sight of the gently heaving breakers through which she was soon to pass,
mincingly threw herself in the thick of the luggage, and old Bill
mounted the stern, with his huge palm extended for a good-by shake.
'Good-by, old chap,' said I, as I took his hand the last of all,
'good-by! You're not half mean enough to stay away from us forever; so
in the meantime do your best to show the Hatteras boys what a nice thing
it is to be somebody in the world!' And thus the boat put off, and,
reaching the schooner in a few moments, was hoisted to her decks. In a
few moments more the vessel had reset her sails, and, with a free wind,
bore straight to the southward out of sight.

Now comes the singular part of my story. In a few weeks from the time of
their sailing, we heard that old Bill and his wife had safely landed at
Hatteras Inlet, and rented a small house on one of the beaches there,
with the intention of opening a kind of tavern; but no sooner were they
fairly settled in their new abode than old Bill was found one morning
_dead in his bed_, with evident signs of having met with foul play;
though what kind of death these indications pointed at was very
uncertain.

The closest and shrewdest investigation failed to attach a well-grounded
suspicion to any one. Poor Bill was dead--and nothing more was ever
known. Singular enough, the conduct of his widow was such as to entirely
avert even from her enemies hints of complicity in the crime,--if crime
there was,--though none doubted that there had been a murder, and that
murder in a few attendant circumstances seemed to indicate female aid.
Shortly after this catastrophe, Madame Rose made 'a vendue' of her
deceased husband's gun and apparel, packed up her own worldly goods, and
vanished, to be heard of no more.

And so our shore lost its best 'soundser'--a man of mark in his way,
great of frame and heart, and one long to be recalled in our humble
annals of wrecking and of sport. He was one of those vigorous
out-croppings of sturdy Northern physique recalling in minute detail the
stories told of those giant children, the Vikings and Goths of the
fighting ages, and which the blood, though as healthy as ever,--witness
the glorious exploits of our soldiers even as I write,--produces less
frequently in these days of culture. Such as I have described was the
character of Bill the Soundser, and such was literally and truly his
mysterious death.

COLUMBIA TO BRITANNIA.

VIA SHAKSPEARE.

                  Thou cold-blooded slave,
  Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
  Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend
  Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
  And dost thou now fall over to my foes,
  And wear a lion's hide? Doff it for shame,
  And hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs.

KING JOHN, III. 1.

GENERAL LYON.

To-day all the Northland shouts for joy, flashes its announcements of
victory along myriad leagues of wire, hurls them from grim cannon mouths
out over broad bays till the seas tremble with sympathy, huzzas in the
streets, flames in bonfires, would even clash the clouds together and
streak the heavens with lightning--and for what? The flag waves again in
Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas, and the cause is safe! _The
cause_--have we all learned what that means, brother Americans?
Something broader than mere Union, the pass-word of so many thousands to
suffering and death, something more than the freedom of the press and
the ballot-box. It means Progress; and until we acknowledge this, all
freedom is a vast injustice, luring men on to Beulahs which Fate--the
fate they worship--will never have them reach. It would be little enough
to regain our foothold upon Southern territory, or repossess Southern
forts, even if forts and territory have been wrested from us by treason
and perjury, if with every mile of advance we did not gain a stronghold
of principle. We are not straining every nerve, struggling under immense
financial burdens, wrenching away tender household ties, sacrificing
cheerfully and eagerly private interests, brilliant prospects, and high
hopes, only to prove that twenty millions of men are physically stronger
than twelve. God forbid! This is no latter-day Olympic game, whoso
victors are to be rewarded with the applause of a party or a generation.
All the dead heroes and martyrs of the past will crowd forward to offer
their unheard thanks; all the years to come will embalm with blessings
the memory of the patriots who open the door to wide advancement,
prosperous growth, and high activity of a universal intelligence.

And among these brave men, whom the world shall delight to honor, let
our deepest grief and our justest pride be for LYON. We have given his
honest life too little notice;--this man whose sincerity was equalled
only by his zeal; who, in a rarely surpassed spirit of self-abnegation,
was content to lie down and die in the first heat of the great conflict,
and to leave behind for more favored comrades the triumphal arches and
rose-strewn paths of victory. The world has known no truer martyr than
he who fell at Wilson's Creek, August 10th, 1861.

'The history of every man paints his character,' says Goethe; and scanty
and imperfect as are the recorded details of General Lyon's life, enough
is known to prove him to have been high-minded and brave as a soldier,
with a perseverance and a penetration that analyzed at once the
platforms of contending factions, and read in their elements the
principles which are to govern the future of our nation.

He came of the stout Knowlton stock of Connecticut, a family of whom
more than one served England in the old French war, and afterward
distinguished themselves against her in the Revolution. We hear of the
gallant Captain Knowlton at Bunker Hill, throwing up, in default of
cotton, the breastwork of hay, which proved such an efficient protection
to the provincials during the battle. Once more he appears as colonel,
at Harlem Plains, rushing with his Rangers ('Congress' Own') upon the
enemy on the Plains, and, cut off shortly from retreat by
reinforcements, fighting bravely between the foes before and their
reserves behind, and, falling at last, borne away by sorrowing comrades,
and buried at sunset within the embankments. 'A brave man,' wrote
Washington, 'who would have been an honor to any country.' With the
memory of such a hero engrafted upon his earliest childhood, we can not
wonder at the bent of the boy Lyon's inclinations. 'Daring and
resolute, and wonderfully attached to his mother,' it is easy to
imagine what lessons of endurance and decision he learned from her,
whose just inheritance was the stout-hearted patriotism that had
flowered into valorous deeds in her kindred, and was destined to live
again in her son. It was, an ordinary childhood, and a busy, uneventful
youth, passed for the most part in the old red farm-house nestled
between two rocky hills near Eastport, where he was born. In 1837 he
entered the Military Academy at West Point, and was a graduate, with
distinction, four years later. Of the years immediately following, we
have little information; but we can fancy the young soldier laying, in
his obscurity, the foundation for that practical military knowledge
which so eminently distinguished his late brilliant career. During his
years of service in the Everglades of Florida, and on our Western
frontier, he had ample opportunity to gain a thorough insight into his
profession.

He first appears in the history of the country in the Mexican war, is
present at the bombardment of Vera Cruz, dashes after the enemy at Cerro
Gordo, capturing on the crest of the hill a battery which he turns upon
the discomfited foe. At Contreras his command proves as impenetrable as
a phalanx of Alexander; and when at last the victorious Americans fight
their way into Mexico, the city of fabulous treasures and associations
well-nigh classical, for the first time he receives a wound. He was
breveted captain for his gallantry at Cherubusco, and at the end of the
war received the rank of full captain, and was ordered with his regiment
to California. No appointment could have been more felicitous. In the
guerilla mode of warfare demanded by the peculiar nature of the country
and its inhabitants, his habits of quick decision, and the experience of
a war with an enemy equally unscrupulous though less undisciplined, were
absolutely invaluable. Here was no scope for the conception and
excitation of deep-laid schemes; the movements of the enemy were too
rapid. Plans that would elsewhere have been matured only in the process
of a long campaign, were here often originated and completed in a single
night. Simple strategy was of more avail than the most intricate display
of military science, and the impulse of a moment more to be relied upon
than the prudent forethought of a month. He had to combat, in the
newly-acquired territory, the cunning of tribes whose natural ferocity
was sharpened into vindictiveness by the encroachments upon their soil
of a new and strange people; and every association with the intruders,
who were for the most part men of little reputation and less principle,
had developed in the Indians only the fiercest and most decided
animosity. To encounter their vigilance with watchfulness as alert, to
confound their swift counsels with sudden alarm, to penetrate their
ambuscades and anticipate their cunning with incessant activity, to be,
in short, ubiquitous, was the duty of Captain Lyon.

After years spent in the uncertain tactics of this half barbaric
warfare, he was removed, in the height of political strife in Kansas, to
its very centre. Here, while comparatively free from the wearisome
requirements of active service such as had been demanded in California,
and at a time when events the most portentous proved clearly to the
great minds of the country the advance of a political crisis whose
consequences must be most important, involving--should deep-laid
conspiracy be successful--the bankruptcy of principle and that
high-handed outrage, the triumph, of a minority,--Captain Lyon had full
liberty and abundant opportunity to settle for himself the great
questions mooted in the Missouri Compromises, the Lecompton
Constitutions and the Dred Scott decisions of the day. To a mind
unprejudiced, except as the honest impulses of every honest man's heart
are always prejudiced in favor of the right, there was but a single
decision. Disgusted with the heartless policy which democracy had for so
many years pursued, and which now threatened to culminate either in its
utter degradation at the North, or in the establishment in the South of
an oligarchy which would annihilate all free action and suppress all
free opinion, he severed his connection with that party,--a step to
which he was also impelled by the injustice that was then seeking to
force upon the people of Kansas an institution which they condemned as
unproductive and expensive, to say nothing of their moral repugnance to
the very A B C of its principles. It was at this time that Captain Lyon
contributed to the _Manhattan Express_, a weekly journal of the
neighborhood, a series of papers in which he took an earnest, manly and
decided stand in favor of the principles which his thoughtful mind
recognized as alone 'reliable,' and harmonious with the grand design and
end of the great Republic of the West. To these articles we shall
hereafter refer, at present hastening through the career, so striking
and so sad, which a few brief months cut short, leaving only the memory
of General Lyon as a legacy to the country his single aim and wise
counsels would have saved.

The guns of Fort Sumter had flashed along our coast an appeal whose
force no words can ever compute. The days had been busy with the
assembling of armies, the nights restless with their solemn marches, and
forge and factory rang with the strokes of the hammer and the whirr of
flying shafts, whose echoes seemed measured to the air of some new
Marseillaise. From our homes rushed forth sons, husbands, brothers,
fathers, followed by the prayers and blessings of dear women, who
yielded them early but willingly to their country. And while regiments
clustered along the Potomac, and Washington lay entrenched behind white
lines of tents, we find our soldier, fresh from Kansas strifes, in
command of the United States Arsenal at St. Louis; and to his prompt
action and decided measures at this important juncture the early success
of the Union cause in Missouri is to be attributed. For a time St. Louis
was the theatre of action. The police commissioners, backed by Governor
and Legislature, in the demanded the removal of the Union troops from
the grounds of the arsenal, claiming it as the exclusive property of the
State, and asserting that the authority usurped by the general
government as but a partial sovereignty, and limited to the occupation,
for purposes exclusively military, of the certain tracts of land now
pending in this novel court of chancery. This highly enigmatical
exposition of State rights, pompous and inflated though it was, failed
to convince or convert Captain Lyon, who, being unable to detect, in his
occupancy of the arsenal, any exaggeration of the rights vested by the
Constitution in the general government, declined to abandon his post,
and proceeded to call out the Home Guard, then awaiting the arrival of
General Harney, and temporarily under his command. His little army of
ten thousand men was then drawn up upon the heights commanding Camp
Jackson, then occupied by the Missouri militia under Col. Frost, whoso
command had been increased by the addition of numerous individuals of
avowed secession principles. Uninfluenced by the reception of a note
from this officer asserting his integrity and his purpose to defend the
property of the United States, and disavowing all intention hostile to
the force at the arsenal, Captain Lyon replied by a peremptory summons
for an unconditional surrender. He found it incredible that a body
assembled at the instigation of a traitorous governor, and acting under
his instructions and according to the 'unparalleled legislation' of a
traitorous legislature, receiving under the flag of the Confederate
States munitions of war but lately the acknowledged property of the
general government, could have any other than the as most unfriendly
designs upon its enemies. The force of Camp Jackson (which
notwithstanding its professed character, boasted its streets Beauregard
and Davis) being numerically inferior, and perhaps not entirely prepared
to do battle for a cause whose legitimacy must still have been a
question with many of them, decided, after a council of war, to comply
with the demands of Capt. Lyon, and became his prisoners. A few days
afterward General Harney arrived, and Captain Lyon was elected Brigadier
General by the 1st Brigade Missouri Volunteers.

Convinced of the imminence of the crisis and the peril of delay, Gen.
Lyon immediately commenced active operations against the secessionists
at Potosi, and ordered the seizure of the steamer which had supplied the
offensive army with material of war from the United States property at
Baton Rouge. In the meantime, Gen. Harney, with a culpable blindness,
had made an extraordinary arrangement with Gen. Price, by which he
pledged himself to desist from military movements so long as the command
of Gen. Price was able to preserve order in the State. Upon his removal
by the authorities at Washington, nine days later, Gen. Lyon was left in
command of the department. At this time the rebel general took occasion,
in a proclamation to the people of Missouri, to feel assured that 'the
successor of Gen. Harney would certainly consider himself and his
government in honor bound to carry out this agreement (the Harney-Price)
in good faith.' But his assurance was without foundation. The temper of
the new commander had been tried in the Camp Jackson affair, and an
interview between Price, Jackson and other prominent secessionists and
Gen. Lyon, resulted, after a few hours' consultation, in the declaration
of the Union general that the authority of his government would be
upheld at any cost and its property protected at all hazards. Three days
later, Jackson fled to Booneville, fearing an attack upon Jefferson
City, which was immediately occupied by Gen. Lyon, who was received with
acclamation by the citizens. Unwilling to grant by delay what he had
refused to an underhand diplomacy,--opportunity to the enemy to possess
the government property, or entrench themselves strongly in their new
quarters,--the general, with characteristic promptness, ordered an
advance upon Booneville. The rebel force was stationed above Rockport,
but retreated, after a skirmish which did not assume the proportions of
a battle; and the Union army, two thousand strong, entered the town,
where the national colors and the welcomes of the inhabitants testified
their joy at the change.

