Chapter 3

No numbers can be conceived of but as a collection of unities; in adding unity, many, to itself, we only form a unity of a higher rank: it is in taking unities successively from these numbers that we return to the first unity. Thus variety or plurality, which at first seemed destructive of unity, actually rests upon it, admitting it as an elementary constituent of its very being. The _collective_ idea of the world, _infinite variety, collection of individualities_, could not exist in us without the idea of _unity_; and closely associated with the conception of unity, is the idea of Absolute Order.

Whatever may be the disturbances which we witness either in physical or moral nature, we always believe that Order will succeed the momentary interruption of law. Even when we see earth a prey to the most dreadful catastrophes, we always regard such a state of things as a _passing_ crisis, destined to return to the law of order. Surrounded as it is from the cradle to the grave by an infinite variety of phenomena, the human mind for their investigation devotes itself to the search of a small number of laws, which will link them all, persuaded there is no phenomenon or being so rebellious to a correct classification, that its proper place or role cannot be assigned it in the great system of Eternal Order. Even the savage believes in the periodic return, in the constant and regular recurrence of natural phenomena: such convictions must be based upon an instinctive belief in an Absolute and Universal Order.

If we turn our gaze upon the Author of all things at the time of the creation, we will perceive that He must have conceived the grand plan of the universe as a single or united thought; that He has distributed being to all that is in different degrees; that He has subjected them all to the immutable laws of His wisdom; and that the laws under which they are ranged to receive the Divine action are, in fact, the necessary conditions of their existence. The more distant the link in the chain of being is from God, the more are the laws multiplied, divided, ramified, so as to weave in their vast net that infinite variety which extends to the utmost limits of creation; but as we approach Him in thought, these innumerable laws form themselves into groups, these groups are again resolved into more general laws, until at last we arrive at _one_ which embraces all the others, to which they are all attached as to a common centre, and from which they obtain force and direction.

Order is then the entire range of laws which presided at the creation, and which, linking variety to unity, change to immutability, cause the circulation of movement, of life, through all the pores of being. Thus nature and humanity are endowed with an expansive force almost without limits, and Absolute Order is developing in accordance with regular progression, in the bosom of which all partial imperfections vanish, and death itself becomes but a momentary phase of transformation, a mystic laboratory from which Life flows in a thousand new forms.

The True, the Beautiful, the Good, are only different faces of that Universal Order which is their common life. Everything in creation is gifted with its own degree of life, and yet depends upon that Universal Life; is in some way attached to it, presenting a diminished image of the Universal Order.

Malebranche asks: 'Why do men love beauty? because it is a visible representation of Order.' Order is at the same time an object of science, of art, and of popular faith. It is intuitively recognized, and although the people may not be able to syllable its abstract formula, yet as soon as they perceive the sensible sign of it, harmony, they at once pronounce beautiful the object which embodies it. In a last analysis it might be asserted that the True, the Beautiful, and the Good, considered with regard to their realization in this world, are but the representation of the pure Idea of Absolute Order. It must preside over the creation of every great work of art, whether measuring the columns and spanning the arches of architecture; modeling the forms of Apollos; picturing the graces of virgins and cherubs; charging the air with the electric and sublime grandeur of symphonies and requiems; or creating Juliets, Imogens, Ophelias, and Desdemonas. Absolute Order may be considered as the manifestation of the Divine wisdom--it must be typified and symbolized in art.

Need we apologize for presenting to the reader, in consequence of its relation with the subject under consideration, the following beautiful extract from the pages of Holy Writ?

'For in Wisdom is the spirit of understanding; holy, one, manifold, subtle, eloquent, active, undefiled, sure, sweet, loving that which is good, quick, which nothing hindereth, beneficent.

'Gentle, kind, steadfast, assured, secure, having all power, overseeing all things and containing all Spirits, intelligible, pure, subtle:

'For Wisdom is more active than all active things, and reacheth everywhere by reason of her _purity_.

'For she is the breath of the power of God, a pure influence flowing from the glory of the Almighty, therefore no defiled thing cometh into her.

'For she is the brightness of the Eternal Light, the unspotted mirror of God's majesty.

'And being but _One_, she can do all things; and remaining in herself, she maketh all things new; and in all ages entering into holy souls, she maketh them friends of God and prophets.

'For God loveth none but him who dwelleth with Wisdom.

'For she is more beautiful than the sun, and above all the order of the stars; being compared with the light, she is found before it.

'For after this cometh the night,--but no evil can overcome Wisdom.'

Again:

'The Lord possessed me in the beginning of His ways, before He made anything from the beginning.

'I was set up from Eternity, and of old before the earth was made.

'The depths were not as yet, and I was already conceived; neither had the fountains of the waters as yet sprung out:

'The mountains with their huge bulk had not yet been established; before the hills I was brought forth:

'He had not yet made the earth, nor the rivers, nor the poles of the world.

'When He prepared the heavens I was present; when with a certain law and compass He enclosed the depths:

'When He established the sky above, and poised the fountains of waters:

'When He compassed the sea with its bounds, and set a law to the waters that they should not pass their limits: when he weighed the foundations of the earth.

'I was with Him forming all things: and was delighted every day, playing before Him at all times;

'Playing in the world: _and my delights were to be with the children of men_.'--PROVERBS.

As Order has been considered the symbol of Divine Wisdom, Symmetry has been regarded as the type of Divine Justice. In all beautiful things there is found the opposition of one part to another, while a reciprocal balance must be obtained or suggested. In animals the balance is generally between opposite sides; in the vegetable world it is less distinct, as in the boughs on the opposite sides of trees; it often amounts only to a certain tendency toward a balance, as in the opposite sides of valleys and the alternate windings of streams. In things in which perfect symmetry is, from their nature, impossible or improper, a balance must be in some measure expressed before they can be contemplated with pleasure. _Absolute equality_ is not required, still less _absolute similarity_.

Symmetry must not be confounded with Proportion. Symmetry is the opposition of _equal_ quantities; proportion is the due connection of _unequal_ quantities with each other. A tree, in sending out equal boughs on opposite sides, is symmetrical; in sending out smaller boughs toward the top, proportional. In the human face its balance of opposite sides is _symmetry_; its division upward, _proportion_.

Symmetry is necessary to the _dignity_ of every form. Orderly balance and arrangement are highly essential to the more perfect operation of the earnest and solemn qualities of the beautiful, being heavenly in their nature, and contrary to the violence and disorganization of sin. Minds which have been subjected to high moral influence generally delight in symmetry: witness the harmonious lines of Milton, and the works of the great religious painters. Where there is no symmetry, the effects of violence and passion are increased. Many works derive power from the want of it, but lose in proportion in the divine quality of beauty.

Want of moderation, extravagance, bombastic straining for effect, are destructive of beauty, whether in color, form, motion, language, or thought;--in color, they would be called glaring; in form, inelegant; in motion, ungraceful; in language, coarse; in thought, undisciplined; in all, unchastened: these qualities are always painful, because the signs of disobedient and irregular operation. In color, for example, it is not red, but rose color, which is the most beautiful; neither is it the brightest green, but such gray green as we see in the distant sky, in the clefts of the glacier, in the chrysophrase and sea foam; not but that the expression of feeling should be deep and full, but that to arrive at that _passion of the soul_ excited by the beautiful, there should be a solemn moderation in such fulness, a reference to the high harmonies by which humanity is governed, and an obedience to which is its glory. The following short quotations serve to illustrate this point:

'And now and then an ample tear trilled down Her delicate cheek; it seemed she was a queen Over her passion, which, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o'er her.'

'I found her on the floor In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful; Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, That were the world on fire, they might have drowned The wrath of heaven, and quenched the mighty ruin.'

Common writers are apt to forget that exaggerated expressions chill our sympathies; that passion becomes ignoble when entertained for ignoble objects; that when violent and unnatural, it is destructive of dignity. In the exaggeration of its outward signs, Passion is not exalted, but its reality is evaporized.

'The fire which mounts the liquor till it runs o'er, In _seeming_ to augment it, _wastes_ it.'

The use and value of passion is not as a subject of contemplation in itself, but as it breaks up the fountains of the great deep of the heart, or displays its might and ribbed majesty, as the stability of mountains is best seen with the restless mist quivering about them, and the changeful clouds floating above them.

We have thus naturally arrived at the fact that Truth, another of the Divine Attributes, must make part of all art that would interest humanity; that the soul rejects violence, or the falsehood of exaggerated description.

'Sanctify your soul like a temple,' says Madame De Stael, 'and the angel of noble thoughts will not disdain to occupy it.' If the rays of 'Wisdom' were reflected through the rainbow of artistic beauty by the devout artist, he would again be, as of old, the Prophet; and the arts would find, in typification of the Divine Attributes, ceaseless variety, marvellous unity. Then might he stand before his Maker as the anointed high priest of nature, winning entrance into her mysteries and holy symbols, using his glorious gifts to lead his brethren back to God; and the artistic human word might become, in its appropriate sphere, the humble and devout interpreter of the Word Eternal!

REMEMBRANCE.

Last night, emerging from the glaring gaslight into the starlight beautiful and dim, there came, borne to me by the night wind, a gay young voice, blithely carolling the sweet strains of a well-remembered song, familiar to me long years ago in another and distant clime. It was a simple ballad, one heard most frequently in my youth, old when I was young; it was like a voice from the dead--a thought from the shrouded past appealing to my soul. There was something so solemn and strange, so mystically spiritual in the fact that a stranger in a strange land should possess the power to conjure up for me a world of saddest memories, that I half fancied at first (pardon an old man's dreaming) that one who had lived long ago, and died before her prime, seeing now as those see where the mists of pride and passion are dispelled forever by the light of unshadowed truth, conscious now of the deep and lasting wrong she had done herself and me, that _she it was who was now singing to me through the lips of the lad_, striving to cheer the loneliness she had caused, and comfort my desolate heart by telling me she was near me; and, obedient to the impulse given me by the wild fancy, I raised my tremulous voice, broken long ago, and quavered an accompaniment, and I and the unknown singer sang the last remaining stanza together.

I can never hear that song without tears. I never hear it, even though its half-forgotten strains, dreamily warbled, are oddly mingled with a widely different tune, in a bootless effort at remembrance; but my youth, with its golden promise, which maturer manhood but meagrely fulfilled, turns with the shadowed years veiling its brightness, and looks sorrowfully upon my old age in its solitude and desolation; but my life, with its wasted energies and flagging purpose, rises up before me, darkly and reproachfully reminding me of what I might have done, have been! O Heaven! what bitter years of suffering and crushing disappointment, years on which the tracks of time have left their blight and mildew, have passed since first I listened to the bird-like warbling of its simple strains. Then was the blissful May-time of my existence, when I was governed by youth's generous impulses, led captive by its sweet delusions, when I fondly dreamed that my life was destined to become a victory and a triumph, not the failure it has proved to be! I heard it first when the love that has lived unchanged through the mournful wastes of nearly half a century, was in the gray dawn of its immortal being. _She_ sang it to me _then_, sweet Jennie Grey, whom I wooed, but never won. Memory, faithful treasurer, points back with mystic finger, and looking through the long vista of intervening years, standing now almost where time shall merge into eternity, that vision illuminating like a star the surrounding gloom, I can see the very night--I can see _now_ as clearly as _then_--the round full moon lighting the dark waters with a long line of silvery brightness, crowning the tiny ripples with light as they broke upon the shore, and flooding the well-remembered room with its mellow radiance--see her, in her fresh young beauty, seated at the old instrument, the moonlight falling on her bright hair; the sweet eyes averted from my too admiring gaze, veiled beneath the drooping lashes, cast down with a coy pretence of studying the half-forgotten tune.

I can see myself, handsome, ardent YOUNG (so widely different NOW, I can speak of my former self without vanity), seated near, with all the love that filled my soul for her looking from my eyes.

The bright remembrance of this is shining 'through the mists of years,' glowing and life-like as life's joyous spring time. I can see it all now, clearly, as if it were but yesterday. Oh, radiant picture of youth and beauty! Oh, life! life! If it be a truth, and I believe it to be such, that in all the vast and mighty universe there is but one nature perfectly and completely assimilated unto our own; one heart in which every pulse of feeling throbbing within our being, shall find a quick responsive echo; a second self, the same in thought, emotion, character, or with such slight shades of difference as shall make the blending more harmonious; one, and only one, to whom God has indissolubly joined us by the omnipotent law of a pure, immutable attraction--if this be an essential fact, then, as I sat drinking in the harmony of the song that night, this sublime truth in all its purity was revealed to me; and with the revelation came a purifying and exalting power, purifying my love from passion and every base and earthly alloy. For me, for a brief instant, the veil had parted that divides the earthly from the spiritual, and I had caught a dim, shadowy glimpse of how it would be with us, my idol and myself, in the great and mystic future that lay stretching far away before us; and through all my enraptured soul, filling it with sweetest melody, a voice was murmuring: 'She is thine, through all the countless years of thy immortality, lift up thine eyes and look upon thine own.' Then, with a deep reverence I had never felt for her before, with all my pure and passionate love, I raised the small hand, on which the moonlight fell white and cold, murmuring the while in solemn triumph: 'What God has joined together, let not man put asunder.' I had received the soul's highest and clearest intuition as a direct revelation from the Divine, and I relied upon it as such implicitly, undoubtingly. Oh, with what earnest faith, for a brief and fleeting season, I believed that the seal of the Omnipotent had been set upon our union, earthly as well as spiritual, and that no power on earth or in hell could prevail against its consummation! How I revelled in this sweet belief; how this blest and silent consciousness wrapped my soul in light, and hovered ever around me like a wordless blessing! This faith was the inspiration of my toil, the prompter to good deeds, the angel messenger which enabled me to overcome the evil of my wayward nature.

How the sweet thought of it grew and grew until it pervaded my entire being, making my whole life harmonious and beautiful as the song she sang to me--a sublime and glorious dream! I did not check this pure and fervid flow of happiness with doubts and fears. I did not rouse myself to inquire whether this great truth concerning us might not, owing to some peculiarity of my organization, be clearly and perfectly revealed to _me_, and me _alone_; so that the truth being but dimly and vaguely foreshadowed to her mind, the effect could not be as permanent and living as in mine. I did not ruffle my soul's serenity with dark forebodings and bootless queries.

Such revelations are certainly, in consequence of their greater spirituality, more frequently made to women than to men, and I rested upon this, not thinking the reverse might be the case in the present instance; and through the long days of that golden summer I dreamed on and on. The powerful attraction, whose nature was so plainly revealed to me that night, and faintly shadowed forth to her, now drew us together more and more, and for a time our companionship was almost constant. We read, we walked, we talked together; we wandered through summer groves in the twilight, or, seated on the mossy root of some old tree, watched the light dying in the west, and the stars come out one by one; or viewed the sun slowly and majestically disappearing beneath the horizon, gorgeous with clouds of purple and of gold; or marked the varied changes of the sky on the calm expanse of summer water, stretching far away before us. And when the light had disappeared, leaving but a dull leaden surface, we closed our eyes and listened to the wild, mysterious murmur of the waters as they touched the sounding shore. Oh, brief and fleeting dream of earthly joy! Oh, light, warmth, and sunshine! Happiness too spiritual; companionship too blest for earth! Mortal type of the immortal bliss that awaits me, which is drawing nearer to me day by day! I never shall believe that she did not love me _then_, unconsciously as it must have been, for it was not in a nature like hers to prove recreant to a holy impulse. Yes, I know she then loved me! It was this belief alone which upheld me in the chill night darkness that fell upon my soul after shutting out the warmth and light. I'm sure she loved me _then_. I could note the silent working of the _great law_ that was unconsciously impressing her slowly, drawing her nearer to me day by day; mark the electric thrill which made the slender fingers tremulous when my hand lay near her own, an expressive and eloquent gesture, as if, all unconsciously, her hand was stretching forth in the sweet endeavor to clasp mine. The averted eyes, the beautiful color that flushed her cheeks, and, best and dearest sight of all, the perplexed, mystified, dimly conscious expression in the far-off distant gaze, as if the soul was vainly struggling to grasp and clearly comprehend a great truth but vaguely felt. I could see all this as I sat by her side, permitting the love I had not words to speak to betray me in every look, tone, and gesture. But even while I watched her thus, serenely awaiting the time when a full consciousness should pervade her spirit as it was pervading mine--now when the sun of my happiness was slowly approaching its zenith, there appeared above the horizon the little cloud doomed to overspread and darken the calm heaven of my joy. We were no longer entirely alone: a third person was added to the sweet enchanted number that first walked the groves of Eden, and the complete spirituality of our communion was gone! Other eyes gazed on what we gazed; other eyes looked into the blue depths of hers, and sought with mine their smiling approval, and the brightest charm of our intercourse had departed forever. The last time in which it still remained unbroken--the last sweet time that I could call her wholly mine, was on a placid autumn evening. We had strolled farther than usual, tempted by the tranquil beauty around us, and during that walk I had been strangely, wonderfully happy. Many times, as we walked silently side by side, a strong, an almost irresistible impulse seemed to force me to utter those three passionate words that have caused a flutter in the heart-beat of so many thousands since the world began; and as many times the reverence I felt for her, and the diffidence arising from it, held me back, and the words remained unspoken. Yet this contest of feeling had led me to venture more upon outward expression: I had held her hand in mine, and twice or thrice had pressed it mutely and reverently to my lips; and she, seeing nothing of the ardor of a lover in this (the very excess of my emotion had made me outwardly calm), had allowed me to retain it, bestowed upon me her sunniest smile, calling me the while friend and brother. It was not the terms my heart most earnestly longed for; but I looked forward with a lover's eye, and was content. And thus we wandered slowly back again--back to meet one who possessed the power to change the aspect of both our lives; the power to darken mine on earth--and who was he? A mere boy--a lover of Jennie's, who impatiently awaited our return that very night. They had been playmates in childhood, but had not met since then.

