it. This
rebuff is generally spoken of by the press as 'the Nashville Snag.'
There be such things as snag-extractors, and we trust that our
Government is free enough from red-tape do-nothingism and
circumlocution, to make short work of these insolent rebels, whatever
they be.

    _Boston, April 1st._

    DEAR EDITOR: I jot down the following as one of the most
    melancholy results of this wicked and cruel war:

    The Captain at our house believes in General Butler. The Lawyer
    don't. Such is the state of parties at our table. As I said
    before, the hand of brother is uplifted against brother, and
    either may become a fratri-cider--as the fellow did when he
    squeezed his brother to death in the press, among the apples.

    The captain said, the other day, that Butler had a great deal of
    dash.

    'U--m!' growled the lawyer; 'one kind of dash he certainly has--to
    perfection.'

    'And what is that?'

    'Balder-dash!' was the annihilating reply.

    I report this for the special consideration of Governor Andrew.

    Nor less illustrative of the terrible tendencies of civil war, is
    the following:

    'We have a whole navy of gun-boats at Island Number Ten,' said the
    Colonel, reflectively.

    'Yes,' was the unwary reply.

    'Then how comes it that if the knave can take the Ten, a navy
    can't?'

    Yours in grief,

    CONSTANT READER.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Legislature of Kentucky has, probably, by this time, made it a
criminal offence for any person to join the K.G.C. As soon as the lists
shall have been published of all those Northern men who have belonged to
the order, the traitors will find themselves in quite as enviable a
situation as though 'escaped convict' were branded on their foreheads.

       *       *       *       *       *
From one now far away in the South--albeit
not on the Southern side--we have
an ornithological reminiscence which
may be of interest to those who endeavor
to solve the problem, whether
animals ever rise to reasoning.

    I have amused myself the past year raising a brood of chickens in
    my little backyard. Being 'tenderly brought up,' they are, of
    course, very tame, particularly a little brown pullet, that lays
    an egg in the cellar every morning. A few days ago, as I was
    leaving the house after breakfast, my wife cried out for me to
    come into the kitchen. I did so, and found the little brown hen
    standing quietly by the door at the head of the cellar-stairs,
    evidently waiting for it to be opened. Going outside, I found the
    servant had neglected to open the 'bulkhead' door, as usual, and
    my wise little biddy had concluded to go down-cellar through the
    kitchen. When I drove her out and opened the outer-door, she went
    down and laid, as usual. She was never in the house before, to my
    knowledge, and has not been since. This is a fact, and is only one
    more instance added to many I could adduce, which go to show that
    the 'dumb creatures' think and reason.

       *       *       *       *       *

Poetry on bells is divisible into two kinds, the _tintinnabulistic_,
which refers to little hand-tinklers, sleigh-bells, and the kind which
oriental mothers were wont, of old, to sew to the hems of their
daughters' garments, [that they might tell by the sound whether the
young ladies were at mischief or no,] and the _campanologistic_,
descriptive solely of large church ringers, Big Toms of Oxford, and the
regular _vivos voco, fulgura frango_ giants, such as Mr. Meneely makes
and sends all over the country, to factories, churches, dépôts, and
steamboats. The sleigh-bell song, according to this classification, is
tintinnabulistic; so, too, is the Russian _troika_,

  'I kolokolchick dor voltaia,'

as is also the immortal line which speaks of

  That tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell.'

But Schiller's great ringing poem is superbly _campanologistic_; so is
Southey's 'Inch Cope Bell,' and to this division belong all tollings,
fire-alarms, and knells in verse whatever.

The following lyric is, however, far above either, as it ambitiously
embraces the whole subject, and therefore, so far as comprehensiveness
is concerned, must of course take precedence even of Tennyson's 'Ring
Out!'

ABOUT BELLS.