The army of General Lyon, amounting at one time to ten thousand, had
decreased by the first of August--the term of enlistment of many of the
soldiers having expired--to six thousand; and it was with this number
that, having swept the south-west, and believing the enemy intended to
attack him at Springfield, he advanced to meet them at Dug Springs. The
army of the enemy was larger and their position a strong one, but they
were unable to hold it, and, after a sharp skirmish, fled in disorder,
while Gen. Lyon continued his march toward Springfield. His situation
had now become a critical one. The reinforcements for which he had
telegraphed in vain, and in vain sent messengers to entreat from the
chief of the department, Gen. Fremont, then in St. Louis, did not
arrive. His army was subsisting on half rations, and wearied with
exhausting marches over the uneven country in the extreme heat of
midsummer. And now, for the first time, hope seemed to desert the
general. Under his direction the cause had hitherto triumphed in
Missouri. Now, with zeal unabated and courage unflinching, he must fall
before the enemy he had so successfully opposed, or retreat where
retreat was disaster, disgrace, and defeat. No wonder that, as from day
to day he looked for the expected aid as men in drought for the clouds
that are to bless them, he grew restless and perplexed and despairing;
no wonder that the face that had never before worn the lines of
indecision, should now lose its accustomed cheerfulness and glance of
calm purpose, and challenge sympathy and pity for the heart that had
never before asked more than admiration and respect. He felt that the
hour had its demands, and that they must be met. Action, even in the
face of disaster, was less a defeat than an inglorious retirement. The
public, surely unaware of the fearful odds against him, clamored for an
engagement; the State expected it of its hero; the government awaited
it, and with a brave heart, but no hope, Gen. Lyon prepared for the
attack. The result all the world knows. Was it a victory where the
conquerors were obliged to retire from the field, and carry out their
wounded under a flag of truce? Was it a defeat where the enemy had been
thrice repulsed, once driven from the ground, had burned their baggage
train, and made no pursuit of the retreating army?

But most mournful are those last moments of the faithful soldier's life;
most solemn those last tones of his voice as his orders rang out on that
misty morning amid the smoke and shouts of the battle-field. He stands
here bare-headed, the blood streaming from two wounds which he does not
heed, the cloud of perplexity settling over his face like a pall, his
troubled eyes fixed upon the enemy. He turns to head a regiment which
has lost its colonel--"Forward! men; I will lead you!" A moment, and he
lies there: no more striving for victory here; no more anxious hours of
weary watching for the succor that never came; no more goadings from an
exacting public, nor any more appeals to an unheeding chief. Even the
triumphant hush of life could not smooth out those lines cut by unwonted
care upon his face, or answer the mute questioning of that painful
indecision there. So from the West they brought him, by solemn marches,
to the East, and colors hung at half-mast, and bells were tolled as the
flag-draped hero was borne slowly by. And to the music of tender dirges,
he, whose whole life had been, inspired by the whistling of fifes and
rolling of drums, was laid to rest. A handful of clods falling upon his
breast, their hollow sound never thrilling the mother heart that lay
again so near her son's, a volley fired over the grave, and all was
over. Of all the brave men gone, no fate has seemed to us so sad.
Winthrop, young and ardent, with the tide of great thoughts rashing in
upon his princely heart, died in the flush of hope with the fresh
enthusiasm of poetry and undimmed patriotism shining in his eyes, and we
laid our soldier to sleep under the violets. Ellsworth fell forward with
the captured flag of treason in his hand, and the whole nation cheering
him on in his early sally upon the 'sacred' Virginia soil. Brave and
honorable, with fine powers cultured by study and earnest thought, death
took from him no portion of the fame life would have awarded him. Baker
rode into the jaws of death in that fatal autumn blunder; but the
ignominy of defeat rested upon other shoulders. His only to obey, even
while 'all the world wondered.' But he did not fall before the honor of
a country's admiration and the meed of her grateful thanks were his.
Soldier, orator and statesman, he had gained in a brilliant career a
glory earned by few, and could well afford to die, assured of a memory
justified from all reproach. But to Lyon, whom there were so few to
mourn, death in the midst of anticipated defeat was bitter indeed. No
time to retrieve the losses and disasters the cruel remissness of others
had entailed upon him; the fruit of the anxious toil of months wrested
from him even as it began to ripen; all his glad hopes chilled by
suspicion, but his faith, we may well believe, still strong in the
ultimate success of the cause he loved. A whole life he had given to his
country, and she had not thought it worth while to redeem it from
disgrace with the few thousands that he asked. He had outlived the
elasticity of youth, when wrongs are quickly remedied, and new impulses
spring, like phoenixes, from the ashes of the old. Uncertain whether he
were the victim of a conspiracy, the tool of a faction, or the martyr to
some unknown theory, he died, and as the country had been to him wife
and children, he left her his all.

It was known to but few that the soldier, whose career had been rather
useful than brilliant, had, when the scheming of politicians and their
doubly-refined arguments threatened to deceive and ruin the country,
put by his sword and taken up the pen. In a series of articles, short,
concise, and to the point, he effectually canvassed the State. They are
addressed to thinking men everywhere. Free from all trickery, strictly
impartial, relying entirely upon the soundness of his premises for
success,--for elegance of diction he had not, and he was too honest even
to become a sophist,--these papers manifest at once the true patriot and
the intelligent man. Thousands of adherents the Republican cause had in
1860, but not one more indefatigable or more heartily in earnest than
Lyon. Outside the limits of party interests, and uninfluenced personally
by the predominance of either faction, he had worked out in his own way
the problem of national life, and now spread its solution before his
readers. 'Our cause,' said he, 'is to honor labor and elevate the
laborer.' Here we have the kernel of the whole matter; the spirit, if
not the letter, of the whole republican system of government. The secret
that philosophers have elaborated from the unconquerable facts of
physics, ethics, and psychology, that men of genius have evolved with
infinite difficulty from the mass of crude aesthetic associations that
cluster around every object of nature or of art, Lyon, working and
thinking alone as a citizen, has discovered, with the sole aid of common
sense and the habit of practical observation. Carey and Godwin have
proved by statistics for unbelievers the reasonableness of the doctrine
enunciated by Lyon. Now, thanks to the untiring efforts of a few
stout-hearted patriots, it is no new one to the North; but in the late
presidential contest it was a strange weapon glittering in strong hands.
Our society, diluted and weakened by the Southern element, revolted at
first from the creed that is to prove its salvation. Not alone in our
border States had the dragon crept, searing our fair institutions with
his hot breath, but even upon the sturdy old Puritan stock were
engrafted many of the petty notions that pass for 'principles' in Dixie.
True, we were educated, all of us, into a sort of decent regard for the
good old element of labor,--we call it industry,--more antique, since
antiquity is a virtue, than aristocracy, for it began in Paradise. But
this was a feature of our Northern character that was to be hurried out
of sight, ignominiously buried without candle or bell, when the giant of
Southern chivalry stalked across our borders. The bravado and
gentlemanly ruffianism of youthful F.F.V-ism at college, and the
supercilious condescension of incipient Southern belledom in the
seminary, impressed young North America with a respect that was indeed
unacknowledged, but that grew with its growth and strengthened with its
strength. But this mock romance of ancestry, this arrogant assumption by
the South of all the social virtues and courtesies of which the nation,
or indeed the universe, could boast, was like the flash of an expiring
candle to Lyon. He had little to do with first families North or South;
his mission was to the _people_. His practical mind gathered in, sheaf
after sheaf, a whole harvest of political facts. He saw that the
government of the United States, originally intended to be administered
by the people, had been for years in the power of the minority. Against
this perversion of the purpose of the founders of the republic, this
outrage to the memory of men who labored for its defense and welfare, he
entered his earnest protest. The shallow effort of the Democratic party
to establish upon constitutional grounds the monstrous phantom of
justice they called government, was met by his hearty indignation. He
says, 'With the artfulness of a deity and the presumption of a fiend,
our own Constitution is perversely claimed by the Democracy as the ægis
for the establishment of a slave autocracy over our country.'

No element more fatal to our growth or freedom could Lyon conceive than
this slave autocracy. It sapped the very foundations of republicanism,
and, stealthily advancing to the extreme limits of the law, enjoyed the
confidence of the people, while it plotted their subjugation. All the
varied machinery of the new social system, falsely styled government,
had for its object the extinction of individual rights and the
deification of capital. Church and state united in the unholy effort to
Crush the masses, and intriguing politicians, by dint of dazzling
rhetoric and plausible promises, lured the people on to secure their own
downfall at the polls. The only remedy for this Lyon saw in the
elevation of the masses. 'It is the greatest political revolution yet to
be effected,' he says, 'to bring the laboring man to know that honest
industry is the highest of merits, and should be awarded the highest
honor; and, properly pursued, contributes to his intelligence and
morality, and to the virtues needed for official station.' 'The
calamity,' says an eminent writer from his far Platonean heights, 'is
the masses;' but liberty is a new religion that is to sweep over the
world and regenerate them. And to this end Lyon boldly advocated
emancipation for the sake of the white man. If to-day, when patriotism
is at a premium, men tremble before the acknowledged necessity of this
measure, and are either too cowardly or too indolent to meet the demands
of the times, it required no little boldness in 1860 to advance a theory
so decided, even in a Kansas newspaper. But Lyon knew the inefficiency
of half-way measures, and the moral degradation they inevitably entail
upon the community so weak or so deluded as to adopt them. The hue and
cry of abolitionism did not disturb him; he was not afraid of names.
Conservatism that sat in state at Washington, and pulled the wires all
over the country,--a tremendous power, none the less fearful in that it
was only a galvanized one,--was a dead letter to him, its dignity
departed with the age that had demanded it. Conservatism would have
resented no impositions, established no new landmarks, asserted no
independence; would carry its mails on horseback, creep over the ocean
in schooners, fight by sea in piked brigantines, and by land with spear
and battle-axe; it would have emancipated no slaves in Great Britain and
France, and no serfs in Russia. But if freedom means anything, it means
_Progress_,--liberty to advance, never to retrograde. 'Nothing in the
world will ever go backward,' said the old lizard to Heine. All the
authority of a new Areopagus could never sanction that; and yet this
liberty the South claims, nay, has already acted upon, so that the world
may see the result of the experiment, and against its continuance Lyon
protests. In the long silent years of preparation for the fray he has
nursed strange thoughts on the ultimate destiny of man. He has seen in
dreams, prophetic of a mighty accomplishment, his country growing great,
and vigorous, and powerful, extending to struggling humanity everywhere
the protection of her friendship, building up noble institutions,
encouraging science and the useful arts, and leading the van in the
world's great millennial march; and this not through any miraculous
interposition of Providence, but by means of an exalted intelligence and
the power of thought stimulating to action, and that of the noblest
kind.

But you argue the unfitness of the masses for this destiny. Lyon
answers,--not in any musically-rounded sentences, in phrases nicely
balanced; the man is plain and outspoken,--'This is a truth of
philosophy and political economy, that man rises to a condition
corresponding to the rights, duties and responsibilities devolved upon
him; and therefore the only true way to make a man is to invest him with
the rights, duties and responsibilities of a man, and he generally rises
in intellectual and moral greatness to a position corresponding to these
circumstances.' It is a mistake to suppose the great body of the people
ignorant of their position, or unconscious of their growing importance
and dignity as representatives of a mighty empire. Vice and poverty have
indeed well-nigh quenched humanity in thousands in our great cities,
but these are but a drop in the ocean. Behind lies our vast West, with
its teeming population, sturdy, active and energetic. All our mountain
districts are alive with men who, thanks to the press, are beginning to
feel their power. Every advantage of physical development their hardy
life gives them, and the growing consciousness and comprehension of
freedom, blooming under a munificent free-school dispensation, will do
the rest. Our internal manufacturing and agricultural elements at the
North, already powerful and irrepressible, will soon exercise a
tremendous influence in our government. Shall it be the influence of
ignorance played upon by the sophistry of demagogues and helping to
rebuild the vicious doctrines that have stood firmly for so many years,
or the healthful influence of intelligent industry tending to our
greatness and prosperity? This our war is to decide. No peaceful
solution of the great question could be made. This Lyon foresaw in the
truckling of politicians North to win the unit of Southern political
sympathy: the main end and aim of the South being the appointment of
Southern men to the Presidency, 'as security on the one hand against
unfavorable executive action toward slavery, and on the other against
executive patronage adverse to its interests, the democratic party North
succeeded, by trimming party sails and decking party leaders, in suiting
their fastidious Southern leaders.' The question once at issue, even a
peaceful separation was impossible, though an amendment of the
Constitution should sanction it. War was inevitable. The great bugbear
of slavery would still exist; fugitive slave laws be forever upon the
political carpet; formidable jealousies spring up between two nations
founded upon such diverse principles, yet united by very natural
circumstance of language and climate; internal wrangling would destroy
all unity, conspiracies give the death-blow to all prosperity and all
hope of advancement. All this if there were no great party at the North
to rise upon the vast ground of humanity, claiming for its millions the
privilege of an unfettered life, for its children a fair start in the
future. Only one remedy Lyon knew, and he stood there, the early apostle
of Emancipation, and preached it. His doctrine was not accepted then, it
is not accepted now; but the time must come, when millions shall have
been expended, and blood shall have flowed like water only to delay it,
when we will fly to it for salvation. Let those who still cry 'Peace,
peace,' when there is no peace, learn what is to be its
price--Emancipation. It will be a bitter draught; well, so was the
independence of her colonies to England. And every day makes it more
bitter; the gall in the cup rises to the brim; a few more months and it
will overflow; the people will take the matter into their own hands and
legislate slavery into the swamps of Florida.