Had I been less certain that her love would be mine in the future, I should have trembled when I looked upon this man; for he possessed those gifts in their richness and fulness that most easily win a woman's love. Then, too, he was her mother's guest--with Jennie, morning, noon, and night--invariably our companion in our frequent walks--always by her side, and with a mingling of tenderness and reverence proffering that devoted and delicate homage which most readily finds its way to the affections of an artless maiden.

I was too unused to the world _then_ to know it; but have deeply realized since how irresistibly she must have charmed one so accustomed to the heartless coquetry of fashionable flirts, by the timid, wondering, child-like simplicity with which she received all this homage.

I should have known how this would end; but my faith had made me blind. Indeed, I was even then conscious how infinitely he was my superior in all that pertained to outward things: he was rich, I poor; he possessed the varied information of the travelled man, the ease and grace of one familiar with the world, and I had all the awkwardness and abstracted reserve of an absorbed student. I was deeply, painfully conscious of this. Yet, while I felt she did not return his ardent, ever-increasing love, perhaps did not even comprehend it; while the spirituality of our communion still in some degree remained unbroken, I was content.

I could calmly watch his ever-varying moods from gay to grave, from grave to sad, striving by each in turn with finished art to touch the heart he felt he had not won--smiling securely, I would sometimes murmur in my happiness the while: 'Passion born of earth, not the true love that discerneth its own, impels thee. Thy soul's betrothed is perchance of another country; turn to seek thy own; Jennie is _mine_, not _thine_!' No need to tell how, at first all unconsciously to herself, he gained the priceless treasure of her love. No need to tell how he won her heart from mine. The memory of all this is very painful even now--enough, that after long and skilful trial he succeeded. The arrow at last struck its mark, and my boding heart then whispered how this would end. I saw the pitying tenderness of her artless nature, shining in her soft and dreamy eye, suffusing every speaking feature, making the sweet face still more lovely, until presently compassion grew into something yet more tender. Then her eyes would brighten at his coming, a deep crimson color her cheeks, a sweet and timid consciousness betray itself in every look and movement; and then, oh, anguish of spirit! _I felt her soul gradually withdrawing itself from mine_, and my heart torn from the loving one on which it rested. Then followed days and nights of extreme mental anguish, a time of suffering that I cannot dwell upon even now without a shudder, when I lost faith in God and man, and cursed the day when I beheld the light; when amid blackness, darkness, and tempest, my storm-tossed soul cried in vain for light, vainly seeking for peace amid its wrecks and desolations. A fiery furnace, through which I passed that I might come out purified.

They were to be married very soon. She told me this as we sat together one evening in the brief wintry twilight. The first wild transports of a newly found bliss had subsided into a calmer feeling of happiness in her heart, as with me had passed the first 'bitter bitterness' of a life-long grief, and I was enabled to receive her confidence with a show of brotherly regard.

Christmas was the time set for the ceremony, and the first fall of snow was even now lying on the ground.

She did not impart this information with the coy and hesitating timidity usual to her; but thoughtfully, as she sat gazing out on the dull leaden sky, watching the snowflakes falling through the dreary air. There followed then a long, long pause, in which I had time to recover from the effect her words had produced, and to frame and stammer forth such congratulations as seemed required by the occasion. These she did not answer, or even seem to comprehend, but roused from her revery by the sound of my voice, she crossed the room and seated herself beside me, and took my hand within her own.

'Brother,' she murmured, in a dreamy, half-abstracted manner, 'there has been something solemn and strange in our intercourse, a mysterious something, which my mind has vainly striven to grasp and comprehend. I had thought the secret rested with you, and _through you_ would be revealed to _me_; but the time for such revelation is passed; God has willed it otherwise. Brother,' her voice sank to a solemn cadence; I hear the low tones _now_, as I heard them _then:_ 'I am the better and purer for your affection; you have led me, by what process I know not, from the sensuous and the earthly, to the spiritual and the holy, and there is no epithet applied to mortals, reverently endearing enough to be coupled with your name. I would that my words were as eloquent as my feelings, that you might know what immeasurable gratitude I vainly strive to compress in the brief words: I thank you.'

She wept, and I laid my hand on the bowed head in mute and speechless blessing.

'O Father!' I cried, in my voiceless anguish, 'Omnipotent and good! is there nothing that can open her eyes even now, and give me the being thine own holy laws have made my own?' No! no! The wild hope that prompted the useless prayer died within my heart as I breathed it. Jealous of the brief interest that could draw his betrothed's attention from himself but for a moment, _he_, the boy lover, now entered, and there were no longer gentle looks nor solemn words. He loved her best in her moods of artless gayety, and she hurriedly brushed her tears away, and hastened to be merry. Brief as had been the glimpse she had given me of her inner nature, the knowledge proved my comforter in this my time of trial, and I thanked God for it humbly and gratefully.

I then had really led her from the earthly to the spiritual and holy. Her heart had unawares entertained an angel visitant; mine had unconsciously performed an angel's ministry; I, next to God and his messengers, had power to satisfy the deepest wants of her nature. Oh, solitary drop of consolation! The love cherished by her, and her heart's mistaken choice, was only of this _earth_; there was no element of spirituality to render it _immortal_. It was doomed to die with the passion that gave it birth, and from the grave there should be no resurrection.

Blessed be God forever!... Lo! The rustic church is trimmed with evergreen, and lighted for the marriage service. Curious lookers on are there; and with that perverse desire to test the might of their endurance, common with those who suffer, I too, am there, though I know that her image, as she stands at the altar, where I shall see her for the last time, through the days and nights of anguish sure to follow _this_, will be ever present with me! Yet, with my face half hidden by the evergreens, I stand and wait her coming. They enter, bride and bridegroom; she leaning trustfully upon his arm. O Jennie! _my_ Jennie; thou who shouldst have been my bride! Great waves of tearless anguish rolled over my soul at the sight! Jennie, the priest who ministers at the altar before which thou standest, is idly repeating words whose holy meaning he does not comprehend: is _separating_, not _uniting_ those whom God has joined together. O Jennie! companion of my spirit! is there no far-off, distant echo awakened in thy soul by the bitter waves of anguish surging over mine? Not now, in this thine hour of earthly love and triumph; not now. Even in spirit, 'lover and friend,' hast thou been put far from me. The low, measured tones of the minister fall on my ear; and I count the brief moments that give her to the keeping of another for all her _mortal_ life, as the watcher counts the last moments of the dying and the loved. They kneel in prayer before the mockery of those last words is spoken, and I kneel too, crying to the Almighty: 'Wrest even now my treasure from him, or still the anguished throbbings of my heart forever! Let me die!' O Thou tempted in all points even as we, yet without sin, it was meet in this my hour of extremest suffering, that Thou shouldst send the promised comforter, not to bestow the earthly good I prayed for, but to raise me above earth and all of earthly good. Opening my inner vision to behold, far as the eye of the finite may behold, what is comprehended in the omniscient glance of the Infinite--removing the clouds brooding so darkly over my spirit, and filling it with holy joy, by imparting radiant glimpses of the soul's calmer and higher life in the land beyond--'the life that rights the wrongs, and reveals the mysteries of this,'--the words that were once my hope and the inspiration of my toil, came now, when that hope was dead, to soothe and comfort me--the spirit of prophecy, that cheered my spirit with the hopeful promise of good in the time to come, and stirring my soul to its depths, sounding through it like a song of solemn triumph.

What though thou beholdest her the bride of another, her own heart blinded so that she cannot see aright! She is _thine_ through all the countless years of thy immortality! His but for a brief and fleeting season! He holds his treasure in a trembling, uncertain grasp. Change may separate her heart from his; death may wrest it from him; the grave cover her form forever from his sight; but neither Time, nor Change, nor Death--nothing in the present world, or in that which is to come, shall be able to separate _thee_ from the soul _that was formed for thine_! She is his by man's frail and perishing enactments; thine by the great law of attraction, by the immutable decrees of God. Seeing now, with the eye of the spirit, the frail uncertain nature of the happiness which he fondly dreamed was founded on a rock, sorrow and envy left me, and I could pity him as one deluded; and with a strange triumphant feeling, I pressed forward and imprinted the first kiss on the pure brow of my heart's chosen as the bride of another. Was she dimly, vaguely conscious for a moment of the nature of the attraction that bound our souls together, as she clung tearfully to _me_ for an instant, murmuring a loving farewell? It has given me comfort through all the long years that have passed since then, to think so. She leaned from the carriage, her sweet eyes meeting mine in a sad adieu. I looked my last then on the face of the _mortal_ Jennie. But in a land of perpetual summer, lighted by the smile of God, robed in garments of everlasting light, faithful and true, there awaits me _Jennie the immortal!_ She knows it all now. Those bright seraphic eyes lighted with heaven-born love, have turned from celestial light to mark my gloomy wanderings. When she died, there was added to the band of ministering spirits the one whose silent influence was most powerful for good, most potent to aid me in overcoming evil. I have been better and purer since then. She possesses some mystic power to make me _feel_ her presence, and to draw me toward her.

Slowly, very slowly, the feeling of solitude and isolation departed from me, and I am not lonely now; bright unseen visitants soothe my solitude; their noiseless steps break not its solemn stillness; soft hands clasp mine; where'er I move, the spirit of loving companionship is with me. Ah! to the eyes and ears of the aged, whose material perceptions are closing forever on the sights and sounds of earth, there come, borne across the dark-waved river on whose brink they stand, sounds from the other side; and ever and anon the mist that broods there lifts and parts itself, revealing radiant but imperfect glimpses of the promised land beyond.

Ere long the shadow will pass from these dimmed eyes forever, and I shall look on what she looks in heaven.

I have lived the allotted time of man's probation. The days of the years of my pilgrimage are drawing to a close. It cannot be _long now_! A few months, it may be years, of patient endurance--

And then--Then!

THE GREAT RIOT.

On Monday, the 13th day of July, 1863, the national conscription was proceeding in two districts of New York city. By Monday night the buildings and the blocks in which the provost marshals had their respective offices had been burned to the ground by a furious rabble, whose onset the police had in vain attempted to stay, and the great metropolis of North America was at the mercy of a raging mob, which roamed through the streets, robbing, beating, burning, murdering where they would.

By Tuesday the police had thoroughly organized, and the trial of strength between mob-law and authority began. Night closed over a still unconquered, defiant, law-contemning insurrection.

On Wednesday the public conveyances of the city were stopped, the places of business mostly closed, while the rioters alternated between hanging negroes, burning their houses, and plundering generally, on the one hand, and fighting the military on the other. Thursday the final struggle ensued, and when Friday dawned, though not until then, was the city fairly delivered from the hands of the insurgents, and restored to its wonted order. Now all is tranquil, and save the occasional ruins, the groans of the wounded in the hospitals, the agony of those who have lost friends or homes in the struggle, and the diminished number of the blacks, little remains to attest the scenes of terror through which New York has passed.

Whence came this riot? From what causes did it spring? Was it, indeed, a part of the great Southern rebellion, instigated by the emissaries of Jefferson Davis? Was it instigated by the Catholic Church as a part of their scheme for the reconstruction of the Church in America, and for obtaining the overthrow of republican institutions as a preliminary means to this end? Was it the work of unprincipled politicians, who wish to put a stop to the war, in order to carry out their ambitious plans by the aid of their Southern allies, and who thought that by stopping the draft they could stop the war? Was it the work of plunderers and thieves who inflamed the passions of the people, and incited them to deeds of violence, that they might rob in security? Did it spring from the honest indignation of the poorer classes, who deemed they were wronged by the $300 exemption clause? Or, finally, was it a reaction against supposed injustice on the part of men who believed that the forcing of individuals to fight against their will was contrary to the very genius of our institutions and our government, which recognizes the right of each person, according to his understanding, to the pursuit of happiness absolutely in his own way? Each one of these has been loudly urged as the undoubted cause of the difficulty. Let us probe the matter with care, and ascertain the source of the disturbance.

It is one of the vices of our political system, not yet remedied, that it holds out great inducements to unscrupulous and ambitious men to deceive the ignorant and credulous masses, in order to obtain their good will and their votes. This deception has necessarily to be practised, moreover, concerning the individuals and the things in regard to which the highest interests of the people demand they should not be deceived. For the wicked and designing politician knows that good men, who really have the interest of the people at heart, will not elect him to office. On the contrary, they will expose his true character and unmask his deception to the poor dupes whom he is cajoling and deluding. Hence the necessity, on the part of such men, of putting a complete barrier between the really good portion of the community and the ignorant and weak, who most need their assistance. The politician of this stamp resorts, therefore, to every means in his power to destroy the confidence of the lower classes in the higher. He succeeds in convincing the thoughtless portion of the masses that the respectable and comfortable citizen is his enemy and cares not for his condition, while he himself is the poor man's friend, watchful over his interests, and carefully guarding him from the designs of his foe. Thus the isolation of the ignorant, the wretched, and the depraved, from the benevolent, the sympathetic, and the wise is completed, and the wily politician has his victim and voter secure within his grasp.

In no way is the cooeperation of the simple-minded and ignorant man more easily secured and his faith more firmly riveted than, by flattering his vanity and treating him as the peer of others infinitely his superiors. The fundamental principle of our political fabric, the _political_ equality of all men, has afforded ample opportunity for designing persons to mislead the uninformed among the mass, and to make them believe that _political_ equality means social, intellectual, and moral equality, that all are in fact equal in all respects in society, and that their rights are infringed by their exclusion from such recognition.

But while plying the people with the most levelling dogmas of equality, it is the equality of the white race only that has been affirmed by the crafty demagogue. The efforts for the enfranchisement of the negro have been eagerly seized upon to widen still further the breach between the intelligent and the ignorant. The thoughtless among the masses have been persistently taught that the emancipation of the negro would result in his coming North, that this would bring him in as a competitor in the struggle for life, already so arduous and harassing, and that, consequently, the emancipation of the black was a direct blow at the interests of the poor white laboring man. When the present national conflict began, and the politicians of the cunning, unscrupulous school thought they saw it to be their interest to gain favor with the South, they opposed the war, and sought to league the populace on their side by raising the cry that the contest was for emancipation, not for saving the Union. And now, when all other efforts to end the struggle in favor of the South are unavailing, they have fastened on the prevention of the draft as the 'last ditch' in which to make a final stand and risk a last battle.

They have summoned all their forces to the field in this contest. They urge the poor man to resist the conscription, because it infringes the equality of the citizen and makes an invidious distinction between the rich and the poor. They teach him that he is being forced from fireside and friends, while others no better than himself are left at home; that his family are left destitute by his absence, while others remain to protect and support their dependants; that he is forced to do this in a war which has for its principal object the liberation of a people whom he believes he has every cause to hate, and who will become, on their liberation, his rivals in the race where suffering and perhaps starvation await the loser. Is it any wonder that they broke the wheel, scattered the names, and burnt the enrolling offices--that they plundered and murdered the negroes?