  I was sitting, one night, in my easy-chair,
  When a bell's clear notes rung out on the air;
  And a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
  Came into my mind, about sundry bells:

  About church-going bells, whose solemn chime
  Calls, far and near, 'It's time! _it's time!_'
  While the worshiper goes, with a faith that is strong,
  For he knows he can trust their clear '_Ding-dong!_'

  Of deified bells, like Bel of old,
  With silver tongues and a ring of gold;
  While the many who run at their silvery call,
  Never reach the goal--d; but tire and fall!

  Of modest bells, by the river's side,
  As they meekly hang o'er the liquid tide;
  But are tongueless all, and their changes few,
  For they ever appear in a dress of blue.

  Of modern Belles, which the world well knows,
  Go all the ways that the fashion goes;
  And ring their chimes through an endless range,
  As they change their rattle, and rattle their '_change_.'

  Of divers' bells, which are made to go,
  With their living freight, to the depths below;
  And are quiet quite, on their water ways,
  Save hen they are trying to 'make a raise.'

  Of door-bells, which our callers ring
  By a kind of a sort of a wire of a string;
  Answered oft, as wire-pullers ought to be--
  '_Not at home!_' meaning, '_Not in order to see!_'

  About John Bells, _one_ of whom, we know,
  Politicians rung not long ago;
  An unlucky Bell, and to-day a wreck,
  But fit, even _now_, to be wrung--_by the neck!_

  About Isabelles, so diverse in kind,
  That the one you prefer isn't hard to find;
  Yet hard 'tis to be in _this_ all agreed--
  Isabelle by name _is_ a belle in-deed!

  And thus, as I sat in my easy-chair,
  While the bell's clear notes rung through the air,
  Did a few stray thoughts, as this ballad tells,
  Come into my mind, about sundry bells.

       *       *       *       *       *

'Is this 'dreadful bad'?' inquires a correspondent. Gentle writer, it is
not dreadful, neither is it bad; and we appeal to the reader to decide.
To our thought, it is as brave and wild a love-poem as we have seen for
many a day:


TO THE KING.


  A Health to the King--my king!
  But not in the ruby wine,
  Too pale for the name I sing;
  Too weak for such love as mine!

  How shall I pledge thee, my king?
  What nectar shall fill the bowl?
  Hope herself can not bring
  A wine--like that in my soul!

  Then take for a pledge, my king!
  A life--it is wholly thine;
  And quaff from the cup, O king!
  A soul--not the ruby wine!

Happy the gentleman who is crowned king with the garland of song and
consecrated with the wine of life and of love.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PICKET GUARD.

BY J.L. RAND.


  The sentinel sounds the dread note that alarms,
  Each man springs up from his sleep to arms!
        There's an onward dash
        And a sudden flash;
        There's a sigh and a groan,
        And the quick feet have flown--
        A picket is dying alone.
  For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
        And who can stop to reckon?

  The newspaper tells what the President thought,
  What Stanton did or Seward taught,
        In columns long,
        With capitals strong;
        And the paper is filled
        As the editor willed:
      'SLIGHT SKIRMISH!--one man killed.'
  But men must fight for the sleeping Right,
        And who can stop to reckon?

  A wife sits sad in her fireside chair,
  And thinks of the husband so brave to dare,
        And dreams once more
        That the war is o'er;
        While the South-birds trill
        Near the picket-camp still,
        And the picket lies dead on the hill.
  For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
        And God stands by to reckon.

But the account is kept in eternity--there are none lost, no, not
one--and the time will come when all shall be found and known who were
brave in this world's battles.

       *       *       *       *       *

We gladly find a corner for the following, by one known to us of old, as
no indifferent poet:

EMANCIPATION.

All oupôs ama pánta Theoi dosan anthrôpoisin.--Iliad.


  Lift up your faces to the golden dawn
  That ushers in your year of Jubilee,
  Ye who to unrequited toil have gone
  In this great land, in this proud century.
  The clock of time has beat its seconds slow,
  But lo the hour of your release has come;
  Ay, strikes, and thrills the world with every blow
  That rings Oppression out, and Freedom home.