It is a lame and blind philanthropy that cries for a respite. 'A little
more sleep, a little more slumber. After us the deluge.' And meanwhile
the damnable lies gain ground, and a new generation is lost to its due
development. Have we yet to learn that we are no longer individuals, but
parts of a mighty nation, and responsible in some sort, every one, women
and men, for its destiny? Poland has learned this lesson. Her eyes are
upon us now. Shall she, still struggling, find that blood and treasure,
and all the thousand dear blessings of peace, have been sacrificed in
vain? If you cry 'War is an evil!' we grant it; but is it reserved for
the nineteenth century to discover a creed for which there shall be no
martyrs? What great gift has the world ever won that was not bought with
blood? When has independence of action or thought been purchased
otherwise than at the cost of persecution,--more revolution? Then let us
not slander revolutions. They are the throes of nature undergoing her
purification; if it is as by fire, oh! let us have courage and stand
beside her in her hour of trial. St. George will not fight forever; the
dragon of oppression is dying.

  'Yes, although so slowly, he _is_ dying;
  Many thousand years have fled in darkness,
  Since the sword first cut his scaly armor,
  And the red wound roused him into madness;
  But the good knight is of race immortal,
  Ever young, and passionate and fearless;
  And the strength which oozes from the dragon,
  Blooms reviving in the glorious warrior.'

And, after all, the demon of war is not so black as we have painted him.
We do not shudder to-day as we read of the siege of Troy or the downfall
of Carthage, or the Romance of the Cid. The song of Deborah, 'of the
avenging of Israel _when the people willingly offered themselves_,' is
one glorious burst of praise to God and gratitude to the martyrs. There
was war in heaven when ambition was cast out:--what quiet pastoral
appeals to our noblest impulses as Paradise Lost does? Wisely and well
speaks the English clergyman when he says:--

'But the truth is that here, as elsewhere, poetry has reached the truth,
while science and common sense have missed it. It has distinguished--as,
in spite of all mercenary and feeble sophistry, men ever will
distinguish--war from mere bloodshed. It has discerned the higher
feelings which lie beneath its revolting features. Carnage is terrible.
The conversion of producers into destroyers is a calamity. Death, and
insults to women worse than death--and human features obliterated
beneath the hoof of the war-horse--and reeking hospitals, and ruined
commerce, and violated homes, and broken hearts--they are all awful. But
there is something worse than death: cowardice is worse. And the _decay
of enthusiasm and manliness is worse_. And it is worse than death, aye,
worse than one hundred thousand deaths, when a people has gravitated
down into the creed, that the "wealth of nations" consists, not in
generous hearts, "fire in each breast, and freedom on each brow," in
national virtues, and primitive simplicity, and heroic endurance, and
preference of duty to life--not in _men_, but in silk and _cotton_, and
something that they call "capital." Peace is blessed--peace arising out
of charity. But peace springing out of the calculations of selfishness
is not blessed. If the price to be paid for peace is this, that wealth
accumulate and men decay, better far that every street, in every town of
our once noble country, should run blood.'[K]

As we write, every telegram proves the vaunted unity of the South a
sham, a visionary political bugbear, no longer strong or hideous enough
to frighten the most inveterate conservative dough-face. But a few
victories do not end the war; still earnestness and effort and
sacrifice, for the sick man of America will fight even when his 'brains
are out.' Not until we have proved to Breckenridge, the traitor, that we
are not 'fighting for principles that three-fourths of us abhor,' and
that the Union is not only 'a means of preserving the principles of
political liberty,' but that in it is irrevocably bound up every living
principle of all liberty, social, religious and individual; that in its
shelter only we have security against wrong at home and insult from
abroad; not until Emancipation has instituted a new order of things in
society as well as in politics, will the death of the out-spoken patriot
and brave man, Lyon, be avenged, and the Struggle be at an end. 'Genius
is patient,' but patience has had her perfect work, and the days of
Rebellion are numbered. On with the crusade!

MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

II.

The voice of Rome is baritone, always excepting that of the Roman
locomotive,--the donkey,--which is deep bass, and comes tearing and
braying along at times when it might well be spared. In the still night
season, wandering among the moonlit ruins of the Coliseum, while you
pause and gaze upon the rising tiers of crumbling stone above you,
memory retraces all you have read of the old Roman days: the forms of
the world-conquerors once more people the deserted ruin; the clash of
ringing steel; hot, fiery sunlight; thin, trembling veil of dust pierced
by the glaring eyes of dying gladiators; red-spouting blood; screams of
the mangled martyrs torn by Numidian lions; moans of the dying; fierce
shouts of exultation from the living; smiles from gold-banded girls in
flowing robes, with floating hair, flower-crowned, and perfumed; the hum
of thrice thirty thousand voices hushed to a whisper as the combat hangs
on an uplifted sword; the--

Aw-waw-WAUN-ik! WAW-NIK! WAUN-KI-w-a-w-n! comes like blatant fish-horn
over the silent air, and your dream of the Coliseum ends ignominiously
with this nineteenth-century song of a jackass.

At night you will hear the shrill cry of the screech-owl sounding down
the silent streets in the most thickly-populated parts of the city. Or
you will perhaps be aroused from sleep, as Caper often was, by the
long-drawn-out cadences of some countryman singing a _rondinella_ as he
staggers along the street, fresh from a wine-house. Nothing can be more
melancholy than the concluding part of each verse in these rondinellas,
the voice being allowed to drop from one note to another, as a man
falling from the roof of a very high house may catch at some projection,
hold on for a time, grow weak, loose his hold, fall, catch again, hold
on for a minute, and at last fall flat on the pavement, used up, and
down as low as he can reach.

But the street-cries of this city are countless; from the man who brings
round the daily broccoli to the one who has a wild boar for sale, not
one but is determined that you shall hear all about it. Far down a
narrow street you listen to a long-drawn, melancholy howl--the voice as
of one hired to cry in the most mournful tones for whole generations of
old pagan Romans who died unconverted; poor devils who worshiped wine
and women, and knew nothing better in this world. And who is their
mourner? A great, brawny, tawny, steeple-crowned hat, blue-breeched,
two-fisted fish-huckster; and he is trying to sell, by yelling as if his
heart would break, a basket of fish not so long as your finger. If he
cries so over anchovies, what would he do if he had a whale for sale?

Another _primo basso profundo_ trolls off a wheelbarrow and a fearful
cry at the same time; not in unison with his merchandise, for he has
birds--quail, woodcock, and snipe--for sale, besides a string of dead
nightingales, which he says he will 'sell cheap for a nice stew.' Think
of stewed nightingales! One would as soon think of eating a boiled
Cremona violin.

But out of the way! Here comes, blocking up the narrow street, a
_contadino_, a countryman from the Campagna. His square wooden cart is
drawn by a donkey about the size of, and resembling, save ears, a singed
Newfoundland dog; his voice, strong for a vegetarian,--for he sells
onions and broccoli, celery and tomatoes, _finocchio_ and mushrooms,--is
like tearing a firm rag: how long can it last, subjected to such use?

It is in the game and meat market, near the Pantheon, that you can more
fully become acquainted with the street cries of Rome; but the Piazza
Navona excels even this. Passing along there one morning, Caper heard
such an extraordinary piece of vocalization, sounding like a Sioux
war-whoop with its back broken, that he stopped to see what it was all
about. There stood a butcher who had exposed for sale seven small stuck
pigs, all one litter; and if they had been his own children, and died
heretics, he could not have howled over them in a more heart-rending
manner.

About sunrise, and even before it,--for the Romans are early
risers,--you will hear in spring-time a sharp ringing voice under your
window, '_Acqua chetosa! Acqua, chetosa!_' an abridgment of _acque
accetosa_, or water from the fountain of Accetosa, considered a good
aperient, and which is drank before breakfast. Also a voice crying out,
'_Acqua-vi-ta!_' or spirits, drank by the workmen and others at an
expense of a baioccho or two the table-spoonful, for that is all the
small glasses hold. In the early morning, too, you hear the chattering
jackdaws on the roofs; and then, more distinctly than later in the day,
the clocks striking their odd way. The Roman clocks ring from one to six
strokes four times during the twenty-four hours, and not from one to
twelve strokes, as with us. Sunset is twenty-four o'clock, and is noted
by six strokes; an hour after sunset is one o'clock, and is noted by one
stroke; and so on until six hours after, when it begins striking one
again. As the quarter hours are also rung by the clocks, if you happen
to be near one you will have a fine chance to get in a muddle trying to
separate quarters from hours, and Roman time from your own. Another
noise comes from the game of _morra_. Caper was looking out of his
window one morning, pipe in mouth, when he saw two men suddenly face
each other, one of them bringing his arm down very quickly, when the
other yelled as if kicked, '_Dué!_' (two), and the first shouted at the
top of his lungs, '_Tre!_' (three). Then they both went at it, pumping
their hands up and down and spreading their fingers with a quickness
which was astonishing, while all the time they kept screaming, 'One!'
'Four!' 'Three!' 'Two!' 'Five!' etc., etc. 'Ha!' said Caper, 'this is
something like; 'tis an arithmetical, mathematical, etcetrical school in
the open air. The dirtiest one is very quick; he will learn to count
five in no time. But I don't see the necessity of saying "three" when
the other brings down four fingers, or saying "five" when he shows two.
But I suppose it is all right; he hasn't learned to give the right names
yet.' He learned later that they were gambling.

While these men were shouting, there came along an ugly old woman with a
tambourine and a one-legged man with a guitar, and seeing prey in the
shape of Caper at his window, they pounced on him, as it were, and
poured forth the most ear-rending discord; the old lady singing, the old
gentleman backing up against a wall and scratching at an accompaniment
on a jangling old guitar. The old lady had a bandana handkerchief tied
over her head, and whilst she watched Caper she cast glances up and down
the street, to see if some rich stranger, or _milordo_, was not coming
to throw her a piece of silver.

'What are you howling about?' shouted Caper down to her.

'A new Neapolitan canzonetta, signore; all about a young man who grieves
for his sweetheart, because he thinks she is not true to him, and what
he says to her in a serenade.' And here she screechingly sung,--

  But do not rage, I beg, my dear;
  I want you for my wife,
  And morning, noon, and night likewise,
  I'll love you like my life.

  CHORUS.

  I only want to get a word,
  My charming girl, from thee.
  You know, Ninella, I can't breathe,
  Unless your heart's for me!

'Well,' said Caper, 'if this is Italian music, I don't _see_ it.'

The one-legged old gentleman clawed away at the strings of the guitar.

'I say,'_llustrissimo_,' shouted Caper down to him, 'what kind of
strings are those on your instrument?'

'_Excellenza_, catgut,' he shouted, in answer.

'_Benissimo!_ I prefer cats in the original packages. There's a _paolo_:
travel!'

Caper had the misfortune to make the acquaintance of a professor of the
mandolin, a wire-strung instrument, resembling a long-necked squash cut
in two, to be played on with a quill, and which, with a guitar and
violin, makes a concert that thrills you to the bones and cuts the
nerves away.

But the crowning glory of all that is ear-rending and peace-destroying,
is carried around by the _Pifferari_ about Christmas time. It is a
hog-skin, filled with wind, having pipes at one end, and a jackass at
the other, and is known in some lands as the bagpipe. The small shrines
to the Virgin, particularly those in the streets where the wealthy
English reside, are played upon assiduously by the _pifferari_, who are
supposed by romantic travelers to come from the far-away Abbruzzi
Mountains, and make a pilgrimage to the Eternal City to fulfil a vow to
certain saints; whereas it is sundry cents they are really after. They
are for the most part artists' models, who at this season of the year
get themselves up _à la pifferari_, or piper, to prey on the romantic
susceptibilities and pockets of the strangers in Rome, and, with a pair
of long-haired goat-skin breeches, a sheepskin coat, brown rags, and
sandals, or _cioccie_, with a shocking bad conical black or brown hat,
in which are stuck peacock's or cock's feathers, they are ready equipped
to attack the shrines and the strangers.