The New York riot had its active origin, nucleus, and strength in a feeling of bitter injustice, entertained by ignorant, simple-minded, crude men, the lowest class of our population, who had been deliberately deceived in relation to facts, by unscrupulous politicians, for ambitious purposes. They had been inflamed with wrath by supposed wrong; their worst passions were aroused, they had lost their self-control, and became reckless. It matters little whether the actual hostilities began by a spontaneous outburst of anger, when the passions had simmered a long time; or whether the emissaries of the politicians actually incited to the specific act at a preconcerted period. The responsibility of the latter is noways diminished if no such intervention occurred; the essential nature of the outbreak is the same if it did. Had there not been this deep-seated feeling of wrong on the part of a portion of the people, the instigations of the emissaries would have met no response. The sinew of the insurrection was this honest resentment of fancied injury.

Everything goes to prove that, in the outset, so far as the _original active rioters_ were concerned, the draft was the immediate cause of the disturbance. They first burnt one provost marshal's office, and then proceeded a mile or more to burn another. Then they burnt the colored asylum. This was the first day's work mainly. There is no adequate explanation of the hatred exhibited to the negro throughout this riot, other than the supposition that the mob, or rather that portion of it who were abusing the blacks, believed that they were being forced from their homes in the service of a war, the object and purpose of which was the liberation of the negroes, and that, therefore, in a certain sense, the colored people were the cause of their being drafted. The peculiar feature of this mob, as contrasted with ordinary ones, was this bitterness against the negro.

On the succeeding days, however, the elements of the mob changed. The same nucleus remained, but other constituents were added to it. Thieves and plunderers joined it, for the sole purpose doubtless of robbing in safety; probably the first peacebreakers themselves, not ordinarily pilferers, carried off the articles of value, which were scattered among the ruins their rage had created. Scheming politicians fanned the flame which their teachings had already lit; the journals which are almost undisguisedly in favor of a dishonorable peace, and of a return of the Southern States with slavery untouched, skilfully incited, while seeming to discourage, the now rum-maddened and blood-drunken fiends; the idle, the vicious, the curious joined the throng, and the motives of the mob became as varied and diverse as its elements. Some hoped to stop the draft and remain unmolested at home. Others hoped to stop the draft, in order to stop the war, and enable them to say to the South, We have prevented your subjugation: give us our political reward. Some hoped to overthrow all law and order, that they might revel in the wealth they could then sequester. The great mass probably neither knew nor cared to what end they tended--their worst passions were aroused and controlled them; they luxuriated in violence and bloodshed, and their brutal instincts were satisfied.

That the riot had any significant religious characteristics is not probable. Catholics were in it and of it, and so were Protestants. The mob was composed principally of those who scout all pretence of religion of any kind, and who are as little influenced by the priest as the negligent Protestant is by the preacher. Had it been otherwise, the priest who endeavored to get the body of Colonel O'Brien would have easily prevailed; for no church-going Catholics would refuse, in their wildest frenzy, the request of a priest for the possession of a dying man. That there are honest bigots in the Catholic Church who believe that within her pale only is safety for the human race, who believe, furthermore, that republican institutions are incompatible with her full supremacy, and rejoice, therefore, with holy zeal, at anything which seems to indicate their instability, is doubtless true. Some such individuals may have been among the rioters, urging them on in their frenzied work. But the manly, sincere, and indignant castigation given by the Catholic priesthood to the wretched miscreants on the Sunday following the disturbances, precludes any possibility of suspicion that the Church was either aware of the intended uprising, or that it approved the purposes or actions of the mob.

In deciding, then, as to the real character and purpose of the rioters, two distinct classes of persons must be taken into account: those actively engaged in insurgent proceedings, and those who, not appearing on the scene of action, incited and sustained the former in their demonstrations.

That the motives and purposes of the one class were different from those of the other, has been already indicated. The main object of the parties in the background, who had constantly been fomenting discord, was undoubtedly to aid the cause of the Southern rebellion, with whom they sympathize, not perhaps because they care for the South, but because they think their own interests demand its cooeperation. The chief design of the first peacebreakers was to stop the draft, that they might not be forced away from home to fight, against their wishes. That they knew the real designs of their instigators, or that they had any prompters to the specific acts which inaugurated the riot, is not probable; that, after the commencement of the sedition, they were joined by such, and urged to further violence, cannot be doubted.

The insurrection had not, therefore, in its largest proportions, one single distinctive purpose, and was not the work of one set of men. It was a rising against the draft, but not wholly so. It was a blow in aid of the South, though not this only. It was a thieves' tumult, but that was not all. It was all of these, with some other ingredients, previously mentioned, the whole clustering and crystallizing around a nucleus of crude, ignorant, hard-working, passionate, rough, turbulent men, deceived by the adroit misrepresentations of interested persons, until, driven to madness by a sense of supposed injustice, they believed themselves justified in securing redress by the only means they knew.

Shall we stop here in our analysis of the nature and constituents of the New York mob? Have we yet discovered the fundamental causes which produced the riot, so that we shall be able to prevent such recurrences in the future? Or have we in reality only penetrated the crust of the question, and ascertained the immediate and superficial causes, not the radical and basic ones? The latter is the case. We have thus far seen the apparent and proximate causes merely--which brought to the surface, at the present time, a riotous disposition, always existent in the community, a volcano slumbering and smouldering, ever ready to burst forth and deluge society with its withering and destroying lava, whenever the flame is fitly fanned. Until we know the source of this riotous tendency in a portion of our population, the deeper cause of this recent outbreak, as of all our outbreaks, we are yet ignorant of the true sources of the frightful disturbance which our social order has sustained, in any such sense as makes a knowledge of causes practically available for remedy and cure.

Whether the preceding analysis of the mob be a true one or not, therefore; whether it were a part of the great Southern rebellion, brought about by rebel agents from abroad or living in our midst; or an outbreak of indignation against a law supposed to be unjust; or a riot of thieves, whose main purpose was plunder; or a politicians' bubble merely;--whether it were any or all of these, or something different from these or more than these; in any of these cases, we are yet at the threshold of our inquiry concerning it. We must go back over some ground which we have cursorily traversed, and look closer at the elements of society, to find a fitting solution to the spirit and conduct of the mob. Men are not given to acts of atrocious brutality, to frightful rage, or to wanton rapine, without the existence of some cause for their proceedings. However depraved a few individuals may be, the love of doing outrageous things for the mere sake of doing them is not natural to the human race. If there had not existed some deep feeling of supposed injustice on the part of the masses engaged in the sedition, coupled with the habitual misery of their lives, the wild frenzy of July would have been impossible. If the multitude had been rightly informed and judiciously cared for, neither the politicians nor the rebel emissaries could have stirred them to insurrection, nor thieves have gained their assistance and support.

The cause of the turbulent spirit exhibited in a large class of our population is, principally, the sense of pecuniary insecurity in which they live; the fear lest by an overabundance in the supply of labor, or by the disability of the laborer, they should be unable to get the means of living for themselves and their families. The writer of this article was impelled, by the duties of his profession, to spend his entire time, save the hours of sleep, during the days of the riot and the two weeks subsequent, among the active insurgents, in the neighborhood of the conflicts, and in other situations, which gave him peculiar advantages for knowing the nature of the mob and the causes of its actions. The prevailing complaint among the first active insurgents, and their sympathizers among the poor, was that they were about to be forced away from home to fight for the freedom of the blacks, who when free would become their competitors for the little they now earn. In listening to the knots gathered at the corners, to the conversation among the inhabitants of the most violently riotous districts, the words which fell oftenest upon the ear were those of bitter, burning, blasting denunciation against the apathy of the rich, who, while enjoying the comforts of a competency, are forgetful of the continuous, persistent, hopeless, never-to-be-relieved, and crushing poverty of the poor, with its inevitable accompaniments. The writer does not hesitate to affirm, that but for this sense of the insecurity of their means of living, and the mistaken notions which had been instilled into them in regard to the negroes and the object of this war, as increasing still further this insecurity--a deception to which their ignorance, the necessary result of their present pecuniary conditions, even were there no other causes for it, renders them at all times liable--they could not have been incited to the recent sedition.

It is not easy for men who do not feel the daily and hourly pressure of poverty, to comprehend the constant solicitude which weighs upon the indigent. It is still less easy for them to understand the intensely practical point of view from which the poor must regard every question submitted to them, and the equally practical and speedy solution which they must find to problems of social interest presented for their consideration. The citizen who is comfortably situated in relation to money matters, can afford to look at the result which any social, economical, or mechanical change will introduce in his affairs with reference to a period of time more or less extended into the future. The man who has no capital, who literally earns his _daily_ bread, and whose ability to gain a livelihood for himself and his family depends upon his constant, unintermitted labor, is in no condition to look at any aspect of any question but in the one, vital, all-important view of his personal necessities. Anything which stops his work, for a week even, is destructive to him, no matter how beneficial its after results may promise to be. The binding force of dire necessity coerces him into this position; and even were he intelligent enough to see that all progress, no matter how destructive to particular departments of industry at first, eventually benefits _all_ classes and _all_ individuals, he cannot afford to consider the question from this stand-point, if it affects his immediate occupation. The benefits of progress must be of secondary importance to an individual, when the present issue which the case presents to him is starvation or work. If the proposed improvement is liable to throw him out of employment for even a brief period, he must look upon it as a hostile invader and resist its introduction. It is this insecurity of social condition, therefore, which has always arrayed a portion of the masses against the introduction of new inventions, improvements in machinery, and labor-saving appliances of all descriptions, and which has caused the riots and violent demonstrations which, at times, have accompanied the first use of new mechanical contrivances. One of the _first_ results of the introduction of labor-saving machinery is to throw a large number of people temporarily out of employment. This is forcibly felt by the ignorant masses. They are not educated enough to see that this first result is more than counterbalanced by subsequent benefits;--indeed, it is still a debated question with many people of ordinary intelligence whether, on account of the large number of people primarily deprived of occupation, labor-saving machinery be a benefit to society;--and if they were so educated, their immediate necessities cannot be satisfied with this solution. The same is true in regard to the abolition of slavery. One of the first fruits of this measure will be, as they believe, to cause a large number of negroes to emigrate North. This is the practical point of the question which the poor and ignorant see. The results of this immigration have been magnified to them; a statement of the counteracting tendencies has been withheld by those interested in fomenting discord, or if not withheld, they do not see these as operating immediately on their condition, and hence regard them as practically not existing.

It is, therefore, the wretched material condition of the poorer masses and the ignorance, stupidity, brutality, and degradation accompanying these, together with the apathy of the rich and intelligent classes to their situation, which are the latent causes of our social broils, the recent riot included. In speaking of the pecuniary conditions and the sufferings of the lowest masses, let it be understood that no reference is intended to the present economical relations of labor and price, as compared with those of other times. I refer to the _status_ of the poorest classes in society; to the miserable method of their lives, always wretched, ever burdensome, with but one source of temporary relief within their means, the grogshop, which deepens their misery; to their hopeless degradation and perpetual ignorance, under present social arrangements, whether labor be a little higher for a time or not. On the other hand, in referring to the apathy of the rich and intelligent classes, I do not charge them with a want of large benevolence on the ordinary charitable plane, but to something far different, as will appear in the sequel.

It is time, then, that the intelligent and opulent classes began to reflect upon the nature of the community in which they live, and upon the conditions of their neighbors; not, as heretofore, in a casual way, and without any intention of thoroughly considering the question, or doing anything to remedy radically the defects which they may discover, but in the spirit of desire and determination to relieve the masses permanently of burdens which press heavily upon them, to rescue them from the persistent deception of the intriguing demagogues whose snares are winding closer and closer around them, and to unite in bonds of respect and mutual assistance the physical substratum of society with the moral, intellectual, and substantial. The scenes of the New York riot are a solemn warning that the time has come when society must begin in earnest the work of lifting the masses out of their degradation, their squalor, their ignorance, and their poverty, or the lowest classes, driven to desperation, will make the attempt, at least, to drag society down to their level. The doctrine of equality has been pushed to its utmost in the hands of political cajolers, until the practical logic of the crude multitude, spurred to its intellectual conclusions by physical necessity, asks, What sort of equality is that which keeps the largest portion of the people in want, while the smaller rolls in plenty? So long as the estrangement of the lower classes from their natural directors and advisers continues, so long will these dangerous distortions of truth be powerful weapons in the hands of unfeeling men, whose interests and purposes are subserved by deception. And this estrangement will never cease until the intelligence and wealth of the community withdraw the allegiance of the masses from tricksters and schemers, and transfer it to themselves by the inauguration of such methods of social amelioration as shall convince the multitude of the falsity of the demagogue's teaching, and satisfy them of the fact that the higher classes have really their welfare at heart, and are anxious for their comfort and happiness. When this is done, the ignorant population will no longer be leagued on the side of falsehood, no longer stand the steady opponents of that progress which is so beneficial to themselves. The argument of practical help will have convinced them who their true friends are, and neither the rebel emissary, the dishonest politician, nor the thief will be able to stir them to insurrection, nor control them to the opposition of salutary and judicious laws.

The kind of relationship which must exist between the rich and benevolent classes and the ignorant poor, must be a closer one in the future than has ever been in the past, and of a different character. In earlier times the isolation and separation which are common between the various orders of society in America, were unknown. There are many countries in which the powerful and opulent feel an obligation resting upon them to be the guardians and social providence of the weak and the humble. Hence the two classes are united to each other by ties of respect and order on the part of the indigent, and of care and protection on the part of the wealthy. The sense of pecuniary insecurity is there little felt, and the ignorant poor are not left to the machinations of any trickster whose interest it may be to deceive them. It is for this reason that even in societies where the oppression of the poor and weak is, in other ways, infinitely greater than in this country, riots and seditions are difficult to create. It is because of the social providence which, theoretically, and, in an appreciable degree, practically, the Southern master extends over his slaves, that it is so difficult to arouse them to insurrection. True, in the case of the slave and the landed peasant, the security from physical want is purchased by the sacrifice of other and higher advantages, but to a large proportion of the ignorant and the weak the means of life are more important than any other blessings.

In accordance with the spirit of our institutions, we enter as equals into the competitive struggle of life, where all cannot be gainers, and where it is inevitable that the strong and the intelligent should succeed, while the feeble and the ignorant must fail. But as both classes have been admitted freely into the race, there is no feeling on the part of the winners of duty or obligation toward the losers. If one chooses to be charitable, he may; if not, society has no claim upon him, no right to _expect_ that he will make the care of others a part of his duty or his business. Thus the community is arrayed in two great classes: the intelligent, the strong in mind, and those of larger capacities, who, as a class, are rich, on the one side; and the ignorant, the weak-minded, the crude, who, as a body, are poor, on the other. A great gulf separates these two classes, who have nothing in common, and society rests on a social basis composed of forlorn, dissatisfied, ignorant people, developing day by day still more the accompaniments of ignorance and poverty--brutality, viciousness, drunkenness, and ferocity. This separation has too long continued, has too long left the country a prey to political demagogues, who have plunged it into repeated turmoils, and finally into civil war, by being able to operate upon the fears and feelings of the ignorant, deprived of all natural and proper guidance. It is a question, not only of duty, but of safety, for the rich and intelligent, whether they will suffer the lower orders to remain in their wretchedness and sullen dissatisfaction, sinking daily into still deeper degradation, and engendering still more bitter hatred; or whether they will accept their proper position as the organized guides and permanent social providence of the weak, and faithfully perform its functions.

In pressing upon the higher classes the obligation which they owe to the lower orders of society, and in urging them to assume the guardianship of the latter, the writer is not referring to vague and diffuse measures of ordinary philanthropy, but to definite and practical ones, of vast importance to the welfare of the wealthiest as well as to that of the poorest member of society. The individuals who have been most actively engaged in the stirring scenes of commercial life, are little aware, for the most part, of the rapid advances made in social science during the last twenty years, and especially within the last ten of these. Extensive as the new principles evolved in the department of mechanical discovery, during this period, have been, those in that of commercial and social activity have fully equalled them. The true method of organizing the workshop, the farm, and the manufactory, the right adjustment of capital and labor so as to secure larger advantages than heretofore to both capitalist and laborer, the just adaptation of supply and demand in community, the mutually beneficial cooeperation of employer and employe, these and other questions of deep significance to the whole community have reached a theoretical, and, to a limited extent, a practical solution, which the students of social science patiently wait to communicate to the active workers in commercial or industrial affairs. For the want of this knowledge, now ready at their call, the capitalists and the employers are suffering, no less than the laborers and the employed. There is not a single department of human labor in which principles are not now known to the industrial scientist, which would enhance many fold the value of the means employed in such business, to the equal advantage of the owner of the capital and his assistants. The merchants, the bankers, the manufacturers, and the master mechanics are making a wasteful and inferior use of their material, while at the same time they are inadvertently keeping the lower classes in poverty by the want of a knowledge of these modern discoveries. It is from this lack of information only that the poor of New York, who to-day are steeped in their filth, their squalor, and their penury, are not each and all of them enjoying the comforts of a moderate competence and a decent home, the securing of which for them would have, at the same time, enhanced the wealth of the employers. The way to gain the allegiance, devotion, and fidelity of the poorer orders, is easy and simple. The problem of the harmonization of the interests of classes in community with mutual benefit to all, is scientifically solved. It only remains for the intelligent and benevolent to give due attention to the teachings of science in order to secure the most beneficial results.