  Not, not in vain, 'How long, O Lord: how long?'
    Have ye inquired of Him who knew your needs;
  For those who prospered by your ancient wrong,
    Invoked the vengeance that upon their heads
  Is raining ruin. Lo! the Lord is just:
    Through the Red Sea of War ye, ye alone
  Come up unharmed; while all the oppressor's host
    In their mid-passage shall be overthrown.

       *       *       *       *       *

For the benefit of those desiring to obtain the celebrated K.G.C.
pamphlet, we may state that it is published by the National Union Club,
communications for which may be addressed to Post-office Box No. 1079,
Louisville, Ky.

       *       *       *       *       *

Owing to our enlarged edition obliging us to send this number of the
Magazine to press at an earlier date than usual, we are unable to give
this month the commencement of Mr. Kimball's new novel, and the
continuation of 'Among the Pines.' Both articles will appear in the next
issue.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROSPECTUS

OF THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.


There are periods in the world's history marked by extraordinary and
violent crises sudden as the breaking forth of a volcano, or the
bursting of a storm on the ocean. These crises sweep away in a moment
the landmarks of generations. They call out fresh talent, and give to
the old a new direction. It is then that new ideas are born, new
theories developed. Such periods demand fresh exponents, and new men for
expounders.

This Continent has lately been convulsed by an upheaving so sudden and
terrible that the relations of all men and all classes to each other are
violently disturbed, and people look about for the elements with which
to sway the storm direct the whirlwind. Just at present, we do not know,
what all this is to bring forth; but we do know that great results MUST
flow from such extraordinary commotions.

At a juncture so solemn and so important, there is a special need that
the intellectual force of the country should be active and efficient. It
is a time for great minds to speak their thoughts boldly, and to take
position as the advance guard. To this end, there is a special want
unsupplied, it is that of an Independent Magazine, which shall be open
to the first intellects of the land, and which shall treat the issues
presented, and to be presented to the country, in a tome no way tempered
by partisanship, or influences be fear, favor or the hope of reward;
which shall seize and grapple with the momentous subjects that the
present disturbed state of affairs heave to the surface, and which CAN
NOT be laid aside or neglected.

To meet this want, the undersigned has commenced, under the editorial
charge of CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, the publication of a new Magazine,
devoted to Literature and National Policy.

In POLITICS, it will advocate, with all the force at its command,
measures best adapted to preserve the oneness and integrity of these
Unites States. It will never yield to the idea of any disruption of this
Republic peaceably or otherwise; and it will discuss with honesty and
impartiality what must be done to save it. In this department, some of
the most eminent statesmen of the time will contribute regularly to its
pages.

In LITERATURE, it will be sustained by the best writers and ablest
thinkers of this country.

Among its attractions will be presented, in the June Number, a NEW
SERIAL of American Life, by RICHARD B. KIMBALL, Esq., the very popular
author 'The Revelations of Wall-Street,' 'St. Leger,' etc. A series of
papers by Hon. HORACE GREELEY, embodying the distinguished author's
observations on the growth and development of the Great West. A series
of articles by the author of 'Through the Cotton States,' containing the
result of an extended tour in the seaboard Slave States, just prior to
the breaking out of the war, and presenting a startling and truthful
picture of the real condition of that region. No pains will be spared to
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_literati_ have been promised to it; and nothing will be admitted which
will not be distinguished by marked energy, originality, and solid
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coterie, it will be open to all contributions of real merit, even from
writers differing materially in their views; the only limitation
required being that of devotion to the Union, and the only standard of
acceptance that of intrinsic excellence.

The EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT will embrace, in addition to vigorous and
fearless comments on the events of the times, genial gossip with the
reader on all current topics, and also devote abundant space to those
racy specimens of American wit and humor, without which there can be no
perfect exposition of our national character. Among those who will
contribute regularly to this department may be mentioned the name of
CHARLES F. BROWNE, ('Artemus Ward.') from whom we have promised an
entirely new and original series of SKETCHES OF WESTERN LIFE.