Unfortunately for Caper there was a shrine to the Virgin in the
second-story front of the house next to where he lived; that is,
unfortunately for his musical ear, for the lamp that burned in front of
the shrine every dark night was a shining and pious light to guide him
home, and thus, ordinarily, a very fortunate arrangement. In the
third-story front room of the house of the shrine dwelt a Scotch artist
named MacGuilp, who was a grand amateur of these pipes, and who declared
that no sound in the world was so sweet to his ear as the bagpipes: they
recalled the heather, haggis, and the Lothians, and the mountain dew, ye
ken, and all those sorts of things.

One morning at breakfast in the Café Greco he discoursed at length about
the pleasure the pifferari gave him; while Caper, taking an opposite
view, said they had, during the last few days, driven him nearly crazy,
and he wished the squealing hog-skins well out of town.

MacGuilp told him he had a poor ear for music: that there was a charm
about the bagpipes unequalled even by the unique voices of the Sistine
Chapel; and there was nothing he would like better than to have all the
pipers of Rome under his windows.

Caper remembered this last rash speech of Master MacGuilp, and
determined at an early hour to test its truth. It happened, the very
next morning at breakfast, that MacGuilp, in a triumphant manner, told
him that he had received a promise of a visit from the Duchess of ----,
with several other titled English; and said he had not a doubt of
selling several paintings to them. MacGuilp's style was of the
blood-and-thunder school: red dawns, murdered kings, blood-stained
heather, and Scotch plaids, the very kind that should be shown to the
sweet strainings of hog-skin bagpipes.

In conversation Caper found out the hour at which the duchess intended
to make her visit. He made his preparations accordingly. Accompanied by
Rocjean, he visited Gigi, who kept a costume and life school of models,
found out where the pipers drank most wine, and going there and up the
Via Fratina and down the Spanish Steps, managed to find them, and
arranged it so that at the time the duchess was viewing MacGuilp's
paintings, he should have the full benefit of a serenade from all the
pifferari in Rome.

The next morning Caper, pipe in mouth, at his window, saw the carriage
of the duchess drive up, and from it the noble English dismount and
ascend to the artist's studio. The carriage had hardly driven away when
up came two of the pipers, and happening to cast their eyes up they saw
Caper, who hailed them and told them not to begin playing until the
others arrived. In a few moments six of the hog-skin squeezers stood
ready to begin their infernal squawking.

'Go ahead!' shouted Caper, throwing a handful of _baiocchi_ among them;
and as soon as these were gathered up, the pipers gave one awful,
heart-chilling blast, and the concert was fairly commenced. Squealing,
shrieking, grunting, yelling, and humming, the sounds rose higher and
higher. Open flew the windows in every direction.

'_C'est foudroyante!_' said the pretty French _modiste_.

'What the devil's broke loose?' shouted an American.

'_Mein Gott im himmel! was ist das?_' roared the German baron.

'_Casaccio! cosa faceste?_' shrieked the lovely Countess Grimanny.

'_In nomine Domine!_' groaned a fat friar.

'_Caramba! vayase al infierno!_' screamed Don Santiago Gomez.

'_Bassama teremtete!_' swore the Hungarian gentleman.

Louder squealed the bagpipes, their buzz filled the air, their shrieks
went ringing up to MacGuilp like the cries of Dante's condemned. The
duchess found the sound barbarous. MacGuilp opened his window, upon
which the pipers strained their lungs for the Signore Inglese, grand
amateur of the bagpipes. He begged them to go away. 'No, no, signore; we
know you love our music; we won't go away.'

The duchess could stand it no longer, her Servant called the carriage,
the English got in and drove off.

Still rung out the sounds of the six bagpipes. Caper threw them more
_baiocchi_.

Suddenly MacGuilp burst out of the door of his house, maul-stick in
hand, rushing on the pifferari to put them to flight.

'_Iddio giusto!_' shouted two of the pipers; 'it is, IT IS the
_Cacciatore_! the hunter; the Great Hunter!'

'He is a painter!' shouted another.

'No, he isn't; he's a hunter. _Gran Cacciatore!_ Doesn't he spend all
his time after quails and snipe and woodcock? Haven't I been out with
him day after day at Ostia? Long live the great hunter!'

MacGuilp was touched in a tender spot. The homage paid him as a great
hunter more than did away with his anger at the bagpipe serenade. And
the last Caper saw of him he was leading six pifferari into a wine shop,
where they would not come out until seven of them were unable to tell
the music of bagpipes from the music of the spheres.

So ends the music, noises, and voices, of the seven-hilled city.

SERMONS IN STONES.

One bright Sunday morning in January, Rocjean called on Caper to ask him
to improve the day by taking a walk.

'I thought of going up to the English chapel outside the Popolo to see a
pretty New Yorkeress,' said the latter; 'but the affair is not very
pressing, and I believe a turn round the Villa Borghese would do me as
much good as only looking at a pretty girl and half hearing a poor
sermon.'

'As for a sermon, we need not miss that,' answered Rocjean, 'for we will
stop in at Chapin the sculptor's studio, and if we escape one, and he
there, I am mistaken. They call his studio a shop, and they call his
shop the Orphan's Asylum, because he manufactured an Orphan Girl some
years ago, and, as it sold well, he has kept on making orphans ever
since.

'The murderer!'

'Yes; but not half as atrocious as the reality. You must know that when
he first came over here he had an order to make a small Virgin Mary for
a Catholic church in Boston; but the order being countermanded after he
had commenced modeling in clay, he was determined not to lose his time,
and so, having somewhere read of, in a yellow-covered novel, or seen in
some fashion-plate magazine, a doleful-looking female called The Orphan,
he instantly determined, cruel executioner that he is, to also make an
orphan. And he did. There is a dash of bogus sentiment in it that passes
for coin current with many of our traveling Americans; and the thing has
"sold." He told me not long since he had orders for twelve copies of
different sized Orphans, and you will see them all through his asylum.
Do you remember those lines in Richard the Third,--

  '"Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
  And call us orphans--wretched?"'

They found Chapin in his shop, alias studio, busily looking over a
number of plaster casts of legs and arms. He arose quickly as they
entered and threw a cloth over the casts.

'Hah! gudmornin', Mister Caper. Glad to see you in my studiyo. Hallo,
Rocjan! you there? Why haven't you ben up to see my wife and daughters?
She feels hurt, I tell you, 'cause you don't come near us. Do you know
that Burkings of Bosting was round here to my studiyo yeserday: sold
_him_ an Orphan. By the way, Mister Caper, air you any relation to Caper
of the great East Ingy house of Caper?'

'He is an uncle of mine, and is now in Florence; he will be in Rome next
week.'

A tender glow of interest beamed in Chapin's eyes: in imagination he saw
another Orphan sold to the rich Caper, who might 'influence trade.' His
tone of voice after this was subdued. As Caper happened to brush against
some plaster coming in the studio, Chapin hastened to brush it from his
coat, and he did it as if it were the down on the wing of a beautiful
golden butterfly.

'I was goin' to church this mornin' long with Missus Chapin; but I guess
I'll stay away for once in me life. I want to show you The Orphan.'

'I beg that you will not let me interfere with any engagement you may
have,' said Caper; 'I can call as well at any other time.'

'Oh, no; I won't lissen to that; I don't want to git to meeting before
sermon, so come right stret in here now. There! there's The Orphan. You
see I've made her accordin' to the profoundest rules of art. You may
take a string or a yard measure and go all over her, you won't find her
out of the way a fraction. The figure is six times the length of the
foot; this was the way Phidias worked, and I agree with him. Them were
splendid old fellows, them Greeks. There was art for you; high art!'

'That in the Acropolis was of the highest order,' said Rocjean.

'Yes,' answered Chapin, who did not know where it was; 'far above all
other. There was some sentiment in them days; but it was all of the
religious stripe; they didn't come down to domestic life and feelin';
they hadn't made the strides we have towards layin' open art to the
million--towards developing _hum_ feelings. They worked for a precious
few; but we do it up for the many. Now there's the A-poller
Belvidiary--beautiful thing; but the idea of brushin' his hair that way
is ridicoolus. Did you ever see anybody with their hair fixed that way?
Never! They had a way among the Greeks of fixing their drapery right
well; but I've invented a plan--for which I've applied to Washington for
a patent--that I think will beat anything Phidias ever did.'

'You can't tell how charmed I am to hear you,' spoke Rocjean.

'Well, it _is_ a great invention,' continued Chapin; 'and as I know
neither of you ain't in the 'trade' (smiling), I don't care but what
I'll show it to you, if you'll promise, honor bright, you won't tell
anybody. You see I take a piece of muslin and hang it onto a statue the
way I want the folds to fall; then I take a syringe filled with starch
and glue and go all over it, so that when it dries it'll be as hard as a
rock. Then I go all over it with a certain oily preparation and lastly
I run liquid plaster-paris in it, and when it hardens, I have an exact
mold of the drapery. There! But I hain't explained The Orphan. You see
she's sittin' on a very light chair--_that_ shows the very little
support she has in this world. The hand to the head shows meditation;
and the Bible on her knee shows devotion; you see it's open to the book,
chapter, and verse which refers to the young ravens.'

'Excuse me,' said Caper, 'but may I ask why she has such a _very_
low-necked dress on?'

'Well, my model has got such a fine neck and shoulders,' replied Chapin,
'that I re-eely couldn't help showing 'em off on the Orphan: besides,
they're more in demand--the low neck and short sleeves--than the
high-bodied style, which has no buyers. But there is a work I'm engaged
on now that would just soot your uncle. Mr. Caper, come this way.'

Caper saw what he supposed was a safe to keep meat cool in, and
approached. Chapin threw back the doors of it like a showman about to
disclose the What Is It? and Caper saw a dropsical-looking Cupid with a
very short shirt on, and a pair of winged shoes on his feet. The figure
was starting forward as if to catch his equilibrium, which he had that
moment lost, and was only prevented from tumbling forward by a bag held
behind him in his left hand, while his right arm and hand, at full
length, pointed a sharp arrow in front of him.

'Can you tell me what _that_ figger represents?' asked Chapin. As he
received no reply, he continued: '_That_ is Enterprise; the two little
ruts at his feet represent a railroad; the arrow, showin' he's sharp,
points ahead; Go ahead! is his motto; the bag in his hand represents
money, which the keen, sharp, shrewd business man knows is the reward of
enterprise. The wreath round his head is laurel mixed up with lightnin',
showin' he's up to the tellygraph; the pen behind his ear shows he can
figger; and his short shirt shows economy, that admirable virtoo. The
wings on his shoes air taken from Mercury, as I suppose you know; and--'

'I say, now, Chapin, don't you think he's got a little too much legs,
and rather extra stomach on him, to make fast time?' asked Rocjean.

'Measure him, measure him!' said Chapin, indignantly; 'there's a string.
Figure six times the length of his foot, everything else in proportion.
No, _sir_; I have not studied the classic for nothin'; if there is any
one thing I am strong on, it's anatomy. Only look at his hair. Why, sir,
I spent three weeks once dissectin'; and for more'n six months I didn't
do anything, during my idle time, but dror figgers. Art is a kind of
thing that's born in a man. This saying the ancients were better
sculpters than we air, is no such thing; what did they know about
steam-engines or telegraphs? _Fiddle!_ They did some fustrate things,
but they had no idee of fixin' hair as it should be fixed. No, sir; we
moderns have great add-vantagiz, and we improve 'em. Rome is the Cra--'

'I must bid you good-day,' interrupted Caper; 'your wife will miss you
at the sermon: you will attribute it to me; and I would not
intentionally be the cause of having her ill-will for anything.'

'Well, she is a pretty hard innimy; and they do talk here in Rome if you
don't toe the mark. But ree-ly, you mustn't go off mad (smiling). You
must call up with Rocjan and see us; and I ree-ly hope that when your
uncle comes you will bring him to my studiyo. I am sure my Enterprise
will soot him.'

So Chapin saw them out of his studio. Not until Caper found himself
seated on a stone bench under the ilexes of the Villa Borghese, watching
the sunbeams darting on the little lizards, and seeing far off the
Albanian Mountains, snowcapped against the blue sky--not until then did
he breathe freely.

'Rocjean,' said he; 'that stone-cutter down there--that Chapin--'

'_Chameau!_ roared Rocjean. 'He and his kind are doing for art what the
Jews did for prize-fighting--they ruin it. They make art the
laughing-stock of all refined and educated people. Art applied solely to
sculpture and painting is dead; it will not rise again in these our
times. But art, the fairy-fingered beautifier of all that surrounds our
homes and daily walks, save paintings and statuary, never breathed so
fully, clearly, nobly as now, and her pathway amid the lowly and homely
things around us is shedding beauty wherever it goes. The rough-handed
artisan who, slowly dreaming of the beautiful, at last turns out a stone
that will beautify and adorn a room, instead of rendering it hideous,
has done for this practical generation what he of an earlier theoretical
age did for his cotemporaries when he carved the imperial Venus of
Milos. Enough; _this_ is the sermon _not_ preached from stones.'