Already these modern industrial principles are being adopted in some considerable degree into active practice by eminent citizens. In New York city the methods of recent discoveries are being introduced into large manufactories with the most satisfactory and beneficial results to all concerned. But these attempts, as yet, have been undertaken without any thorough examination of the whole scope of principles relating to the operations in hand, and hence without the largest achievable results. These will come when the intelligent and moneyed classes awake to the importance of the subject; to the understanding that the knowledge of methods for securing immense social improvements is in existence; and to a determination to possess that knowledge and to apply it to its legitimate ends--the organization of a social providence for the ignorant and weak, and the binding of all classes of society into relations of mutual sympathy and assistance.

All this, however, looks to a period of time, more or less, though it is to be hoped not far, distant. In the meantime, while society remains with its present constitution, riots are liable, and a practical question still remains, of the method which should be pursued in dealing with them. There is a time for all things, said a man of reputed wisdom. And the time for considering the sufferings of a people or for being in anywise tender hearted, is not when a madman or a cohort of madmen are howling about your houses or your city, with knives and torches, blood in their eyes, fiery rum in their veins, demoniac rage in their hearts, and the instincts of hell in their natures. A mob has no mind, only passions. It were as idle to attempt to make it listen to reason, as to argue with a lunatic in the height of his frenzy. A mob is not only a creature of passions, but of the worst passions. Every man has in him more or less of the demoniac element, which, commonly, he is constrained by the requirements of the society in which he lives to keep within decent limits. A mob can never have an existence until the parties which compose its nucleus, at least, have toppled from their customary self-control, and passion has assumed the guidance. Then the devil, long restrained and compressed, takes a holiday. As a high-mettled steed, after being kept a long time within the narrow limits of his stable, and being obliged to conduct himself in a staid manner, on being released, runs, whisks his tail, kicks up his heels, lays back his ears, opens his mouth, and rushes with mock vicious-looking eyes at whomsoever he meets, and all this from mere wantonness, to enjoy his freedom; so the devil in the man, not perchance the theological one, but still the devil no less actually, as seen every day in the activity of the baser passions, on being released, by the abdication of reason and the substitution of feeling, begins to exercise his ingenuity in the play of his faculties, compensating himself for his long confinement. From hour to hour, and from day to day, this devil gets fuller possession of the individual, who becomes more and more an unreasoning creature, until a blind, furious, brutal, bloodthirsty demon is all that remains of what might have once been merely a not well balanced human being.

It is notorious that a mob will commit atrocities which a single individual could scarcely be tempted to perpetrate. The reason is partially evident from the statement just made. A more philosophical explanation may be given. It is a law of social intercourse that there is always among companies of individuals a more or less effective contagion of whatever sentiment is most powerful among them. Still further, this contagion or magnetic battery of sympathy, while pervading the whole assembly, likewise increases the individual potency of the sentiment in the mind of each person. It is for this reason, that an orator thrills more deeply each hearer in a vast sympathetic assembly, than he would the same individual in a less crowded company; that music is more inspiring in a great crowd of people than elsewhere, etc. In an assemblage where the finer sentiments are predominant, this contagion is of the finer sort, and serves to elevate the whole company: in a gathering where the lower passions preponderate, the contagion is of the debasing kind, and serves to excite still further the worst elements of brutality, and to sink the individuals which compose the company still lower in the scale of humanity. To the educators of the young and to the governors of the people, this law is of immense importance.

A mob is, therefore, not only under the influence of its worst passions, but every hour of its existence these are growing more potent, in the mob as an entity, and in the persons which compose it. The only true mercy which can be shown to such an assembly, aside from any question of the safety of community, is to suppress it; to suppress it at once; and to use every means necessary to that end. Relentless rigor is the only measure adequate to the occasion. It is the weakness of civilization that it hesitates to be cruelly kind. The mistake of the military authorities in regard to the New York riot, was lenity. The prompt and vigorous bombardment, in the beginning of the rising, of a block of the houses in which the rioters were safely ensconced, while covertly firing on the soldiers and policemen, would have done more to quell the mob than all subsequent proceedings, and would have saved life in the end. It would have forced the inhabitants of these houses who, as things were conducted, could safely give all possible aid to the insurgents, to compel these to lay down their arms, in order to insure the safety of the sympathizers. Had the first, and the second, and the third house from which the assassins were permitted to fire been battered to the ground with cannon shot, the last two days of fighting would have been unnecessary. The police cowed the mob wherever they met them, because they showed no quarter. They hit hard and they hit often. They felt that the way to knock the riot in the head, was to knock the rioters in the head. And they did it, as Inspector Carpenter says, 'beautifully.' New York feels as proud of these Metropolitan policemen as he does; and that is saying a great deal.

We discover, then, by this brief analysis of the great riot, that social outbreaks of this kind have their _immediate_ and _tangible_ causes, which are superficial in their character, and vary with the occasion; that these causes depend for their disturbing power upon others which are more _fundamental_, and which inhere in the nature of our present social relations; that so long as the wealthy and intelligent classes shall decline the permanent guardianship and organized care of the poor and ignorant masses, the liability to such recurrences will remain; that when they break forth, the safety of community and mercy to the rioters alike demand that the mob be scattered on the instant by an iron and relentless hand; and, finally, that the only method by which society will be permanently and effectually freed from a liability to the terrors of mob-rule, is the reorganization of its economical arrangements in such a manner that the miseries of poverty and ignorance shall be forever removed from the community, and a social providence be firmly established which shall secure physical comfort and kindly sympathy to all classes of citizens.

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

A PRE-RAPHAELITE PICTURE FROM NATURE.

It was left long ago, And the rank weeds grow Where the lily once bent her head; Thick and tall they grow, And some lying low, Beaten down by a human tread.

And the laughing sun, When the day's nearly done, Looks in on the cheerless floor; And falleth the rain Through the broken pane-- Shrill whistles the wind at the door.

And the thistles stand At the gate where no hand Ever lifts the latch, now nailed fast: One gate low doth lie Which the passer by Treads o'er as he hurries past.

On the fence close by Where the sunbeams lie Doth the kingly Nightshade blow; But the Asters tall That grew by the wall Have vanished long ago.

Not now, as of old, Blooms the gay Marigold, Looking in at the kitchen door; And the Cypress red Is long since dead, And the Monkhood blossoms no more.

But the Hopvine still By the window sill Is as full as in days of yore; And the Currants grow As thickly now And as ripe as e'er before.

But the hearth is bare-- Not a log blazes there To light up the empty room: Not a soft shadow falls On the whitewashed walls: All is silent--all wrapt in gloom!

Not a chair on the floor, Not a rug at the door, Where the cat once lay in the sun; And no grandame sits At the door and knits, Telling tales of days bygone!

All is silent now, And the long weeds bow Their heads in the wind and rain;-- But the dwellers of yore Will ne'er enter the door Of that dreary old House again!

E. W. C.

SPRING MOUNTAIN.

'Race Miller, indeed! why don't you say Jim Burt at once? I think I'd better go live in Rocky Hollow, and weave baskets for a living; hadn't I?'

'Well, Dimpey, the race is not _always_ to the swift, you know; so you'd better look out in time;' and Polly Jane took up her pan of peas, and went laughing into the kitchen. I suppose she thought she had said something smart, as our name is _Swift_; and perhaps she had; but it made me as mad as hops, I won't deny it, though I _am_ a minister's niece! So I pulled my sunbonnet over my face, and went to weeding the flowerbeds, to get cool. It was going on to noon, and the sun was baking hot, but I didn't mind that; I could _not_ shell peas in the same pan with Polly Jane while I felt so provoked.

I _do_ think that Race Miller is one of the homeliest young men I ever set my eyes on: if I say so _now_, you may be sure it's true. His skin is almost as dark as an Indian's, and his hair curls up as tight as wool--you couldn't straighten it if you brushed his head off. Then his eyes are blue and twinkly, and he has a short nose, and a great, broad mouth, that, whenever he laughs, opens wide enough to swallow you; to be sure, it is filled with nice, white teeth, and has a good-natured expression; but his teeth are so strong they look as if they could bite through a tenpenny nail; and when he answers out in Bible class, and comes to the long words, such as 'righteousness' and 'Jerusalem,' it really seems as if they were something good to eat, he crunches them so with those great teeth of his!

You'll wonder how he came to have such a ridiculous name as _Race_. His mother named him Horace, after somebody in a book, but as none of her connection owned the name, nor anybody else in this part of the country, it didn't come natural to call him by it, so they shortened it down to Race, to make it handy. I suppose _I_ oughtn't to say much about names, however, for _Dimpey_ don't amount to much; but that isn't _my_ fault; I was christened with a right pretty name--Phebe Ann! but Cousin Phebe lived with us when I was little, and it made a sort o' confusion to have two of us, and my cheeks were so full of dimples that Calanthy--she's the oldest of us children, and has kept house ever since mother died--well, she called me Dimpey, and the rest took it up, and so I suppose I shall be Dimpey Swift to the end of the chapter--that is, not Dimpey _Swift_ exactly; but I forgot, I was telling about Race Miller.

I was so vexed with Polly Jane for even hinting that he was a match for _me_, that I jerked out the weeds with all my might, and I do believe our Persian pink border never was so clean before or since; when I came in, there wasn't a weed left in it, big or little!

Now the fact was, I couldn't help knowing I was _tolerable_ good-looking by the way the boys manoeuvred 'round to walk home from singing school with me, and by their staring at me in meeting when they ought to have been looking at the minister. I used to try and keep my eyes fast on my hymn book, but it seemed as if I could see right through the lids; and I knew well enough that when Ned Hassel bent down his head and pretended to be picking out his notes in 'Sacred Psalmody,' he was peeping at _me_ all the time. I suppose I was a little spoiled by having so many beaux, for Calanthy was a regular old maid: you mustn't ever mention it, but she'd been disappointed once, and wouldn't keep company with anyone after that; and Polly Jane had only one sweetheart, and I didn't think much of him, though he _was_ the schoolmaster, and knew more than all of us put together. He was kind-a slow in his speech, and a good deal bald; his hair never came in right well after he had the typhus fever; but John Morgan was a real good fellow for all that, and I was a little fool not to know it.

Well, I stooped over the flower beds till I was tired and 'most melted, and I was just thinking of giving up, when Calanthy called to me from the kitchen door, 'Don't stay out in the sun any longer, Dimpey; you'll have time to cool before dinner, for father hasn't come in yet.' Calanthy always petted me considerable, for I was only a year old when mother was taken away, and Calanthy had to bring me up, and teach me everything about the house.

So I went through the garden out into the orchard, and sat down under the big Baldwin apple tree, to rest; it was a nice, shady spot, and there came up a breeze off the river t'other side the meadow, where father and the boys were mowing. The air smelt as sweet as could be of the new hay, and I took off my bonnet and sat down on the grass, and leaned my head against the tree; the bees were humming in the clover, and the sound made me sleepy, and I believe I must have dozed while I was sitting there. I don't know how it was, but all at once I saw a picture in my mind: I couldn't get rid of it, try my best. It happened long ago, when I was a little bit of a thing, but it all came back to me under that apple tree. It was when our old mare Peggy took fright at a tin peddler's wagon just as she was crossing the bridge at the foot of Smith's hill; what ailed the creature I can't tell, for she's as steady as clockwork generally. Dear me! I've ridden her ever since I was _so_ high! But perhaps it was the sun shining on one of the tins hanging outside the wagon, that reflected into her eyes and scared her out of her wits; at any rate, she gave a sudden spring, and pitched father right over her head; then she ran home as fast as she could go, and jumped over the fence into the dooryard. Calanthy wasn't well, and when she saw old Peggy come tearing along the road without father, she fainted away, and Polly Jane caught her as she was falling, and helped her on the bed in the spare room. I was sitting on a little chair in the hall, stringing beads; I thought Calanthy was dead, and commenced screaming like a catbird; and poor Polly Jane was almost distracted, and didn't know which way to turn. Race Miller was a boy about fourteen at that time, and as strong as a lion; he happened to be driving down the hill just as the accident happened, and he and the peddler lifted father into his wagon, and Race brought him home and then drove off for the doctor as quick as he could; he had two miles to go, but he did it in no time, and had the doctor there just as Calanthy fairly came to and was able to walk about.

Well, father wasn't hurt as bad as we thought--only stunned by the fall; he had a bad bruise on his cheek, though, and Dr. Basset said he must keep still on the bed all day, and have his face bathed with laudanum and vinegar. They were all so busy that no one thought about _me_, till Race came out of father's room and found me sitting on the low chair, rocking my doll in my arms, and crying as if my heart would break; I had felt so lonesome and miserable that I was holding the doll for company; and when Race saw me he said, 'Why, what's the matter with little Dimpey?' 'Is father dead?' said I; 'can't I go and see him?' Then Race told me father was better, and that I must not cry, and this made me cry more; so he took me up in his arms, doll and all--I well remember how strong his arms felt--and sat down in the big rocking chair in the parlor; and when the house was quiet, and Calanthy came to look for me, there she found us, I with my arms round Race's neck, and the dolly hugged up tight, and all three of us fast asleep!

But this was long ago, and I was a woman now, and a good deal sought after, as I said before, and some of my beaux were well off and good looking; and, if the truth must be spoken, Race had not paid me much attention lately, and did not seem to think as much of me as Ned Hassel did, and the other young men of our place. To be sure he worked very hard, for his father was sick a good while and died in debt, and their farm was mortgaged to 'Squire Stevens; and as Race was the only child, everything came upon _him_, and he was in the field early and late, trying to pay off the mortgage, and keep the old homestead for his mother. He _was_ a good son--that everybody said; but he didn't visit 'round as much as some.

I sat so long under the apple tree thinking of all this, that I got quite cool and comfortable, and when Polly Jane called me in to dinner I felt good-natured again.

While we were eating dinner, brother Joe said, 'Dimpey, as soon as we get through haying the boys are going to have a drive to Spring Mountain, and take the girls up, for a picnic. Ned Hassel started it; I guess he wants to show off his sorrel horses; but that near horse of his is as skittish a creetur as ever I see--I wouldn't ride after it, if I was you.' 'No, no,' said father; 'Dimpey isn't going to have her neck broken by _them_ beasts; Ned always drives 2.40, as he calls it, and he'll be sure to race with the other teams if they give him a chance.'

Now, if there is anything I _do_ like, it is riding behind fast horses! Father and Joe drive so slow I'd almost as soon walk, but whenever Biel and I went off by ourselves we made the dust fly a little; it didn't hurt our horses a bit, for they were in good pasture all summer, and got as fat as pigs. I thought in a minute how much I'd like to go with Ned; but I knew Polly Jane was watching me, go I said, sort o' careless like, 'I guess Ned could keep his horses from running if he wanted to; but he hasn't asked me to ride yet; it will be time enough to say no when he does.' Biel looked up and gave me a wink, and Calanthy said, 'You must let me know a day or two before you are ready, Joe, so that I can get some nice things made for you; our biscuits weren't quite light last picnic, and I felt really ashamed of 'em.'

Calanthy is so _thoughtful_--I wish I was more like her.

After dinner was cleared away, I concluded I'd walk down to Preston--we live about a mile out of the village--and get a new ribbon for my round hat. I'm so glad the old pokey bonnets are gone but o' fashion--the round ones are much more becoming to young people. I thought perhaps I would meet some of the girls at the store, and hear more about the picnic--and my hat was getting shabby for want of new strings, whether or no. Just by the hay scales I met Jim Burt, the lame basketmaker, shuffling along as usual with his baskets slung on his back. Poor Jim was real simple, and couldn't do anything but weave baskets; he and his mother lived alone in Rocky Hollow, away t'other side of Preston; they were as poor as poverty, but Mrs. Burt managed to scramble along somehow, and keep a home for herself and Jim; he hadn't wit enough to take care of himself, but was very fond of his mother, and would do as she told him.