The CONTINENTAL will he liberal and progressive, without yielding to
chimeras and hopes beyond the grasp of the age; and it will endeavor to
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illustrate both their serious and humorous peculiarities. In short, no
pains will spared to make it the REPRESENTATIVE MAGAZINE of the time.

TERMS.--Three Dollars per year, in advance, (postage paid by the
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Single numbers can be procured of any News-dealer in the United States.
The KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE and the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY will be furnished
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also receive subscriptions from those desiring to furnish it to soldiers
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  J.R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, New-York,
  and 110 Tremont Street, Boston.

  CHARLES T. EVANS, at G.P. PUTNAM'S, 532 Broadway, New-York,
  is authorized to receive Subscriptions.

N.B.--Newspapers publishing this Prospectus, and giving CONTINENTAL
monthly notices, will be entitled to an exchange.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.


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, and in the next number will be commenced a New
Serial 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.

A work which will excel the previous brilliant productions of this
author.

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 profitably 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.
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   PAID IN ADVANCE.

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   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._



Number 6.--25 Cents.


The Continental Monthly


Devoted to Literature and National Policy.


JUNE, 1862.


NEW-YORK AND BOSTON:

J.R. GILMORE, 532 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK,

AND 110 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON.

NEW-YORK: HENRY DEXTER AND ROSS & TOUSEY.

PHILADELPHIA: T.B. CALLENDER AND A. WINCH.



CONTENTS.--No. VI.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Constitution and Slavery. Rev. C.E. Lord

A Story of Mexican Life

The Red, White, and Blue

Maccaroni and Canvas

En Evant

Desperation and Colonization. Charles G. Leland

The Education to be. Levi Reuben, M.D.

Travel-Pictures. Henry T. Lee

The Huguenots of Staten Island. Hon. G.P. Disosway

Recollections of Washington Irving. By one of his early Friends

New-England's Advance. Augusta C. Kimball

Was He Successful? Richard B. Kimball

Monroe to Farragut. Charles G. Leland

Among the Pines. Edmund Kirke

Literary Notices

Editor's Table

       *       *       *       *       *

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

This new serial, by the very popular author of "Undercurrents of
Wall-Street," "St. Leger," etc., which is commenced in this number of
THE CONTINENTAL, will greatly add to the reputation of Mr. Kimball as
one of the most graphic delineators of American life and character now
living. It will be continued throughout the year.


THE RECOLLECTIONS OF WASHINGTON IRVING,

By one of his early friends, will be found to embody many very
interesting facts in regard to that eminent man, which have not before
been made public.


AMONG THE PINES.

This serial, which is pronounced by the Press a perfect daguerreotype of
Southern Life and Manners, is continued in this number, with increasing
interest. It will be completed in the July or August issue of THE
CONTINENTAL, when it will be followed by other contributions from the
same writer.

       *       *       *       *       *

ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1861, by JAMES R.
GILMORE, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of
New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOHN A. GRAY, PRINTER



FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: By the Seventh Census, (that of 1850,) it appears that
2,210,828 of our then population, were of foreign birth. We have not at
hand the means of saying how that appears in the Census of 1860.]

[Footnote B: Some of the contrasts which the census shows are startling.
While South-Carolina has, in seventy years, only about doubled her free
population, New-York, in the same period, has increased hers nearly
ten-fold. Ohio, in ten years less time, has increased hers fifty-two
fold, Indiana, in the same period, increased hers two hundred and eighty
fold! and Illinois, in fifty years, increased hers one hundred and forty
fold!]

[Footnote C: Chance threw in our way, many years ago, in Philadelphia, a
man whose life boasted one event. While a boy, he had for some time been
sent every morning by his employer to inquire after the health of 'Mr.
TALLEYRAND.' When a few years shall have passed, there will only be here
and there one who can remember having met in New York or Philadelphia
JOSEPH BONAPARTE or LOUIS NAPOLEON.--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

[Footnote D: Vide _Gems and Jewels._ By Madame de Barrera.]