A BALL AT THE COSTA PALACE

One sunlight morning in February, while hard at work in his studio,
Caper was agreeably surprised by the entrance of an elderly uncle of
his, Mr. Bill Browne, of St. Louis, a gentleman of the rosy, stout,
hearty school of old bachelors, who, having made a large fortune by
keeping a Western country store, prudently retired from business, and
finding it dull work doing nothing, wisely determined to enjoy himself
with a tour over the Continent, 'or any other place he might conclude to
visit.'

'I say, Jim, did you expect to see me here?' was his first greeting.

'Why, Uncle Bill! Well, you are the last man I ever thought would turn
up. They didn't write me a word of your coming over,' answered Caper.

'Mistake; they wrote you all about it; and if you'll drop round at the
post-office, you'll find letters there telling you the particulars. Fact
is, I am ahead of the mail. Coming over in the steamer, met a man named
Orville; told me he knew you, that he was coming straight through to
Rome, and offered to pilot me. So I gave up Paris and all that, and came
smack through, eighteen days from New York. But I'm dry. Got a match?
Here, try one of these cigars.'

Caper took a cigar from his uncle's case, lit it, and then, calling the
man who swept out the studios, sent him to the neighboring wine-shop for
a bottle of wine.

'By George, Jim, that's a pretty painting: that jackass is fairly alive,
and so's the girl with a red boddice. I say, what's she got that towel
on her head for? Is it put there to dry?'

'No; that's an Italian peasant girl's head-covering. Most all of them do
so.'

'Do they? I'm glad of that. But here comes your man with the liquor.'

And, after drinking two or three tumblers full, Uncle Bill decided that
it was pretty good cider. The wine finished, together with a couple of
rolls that came with it, the two sallied out for a walk around the
Pincian Hill, the grand promenade of Rome. Towards sunset they thought
of dinner, and Uncle Bill, anxious to see life, accepted Caper's
invitation to dine at the old Gabioni: here they ordered the best
dishes, and the former swore it was as good a dinner as he ever got at
the Planter's House. Rocjean, who dined there, delighted the old
gentleman immensely, and the two fraternized at once, and drank each
other's health, old style, until Caper, fearing that neither could
conveniently hold more, suggested an adjournment to the Greco for coffee
and cigars.

While they were in the café, Rocjean quietly proposed something to
Caper, who at once assented; the latter then said to Uncle Bill,--

'You have arrived in Rome just at the right time. You may have heard at
home of the great Giacinti family; well, the Prince Nicolo di Giacinti
gives a grand ball to-night at the Palazzo Costa. Rocjean and I have
received invitations, embracing any illustrious strangers of our
acquaintance who may happen to be in Rome; so you must go with us. You
have no idea, until you come to know them intimately, what a
good-natured, off-hand set the best of the Roman nobility are. Compelled
by circumstances to keep up for effect an appearance of great reserve
and dignity before the public, they indemnify themselves for it in
private by having the highest kind of old times. They are passionately
attached to their native habits and costumes, and though driven, on
state occasions especially, to imitate French and English habits, yet
they love nothing better than at times to enjoy themselves in their
native way. The ball given by the prince to-night is what might be
called a free-and-easy. It is his particular desire that no one should
come in full dress; in fact, he rather likes to have his stranger guests
come in their worst clothes, for this prevents the attention of the
public being called to them as they enter the palace. After you have
lived some time in Rome you will see how necessary it is to keep dark,
so you will see no flaring light at the palace gate; it's all as quiet
and common-place as possible. The dresses, you must remember, are
assumed for the occasion because they are, or were, the national
costume, which is fast disappearing, and if it were not for the noble
wearers you will see to-night, you could not find them anywhere in Rome.
You will perhaps think the nobility at the ball hardly realize your
ideas of Italian beauty and refinement, compared with the fine specimens
of men and women you may have seen among the Italian opera singers at
home: well, these same singers are picked specimens, and are chosen for
their height and muscular development from the whole nation, so that
strangers may think all the rest at home are like them: it is a little
piece of deception we can pardon.'

After this long prelude, Rocjean proposed that they should try a game of
billiards in the Café Nuovo. After they had played a game or two, and
drank several _mezzo caldos_, or rum punches, they walked up the Corso
to the Via San Claudio, No. 48, and entered the palace gate. It was very
dark after they entered, so Rocjean, telling them to wait one moment,
lit a _cerina_, or piece of waxed cord, an article indispensable to a
Roman, and, crossing the broad courtyard, they entered a small door, and
after climbing and twisting and turning, found a ticket-taker, and the
next minute were in the ball-room.

Uncle Bill was delighted with the excessively free-and-easy ball of
Prince Giacinti, but was very anxious to know the names of the nobility,
and Rocjean politely undertook to point out the celebrities, offering
kindly to introduce him to any one he might think looked sympathetic;
'what they call _simpatico_ in Italian,' explained Rocjean.

'That pretty girl in _Ciociara_ costume is the Condessa or Countess
Stella di Napoli.'

'Introduce me,' said Uncle Bill.

Rocjean went through the performance, concluding thus: 'The countess
expresses a wish that you should order a _bottiglia_ (about two bottles)
of red wine.'

'Go ahead,' quoth Uncle Bill; 'for a nobility ball this comes as near a
dance-house affair as I ever want to approach. By the way, who is that
pickpocket-looking genius with eyes like a black snake?'

'Who is _that_?' said Rocjean, theatrically. 'Chut! a word in your ear;
that is An-to-nel-li!'

'The devil! But I heard some one only a few minutes ago call him
Angelucio.'

'That was done satirically, for it means big angel, which you, who read
the papers, know that Antonelli is _not_. But here comes the wine, and I
see the countess looks dry. Pour out a half-dozen glasses for her. The
Roman women, high and low, paddle in wine like ducks, and it never
upsets them; for, like ducks, their feet are so large that neither you
nor wine can throw them. I wish you could speak Italian, for here comes
the Princess Giacinta _con Marchese_--'

'I wish,' said Uncle Bill, 'you would talk English.'

'Well,' continued Rocjean, 'with the Marchioness Nina Romana, if you
like that better. Shall I introduce you?'

'Certainly,' replied the old gentleman, 'and order two more what d'ye
call 'ems. It's cheap--this knowing a princess for a quart of red
teaberry tooth-wash, for that's what this "wine" amounts to. I am going
to dance to-night, for the Princess Giacinta is a complete woman after
my heart, and weighs her two hundred pound any day.'

The nobility now began begging Rocjean and Caper to introduce them to
his excellency _Il vecchio_, or the old man; and Uncle Bill, in his
enthusiasm at finding himself surrounded with so many princes,
Allegrini, Pelligrini, Sapgrini, and Dungreeny, compelled Caper to order
up a barrel of wine, set it a-tap, and tell the nobility to 'go in.' It
is needless to say that they _went_ in. Many of the costumes were very
rich, especially those of the female nobility; and in the rush for a
glass of wine the effect of the brilliant draperies flying here and
there, struggling and pushing, was notable. The musicians, who were
standing on what appeared to be barrels draped with white cloth, jumped
down and tried their luck at the wine-cask, and, after satisfying their
thirst, returned to their duties. There was a guitar, mandolin, violin,
and flute, and the music was good for dancing. Uncle Bill was pounced on
by the Princess Giacinta and whirled off into some kind of a dance, he
did not know what; round flew the room and the nobility; round flew
barrels of teaberry tooth-wash, beautiful princesses, big devils of
Antonellis. Lights, flash, hum, buzz, buzz, zzz--ooo--zoom!

Uncle Bill opened his eyes as the sunlight shed one golden bar into his
sleeping-room at the Hotel d'Europe, and there by his bedside sat his
nephew, Jim Caper, reading a letter, while on a table near at hand was a
goblet full of ice, a bottle of hock, and another bottle corked, with
string over it.

'It's so-da wa-ter,' said Uncle Bill, musing aloud.

'Hallo, uncle, you awake?' asked Caper, suddenly raising his eyes from
his letter.

'I am, my son. Give thy aged father thy blessing, and open that hock and
soda water quicker! I say, Jim, now, what became of the nobility, the
Colonnas and Aldobrandinis, after they finished that barrel? Strikes me
some of them will have an owlly appearance this morning.'

'You don't know them,' answered Caper.

'I am beginning to believe I don't, too,' spoke Uncle Bill. 'I say, now,
Jim, where did we go last night?'

'Why, Uncle Bill, to tell you the plain truth, we went to a ball at the
Costa Palace, and a model ball it was, too.'

'I have you! Models who sit for you painters. Well, if they arn't
nobility, they drink like kings, so it's all right. Give us the hock,
and say no more about it.'

HOWE'S CAVE.

Few persons, perhaps, are aware that Schoharie County, N.Y., contains a
cave said to be nine or ten miles in extent, and, in many respects, one
of the most remarkable in America. Its visitors are few,--owing,
probably, to its recent discovery, together with its comparative
inaccessibility;--yet these few are well rewarded for its exploration.

In the month of August, 1861, I started, with three companions, to visit
this interesting place.

I will not weary the reader by describing the beauty of the Hudson and
the grandeur of the Catskills; yet I would fain fix in my memory forever
one sunrise, seen from the summit of a bluff on the eastern bank of the
river, when the fog, gradually lifting itself from the stream, and
slowly breaking into misty fragments, unveiled broad, smiling meadows,
dark forests, village after village, while above all, far in the
distance, rose the Catskills, clear in the sunlight.

After two days crowded with enjoyment, we arrived in Schoharie, where we
passed the night. Having given orders to be called at five, we took
advantage of the leisure hour this arrangement gave us to view, the next
morning.

AN OLD FORT.

In reality, the 'fort' is a dilapidated old church, used as a shelter
during the Indian wars, and also in the days of the Revolution. On the
smooth stones that form the eastern side are carved the names of the
soldiers who defended it, with the date, and designation of the regiment
to which they belonged. I deciphered also, among other curious details,
the name of the person who 'gave the favor of the ground.' I would
gladly have indulged my antiquarian tastes by copying these rude
inscriptions; but the eager cries of my companions compelled me to hurry
on.

The western portion of the structure has also its story to tell. The
traces of besieging cannon balls are still to be distinctly seen, and in
one place I observed a smooth, round hole, made by the passage of a ball
into the interior of the fort.

As I stood on the walls of this ancient building, surveying the valley
it overlooked, with its straggling village lying at our feet, and the
fair Schoharie Creek, now gleaming in the sunlight of the meadows, or
darkening in the shade of the trees that overhung it, the past and the
present mingled strongly in my thoughts.

The Stars and Stripes, that on this very spot had seen our fathers
repelling a foreign foe, now waved over their sons, forced from their
quiet homes, not to contend with the stranger and the alien, but to
subdue those rebellious brothers whose sacrilegious hands had torn down
that sacred flag, reared amidst the trials and perils of '76. Not less
noble the present contest than the past, nor less heroic the soldier of
to-day than the patriot of the Revolution. We continue to-day the fight
they fought against injustice and oppression--a conflict that will end
only when every nation and every race shall lift unshackled hands up to
God in thanksgiving for the gift of freedom. A deeper love of my
country, and a firmer trust in the God of truth and justice, sank into
my heart as I turned away from those rude walls, sacred to the memory of
departed valor.

We hurried back to the breakfast that awaited us, and then drove to

THE CAVE,

which lies six miles from the village of Schoharie. The entrance is at
the base of a heavily-wooded mountain that shuts in a secluded little
valley. The only opening from this solitary vale is made by a small
stream that winds out from among the hills. The entire seclusion of the
place has prevented its earlier discovery; but the inevitable 'Hotel'
now rears its wooden walls above the cave to encourage future
adventurers to explore its recesses.

In the absence of the proprietor of the hotel, who usually acts as
cicerone, we took as guide a sun-burnt young man, with an economical
portion of nose, closely cut hair, and a wiry little mouth, which we saw
at a glance would open only at the rate of a quarter of a dollar a fact.
He proved himself, however, shrewd, witty, and, withal, good-natured,
and as fond of a joke as any one of us all. Bob, for so our new
companion named himself, showed us at once into a dressing-room,
advising us to put on, over our own garments, certain exceedingly coarse
and ragged coats, hats and pants, which transformed us at once from
rather fashionable young men into a set of forlorn-looking beggars. Each
laughed at the appearance of the other, unconscious of his own
transformation; but Bob, with more truth than politeness, informed us
that we all 'looked like the Old Nick;' whence it appeared that in Bob's
opinion the Enemy is usually sorely afflicted with a shabby wardrobe,
and that, in the words of the sage,

  'Poverty is the devil.'

Being furnished with small oil lamps, we descended to the mouth of the
cave. This opens at once into an entrance-hall, one hundred and fifty
feet in length and thirty in width, and high enough for a tall man to
enter upright.

I inquired of Bob when the cave was discovered. 'In 1842,' he replied.
'And by whom?' I continued. 'Why,' rejoined our guide, 'Mister Howe was
a huntin' for caves, and he came across this one.' Rather a queer thing
to be hunting for, I thought, though without comment; but in future I
allowed Bob to carry on the conversation as best suited himself. He
plunged at once into a dissertation on the state of the country, gravely
stating that 'Washington was taken.' At the involuntary smile which this
astounding piece of news called forth, Bob confessed 'he might be
mistaken in this respect, as his paper came but once a week, and
frequently only once in two weeks.' Finding him a stanch Union man, and
inclined to serve his country to the best of his ability, we undertook
'to post him up' on the present state of affairs, for which the poor
fellow was truly grateful.