I said good day to Jim, and was passing on, for I felt in a hurry to get to the store, when he called after me, 'I say, Miss Dimpey! don't your folks want any baskets? Mother's deown sick, and can't drink milk, and I want to get her some tea, and I hain't got a cent o' money; she paid eout the last for sugar abeout a week ago.' Poor Jim always speaks as if his nose had been pinched together when he was a baby, and had never come apart since; but when I turned around he looked so sorrowful, my heart ached for him.

'What ails your mother, Jim?' said I.

'She's got some kind o' fever, and her head aches awful; she wants to drink all the time, but she won't eat nothin'. I fried a slice of pork real good for her, but she didn't eat a mite!'

'Well, Jim,' said I, 'go up to our house, and tell Miss Calanthy about your mother, and I guess she'll buy a basket; we want a new clothes-basket, come to think.'

I walked on, but somehow I did not feel so much like buying ribbons as before I met Jim. I couldn't help thinking of poor Mrs. Burt, without any comforts for sickness, and no one to take care of her but this half-witted son; however, I comforted myself by supposing the neighbors would not let her suffer, and that Calanthy would likely give Jim something good to take to her.

When I got to the store, who should be there but Abby Matilda Stevens and Rhody Mills! Abby is generally thought _a beauty_, because she has great black eyes that are always so bright and shiny I wonder the hens don't try and peck at them; then she is tall and slim waisted, and her hair is as black as a coal, and longer than common; but I never liked such dreadful _sparkly_ eyes, do you? I think the kind that have a sort o' hazy look come into them--like the pond when a little summer cloud passes over the sun--are a great deal handsomer. However, I never dared to say so, for fear people might think I was jealous of Abby Matilda.

Rhody Mills is a very good-natured girl, and always ready for a frolic, and the moment she saw me she said, 'Here comes Dimpey Swift now;'--they had been talking about me, I guess;--'oh, Dimpey, are you going to the picnic on Spring Mountain?'

'Our boys were talking about it at noon,' said I; 'I suppose some of us will go--Polly Jane or I; I don't much think Calanthy will.'

'I wish we could go on horseback,' said Rhody; 'that would be real fun; but our Will says we must have a wagon to carry the baskets, so we had better all drive.'

'Who are you going with, Dimpey?' said Abby Matilda.

I knew well enough _who_ would be likely to ask me, but as I had no invitation yet, I answered, 'Oh, Joe or Biel, I suppose; father won't trust me with anyone else!'

'Well, thank goodness, _I_ can ride with whoever I please,' said Abby; 'I should think you were old enough to take care of yourself, Dimpey, if you're _ever_ going to be;' and Abby Matilda tossed her head, and rolled up her shiny eyes in that hateful way she has.

'_I_ wouldn't ride with some of the boys if they were to ask me, said Rhody; 'Will is a real good hand with horses, and he says that the tricks some people play with their animals are enough to ruin the finest horse ever was raised.'

'Who do you mean by _some_ people?' said Abby, and she looked right scornful.

Rhody laughed: 'I didn't mention any names,' said she; 'but I know good driving from harum-scarum, wherever I see it.'

'_I'm_ not afraid to ride behind any horses in _this_ part of the country,' said Abby; 'and I think all cowards had better keep off Spring Mountain!'

I felt my face turn red; but I wouldn't please the spiteful thing by saying a word; so I bought my ribbon and started for home. I had to pass Mrs. Miller's farm on my way, and as I came along by the stone fence, I heard a great gee-hawing; they had just finished loading up the hay cart, I suppose, for Hiram--the hired man--turned the oxen toward the barn as I came up, and Race stood leaning his arms on the fence, and looking up the road; it's likely he was tired and hot, for he seemed to me uncommonly homely, and I was such a goose then, I thought _looks_ was everything. He seemed to be thinking mighty hard of something, for he didn't see me till I got close to him, and then he gave _such_ a start, and his face grew redder than ever!

'Good day, Dimpey!' said he; 'how are all your folks?'

'Very well, thank you, Race.'

'Ain't you going to stop and see mother a minute?'

'I can't, to-day; I've got some sewing to do before dark.'

This was nothing but an excuse--I'll own it now; for I knew I could easily trim my hat next day; but I was so afraid that Race might ask me to go to the picnic with him, I felt in a hurry to get away; so I said good-by pretty quick and went on before Race had time to say anything more.

When I got home, the first thing I saw was a new clothes-basket standing on the ironing table; and Calanthy called to me from the hall, 'Run up stairs and take a rest, Dimpey, for I want you to go to the Hollow after tea, and see Widow Burt. I guess she's very sick, from what Jim says; and Polly Jane and you had better go and find out what help she needs.'

Now I had been thinking all the way from Preston, that Ned Hassel would certainly call in the evening, to ask me to the picnic, before the other boys got a chance. So I expect I answered a little cross, 'Dear me! Calanthy! 'way down there to-night; won't to-morrow be time enough?'

'Why, yes, dear,' said Calanthy, 'if you are too tired; but I was afraid the poor soul might be suffering, for Jim's nobody in sickness, you know; and I don't like to have Polly Jane go alone. Besides, there's such a big ironing to do to-morrow, I can't well spare you in the morning.'

Calanthy spoke so kind, I felt ashamed of my bad temper; so I answered, 'Very well, Calanthy, I'll go to-night; I'm not much tired.'

After tea Polly Jane and I set out; we had a little basket with camphor and mustard, and other useful things Calanthy had put up for Mrs. Burt: it is a beautiful walk through the Hollow, and I should have liked it very much if my head had not been so full of the picnic that I couldn't think of anything else. We didn't go through the village, but turned off the main road into a lane that cut off a part of the distance. I was a little ahead of Polly Jane, for she _would_ carry the basket, and we had just got into the lane when she said to me, 'Look back, Dimpey; here comes one of your beaux!' I turned around, and saw Ned Hassel on one of his fast horses. He pulled up at the corner and called out--his voice was a little too _loud_ and confident like, I must confess--'Good evening, Polly Jane; good evening, Dimpey; are you going to take a walk in the woods, so near sundown?'

It provoked Polly, I suppose, to hear him speak so bold, for she answered, very short, 'No, we're going on an errand.'

He didn't seem to notice, but looked at me, and said, 'I was just on my way to your house, Dimpey, to ask your company to the picnic next week; I suppose Joe told you about it? We're going to set out early, and have a real good time; I mean to take my fast team and the light wagon, and we can get up the mountain before the others have fairly started.'

Polly Jane spoke up again--she never could bear the Hassels, and always said they were the greatest braggarts in our county: 'That would be great fun, for you and Dimpey to get ahead of all the company! I thought picnickers always kept together.'

Ned colored up and looked angry, but he only said, 'Will you engage to ride with me, Dimpey?'

If Polly Jane had not been there, I should have told Ned to ask father if I might go; but I couldn't bear to have her think I wanted Ned for a beau; so I answered, 'I don't know yet whether I can go or not; I'll see what our folks say.'

'Well, Dimpey, I'll come over to your house to-morrow night; I guess you'll go; good evening,' and away he galloped.

'_Guess_ you'll go, indeed!' said Polly Jane, as soon as he was out of hearing. 'I guess she won't go with _you_, Mr. Impudence! You're not going to make a fool of our Dimpey, and break her neck besides, not if her father knows it, _I_ can tell you.'

It isn't often that Polly Jane speaks out so spunky, but I expect she was vexed because he didn't answer her; as for me, I could have cried to think that things happened so, and I felt almost angry with poor Widow Burt for being sick, and taking me away from home that evening. It was awful wicked, but I was well punished for it afterward.

'It's _too_ bad in you to talk so, Polly,' said I, 'as if I was a child six years old! I wonder _why_ it's impudent in Ned to ask me to ride with him; you wouldn't say so if it was any one else; but you hate poor Ned--you know you do,' and here I broke down and really cried; but they were spiteful tears, after all.

'There, now, Dimpey,' said Polly Jane--she was over _her_ pet in a minute--'don't feel bad; I didn't mean to be cross to Ned; but he has such a bold way of talking, as if he thought nobody could refuse _him_, that he always makes me angry, and I can't help it. But you _shall_ go to the picnic, dear, whether he takes you or not; there will be plenty glad to ask you; so kiss me, Dimpey, and I won't tease you again.'

I let her kiss me, and then walked on sullen enough till we came to Mrs. Burt's. The house was a forlorn old place, with only one room and a bedroom, and a garret next the roof, where Jim slept. The door of the living room opened out into a shed, where Mrs. Burt did her work in summer time. The trees grew close up to the shed, and the well was under it; and as we came up, who should I see but Race Miller, drawing a bucket of water to fill the teakettle, while Jim kindled a fire in the stove. There _did_ seem to be no end of vexations that day, and I wished myself a hundred miles off.

'Why, Polly Jane! is that you? I didn't think of seeing you down here to-night--and Dimpey, too! We heard that Mrs. Burt was very sick, and mother had tea early, and we came over to see how the poor soul was.'

'Is your mother in the bedroom?' said Polly.

'Yes; we've fixed Mrs. Burt up in the rocking chair, and mother is making her bed. I want to get a cup of tea made for her as quick as I can, for she has a good deal of fever, and is thirsty all the time. Come, Jim! set on the kettle, and we'll have it boiling in no time.' And Race stooped down and blew the fire with his mouth till it blazed up nicely.

'I'll go help your mother, Race,' said Polly Jane. 'You sit down, and rest, Dimpey; you've had walking enough to-day;' and she went into the bedroom, and left me alone with Race. Jim didn't count for anybody.

Race stepped in the room, and brought out a chair; he put it just outside the shed door, and said:

'Sit down there, Dimpey, that's a nice cool place.' I sat down, and he took a seat in the doorway, close by me. 'Dimpey!' said he, 'if mother hadn't wanted me, I meant to go up to your house to ask you if you'd give me your company to the picnic on Spring Mountain. You know we talk of having one next Wednesday, don't you?'

'_There!_' thought I; 'what am I to do now? I daren't say I'm engaged, for fear father won't let me go with Ned Hassel; and besides, I didn't promise Ned; so it would be telling a lie.' Then I thought how pleasant it would be to ride with the fast horses, and--I may as well own it--to pass Abby Matilda on the road, and let her see I could do as I pleased, and that I wasn't a coward, I didn't speak for a minute, and then I said:

'I believe I'm engaged already!'

The words seemed to come out before I knew it. Race didn't speak, and I felt so guilty I never raised my eyes, but made believe I was sorting some wild flowers I'd picked in the Hollow. Jim came out just then with the teapot in his hand, and drawled out:

'That pesky kettle deont bile yet. 'Pears to me it's tarnal long abeout it; it ollers acts contrairy when mother's in a hurry for her tea!'

I couldn't help laughing, and as I raised my head, I caught Race looking at me as if he'd look me through and through. His eyes seemed twice as big as common! He got up, however, without saying anything, and went to making the tea, and at that minute Polly Jane came out of the bedroom, and told us Mrs. Miller thought that Widow Burt ought to be watched, and said she would stay all night if Polly would stay too. 'So,' said Polly, 'if Race will take you home, Dimpey, I'll watch with Mrs. Miller. Race spoke up quick, and said, 'Certainly; he'd see me home,' and it was growing so late I couldn't say anything against it. As soon as he found he could do no more to help them--(he _is_ one of the handiest men about the house I ever saw, I must say _that_)--Polly said we'd better go, for Calanthy might feel uneasy. Before we started, she drew me to one side, and whispered:

'Dimpey! I wish you'd tell John Morgan how sorry I am to break my promise to walk with him to-night; but Mrs. Burt is very sick, and Mrs. Miller couldn't get along without me.'

I thought to myself--'What a wicked little thing I am ever to get angry with Polly Jane, when she isn't a bit selfish, and always ready to do good. It's real hard to give up her walk, for John teaches three evenings in the week, and can't always get a chance to go with her!' So I spoke as pleasant as I could, and kissed her for good night, and then set out to walk home with Race Miller.

I have been through Rocky Hollow a great many times, but I shall never forget that walk! The evening was clear and bright, but it was pretty dark in among the willows. Race put out his hand once or twice to help me over a big stone or log, and said:

'Take care, Dimpey! don't go so fast, or you'll hurt your little feet against the stones.'

My feet are not so very little, but I expect he thought so because his own are so big. I suppose it was foolish, but he seemed such a stout, strong fellow, I felt as if he wanted to take me up, and carry me like a baby; but may be he never thought of such a thing.

When we got out in the road it looked quite light; there was a glow on the sky where the sun had gone down, and one bright star had come out just over Spring Mountain, and seemed as if it was keeping watch over the spring--I mean the spring on the top of the mountain that gives it its name. Everything was still, except the crickets that kept up a great singing among the trees. I always liked to be out in the starlight, and should have felt happy then, only things had gone crooked with me all day, and nothing seemed to please me. Uncle Ezra--he's our minister, and one of the best men that ever lived--_he_ says it's always so when we haven't done right ourselves--and I really believe it is--for I remember how discontented I felt that night.

Presently Race spoke:

'See that star over the mountain, Dimpey! don't it look handsome up there all alone? By the by, who is going to wait on you to the picnic--you didn't say, did you?'

I was so vexed at the question, I'd a great mind to answer,'It's none of _your_ business, Race Miller, who I go with,' but just then, I can't tell why, the thoughts I'd had in the morning out in the orchard all came back to me, and I remembered how Race had given up coming to ask me because his mother wanted him; and then I thought how good he was to his mother, and waited on her as if she was a pretty young girl. And what would _my_ mother say, if she was living, to hear me speak so. Father always said _she_ never gave any one a cross word in her life! I looked up at the star, and it appeared to me that mother might be up there watching me, and knowing all my thoughts; and instead of answering Race, I put down my head and burst out crying. I'd wanted to have a good hard cry all day, and now I would have given the world to stop, and I couldn't.

'Why, Dimpey!' said Race, 'what _is_ the matter?'

I couldn't speak; we were passing a big maple tree, and I stopped and hid my face against it, so that Race couldn't see it. He let me cry a few minutes, and then took hold of my hand as gentle as a little child, and whispered, 'Don't cry, Dimpey! I can't bear it. I'm afraid I shall do something rash, if you don't stop soon!'

I didn't know what he meant by 'something _rash_,' but his voice sounded so earnest, it frightened me. I took my hand out of his, and wiped my eyes; and then I said, 'It's very shallow to cry when one's head aches; but I couldn't help it.'

'Does your head ache, Dimpey?' said Race; 'oh, how sorry I am I haven't my wagon here. I'm afraid you can't walk home.'

Now, my head _did_ ache; but it was because I had been crying; but you see, if one leaves the truth ever so little, how deceitful one has to be to keep it up. I felt real _mean_ when Race showed so much concern about me, and told him I could walk very well.

'Won't you take my arm?' said he; 'that will help you.'

I couldn't refuse, though I was dreadfully afraid we might meet somebody. We walked on in silence for a while, and I could feel Race's heart beat against my hand that lay on his arm, for he held me close to his side, as if I was in danger of falling. Presently he said:

'I only asked who you were going with, Dimpey, because I wanted you to have a good time; if I can't have _your_ company, I don't care to go; but I hoped you would enjoy yourself.'

Race spoke so honest it made me feel ashamed of my ugly spirit, and I answered:

'Edward Hassel asked me to go with _him_; but father's got a notion he drives too fast, and perhaps he won't let me ride with him.'

I felt Race give a kind of shiver; and when he spoke again, his voice trembled like everything.

'Dimpey!' said he, 'you musn't think I'm jealous of Ned; I want to see you happy, but I _am_ sorry he asked you first, for it's a dangerous road up the mountain, and Ned _does_ drive too reckless, that's a fact; I hope he don't mean to take them young sorrels of his?'

Now, I know I ought to have told Race the whole truth; but I was so afraid he might say something to father; I only answered:

'Oh, I guess Ned will be careful enough; he goes up to High Farm very often, and his horses are used to the road.'

'Yes,' said Race; 'but the worst part is past High Farm; however, perhaps he'll be careful; so don't say that I interfered, Dimpey; for I don't want any words with Ned.'

He didn't say anything after that until we got to our gate, and then he spoke out so sudden, he made me start.

'Dimpey, if you knew--'

I don't know what he meant to say, for father was sitting on the doorstep, and called out:

'Is that _you_, Polly?'

'It's Dimpey, father,' said I. 'Widow Burt is very sick, and needs watchers; and Mrs. Miller and Polly Jane are going to sit up with her to-night.'