[Footnote E: Jahresbenennung.]

[Footnote F: King-tscheu is the sixth of the nine provinces which are
described in the tax-roll of Ju, (which contains the sixth of the
included divisions of the Annal-book.) It extended from the north side
of the hill Hong. Compare Hongingta, the celebrated expounder of King in
the times of Tang, with the already mentioned extracts from the
Annal-book.]

[Footnote G: In the Leang-schu we find an error in the writing, (a very
frequent occurrence in Chinese transcriptions.) Instead of the character
Tong (4233 Bas) we have Tang, (11,444 B.) which signifies _copper_, and
according to which we must read, 'Their leaves resemble copper,' which
is evidently an error.]

[Footnote H: This is also the case in China with the bamboo sprouts, on
which account they are termed _Sun_, (7449 B.) that is, the buds of the
first ten days, since they only keep for that time.]

[Footnote I: The year-books of Leans have a variation; instead of the
character Kin, (11,492 B.) 'embroidered stuff,' (meaning, of course,
embroidered or ornamented stuff in general,) we have Mien, which
signifies 'fine silk.']

[Footnote J: Montesinos, _Mem. Antiguas_, MS. lib. 2, cap. 7. _Vide
Prescott's Conquest of Peru_, Book I. p. 128.]

[Footnote K: The narrative of these early voyages is preserved in
Hakluyt's great _History of the Voyages and Discoveries of the English
Nation_, and this and the following extracts are taken from Vol. III.,
published in 1600. Americana are under great obligations to this
faithful old chronicler.]

[Footnote L: Lane often refers to the Chesapeans, a tribe who dwelt on
the Elizabeth River, probably at about the present site of Norfolk, and
down to Old Point Comfort. The word Chesapeake is compounded from _Che_,
great, _sepe_ or _sepo_, river, and _peak_, a white shell, meaning
'great river of shells,' and probably referred to the mouth of James
River. _Roanoak_ means a black shell.]

[Footnote M: This was no doubt what is now known as 'Old Point Comfort.'
The position would have been well chosen for defense against his
enemies. The Indians knew no difference between an island and a
peninsula, and Old Point has but a very narrow connection with the main
land.]

[Footnote N: This was undoubtedly Wampum or Wampeage.]

[Footnote O: A celebrated traveler asserts that tobacco, now extended
over both hemispheres, is an evidence of civilization.]

[Footnote P: 'To all Christian People to whom these Presents shall come,
Greeting, know ye that I Sr William Berkeley Knt Capt Generall and chief
Governor of Virginia and One of the Proprietors of Carolina and
Albemarle Send Greeting Know ye that I the sd Sr William Berkeley for
and in consideration of ye Sum of one hundred pounds sterling to me in
hand already paid or secured to be paid, have bargained, sold, agreed,
alienated, enfeoffed and confirmed and by these presents Do fully,
clearly and absolutely bargain, sell, alienate enfoeffe and confirm unto
Joshua Lamb of New England, Merchant, the whole Island of Roanoke
Situate and being in the county of Albemarle in the province of
Carolina, Together with what is thereon standing growing or being, with
all ye profits, privileges and advantages thereto belonging or in any
wise appertaining and also all the cattle, hoggs and other stock, with
the marshes, houses and buildings thereon to the sd Joshua Lamb. To Have
and to Hold the premises and every part and parcel thereof to him his
heirs Execrs and Admrs and assigns forever Free from any let, hinderance
or molestation of me the said Sr William Berkeley or any other person or
persons whatever. And I do hereby further Authorize and impower the sd
Joshua Lamb his heirs Execrs and Admrs and assigns to enter upon and
possess himself of all and every of the premises and to Oust, eject and
expel any person or persons whatsoever pretending any right, title or
interest thereto,

'In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal this 17th day
of April, 1676.

'WILLIAM BERKELEY, L.S.']





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