Entrance Hall leads into Washington Hall, a magnificent apartment, three
hundred feet long, and in the lowest part upwards of forty feet high.
Our guide favored us at every turn with some new story or legend,
repeated in a sing-song, nasal tone, ludicrously contrasting with the
extravagance of the tales themselves. Yet he recited all alike with the
most immovable gravity. It was a lively waltz of three notes.

Old Tunnel and Giant's Chapel, two fine cave-rooms, were next explored.
On entering the latter, Bob favored us with the rehearsal of an old
story from the Arabian Nights, which--unfortunately, not one which will
bear repetition--he wished us to believe actually happened in this very
locality.

I may here confess that, when we came to 'the dark hole in the ground,'
I felt some slight reluctance to trust myself therein. Bob, observing
this, immediately drew from his lively imagination such an astonishing
increase of the perils of the way, looking complacently at me all the
while, that my alarm, strange to say, took flight at once, and I pushed
onward defiantly. The journey is, however, one that might justly inspire
timidity. Above our heads, and on each side, frowned immense rocks,
threatening at every instant to fall upon us; while the dash and babble
of a stream whose course we followed, increasing in volume as we
progressed, came to our ears like the 'sound of many waters.' We crossed
this stream a hundred times, at least, in our journey. Sometimes it
murmured and fretted in a chasm far below us; again, it spread itself
out in our very path, or danced merrily at our side, until it seemed to
plunge into some distant abyss with the roar of a cataract.

We emerged from the windings of our tortuous path into Harlem Tunnel, a
room six hundred feet in length. In its sides were frequent openings,
leading into hitherto unexplored parts of the cave; but we did not
venture to enter many of these. Never have I seen such rocks as we here
encountered; at one time piled up on one another, ready to totter and
fall at a touch; at another, jutting out in immense boulders, sixty feet
above our heads, while, in the openings they left, we gazed upward into
darkness that seemed immeasurable.

From Harlem Tunnel we came into Cataract Hall, also of great length, and
remarkable for containing a small opening extending to an unknown
distance within the mountain, since it apparently cannot be explored.
Applying the ear to this opening, the sound of an immense cataract
becomes audible, pouring over the rocks far within the recesses of the
mountain, where the Creator alone, who meted out those unseen, sunless
waters, can behold its beauty and its terror.

Crossing the Pool of Siloam, whose babbling waters sparkled into beauty
as we held our lamps above them, we entered Franklin Hall. Here the
roof, although high enough in some places, is uncomfortably low in
others; whereupon Bob bade us give heed to the caution of Franklin,
'Stoop as you go, and you will miss many hard thumps.'

We arrived next at Flood Hall, where a party of explorers were once put
in great peril by a sudden freshet in the stream. They barely saved
themselves by rapid flight, the water becoming waist-deep before they
gained the entrance. We had no reason to doubt the truth of this story,
as there were evidences of the rise and fall of water all about us.

Congress Hall now awaited us, but I will omit a description of it, as
Musical Hall, which immediately succeeded, contains so much more that is
interesting. On entering, our attention was first directed to an
aperture wide enough for the admission of a man's head. Any sound made
in this opening is taken up and repeated by echo after echo, till the
very spirit of music seems awakened. Wave after wave of melodious sound
charms the ear, even if the first awakening note has been most
discordant. If the soul is filled with silent awe while listening to the
unseen waterfall in Cataract Hall, it is here wooed into peace by a
harmony more perfect than any produced by mortal invention. A
temple-cavern vaster than Ellora with a giant 'lithophone' for organ!

The second wonder of Musical Hall is a lake of great extent, and from
ten to thirty feet in depth. The smooth surface of these crystal waters,
never ruffled by any air of heaven, and undisturbed save by the dip of
our oars as we were ferried across, the utter darkness that hid the
opposite shore from our straining sight, the huge rocks above, whose
clustering stalactites, lighted by our glimmering lamps, sparkled like a
starry sky, the sound of the far-off waterfall, softened by distance
into a sad and solemn music, all united to recall with a vivid power,
never before felt, the passage of the 'pious Æneas' over the Styx, which
I had so often read with delight in my boyhood. I half fancied our
Yankee Bob fading into a vision of the classic Charon, and that the
ghosts of unhappy spirits were peering at us from the darkness.

At the end of the lake is Annexation Rock, a huge limestone formation in
the shape of an egg. It stands on one end, is twenty-eight feet in
diameter, and over forty in height.

We were now introduced into Fat Man's Misery, where the small and
attenuated have greatly the advantage. We emerged from this narrow and
difficult passage into the Museum, half a mile long, and so called from
the number and variety of its formations. We did not linger to examine
its curiosities, but pushed on over the Alps, which we surmounted, aided
partly by ladders. Very steep and rugged were these Alps, and quite
worthy of the name they bear. We descended from them into the Bath-room,
where a pool of water and sundry other arrangements suggest to a lively
imagination its designation. It certainly has the recommendation of
being the most retired bath-room ever known. That of the Neapolitan
sibyl is public in comparison to it.

We then entered Pirate's Retreat. Why so named, I can not guess, for I
doubt if the boldest pirate who ever sailed the 'South Seas o'er' would
dare venture alone so far underground as we now found ourselves.

Leaving the Pirate's Retreat, we were obliged to cross the Rocky
Mountains, similar in formation and arrangement to the Alps. The Rocky
Mountains lead into Jehoshaphat's Valley, one mile in length. Like its
namesake, this valley is a deep ravine, with steep, rugged sides, and a
brawling brook running at the bottom.

Miller's Hall next claims our attention. Here we take leave of the
brook, which, with the cave, loses itself in a measureless ravine, where
the rocks have fallen in such a manner as to obstruct any further
explorations.

From thence, turning to the right, we enter Winding Way, a most
appropriate name for the place. The narrow passage turns and twists
between masses of solid rook, high in some places, and low in others.
The deathlike silence of the solitude that surrounded us impressed us
with a vague feeling of fear, and we felt no disposition to tempt the
Devil's Gangway, especially as, in consequence of a recent freshet, it
was partly filled with water. Our guide informed us that beyond the
Gangway were several rooms, among which Silent Chamber and Gothic Arch
were the most noteworthy. The portion of the cave visited by tourists
terminates in the 'Rotunda,' eight miles from the entrance; although
explorations have been made some miles further. The Rotunda is
cylindrical in shape, fifteen feet in diameter, and one hundred feet in
height.

We were now in a little room six miles from the mouth of the cave, and
thought the present a good opportunity to try the effect of the absence
of light and sound on the mind. Extinguishing our lights, therefore, we
resigned ourselves to the influences of darkness and silence. To realize
such a state fully, one must find one's self in the bowels of the earth,
as we were, where the beating of our own hearts alone attested the
existence of life. We were glad to relight our lamps and begin our
return to upper air.

I have already mentioned Annexation Rock; near it is another curious
freak of nature, called the Tree of the World's History. It resembles
the stump of a tree two feet in diameter, and cut off two feet above the
ground, upon which a portion of the trunk, six feet in length, is
exactly balanced. A singular type of the changes which time makes in the
world above-ground.

In the Museum, whose examination we had postponed till our return, we
were lost in a world of wonders. It were vain to attempt to describe or
even enumerate half of the various objects that met us at every turn.
Churches, towers, complete with doors and windows, as if finished by the
hand of an architect; an organ, its long and short pipes arranged in
perfect order; Lot's Wife, a figure in stone, life size; in another
place two women, in long, flowing garments, standing facing each other,
as if engaged in earnest conversation, and a soldier in complete
armor,--these were among the most striking of the larger objects. The
vegetable world was also well represented. Here was a bunch of carrots,
fresh as if just taken from the ground, sheaves of wheat, bunches of
grain and grass hanging from the walls and roofs. Interspersed were
birds of every species, doves in loving companionship, sparrows, and
hawks. I noticed also in one place a pair of elephant's ears perfect as
life. Indeed it was not difficult to believe that these stony semblances
had once been endowed with life, and, ere blight or decay could change,
had been transmuted into things of imperishable beauty.

While waiting for our guide to unmoor the boat, which was to take us
over the lake a second time, I ran up the bank to look at the
stalactites that hung in the greatest profusion above the water. The
light of my lamp shining through them produced an effect as surprising
as it was beautiful. But no words can do justice to the scene. Imagine
an immense room whose ceiling is studded with icicles forming every
conceivable curve and angle, and you will have only a faint idea of the
number and variety of these subterranean ornaments.

A mile from the entrance we found some stray bats,--the first living
creatures we had met. We endeavored to attract them by holding up our
lamps, and succeeded so well that we were glad to leave them behind us
as soon as possible.

It is a singular fact, noted by other cave-explorers, and confirmed by
our own experience, that while within a cave one's usual vigor and
activity appears augmented. A slight reaction takes place on coming out
into the upper world, and renders rest doubly refreshing and grateful.

Let me, in closing, advise other visitors to Howe's Cave to choose _fair
weather, and take time enough_ for their visit, as the windings of the
cave and its curiosities are alike exhaustless.

POTENTIAL MOODS

      I sit and dream
  Of the time that prophets have long foretold,
  Of an age surpassing the age of gold,
  Which the eyes of the selfish can never behold,
      When truth and love shall be owned supreme.

      I think and weep
  O'er the thousands oppressed by sin and woe,
  O'er the long procession of those who go,
  Through ignorance, error, and passions low,
      To the unsought bed of their dreamless sleep.

      I wait and long
  For the sway of justice, the rule of right;
  For the glad diffusion of wisdom's light;
  For the triumph of liberty over might;
      For the day when the weak shall be free from the strong.

      I work and sing
  To welcome the dawn of the fairer day,
  When crime and sin shall have passed away,
  When men shall live as well as they pray,
      And earth with the gladness of heaven shall ring.

      I trust and hope
  In the tide of God's love that unceasingly rolls,
  In the dear words of promise that bear up our souls,
  In the tender compassion that sweetly consoles,
      When in death's darkened valley we tremblingly grope.

      I toil and pray
  For the beauty excelling all forms of art;
  For the blessing that comes to the holy heart;
  For the hope that foretells, and seems a part
      Of the life and joy of the heavenly day.

THE TRUE INTEREST OF NATIONS.

For a litigious, quarrelsome, fighting animal, man is very fond of
peace. He began to shed blood almost as soon as he began to go alone in
company with his nearest relatives; and when Abel asked of Cain, 'Am I
not a man and a brother?' the latter, instead of giving him the hug
fraternal, did beat him to death. Cain's only object, it should seem,
was a quiet life, and Abel had disturbed his repose by setting up a
higher standard of excellence than the elder brother could afford to
maintain. It was only to 'conquer a peace' that Cain thus acted. He
desired 'indemnity for the past and security for the future,' and so he
took up arms against his brother and ended him. He loved peace, but he
did not fear war, because he was the stronger party of the two, his
weapons being as ready for action as the British navy is ready for it
to-day; and Abel was as defenceless as we were a twelvemonth ago. Cain
is the type of all mankind, who know that peace is better than war, but
who rush into war under the pressure of envy and pride. Ancient as
violence is, it is not so old as peace; and it is for peace that all
wars are made, at least by organized communities. All peoples have in
their minds the idea of a golden age, not unlike to that time so vividly
described by Hesiod, when men were absolutely good, and therefore happy;
living in perfect accord on what the earth abundantly gave them,
suffering neither illness nor old age, and dying as calmly as they had
lived. Historical inquiry has so far shaken belief in the existence of
any such time as that painted by the poet, that men have agreed to place
it in the future. It has never been, but it is to be. It will come with
that 'coming man,' who travels so slowly, and will be by him
inaugurated, a boundless millennial time. In the mean time contention
prevails; 'war's unequal game' is played with transcendent vigor, and at
a cost that would frighten the whole human race into madness were it
incurred for any other purpose. But, while fighting, men have kept their
eyes steadily fixed upon peace, which is to be the reward of their valor
and their pecuniary sacrifices. Every warlike time has been followed by
a period in which strenuous exertions have been made to make peace
perpetual. Never was there a more profound desire felt for peace than
that which prevailed among the Romans of the Augustan age, after a
series of civil and foreign wars yet unparalleled in the history of
human struggles. One poet could denounce the first forger of the iron
sword as being truly brutal and iron-hearted; and another could declare
it to be the 'mission' of the Romans only to impose terms of peace upon
barbarians, who should be compelled to accept quiet as a boon, or endure
it as a burden. Strange sentiments were these to proceed from the land
of the legions, but they expressed the current Roman opinion, which
preferred even dishonor to war. So was it after the settlement of Europe
in 1815. A generation that had grown up in the course of the greatest of
modern contests produced the most determined and persistent advocates of
the 'peace-at-any-price' policy; and for forty years peace was preserved
between the principal Christian nations, through the exertions of
statesmen, kings, philanthropists, and economists, who, if they could
agree in nothing else, were almost unanimous in the opinion that war was
an expensive folly, and that the first duty of a government was to
prevent its subjects from becoming military-mad. Perhaps there never was
a happier time in Christendom than it knew between the autumn of 1815
and the spring of 1854, after Napoleon had gone down and before Nicholas
had set himself up to dictate law to the world. It was the modern age of
the Antonines, into which was crowded more true enjoyment than mankind
had known for centuries; and they are beginning to learn its excellence
from its loss,--war raging now in the New World, while Europe lives in
hourly expectation of its occurrence. There were wars, and cruel wars,
too, in those years, but they faintly affected Europe and the United
States, and probably added something to men's happiness, for the same
reason that a storm to which we are not exposed increases our sense of
comfort. Their thunders were remote, and they furnished materials for
the journals. So we saw a Providence in them, and thanked Heaven, some
of us, that we no longer furnished examples of the folly of contention.