So we came in; and after talking a few minutes with father, Race went home.

I was up bright and early next morning, and worked as smart as I could to get things out of the way before Polly Jane came; for I knew she'd be tired, and she always would take hold till the work was done, no matter _how_ tired she was. While I was ironing, Calanthy went in the milkroom to work over the butter, so I had the kitchen to myself; and having no one to talk to me, I kept thinking of all that happened the night before. I had my own share of curiosity, and I couldn't help wondering what Race Miller had been going to say when father interrupted him: 'If I only knew'--what? Was it something about Ned, or himself? I turned it over in my mind twenty times, like a sheet of paper; but the same side always came up, and there was nothing on it.

It was ten o'clock before Polly Jane got home, and I was right glad I'd worked so hard, for she looked worn out--and no wonder! Calanthy had some nice hot coffee and cream cakes ready for her; but she was so sleepy she could hardly eat anything. She said that Mrs. Burt had passed a miserable night, and toward morning had got out of her head, and was so wild and restless they could scarcely keep her in the bed. As soon as it was light they sent Jim for Dr. Basset, and he gave her a strong dose of morphine. Mrs. Miller had to go home, and when Mrs. Burt fell asleep, Polly left Jim to watch her--he was as faithful as a dog, poor fellow!--and went in to Preston to try and get somebody to stay with her through the day. Polly Jane went first to 'Squire Stevens's, thinking that Abby Matilda had less housework to do than most of the girls; her mother kept a hired woman, and perhaps she'd be willing to go for _one_ day; but Abby was afraid of catching the fever, and said 'they'd better have Widow Burt taken to the poorhouse at once, for _nobody_ would like to stay in that damp Hollow and take care of her, poking their eyes out in the dismal old house!'

'I was so provoked with the unfeelin' thing,' said Polly Jane, that I told her 'I didn't know as the damp would hurt her _bright_ eyes any more than my _dull_ ones; and if the house was dismal, so much the more it needed some one to brighten it up.' I didn't waste many words on her, however, but went on to Mr. Mill's as fast as I could; but for a wonder, Rhody wasn't home; her cousin Hepsy came up from Four Corners the day before, and carried her off to see their aunt Colborn, and she wouldn't be home until Saturday. I don't know what's to be done, Calanthy, unless you can think of some one we can hire for a nurse; the doctor says Mrs. Burt's going to have a hard fit o' sickness, and needs good care every minute.'

Calanthy sat down on the settee; she isn't very strong, as I told you, and has to rest considerable; but she's such a good manager, she gets through more work than many a ruggeder one; and when she's puzzled she always drops down on that old settee a minute or two, and she's sure to think the matter out directly. Presently she said:

'Why wouldn't Betsy Mix do? She makes store shirts now, you know, and she could bring her sewing with her. I dare say she'd like a change of work, she _sits_ so much.'

'Yes!' said Polly Jane; 'but who's to go after her? the boys are too busy haying, and want the horses besides; oh, come to think, I guess we can manage it. I'll run 'round to the schoolhouse and tell John, and he can dismiss a little earlier at noon, and get Mrs. Miller to lend him her wagon and old Bob. I saw Bob in the pasture as I came along; and if Betsy will come, John can drive her right down to the Hollow, and she and Jim can get along to-night, at any rate.'

'I'll go and tell John,' said I; 'you're too tired, Polly.'

But Polly Jane insisted upon seeing John herself; and when I thought of his disappointment the night before, I didn't wonder, so I said no more. Calanthy filled a basket with things to make Betsy Mix comfortable, and John went after her and took her down to Widow Burt's; when he came back, he said he left Mrs. Burt more quiet, and poor Jim quite happy helping Betsy get dinner ready for herself and him. Calanthy had put a dried apple pie in the basket; and when Jim saw _that_, he sniggered in his simple way, and called out:

'Golly! Miss Mix! a piece o' that air pie will taste good, _weont_ it, now?'

We all laughed hard at Jim's speech; and then John went away, and Polly Jane consented to lie down and rest.

After dinner was cleared away, I set to work to trim my hat. I'd found a real pretty ribbon at the store--brown, with bright blue stripes. Perhaps I gave a _little_ too much for it; but it was a great deal handsomer than the others they had, and then it was a better quality; and a good ribbon _wears_ twice as long as a poor one, so it comes to about the same thing in the end. As soon as I had fastened the rosettes at the ears, I tried it on to see how it looked. It was so becoming, that I thought to myself, 'When I get on my blue muslin, and a white ruffled mantilla, and _this hat_, I shall look as well as any one at the picnic!' I suppose you think I was a _vain_ little thing, and so I was, but I hope I've got over it now.

Polly Jane had a good long sleep, and woke up as bright as a button. And, when John Morgan came over after tea, they started for a walk, as happy as could be. I stood in the door, as they went out the gate, and I thought, 'John _is_ a good young man, that's certain, but I _do_ wish he was rather better looking. I don't see how Polly can fancy him for a steady beau.' Just at that minute up galloped Ned Hassel on the gray sorrel. He saw me at the door, I know, though I ran into the parlor, and took up my stocking, and began to knit it as fast as I could. He made his horse dance and caper before he got off. More fool he! for father sat on the porch, and was looking at him all the time! When he came in, he had a beautiful color in his cheeks, and his eyes were as bright as diamonds; and, as he pushed the hair off his forehead, and said 'Good evening,' he looked as handsome as a picture, and I thought I was _almost_ in love with him. Much I knew about love, _then_. But we've all got to learn.

After talking to father and the boys about the harvest, and the election, and such things, he turned to me and said:

'Will you ride with me to the picnic, next week, Dimpey?'

I looked at father, and he answered:

'I think you've chosen a dangerous place for your picnic, Ned! When young people get in a frolic, I'd rather it wouldn't be on Spring Mountain.'

'Oh! there's no danger,' said Ned, 'I go up to High Farm two or three times a week, and I never had any accident.'

'Yes,' said brother Joe, 'but we're not going to have the picnic at High Farm. The road does well enough till you get past there; and _I_ think we'd better walk the rest of the way.'

'How would we get the provisions up, I wonder?' said Ned. 'It would break our backs to lug the baskets to the top of the mountain. I, for one, wouldn't undertake it at _any_ price!'

Father looked vexed, and said, 'Young men's backs must be weak now-a-days. I think it's a risky thing to drive up to the Spring, and I'd rather Dimpey wouldn't go _this_ time.'

I felt the tears come in my eyes, and I couldn't speak. Ned turned very red, and said nothing for a minute or two; then he spoke quite mild and pleasant:

'Can't you persuade your father to let you go with me, Dimpey? I promise to take the _best_ of care of you!'

I suppose father noticed that I felt bad, for he said, 'Do you want to go very much, Dimpey?'

I stammered out, 'Yes, sir, I'd like to go with the rest, if you was willing.'

'Well then, Ned,' said father, 'Dimpey may go, on one condition, that you drive your brown mare, and not either of them young horses.'

'The brown mare!' said Ned. 'Why, she's the slowest old poke in the county. It would take her till sundown to get there, and there wouldn't be much fun in that!'

'Very well,' said father, quite determined like, 'I shan't risk my Dimpey's neck on top of Spring Mountain after anything faster. So you can do as you please.'

Ned started up, and went right out the front door without saying a word! I couldn't believe my senses, that he was going off in that way--so disrespectful to father! I heard him speaking to his horse; and Bill remarked, 'Well, I've seen _manners_ before, but this beats all!' Father didn't open his lips; and, in a few minutes, Ned came back, and stood in the doorway.

'I thought that Lightning had got unhitched,' said he, 'but he's only a little uneasy. Good night, Mr. Swift, I'll be up here with the brown mare bright and early next Wednesday. The boys agreed to meet at the hay scales, at ten o'clock, and start from there, but the mare's so slow, I'll have to be in time. Could you get ready by half past nine, Dimpey?'

I said I could, and felt very happy that Ned had come back. So he said good night to me and the boys, and went off. When he was gone, Joe spoke out:

'I wonder if one of the Hassels ever told the truth; if he did, I guess it was by accident. Ned knew well enough that nothing ailed his horse, but he was so mad, he had to go out doors, for fear he'd boil over. If I was you, Dimpey, I wouldn't encourage him to come here much; for he's as deceitful as a cat-a-mountain!'

'Yes,' said father, 'I am afraid he's a chip of the old block; but I've passed my word you shall go with him, Dimpey, and I won't take it back, though I'd rather see you keep company with any other young man in Preston; that's a fact! I promised your Uncle Ezra I'd never have any more angry words with old Hassel, and I don't mean to. But I don't care to have any further dealings with the family than I can help. They're a slippery set. Reach me the Bible, Dimpey! and I'll get ready for bed.'

So father read the psalm, 'Fret not thyself because of evil doers.' I think he picked it out on purpose; and then he prayed that we might all lead better lives, and live in Christian fellowship with each other.

Now the truth was, he and Mr. Hassel had quarrelled long ago, about some land that Mr. Hassel had sold him. The title wasn't good, and father always thought Mr. Hassel knew it when he sold the land. They had a great many words about it, and put it into law; and father went to a good deal of expense and trouble. He and Mr. Hassel didn't speak for some time. But Uncle Ezra talked to him, and got him to be reconciled to his enemy. It all happened when I was a child, and I never just knew the rights of it. But I know that father was very glad when Mr. Hassel sold his farm joining ours, and bought another at the foot of Spring Mountain, where he has lived ever since. It troubled me very much that our folks felt so set against the family; for Ned was the best-looking young man in our place, and had such a dashing sort of a way with him, that he took my fancy considerable, and I must confess I was rather blind to his faults. I went to sleep that night with my head full of the picnic, and dreamed that I rode up the mountain on Ned's Lightning, and just as I got to the steepest part, the horse gave a jump, and tumbled me over its head right down the side of the mountain; and as I felt myself rolling down, down, down, I screamed so that I woke myself up, and Calanthy too, who ran in from her room to shake me. I often scream out in that way, if I have a bad dream. But I didn't tell the girls what I was dreaming about.

The next morning, as soon as the work was done, Polly Jane said she would go down to Rocky Hollow, and see how Widow Burt was getting on, and if Betsy Mix could do for her. She didn't get back to dinner, and Calanthy began to feel so uneasy, she said she would go herself and see what was the matter. I begged her to send _me_ instead, for I knew she couldn't bear such a long walk in the middle of the day. Father and the boys had both our steady horses in the hay field, and I couldn't drive the colt, so there was no way to ride. So at last she consented I should go, but told me to take her big parasol, and get back as soon as I could. When I got near the Hollow, I met Dr. Basset. He stopped his horse and said:

'Mrs. Burt is very sick, Dimpey; and I'm going after a woman to help Betsy Mix take care of her. She can't get along without help. Polly Jane will stay till sundown, but _you_ can't do any good. So, you'd better get in, and ride back with me; I'm going past your house.'

I was glad of a chance to ride home, so I got in the wagon, and asked Dr. Basset if he thought Widow Burt wouldn't live?

'I can't say for _that_,' said he; 'but she's a mighty sick woman _now_. She was out of her mind all last night, and I don't know what Betsy would have done if Race Miller hadn't come in. He saw how Mrs. Burt was, and stayed through the night, and he's so strong he could hold her when Betsy couldn't manage. Once she jumped out of bed, and wanted to go sit in the Hollow, and poor Jim would have let her climb a tree if she had a mind to. But Race lifted her back in the bed, and sang hymns to her till she was quiet. You know what a good voice he has. Betsy says it seemed to act like opium on Mrs. Burt!'

'What would become of Jim if she should die, doctor?' said I.

'The Lord only knows, Dimpey. I'm afraid he'd have to go to the poorhouse. I always hoped he'd be taken _first_; but we don't know what is best, and God does.'

Doctor Basset is a real feeling man. I can't see what Preston would do without him. So he took me home, and, after tea, Biel harnessed the colt, and went after Polly Jane. She said that Doctor Basset had been over to Pine Hill, and brought Mrs. Jessop back with him. She's a strong, hearty woman, and has had experience in fevers, and knows just what to do. The doctor told Jim he must mind what she said, if he wanted his mother to get well; and she had set him to work directly, as it was better to keep him busy.

'But,' said Polly Jane, 'I never saw such a fellow in time of trouble as Race Miller. He had been busy by daylight clearing up around the house, and making things look comfortable. You'd hardly know the old place if you could see it now. He came in again this afternoon, and I told him I didn't know how he could spare so much time from his own work; but he said:

'Why, you know, Polly, I've let out a part of our farm on shares this year, so I haven't as much hay to get in as usual, and I finished haying yesterday. Besides, Hiram is a right smart fellow, and won't neglect anything if I _am_ away.'

He wouldn't take any credit for what he'd done, but I thought to myself, 'I should think that any man who wasn't a real _shirk_, would be ashamed not to be smart if _you_ was looking at him!'

This was Wednesday. Mrs. Burt's fever never broke till next Monday, which was the ninth day, and then she was so weak they hardly dared speak in her room, and the doctor said her life depended on good nursing. Betsy Mix gave out, and went home; but Mrs. Jessop stayed. She could get along if any of the neighbors would come in for a few hours every day, and let her go to sleep. So, Mrs. Miller and Polly Jane helped her; and when Rhody Mills got back she went right out to the Hollow, and insisted on watching one night. The neighbors all sent things to keep the pot boiling, and I don't believe poor Jim ever lived so well or saw as much company in his life before. 'Squire Stevens's folks didn't help any, except one day Mrs. Stevens sent a loaf of bread that was so heavy Mrs. Jessop gave it to the pig. But then some people never have their bread _light_, you know; and perhaps she sent the best she had.

Well, Wednesday was the day for the picnic! John Morgan wanted to hire a wagon, and take Polly Jane; but she was tired going backward and forward to Rocky Hollow, and didn't care to go. Joe and Biel drove our steady horses, and Cousin Nancy and Rhody Mills went with _them_. I couldn't find out if Race Miller was going or not; but I didn't hear of his inviting anybody else. Calanthy roasted a nice pair of chickens for us, and her biscuits were as light as a feather _this_ time, and I made some _real nice_ cake, and Calanthy iced it for me; it looked beautiful! Polly Jane came home from the Hollow Tuesday afternoon, and said that Widow Burt had her senses, and was lying still and comfortable. She appeared to know all that had been done for her, and was very thankful; but Dr. Basset had forbidden her to speak much. He let her take hold of Jim's hand and tell him she felt better, and the poor fellow went out in the shed, and cried like a baby. Race Miller stepped in just then. He always seemed to happen along at the right minute, and he set Jim to work cleaning some fish he'd caught. The thought of a good dinner soon made Jim laugh again; but that's the way with simpletons, you know.

I do believe there never _was_ a lovelier morning than that Wednesday. It was as clear as a bell, but not nearly as hot as the week before. If the day had been made on purpose for a picnic, it couldn't have been a better one. I felt so glad Widow Burt was like to get well, and that father had consented to let me ride with Ned Hassel, and that my cake was so handsome, and everything else so good, I didn't know how to be happy enough! I went singing about the house till it was time to dress myself, and when I got on my blue muslin and my clean white mantilla, and had smoothed my hair till it shone like satin under the new rosettes in my round hat, I _did_ think I looked pretty nice. I couldn't help it; and when Ned drove up a little after nine o'clock, I felt as if all was going right at last. The girls kissed me good-by, and when father helped me in the wagon, I saw the tears standing in his eyes. He always said I favored mother very much, and I suppose he was thinking of _her_. He only said:

'Take good care of Dimpey, Ned!'

'Yes, sir,' said Ned, 'I will.'

And as I took my seat at his side, he whispered:

'If there's a prettier girl at this picnic than Dimpey Swift, I'd like to see her. You look like an angel, Dimpey! but I hope you haven't any _wings_, for we couldn't spare you just now!'

I was delighted at this nonsense; but I was young and foolish, and didn't sense what a goose Ned was with all his fine compliments.

The brown mare went along so fast, I thought we would not be much behind the rest of the company after all; and when we got to the hay scales, there was no one there! Ned stopped a minute, and then he said:

'Dimpey, I've got some currant wine in my basket; but I forgot the wine glasses. I think we'd better drive on to our house and get them, and we can wait there till the others come up.'

'But,' said I, 'you appointed to meet _here_. Won't they wait for you?'

'That's true. Just hold the lines, and I'll run in to Mr. Smith's, and ask him to tell them we've gone on, and will meet them at the foot of the mountain.'