The friends of peace were actuated by various motives. With statesmen
and politicians peace was preferred because it was cheaper than war, and
all countries were burdened with debt. England has sometimes been
praised because she so uniformly threw her influence on the side of
peace, after she had accomplished her purpose in the war against
imperial France. Time and again, she might have waged popular wars, and
in which she would have probably been successful; but she would help
neither the Spaniards against France and the Holy Alliance, nor the
Turks against the Russians, nor the Poles against the Czar, nor the
Hungarians against the Austrians, nor the Italians against the Kaiser,
nor the Greeks against the Turks. She settled all her disputes with the
United States by negotiation, and showed no disposition to fight with
France, except when she had all the rest of Europe on her side. But this
praise has not been deserved. England did not quarrel with powerful
countries, because she could not afford to enter upon costly warfare.
She had gone to the extent of her means when her debt had reached to
four thousand million dollars, and she could not increase that debt
largely until she should also have increased her wealth. Time was
required to add to her means, and to lessen her debt; and to such a
state had her finances been reduced, that it is now twenty years since
she began to derive a portion of her revenue from an income tax, which,
imposed in the time of peace, was increased when war became inevitable.
The bonds she had given to keep the peace were too great to admit of her
breaking it. She did not fight, because she doubted her ability to fight
successfully. She had no wish to behold another suspension of cash
payments by her national bank; and a general war would be sure to bring
suspension. But she was as ready as she had ever been to contend with
the weak. The Chinese and the Afghans did not find her very forbearing,
though with neither of those peoples had she any just cause for war.

With the disunited States she has been as prompt to quarrel as she was
slow to contend with the United States; and now she is one of the high
contracting parties to the crusade against Mexico. We say nothing of the
Sepoy war, for that was a contest for 'empire,' as Earl Russell would
say. She could not, in the days of Clyde, give up what she had acquired
in the days of Clive; and no one ought to blame her for what she did in
India, though it can not be denied that the mutiny was the consequence
of her own bad conduct in the East. With Russia, Austria, and Prussia to
back her, in 1840, she went to the verge of a war with France; but, in
so doing, the government did that which the English nation by no means
warmly approved; and the fall of the whig ministry, in 1841, was in no
small part due to Lord Palmerston's policy in the preceding year. The
Russian war was brought about by the action of the English people, who
were angry with the Czar because his empire had the first place in
Europe. The government would have prevented that war from breaking out
if it could, but popular pressure was too strong for it, and it had to
give way. The event has proved that the English government was wiser
than were the English people, France alone having gained anything from
the departure from what had become the policy of Europe; and for France
to gain is not altogether for the benefit of England.

Of the motives of the philanthropists, we have little to say. They are
always respectable, and it is a pity that the world should be too wicked
to appreciate them. But those of the economists are open to remark, and
the more so because there has been so much claimed for them. They
reduced everything to a matter of interest. Peace, they reasoned, is for
the welfare of all men; and, if an enlightened self-interest could be
made to prevail the world over, war would be rendered an impossibility.
Wars between civilized countries have mostly grown out of mistaken views
of interest on the part of governments and peoples. Once enlighten both
rulers and ruled, and make them understand that war can not pay, and
selfishness will accomplish what religion, and morality, and
benevolence, and common sense have failed to accomplish. Cutting throats
may be a very agreeable pastime; but no man ever yet paid for anything
more than it was worth, with his eyes wide open to the fact that he was
not buying a bargain, but selling himself. Nations would be as wise as
individuals, unless it be true that the sum of intelligence is not so
great as the items that compose it; and when it should have been made
indisputably clear that to make war was to make losses, while peace
should be as indisputably profitable, there would be no further occasion
to expend, annually, immense sums upon the support of great armaments,
such as were not kept up, even in times of war, by the potentates of
earlier days. The reason of mankind was to be appealed to, and they were
to be made saints through the use of practical logic. Neighborhood,
instead of being regarded as cause for enmity, was to be held as ground
for good feeling and liberal intercourse. Under the old system it had
been the custom to call France and England 'natural enemies,' words that
attributed to the Creator the origin of discord. Under the new system,
those great countries were to become the best of friends, as well as the
closest of neighbors; and one generation of free commerce was to do away
with the effects of five centuries of disputes and warfare. England was
to forget the part which France took in the first American war, and
France was to cease to recollect that there had been such days as Crécy
and Agincourt, Vittoria and Waterloo; and also that England had
overthrown her rule in North America, and driven her people from India.
But it was not France and England only that were to enter within the
charmed circle; all nations were to be admitted into it, and the whole
world was to fraternize. It was to be Arcadia in a ring-fence, an
Arcadia solidly based upon heavy profits, with consols, _rentes_, and
other public securities--which in other times had a bad fashion of
becoming very insecure--always at a good premium. Quarter-day was to be
the day for which all other days were made, and it would never be
darkened by the imposition of new taxes, by repudiation, or by any other
of those things that so often have lessened the felicity of the
fund-holder.

That the new Temple of Peace might be enabled to rise in proper
proportions, it became necessary to destroy some old edifices, and to
remove what was considered to be very rubbishy rubbish. Protection,
tariffs, and so forth, once worshiped as evidences of ancestral wisdom,
were to be got rid of with all possible speed, and free trade was to be
substituted, that is, trade as free as was compatible with the raising
of enormous revenues, made necessary by the foolish wars of the past. In
due time, perfect freedom of trade would be had; but a blessing of that
magnitude could not be expected to come at once to the relief of a
suffering world. England, which had taken the lead in supporting
protection, and whose commercial system had been of the most illiberal
and sordid character, became the leader in the grand reform, pushing the
work vigorously forward, and, with her usual consideration for the
feelings and rights of others, ordering the nations of Europe and
America to follow her example. She had discovered that she had been all
in the wrong since the day when Oliver St. John's wounded pride led him
to the conclusion that it was the duty of every patriotic Englishman to
do his best to destroy the commerce of Holland. She was very impatient
of those peoples who were shy of imitating her, forgetting that her
conduct through six generations had made a strong impression on the
world's mind, and that her sudden conversion could not immediately avail
against her long persistence in sinning against political economy, if
indeed she had so sinned; and the question was one that admitted of some
dispute, free trade being but an experiment. Gradually, however, men
came round to the British view, in theory at least; and among the
intelligent classes it was admitted that commerce without restriction
was the true policy of nations, which must be gradually adopted as the
basis of all future action, due regard to be paid to those potent
disturbing forces, vested interests. France was slow to yield in
practice, though she had produced some of the cleverest of economical
writers; for she is as little given to change in matters of business as
she is ready to rush into political revolutions. But even France at last
gave signs of her intention to abandon her ancient practice in deference
to modern theories; and Napoleon III. and Mr. Cobden laid their wise
heads together to form plans for the completion of the 'cordial
understanding,' on the basis of free trade. Less than forty years had
sufficed to effect a gradual change of human opinion, and protection
seemed about to be sent to that limbo in which witchcraft, alchemy, and
judicial astrology have been so long undisturbedly reposing.

Death, we are told, found his way into Arcadia; and disappointment was
not long in coming to disturb the modern Arcadians, who had as much to
do with cotton as their predecessors with wool. The dream of universal
peace, a peace that was to endure because based on enlightened
selfishness,--that is to say on buying in cheap markets and selling in
dear ones,--was as rudely dispelled as had been all earlier dreams of
the kind. Interest, it was found, could no more make men live lovingly
together than principle could cause them to do so in by-gone times. If
there were two nations that might have been insured not to fight each
other, because interest was sufficient to prevent men from having resort
to war, those nations were Russia and England. They were in no sense
rivals, according to the definition of rivalry in the circles of
commerce. Between them there was much buying and selling, to the great
profit of both. England is an old nation, with the arts of industry
developed among her people to an extent that is elsewhere unknown. The
division of labor that prevails among her working people is so extensive
and so minute, that in that respect she defies comparison. Other
countries may have as skillful laborers as she possesses, but their
industry is of a far less various character. Russia is a new country,
and she requires what England has to dispose of; and England finds her
account in purchasing the raw materials that are so abundantly produced
in Russia. Commercially speaking, therefore, these two nations could not
fall out, could not quarrel, could not fight, if they would. In all
other respects, too, they could be counted upon to set a good example to
all other communities. They had more than once been allies, each had
done the other good services at critical tunes, and they had had the
foremost places in that grand alliance which had twice dethroned
Napoleon I. The exceptions to their general good understanding belong to
those exceptions which are supposed to be useful in proving a given
rule. When the tory rulers of England became alarmed because of the
success of Catharine II. in her second Turkish war, and proposed doing
what was done more than sixty years later,--to assist the Osmanlis,--the
opposition to their policy became so powerful that even the strong
ministry of William Pitt had to listen to its voice; which shows that
the tendency of English opinion was then favorable to Russia. The
hostility of Czar Paul to England, in his last days, is attributed to
the failure of his mind; and the immediate resumption of good relations
between the two countries after his death, establishes the fact that the
English and the Russians were not sharers in the Czar's feelings. During
the five years that followed Tilsit, Russia appeared to be the enemy of
England, and war existed for some time between the two empires; but this
was owing to the ascendency of the French, Alexander having to choose
between England and France. The nominal enemies did each other as little
injury as possible; and, in 1812, they became greater friends than ever.
Most Englishmen were probably of Lord Holland's opinion, that England's
interest dictated a Russian connection; and in the eighteenth century
England was, in some sense, the nursing mother of the new empire, though
once or twice she was inclined to do as other nurses have
done,--administer some punishment to the rude and healthy child she was
fostering, and not without reason. So harmonious had been the relations
of these two magnificent states, that an eminent Russian author, Dr.
Hamel, writing in 1846, could say: 'Nearly three hundred years have now
elapsed since England greeted Muscovy at the mouth of the Dwina. So
great have been the benefits to trade, the arts, and industry in
general, arising from the friendly relations between England and Russia,
which, in 1853, will have completed the third century of their
continuance, that one might expect to see this period closed, in both
countries, with a jubilee to commemorate so remarkable an example of
uninterrupted amicable intercourse between nations.' The year 1853 came;
but, instead of being a jubilee to the old friends of three centuries'
standing, it brought the beginning of that contest which is known as the
Russian war. That was a proper way, indeed, to notice the happy return
of the three-hundredth anniversary of the establishment of
'uninterrupted amicable intercourse' between the nations, whose soldiers
were soon slaughtering each other with as much energy as if they had
been 'natural enemies' from immemorial time. Interest had no power to
turn aside the storm of war. The English people were angry with Russia
because the iron-willed Czar had carried matters in Europe with a very
high hand, and was, in fact, virtually master of the Old World, and
suspected of being on uncommonly good terms with the masters of the New
World. Nicholas had succeeded to the place of Napoleon in their ill
graces. They liked the Cossackry of the one as little as they had liked
the cannonarchy of the other. It was a case of pure jealousy. Russia was
too powerful to suit the English idea of the fitness of things, and
therefore it was necessary that she should be chastised and humbled.
Fear of Russia there could have been none in the English mind. It has
been thought that England contended for the safety of her Eastern
dominions; but then the Czar offered her Egypt and Candia, possession of
which would not only have much strengthened her Indian empire, but have
been the means of making her more powerful at home. Nothing better could
have been offered for her acceptance, if valuable territories would have
satisfied her feelings; and much praise has been bestowed upon her
because she did not close with the Czar's proposition 'to share and
share alike' the lands of the House of Othman; but that praise is not
quite deserved, the desire not to see Russia aggrandized being a
stronger sentiment with her than was the desire to aggrandize herself.
Had the question been left for British statesmen alone to settle,--had
the British premier been as free to act for England as the Czar was for
Russia,--poor, sick Turkey would have been cut and carved most
expeditiously and artistically; she would have been partitioned as
perfectly as Poland, and Abdul Medjid would have experienced the fate of
Stanislaus Poniatowski. But English ministers hold power only on
condition of doing the will of the English nation, and that nation had
contracted an aversion to Russia that was uncontrollable, and before its
hostility its ministers had to give way, slowly and reluctantly; and the
half-measures they adopted, like the half-measures of our own government
toward the secessionists, explain the disasters of the war. The English
people were determined that there should be an end, for the time at
least, to the Russian hegemony, and threw themselves into the arms of
France with a vivacity that would have astonished any other French ruler
but Napoleon III., who had lived among them, and who knew them well. The
war was waged, and, when over, what had England gained? Nothing solid,
it must be admitted. The territory of Russia remained unimpaired, and
there is not the slightest evidence that her influence in the East was
lessened by the partial destruction of Sebastopol. The Russian navy of
the Euxine had ceased to exist; but as it consisted principally of
vessels that were not adapted to the purposes of modern warfare, the
loss of the Russians in that respect was not of a very serious
character. Russia's European leadership was suspended; but her power and
her resources, which, if properly employed, must soon reinstate her,
were not damaged. England _had_ fought for an idea, and had fought in
vain.

France had as little interest in the Russian war as England, and the
French people had no wish to fight the Czar. They would have preferred
fighting the English, in connection with the Czar,--an arrangement that
would have been more profitable to their country. But the emperor had a
quarrel with his arrogant brother at St. Petersburgh, and he availed
himself of the opportunity afforded by that brother's obstinacy to teach
him a lesson from which he did not live to profit. Nicholas had cut the
new emperor, and had caused him to be taboo'd by most of the sovereigns
of Europe; and the Frenchman determined to cut his way to consideration.
This he was enabled to do, with the aid of the English; and ever since
the war's close he has held the place which became vacant on the death
of Nicholas--that of Europe's arbiter. The French fought well, as they
always do, but their heart was not in the war. The emperor had the war
party pretty much to himself. Exactly the opposite state of things
existed in France to that which existed in England. In the former
country, the government was for war, and the people were for peace; in
the latter, the government was for peace, and the people were for war.
In each country power was in the hands of the war party, and so war was
made, in spite of the wishes of the French people and of English
statesmen. When Napoleon III. had accomplished _his_ purpose, he ordered
the English to make peace, and peace was made. In this way he satisfied
his subjects, showing them that he had no intention of making England
more powerful than she had been, or Russia weaker. He had prevented
Russia from extending her dominion, but he had also prevented England
from lessening that dominion.

The Italian war was waged in opposition to the sentiments of the French
people, which was one of the leading causes of its sudden termination,
with its object, only half accomplished, and much to the damage of the
emperor's reputation for statesmanship and courage. Whether, in a
comprehensive sense, that war was entered upon for purposes adverse to
the interests of France, may well be doubted; but it is certain that it
was an unpopular measure in that country. The French had no objection to
the humiliation of Austria; but it would be a grave error to suppose
that they have any wish to behold Italy united and powerful. The kingdom
of Italy, should it become all that is desired for it by its friends in
this country, would be to France a source of annoyance, and probably of
danger. The emperor's power was shaken by his Italian policy, and hence
it was that he played the confederature game so long, to the
astonishment of foreigners, and got possession of Savoy and Nice, to
the astonishment and anger of England; and hence it is that he is
seeking Sardinia and other portions of Italy. Thus, the Italian war was
begun against the interests of the French people, or what that people
believe to be their interests, though this is the age in which there is
to be peace, because that is not to be broken except when popular
interests require that it shall no longer be preserved.

But the most remarkable instance of the fallacy of the idea that regard
for the true interests of nations must banish hostilities from the
world, is afforded by the coarse of France and England toward this
country since the beginning of the secession war. Both those countries
have great interest not only in the preservation of peace _with_ the
United States, but in the preservation of peace _in_ the United States;
and yet they have done all that it lies in their power to do to
encourage our rebels, and have been on the verge of war with us: and war
with them, and with Spain, is exported by many Americans, who judge of
the future by the present and the past. England had a vast trade with
the American Union, buying at the South, and selling to the North, and
hence any disturbances here were sure to operate adversely to her
interests; but no sooner had it become apparent that our troubles were
to be of a serious character, than her weight was thrown on to the side
of the rebels, who never would have been able to do much but for the
encouragement they have received from abroad. The trade of France was
not so great with America as that of England; yet it was valuable, and
the French have suffered much from its suspension, perhaps we should say
its loss. The North has purchased but little from Europe for a year, and
the South has sold less to Europe in that time. There has been a trade
in food between the North and some European countries, in which grain
has been exchanged for gold, though it would have been better for both
parties could anything else than gold have been brought to America, true
commerce consisting in the interchange of commodities. For all the
sufferings that have been experienced by Englishmen and Frenchmen, they
have none but themselves and their governments to censure. That peace
has not been preserved is not our fault; and the war that has been blown
into so fierce a flame has been fed from Europe; it has been fanned by
breezes from France and England. When it was first seen that there was
danger of civil war, the governments of those countries, if they had
really had any regard for the true interests of their countries, would
have discouraged the rebels in the most public and pointed manner
imaginable, not because they cared for us, but for the simple reason
that they were bound so to act as should best promote the welfare of
their own peoples. War in America meant suffering to the artisans and
laborers of Europe, who, thus far, have suffered more from the war than
have any portion of the American people, except the residents of
Southern cities. Napoleon III. and Lord Palmerston should have said to
the agents of the Confederacy, and have taken care to publish their
words, 'We can afford you neither aid in deeds nor encouragement in
words. Our relations with both sections of the American nation are such,
that our respective countries must suffer immensely from the course
which you are about to pursue, not because you have been oppressed, or
fear oppression, but because you have been beaten in an election, and
power, for the time, has been taken from your hands. You ask us to act
hostilely against the established government of the United States, that
government having given us no cause of offense,--to become the patrons
of a revolution that has no cause, but the consequences of which may be
boundless. To revolutions we are averse; and one of our governments
exists in virtue of opposition to the party of disorder in Europe. You
ask us to do that which would lessen the means of livelihood to millions
of our people; for, granting that you should succeed, still there would
necessarily be so great a change produced by your action, and by our
intervention in American affairs, that for years America would not be
the good customer to France and England that she has been for a
generation. With the merits of your cause we can have nothing to do, our
true interests pointing to the maintenance of the strictest neutrality
in the contest between you and the federal government; and the dictates
of interest are fortified by the suggestions of principle. Your movement
is essentially disorderly in its character, and it is undertaken
avowedly in the interest of slavery; and not only are we the supporters
of the existing order of things the world over, but we are hostile to
slavery, having abolished it in all parts of our dominions. Our advice
to you is, to submit to the federal government, and to seek for the
redress of your grievances, if such you have, by means recognized in the
constitution and laws of your country. From us you can receive no aid,
and you should dismiss all expectation of it from your minds at once and
forever. We are indifferent to the form of the American government, and
its internal policy can not concern us; but the interests of our peoples
require that we should live in peace with the people of America, whether
they be of the South or of the North, slave-holders or abolitionists;
and we shall not quarrel with any portion of them for the sake of
facilitating the erection of a republic to be founded on the basis of
the divine nature of slavery, the first time that so preposterous a
pretension was ever put forward by the audacity or the impudence of
men.' Had something like this been said to the agents of the rebels, and
had the English press supported the same views, the rebellion would have
been at an end ere this, and the commercial relations of America and
Europe would have experienced no sensible interruption. English
interests, in an especial sense, demanded that the rebels should be
discouraged, and discouragement from London would have rendered
rebellion hopeless, and have promoted peace in Savannah and New Orleans.

But it was not in England's nature to pursue a course that would have
been as much in harmony with her material interests as with that high
moral character which she claims as being peculiarly her own. There
appeared to have presented itself an opportunity to effect the
destruction of the American Republic, and England could not resist the
temptation to strike us hard: and, for almost a year, she has been to
the Union a more deadly foe than we have found in the South. We do not
allude to the _Trent_ question, for in that we were clearly in the
wrong, and Mason and Slidell should have been released on the 16th of
November, and not have been detained in captivity six weeks. Secretary
Seward has placed the point so emphatically beyond all doubt, that we
must all be of one mind thereon, whether in England or America. England
might have been moderate in her action, in view of her repeated outrages
on the rights of neutrals, but no intelligent American can condemn her
position. It is to other things that we must look for evidence of her
determination to effect our extinction as a nation. She has, while
dripping with Hindoo blood, and while yet men's ears are filled with
accounts of the blowing of sepoys from the muzzles of cannon by her
military executioners, absolutely demanded of us an acknowledgment of
the Southern Confederacy's independence, on the ground that it is
inhuman to wage war for the maintenance of our national life. She has
compared our mild and forbearing government with the savage proconsulate
of Alva in the Netherlands! She has charged us with waging war against
civilization, because we have employed stone fleets to close entrances
to the harbor of Charleston, though her own history is full of instances
of their employment for similar purposes! She has encouraged her traders
and seamen to furnish the rebels with arms of all kinds, and stores of
every description! She has excluded our ships-of-war from her ports,
refusing to allow them to coal at places at which she had granted us the
privilege, in time of peace, of establishing stations for fuel! She has
given shelter and protection to the privateers of the rebels, vessels
that had violated her own laws almost within sight of her own shores,
and certainly within the narrow seas! She has acknowledged the
belligerent character of the South, which is virtually an acknowledgment
of its independence, for none but nations can lawfully wage war. She
has, through her Minister for Foreign Affairs, declared that our war
with the secessionists is of the same character as the war which the
Spaniards carried on with their American colonists, and that there is no
difference between it and the attempt of the Turks to subdue the Greeks!
Monstrous perversions of history for even Earl Russell to be guilty of!
Her leading periodicals and journals, with few exceptions, have
denounced our country, our course, and our government in the bitterest
language, and to the manifest encouragement of the rebels, who see in
their language the rapid growth and prompt exhibition of a sentiment of
hostility to this country, and which must, sooner or later, end in war;
and war between England and America would be sure to lead to the success
of the Confederates, even if we should come out of it victoriously.

Thus we see that the attempt to establish peace on the basis of the true
interests of nations has not only failed, but that it has failed
signally and deplorably. The solid Doric Temple of Mammon has no more
been able to stand against the storms of war than has the Crystal Palace
of Sentiment. The fair fabric which was the type of materialism has
fallen, and it would be most unwise to seek its reconstruction. That
which was to have stood as long and as firmly as the Pyramids has fallen
before the first moss could gather upon it. Nor is the reason of this
fall far to seek, as it lies upon the surface, and ought to have been
anticipated--would have been, only that men are so ready to believe in
what they wish to believe. England, as a nation, has two interests to
consult, and which do not always accord. She has her commercial interest
and her imperial interest; and, when the two conflict, the last is sure
to become first. Her position as a nation was threatened only by the
United States and Russia. The dynastic disputes of France, which are far
from being at an end, and the generally unsettled character of French
politics, must long prevent that country from becoming the permanent
rival of England. France is great to-day, and England acts wisely in
preparing to meet her in war; but to-morrow France may become weak, and
her voice be feeble and her weight light in Europe and the world. Three
houses claim her throne, and the Republicans may start up into active
life again, as we saw they did in 1848. Neither Austria nor Prussia can
ever furnish England cause of alarm. With Russia the case is very
different, as her government is solidly established; her resources are
vast, and in the course of steady development, and her desire to
establish her supremacy in the East is a fixed idea with both rulers and
ruled. Unchecked, she would have thrown England into the background, and
supposing that she had resolved not to allow that country a share of the
spoil of Turkey. The hard character and harsh policy of Nicholas ended
in furnishing to England an opportunity to throw Russia herself into the
background for the time, and that opportunity she made use of, but not
to the extent that she had determined upon, owing to her dependence upon
France, which became the shield of Russia after having been the sword of
England. The United States were a formidable rival of England; and, but
for the breaking out of our troubles, we should have been far ahead of
her by 1870, and perhaps have stripped her of all her American
possessions. When those troubles began, she proceeded to take the same
advantage of them that she had taken of the Czar's blunder. To sever the
American nation in twain is her object, as some of her public men have
frankly avowed; and she believes that the disintegrating process, once
commenced, would not stop with the division of the country into the
Northern Union and the Southern Confederacy. She expects, should the
South succeed, to see half a dozen republics here established, and is
not without hope that not even two States would remain together; and for
this hope she has very good foundation. The American nation destroyed,
England would become as great in the West as she is in the East, and
would hold, with far greater means at her command, the same position
that was hers in the last days of George II., when the French had been
expelled from America and India. She would have no commercial rival, and
there would no longer be an American navy susceptible of gigantic
increase. She would be truly the sea's sovereign; and whoso rules the
sea has power to dictate to the land. 'Whosoever commands the sea,' says
Sir Walter Raleigh, 'commands the trade of the world; whosoever commands
the trade of the world, commands the riches of the world, and
consequently the world itself.' England never would have gone to war
with the _United States_ to prevent their growth; but, now that they
have instituted civil war, it is certain that she will do all that lies
in her power to prevent the reconstruction of the Union. The war of
words has been begun, and it is but preliminary to the war of swords.
The savage music of the British press is the overture to the opera. The
morality of England may be neither higher nor lower than that of all
other countries,--may be no worse than our own,--but there is so much
that is offensive in her modes of exhibiting her destitution of
principle, that she is more hated than all other powerful countries that
ever have existed. She not only sins as badly as other nations, but
manages to make herself as odious for her manner of sinning as for the
sins themselves. There is no crime that she is not capable of, if its
perpetration be necessary to promote her own power. When Sir William