So Ned ran in to Mr. Smith's, and out again in two seconds, and when he took the lines, he started off at such a rate, I wondered what possessed him, as we had plenty of time. However, I like to ride fast, as I said before; and to tell the truth, Ned was talking to me all the way about 'my beautiful eyes, and how proud he should feel if he had a wife with _my_ complexion;' and he asked me, 'if I didn't think we'd make a handsome _team_ if we were in one harness,' and all _such_ speeches, so that I got quite bewildered-like, and might have been riding behind a humpbacked camel without knowing it!

When we got to Mr. Hassel's, the old man was sitting on the steps reading the newspaper. He came to the gate to speak to us, and Ned said:

'You had better go in, and wait, Dimpey; the boys will not be here yet a while, and I want to fix my wagon more comfortable before we start to go up to the mountain.'

So Mr. Hassel helped me out, and asked me into the house. I should have liked to stay on the steps, where I could see the picnickers as they came along; but he went into the living room, which was at the back of the house, and I followed him. I sat down, and he began to talk of all sorts of things. I answered as well as I could, and pretty soon I heard some one shout at the front gate:

'Hallo, Ned! here we are! Where's your team?'

I heard Ned answer: 'Hallo!' and then run around the house. I couldn't hear what more he said; and then there was a great laughing, and a scraping of wheels, as if they were all driving past. I sat still, wondering why Ned didn't come for me. My face was so red when I went in the house, that I hardly dared to look at Mr. Hassel; but now I looked up suddenly, and he sat looking at me with such a strange sort of smile, I didn't know what to make of it. It's likely he knew well enough--but never mind that _now_.

Presently there was a great cracking of a whip and a whoaing in the door yard. I heard wheels moving fast, and Ned looked in the room, and said:

'Come, Dimpey! let's be off; the boys have gone on ahead, but we'll soon catch them up.'

I followed him out to the gate; the wagon was there, and I was astonished to see a _pair_ of horses harnessed to it, and a man standing at their heads; but before I had time to think, Ned had lifted me in, jumped into his seat, and taken up the lines. We were off like a shot, and I was actually riding behind the fast sorrels!

'Oh, Ned!' said I, 'what _does_ this mean? Didn't you promise father you wouldn't drive these horses?'

'No,' said he, 'I didn't make any promise. I only said I'd be at your house with the brown mare, and so I was; but I never said I'd drive her up the mountain. The sorrels will go nicely, and the boys won't say anything to your father, if you're not afraid.'

'But what would father say if he knew it; and Calanthy, too! Let me get down, Ned. I can't ride with you.'

But the more I begged, the louder Ned laughed and urged his horses. The ground seemed to fly from under the wagon, and in few minutes we caught up to the company. Now I know I ought to have told brother Joe I was riding against my will, and that I should have jumped out the moment I got a chance, but I could not bear to let the girls know how Ned had acted. So I sat still while he drove past them all; and I was even wicked enough to feel a little proud as we passed Abby Matilda and her beau! Ned kept making love to me all the way up to the farm. It sounded well enough _then_, but it makes me sick to think of it now. The horses went along like kittens, and he seemed to have complete management of them, and when he came to steep places, he drove so carefully that I could not feel as if there was any danger. It was very cool and pleasant among the trees, and everything smelled so fresh and sweet, it was delightful riding, and I tried not to think about father. Most of the company left their wagons at High Farm, and walked the rest of the way; but John Mills and Abby Matilda drove up to the top of the mountain, and so did a few others. We got safely to the spring, and when Ned helped me out of the wagon, he said:

'There now, Dimpey! don't the sorrels go beautiful? Your hair is just as sleek as when we started, and your cheeks are only a little redder, but that don't hurt 'em any.'

As he lifted me down, his face touched mine for a minute. I don't know that he did it on purpose, but I shouldn't wonder! I was glad to stoop down to the spring, and wet my cheeks, for they felt hot enough by this time. However they had time to get cool while Ned was unharnessing his horses, and presently Abby Matilda and her beau came along.

'Dear me, Dimpey,' said she, 'have you really got here without breaking your bones, and with Mr. Hassel's wonderful team, too?'

I was so provoked at the mean thing--I know she was jealous because Ned didn't ask _her_--that I never said a word; but Ned answered:

'My horses are not in the habit of breaking anybody's bones, Miss Abby, and if they were, they wouldn't pick out the belle of Preston to practise on--not while I'm master.'

Abby colored up, and flirted her head, as she always does when she's angry; but the rest of the company began to come up, and nothing more was said.

I'm not going to tell you much about the picnic, though it was a real nice one, and in such a beautiful place. Every one says there's one of the handsomest views in the world from Spring Mountain; you can see five villages, and the river winds so pretty among the hills; then you can count a great many church steeples, and there are such noble trees up there, and nice, shady places, and rocks to sit on, that it's the very spot for a picnic. We played plays, and told stories, and sang considerable; our Biel is a funny little fellow, and can imitate almost any animal: he kept us all laughing, till even Abby Matilda forgot her airs, and was quite pleasant. Then we had a right good dinner--cold chicken, and ham, and tongue, and lots of nice pies and cakes, and plenty of currant wine and milk punch, and the clear, good water from the spring. Calanthy's biscuits were so good everybody wanted them, and my Washington cake was praised to the skies, and I was as happy as I could be.

In the midst of the dinner our Joe spoke out--Joe _is_ good, but he don't always know when to speak.

'Where is Race Miller, boys? I thought he was coming with us? He didn't say nothing to the contrary, the other day.'

Ned Hassel was sitting next to me on the grass; he gave me a nudge, and answered, 'I shouldn't wonder if Race has got the mitten from one of the girls; I met him early this morning, and he looked as black as thunder.'

'Well,' said Abby Matilda--she _must_ have her say--'if I was a man, and anyone gave me the mitten, I'd have too much spirit to show it by keeping away from a picnic!'

'Pooh!' said Rhody Mills, 'what nonsense! like enough Race is hard at work for his mother or somebody else. He's always ready to help anyone that asks him.'

Well, the afternoon passed away, and when the sun began to get low, the boys said it was time to be going home. While Ned was harnessing his horses, something got tangled in the harness, and it took him a little while to fix it, so that the others that were riding started first. I saw Joe look back to see if we were coming, and that made me think of father again; I had never deceived him in my life, and I couldn't bear to think of it then; I wondered how Ned would manage, and whether our boys would tell father about the horses, and I was glad we were behind the rest, so that Ned would have to drive slowly, for the road was not wide enough for teams to pass each other. Now the picnic was over I felt very uncomfortable, and blamed myself more and more. However, we started directly, and soon overtook the rest. As we drew up behind the wagon that Abby Matilda was in, Ned said, 'What makes you so still, Dimpey; haven't we had a real good time?'

'Yes,' said I; 'but I was thinking what father will say when he hears you took the fast horses, after all!'

'What will he say? why, nothing, when he sees you safe and sound; besides, what's the use of telling him anything about it; he won't ask any questions when I take you home with the brown mare, and I'm sure Joe and Biel won't be mean enough to speak of the sorrels.'

I tried to feel satisfied, though I knew it was wrong; but I thought to myself, 'There's no help for it _now_.'

So we jogged along slowly till we came to a place where a thick clump of elders divides the road into two paths; it is just at the steepest part of the mountain, and the path on the left is very narrow, and right on the edge of the precipice. At that minute Abby Matilda looked around, and called out, in her spiteful way, 'It must be dreadful hard for Thunder and Lightning to keep in the rear; what a pity we can't let you pass us, _Mr._ Hassel!'

I suppose she vexed Ned, for he answered, 'Perhaps we _can_ do it if we try, _Miss Stevens_,' and before I could speak he turned his horses into the narrow part of the road! I looked down the side of the mountain, and it made me feel so sick and giddy that I put out my hands and caught the lines; this gave them a sudden jerk, the near horse started, and began to back--Abby screamed, and that frightened him more--I felt the wheel going over the edge--the bushes were close on the other side of the wagon--there was no place to jump--Ned dropped the lines and sprang out at the back--I remember seeing something break through the bushes at the horses' heads, and that is the last I recollect, for I fainted away and fell in the bottom of the wagon.

When I came to my senses I felt so strange and confused I did not know where I was; my head had a dull pain in it, and when I touched it, I found it was bandaged up, and my forehead felt sore and bruised. Some one took hold of my hand, and I heard a sobbing; I opened my eyes, and made out that I was on my own bed at home. Calanthy was standing by me, and Polly Jane sat by the foot of the bed crying as if her heart would break. I tried to think, but I couldn't get things right; and the picnic seemed like something that had happened a great while ago.

'What is the matter, Polly?' said I; 'is anyone hurt? Tell father I didn't mean to be deceitful; I'll go tell him myself.' I tried to sit up, but I fell back on the pillow. Calanthy stooped down and kissed me, and I heard her say, 'Lie still, my pet lamb. Father isn't angry with you; he's stepped out a minute, but he'll be back soon; drink this, and you'll soon be better.' She held a cup to my lips; I drank something, and then fell asleep directly.

I wasn't able to sit up for several days, and they kept me very still, and wouldn't let me ask questions; only Calanthy told me that Dr. Basset said I'd had a great shock, and it would take me some time to get over it. I had a cut on my forehead, too, but it healed up pretty soon. It seemed as if Calanthy and Polly Jane couldn't do enough for me, and whenever father came in the room he was as good to me as ever, and I could see that he could hardly keep from crying when I spoke to him. When I got well enough to sit in a rocking chair, and have my knitting work, father came in one morning, and brought Uncle Ezra with him. I was very glad to see uncle, though I was ashamed to have him know how vain and wicked I'd been; but I'd thought a good deal while I was sick, and I made up my mind to do right, whatever came of it. So I told him how wrong I had acted, and how sorry I felt for it, and then I asked him to tell me _how_ my life had been saved, and if any one was killed, and all about the accident. I had my memory by that time, and recollected all I have been telling.

Uncle Ezra took hold of my hand while I was speaking, and then he said, 'We have great reason to be thankful, my child, that we have you with us yet; you've had a narrow escape; but I'm sure it will be such a lesson to you that you'll never disobey your father again. You are young, Dimpey, and may have many years to live; but I hope you'll always be our own dear honest child, and make as good a woman as your mother was.'

Then Uncle Ezra told me that when Ned Hassel jumped out of his wagon, leaving me in it--the coward!--Race Miller pushed his way through the elder bushes, and caught the horses by their heads. They struggled, and threw him down; but the off horse fell with him, and partly on him. This jerked the wagon against the bushes, and the wheel, which was slipping over the edge of the road, caught against a big stone, which held it a minute. John Mills had jumped to the ground at that minute. He pitched the seat out of Ned's wagon, and he and Biel dragged me out of the back in less time than it takes to tell it. Then the traces all gave way, the horse that had fallen struggled to his feet, the wagon went over, and clattered down the side of the mountain, and the horses started to run, but were stopped by some of the boys who were walking. I had struck my head as I fell, and lay senseless, but our boys carried me down to High Farm, and got a large wagon and a bed to put me on. They _do_ say Joe pushed Ned Hassel out of the way, and dared him to touch me. In the mean time, John Mills and the others helped up Race Miller; but one of his arms was broken, and he was so faint he could not stand.

When Uncle Ezra told me this, I burst out crying, and felt as if I should die with sorrow; but father comforted me, and said Race was doing well, and was as cheerful as ever, and had asked them not to tell he was hurt, for fear it might worry me. Now wasn't he a noble fellow; and what did it matter if he _was_ homely? I felt some curiosity to know what had become of Ned Hassel, for no one had mentioned him while I was sick, but I didn't like to ask; however, I think father must have known my thoughts, for just as he was going out of the room, he turned back, and said:

'If you'd like to know anything about your 2.40 beau, Dimpey, he came up here the day after the picnic to ask about you; but I told him your mother's daughter didn't keep company with liars; and he'd better not show his face inside my dooryard, unless he wanted the boys to put him out. He blustered a little, but I guess he didn't think best to make much noise in _this_ neighborhood; so he took himself off, and that's the last of him.'

'Yes,' thought I, _I_ never want to see him again, I'm sure!'

The first time I went to meeting was on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, and if ever any one felt really thankful, I think _I_ did. Uncle Ezra preached a beautiful sermon, and every word of it seemed as if it was meant on purpose for _me_. I hardly dared raise my eyes, but I saw that Mrs. Miller was in her seat as usual, and I heard Race's voice among the singers. When we came out, Mrs. Miller walked right up to me, and kissed me before everybody. I had felt as though she must almost hate me; but she looked so pleasant, it brought the tears into my eyes.

'Do you feel quite strong again, Dimpey?' said she; 'I've heard from you every day; but I haven't been up to see you, because I thought you had plenty of company, and I had my big boy to take care of.'

'Is Race's arm 'most well?' said I.

'Here he is,' said Mrs. Miller; 'ask him yourself.'

I turned around, and there stood Race. His arm was in a sling, and he was paler than usual; but he smiled, and his eyes twinkled more than ever; and, would you believe it, he actually looked handsome! I tried to speak, and thank him for all he had done; but I choked, so I could hardly say a word. He walked along by my side till we came to our gate--it isn't far from the meeting house--then he said:

'Dimpey, will you do me a kindness?'

'Yes, Race,' I answered; 'I'd do you a hundred, if I knew how.'

'Well, then, just come over to our house, and take tea with mother; she's been waiting on me so long, I want to do something to please her, and I know you'll brighten her up nicely; _I'm_ such a dull fellow for company, you know.'

I didn't _know_ any such thing; but I ran and asked Calanthy if I'd better go, and she said 'Certainly.'

So I went home with Mrs. Miller and Race, and we had the snuggest little tea that ever was. Mrs. Miller makes the best muffins I ever tasted, and she had some ready mixed, and nothing to do but put them on the griddle. After we had done tea, she told Race to sit down in her big chair by the window, and not to stir out of it till she gave him leave. Then she gave me an apron, and said I might help her wash up the tea things, if I liked; of course, I was delighted to do it; and Race sat still, and looked at us.

'What are you smiling at, Race?' said his mother--they always joked together considerable.

'I was thinking,' said he, 'how funny it seems to sit here and be waited on; take care I don't grow lazy, mother!'

Mrs. Miller laughed, and said: 'Well, I _am_ a little uneasy about that--' and just then Hiram came in from milking, and she went into the milkroom to strain the milk.

I was folding up my apron, and I thought I mightn't have another chance to speak, so I said:

'I haven't thanked you yet, Race, for saving my life; but you believe I _am_ thankful, don't you?'

'Come here, Dimpey,' said he.

I walked toward him, for I felt as if he had a right to ask me; he got up from the big chair, and put me gently in it, and then took a little bench and sat down close to my feet.

'Are you glad to live, Dimpey?' said he.

I looked at him in astonishment at such a strange question; but I saw his eyes were full, and his lips trembling.

He said it again, 'Are you glad your life was spared, Dimpey?'

'Yes, to be sure,' said I; 'it would have been dreadful to die so suddenly; and oh, think how our folks would have felt, if I had been killed! And you too, Race! what could your mother do without _you?_ I am so sorry you were hurt saving _me_, and so thankful it was no worse,' and here my eyes ran over, and I stopped.

'Dimpey,' said Race, and his voice shook as it did that night in the Hollow, '_I_ ought to be very thankful for my mother's sake, that God has spared my life, and I hope I am _now_; but when I sat in the elder bushes on Spring Mountain, and saw you sitting by the side of Ned Hassel, and looking so sweet and innocent, I thought that the day you married him would finish all _my_ happiness on earth, and I should have nothing to live for but to take care of my good mother. You will tell me the truth now, Dimpey, I'm sure--will that day _ever_ come?'

'_Never_, Race!' said I; 'the lying coward! has he _dared_ to say so?'

I started up from the chair; and, I don't know how it was, I fell into Race's arms, and he sat down in the chair, and drew me on his knee as he did when I was a little child; and looking down on his broken arm, it seemed to me like my own old dolly, and I put my hands carefully around it, as I did around my doll in my childish trouble.

* * * * *

It is two years now, since Race and I were married; and I believe no one ever had a better husband! We live on the old homestead--it is one of the pleasantest places in Preston--the mortgage is all paid off, and we are as comfortable as any family need be. Mrs. Miller is as fond of me as if I was her own born daughter, and everybody thinks our little Phebe is almost too sweet to live--she is the picture of Race; but I think her curly hair and saucy blue eyes make her the handsomest baby I ever saw.

Widow Burt and Jim have come away from the Hollow; last year Race put up a new barn, and moved the old one down to the end of the lane--our boys helped him fix it up for a house, and Mrs. Burt and Jim live in it. They make baskets yet, and we find them very useful when we want extra help. Mrs. Burt is stronger than before she was sick; and poor Jim almost worships Race, and would run errands all day, if we asked him to--he thinks there is nothing like our baby on the face of the earth; and simple as he looks, she is always ready to go to him.

Race wouldn't tell me till after we were married, how he came to be hiding in the bushes on the day of the picnic; he always said I must _guess_--so you may guess too!

After all, I have reason to bless the day I went up Spring Mountain!

ENDURANCE.

At first did I almost despair, And thought I _never_ it could bear-- And yet I have it borne till now: But only never ask me _how!_

--HEINE.

JAPANESE FOREIGN RELATIONS.

[The article we are now about to offer our readers is from the pen of the well-known and highly-esteemed Dr. MACGOWAN, Honorary Member of the Archaeological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, Corresponding Member of the Societe Imperiale Zoologique d'Acclimation, Asiatic Society of Bengal, of the Agricultural and Horticultural Society of India, Ethnological Society of London, American Oriental Society, &c., &c., who was for more than twenty years a resident of the far East, of China and Japan. He has lectured on China and Japan before the most erudite audiences, and has never failed to give entire satisfaction. His lectures were delivered in New York under the auspices of the Geographical and Statistical Society, in compliance with an invitation drawn up by Chancellor Ferris, and signed by President King of Columbia College, Hon. Townsend Harris, late U. S. Minister to Japan, Hon. George Bancroft, Hon. Luther Bradish, Hon. Judge Clerke, Hon. George Opdyke, and other prominent citizens.

At the conclusion of the course, the following resolution, presented by the Rev. Dr. Prime, was passed unanimously:

'_Resolved_, That this audience has listened with great satisfaction, instruction, and delight, to the valuable and highly entertaining lectures of Dr. MACGOWAN on Japan, and that our thanks are eminently due to him for imparting to us in so attractive a form the results of his extensive travel, illustrated with curious and elegant works of nature and art from that remarkable empire.'

'On commencing his course of lectures in the Cooper Institute, Dr. MACGOWAN was introduced by the Hon. Judge Daly, who appeared as the representative of the Geographical and Statistical Society. Judge Daly said that 'the lecturer came before his countrymen with a well-earned European reputation, that his investigations had attracted much attention abroad, and in the matter of physical geography his researches were referred to in Humboldt's _Cosmos_, and his discovery and description of the egre or bore of the Tsien-tang River in China, occupies a large space in Maury's '_Physical Geography of the Sea_.'' Besides giving the Society's cordial commendation of Dr. MACGOWAN'S Lectures, the Judge expressed on the part of the Society, a deep sense of the importance in a national point of view of the lecturer's projected exploration in the far East.'-_Abridged Report_.

We could fill pages with such testimonials. We extract the following from notices of Dr. MACGOWAN'S lectures in Europe:

'A large number of Members of Parliament, A. H. Layard, Richard Cobden, John Bright, Sir M. Peto, T. B. Horsfall, Lord Alfred Churchill, and others joined in commending the lectures to Chambers of Commerce, Colleges, Literary and Mechanics' Institutions; and they were commended also to Young Men's Christian Associations by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

'They were delivered in various parts of the United Kingdom under the chairmanship of the Right Hon. the Earl of Shaftesbury, the Most Noble the Marquis of Cholmondeley, the Right Hon. the Earl of Cavan, the Right Hon. Lord Lyttleton, the Right Hon. Earl Strangford, Lord Henry Cholmondeley, the Hon. A. Kinnaird, M. P., Sir J. F. Davis, Bart., Sir Henry Havelock, Bart., Sir J. Coleridge, Bart., Sir Roderick I. Murchison, the Right Hon. and Right Rev. Lord Auckland, Bishop of Bath and Wells, the Lord Bishop of Oxford, the Bishop of Victoria, the Hon. and Rev. B. W. Noel, the Rev. Canon McNeille, Rev. C. H. Spurgeon, General Alexander, General Lawrence, Hon. Capt. Maude, R. N., and other public men.

'In Scotland, the Right Hon. the Earl of Kintore, Rev. Dr. Guthrie, Professor Sampson, Dr. Bell, and the Provosts of the principal towns.

'In Ireland, His Grace the Archbishop of Dublin, Lord Gough, Lord Roden, Lord Talbot de Malahide, the Right Hon. Judge Crampton, Sir W. Hamilton, Astronomer Royal, and the Right Hon. J. Whiteside, M. P. Under the auspices of the Lord Lieutenant, Earl of Carlisle.'

In China, while occupied as Medical Missionary and United States Consul, he published a newspaper in the Chinese language; in London, also, he rendered valuable service in vindicating our Government from the attacks of Lord Brougham and Sir John Bowring.

In all his various efforts, Dr. MACGOWAN received the highest commendation from the press, as well as from his learned audiences. We therefore call the attention of our readers to the present essay, on the important subject of 'Japanese Foreign Relations,' as from the pen of one familiar with the history and bearing of the questions of which he treats.--ED. CONTINENTAL.]

Strolling recently from Nagasaki toward the volcanic mountain Simabara, the writer was compelled to retrace his steps by the yaconins, or guards of the prince of Fizen, and thus he failed to accomplish the object he had in view--that of searching for the monument erected, it is said, to commemorate the expulsion of foreigners from Japan, and the suppression of Christianity, bearing an impious inscription, forbidding Christians and the God of the Christians from ever appearing in that 'Eden Minor.' Whether the monument still exists or not, it is certain that the spirit of the edict of Gongen Sama, which expelled Europeans forever from the country, and enjoined natives to slay foreigners, still actuates the ruling classes in the insular empire of the Pacific. Hence the exclamation of the daring and potent prince of Kago, who, in 1853, when the American treaty was before the Daimios, in council, placing his hand upon the hilts of his swords, said: 'Rather than admit foreigners into the country, let us die fighting.' He was overruled--a decade has elapsed, and his forebodings of evil have been realized. One of the results of the concession to Americans has been a despatch from Earl Russell to the British minister at Yedo, which says: 'It would be better that the Tycoon's palace should be destroyed than that our rightful position by treaty should be weakened or impaired.' When a British minister threatens to burn a palace, Eastern Asiatics know full well that the torch will be preceded by a bombardment and followed by _looting_, which in Anglo-Indian parlance means plundering. Thirteen ships of war, two of them French, are at Yokahama, within a few hours' sail of the palace which adorns Yedo, the proud metropolis of the 'Land of the Rising Sun,' awaiting an answer to a British ultimatum.

As the Japanese are neighbors of our countrymen whose homes are on our Pacific coast, we should not be so absorbed in the struggle to maintain our nationality as to be unmindful of the perils by which they are surrounded. While the subjugation of Mexico, by one of the Allied Powers, which aims at a general protectorate of the East, causes us anxiety, the prospective invasion of Japan by the other power cannot but be regarded by us with solicitude, for in its results it promises to open another 'neutral' port to facilitate the operations of other _Nashvilles_ and _Alabamas_ against our commerce. Assuming that we shall speedily avert the impending danger of foreign domination involved in the present contest, the various questions affecting American interests in Eastern Asia become fitting subjects for discussion, and at this moment the foreign relations of Japan particularly demand consideration.

At one period of their history, the foreign relations of the Japanese were of the most amicable character. In their treatment of the Europeans who first visited them, they were courteous and liberal. For a period of ninety years the Portuguese carried on a highly lucrative commerce, by which they built up the port of Macao, which has been styled the brightest jewel in the Lusitanian crown. To Xavier and his co-religionists they extended a cordial welcome. Bringing, as did the missionaries, a similar but more imposing ritual, with dogmas in many points analogous, but accompanied with the sublime teachings of the gospel, the propagation of the new faith was so facile, that a single generation might have witnessed the nominal christianization of the entire empire, had not fatal dissensions arisen among the different orders of the Portuguese, Spanish, and Italian missionaries. In consequence of these dissensions the country was closed to foreign commerce and religion for more than two centuries. A like cause led to the closing of China to Christian nations.

The edicts of Gongen Sama (founder of the reigning Tycoon family) not only prohibited the visit of any foreigner under penalty of death, but condemned to death any native who might return to Japan after going abroad, or being driven to another land by a storm. The vindictive code was no _brutum fulmen_, for not long after their exclusion, the Macao Portuguese despatched an embassy, nearly all the members of which, including attendants and ships' crews, were massacred. Of the sixty, only the menials, thirteen in number, were suffered to return.

A long period of exemption from foreign intrusion followed. With the present century commenced a series of private and semi-official visits from various nations. During their seclusion they ceased not to feel an interest in Western affairs, but, aided by the Dutch, they studied physical sciences and contemporaneous history. Thus they heard of the gradual approach of the irrepressible foreigner, the opening of China through the Opium War, the acquisition of Hong Kong by the English, the frequent appearance of American whalers off their coast, the rise of California, and the introduction of steam on the Pacific. These things must have suggested to thoughtful observers the necessity of modifying some day the institutions of Gongen Sama; indeed, the Dutch state that they counselled against resisting the demands likely to be made by mercantile powers for a relaxation of their prohibitive policy. Therefore it was that the not unreasonable requirements of Commodore Perry were complied with, which guaranteed succor and good treatment of distressed sailors, and the admission of a consul. This last concession was obtained with much difficulty, for they regarded it as an abandonment of their policy of isolation, and such it proved.

Our minister, Mr. Townsend Harris (then consul general), succeeded, after much resistance from the Japanese, in getting access to Yedo from his consulate at Simoda in 1857, his object being to negotiate a commercial treaty, which in the following year he accomplished. Many English writers endeavor to rob Mr. Harris of the honor which he gained in thus opening an empire to the commerce of the world. The Tycoon acquiesced, say they, while the echoes of the allied guns in north China were booming in his ears. Our minister is represented as holding the British and French fleets _in terrorem_ over the nervous Japanese, and obtaining, without the cost and odium of an expedition, the same advantages as if an American expedition had been despatched, and had been successful. The truth however is, the American treaty was negotiated, drawn, and ready for signature before he or they heard of the attack on the forts at Taku; and only signed at the appointed time, after learning that news. Now, however, finding themselves in a quandary, we see their highest authorities on this question pleading in extenuation the circumstance that they were 'driven by the Americans into making a Japanese treaty'!

The concession made by the Japanese, in the first place--of kind treatment of shipwrecked voyagers, and of facilities for the refitting of disabled vessels--was no more than we had a right to exact; perhaps, also, we may be justified in having urged them to admit a resident official agent to protect those interests. But if a nation deems it politic to isolate itself from all others, has any state the right to compel that nation to abandon its exclusivism, and to receive offensive strangers as residents? No publicist will answer this in the affirmative, nor do statesmen advocate such a claim; yet practically Christian nations have uniformly acted on the assumption that they might rightfully force themselves upon an unwilling people. It is however from the corollary involved in this assumption that weak peoples are made to suffer. It would avail the aggressive power little if its subjects were required to comply with all the laws of the country into which they had thrust themselves, for in that case the laws could be made to operate so as to thwart them in every important undertaking. Hence to the right of residing in a country contrary to the will of its government is joined the correlative, that of compelling the feeble state to abdicate its sovereignty to the extent of exempting the intrusive foreigner from local jurisdiction--of according the advantage of extra-territoriality. The pliant Chinese readily yielded to this new order of things on discovering that foreign nations possessed the will and the power to enforce it; but the intractable Japanese must have their spirit cowed by violence ere they can become resigned to the national degradation. It was soon discovered that the measure was highly unpopular: the functionaries who acceded to the demands of the hated foreigner forfeited their lives or their posts. Nobles who were intensely hostile to the regime, succeeded to the administration; and on them devolved the task of inaugurating a new era, of accommodating the institutions of their country to what they could not but regard as the first stage of a revolution.

The delicate undertaking, of reconciling the antagonistic principles of an encroaching commerce and of a feudal despotism, was committed to two diplomatists eminently fitted for its proper performance. Mr. Townsend Harris, who by long and patient study had conciliated the people and won the confidence of the Government, as United States consul general at Simoda, was appointed as American minister to Yedo; and Sir Rutherford Alcock, whose experience as a British consular officer in China dated from the period of the treaty of Nanking in 1842, was delegated as his country's ambassador to that metropolis, the capital of the Tycoon. Several difficulties were to be encountered at the threshold. First came a question of currency. Commodore Perry's treaty allowed foreign coins to be taken at only a third of their value, and under the new treaties our merchants found that by the rate of exchange the price of native products had been raised fifty to seventy per cent.; on the other hand, they were able to purchase gold with silver, weight for weight. The correspondence on this subject, written and verbal, plainly disclosed that the free extension of trade was not contemplated by those islanders. Next we find the Japanese gaining a diplomatic victory in the location of the foreign factories, having managed to have them placed at Yokuhama, instead of Kanagawa, the site stipulated for in the treaties, an arrangement which serves to isolate and almost imprison the foreign settlement; but as Yokuhama was the choice also of the mercantile community, the ambassadors could not well press their point--it went by default. It is the misfortune of Orientals generally, that in all their controversies with the English, the latter have been the historiographers, and therefore, in almost every step of their aggressive career, appear as disinterested champions of justice, seeking the improvement of semi-civilized peoples, by inflicting upon them wholesome and merited chastisement. Let it be conceded that the charges against the Japanese which we find in the Blue Book and in Sir Rutherford Alcock's 'Capital of the Tycoon,' are all well founded, and the resort to strong measures on the part of the British will be admitted to be justifiable.

These authorities narrate a series of murderous assaults, made upon Russian, French, Dutch, American, and British subjects in quick succession, indicative, we are assured, of a fixed determination of a powerful party to restore the regime of Gongen Sama. A party of Russian officers were insulted in the streets of Yedo, for which, in compliance with the demands of Count Mouravieff, a responsible official was degraded. To avenge this disgrace of a Japanese officer, some of his friends set upon a Russian officer and his servant, hacking them to pieces in one of the public streets. The next victim was a servant of the French consul, who was hewn down and cut to pieces in the street. This was soon followed by the murder of the linguist of the British embassy, a Chinaman; the sword which was thrust through his body was left in that position by the assassin. The same night there was an attempt to fire the residence of the French consul general. Two Dutch captains were next barbarously slaughtered in the streets of Yokuhama; one of the unhappy men was over sixty years of age. The French legation again suffered in the person of an Italian servant, who was cut down while quietly standing at his master's gate. Mr. Heuskin, secretary of the United States legation, was the first assailed of the diplomatic body. He was a valuable public servant, highly esteemed by natives and foreigners. A native of Holland, he was linguist as well as secretary, the Dutch language being the medium of communication. Despite various warnings against exposing himself by night, he, on returning home at a late hour from the Prussian embassy, was waylaid and hewn down, dying speedily of his wounds. Hitherto the English, personally, had escaped severe assaults; but, a few months after the assassination of the secretary, a midnight attack was made on the British legation, which, from its formidable character, showed that it contemplated the massacre of the entire body. The assassins met with a spirited resistance from the English and their Japanese guard. In that desperate encounter, Mr. Lawrence Oliphant, secretary of legation, was wounded severely, Mr. Morrison (consul, a son of the celebrated missionary) and two servants slightly. Of the Tycoon's guard two were killed and fourteen wounded. On the part of the assailants three were killed on the spot, two, who were captured, committed suicide by ripping themselves up, and several of those who escaped were wounded.

A subsequent attack on the British legation resulted in the death of two English sentries, one receiving nine and the other sixteen sword wounds. The last of these murderous assaults was made on three English gentlemen and a lady, who were riding on the Tokaido, where they were met by the cortege of Shimadzoo Sabara, prince of Satzuma. Being ordered to return, they complied, but no sooner had they turned their backs than they were set upon by the retainers of the prince, numbering between five and six hundred. The lady miraculously escaped, two of the gentlemen were wounded, and the third, Mr. Richardson, being nearly cut to pieces, fell from his horse, and when lying in a dying state, one of the high officials of the cortege commanded a follower to cut the throat of the unfortunate gentleman, an order that was quickly obeyed.

These sanguinary deeds were diversified by various attempts at arson--the latest, with aid of gunpowder, being successful. On the first of last February, the British minister's residence at Yedo was burned to the ground by armed incendiaries, who made their work more sure by laying trains of gunpowder, which caused a tremendous explosion; but as it was, the members of the legation were all at Yokuhama, and there was no loss of life except among the natives who tried to extinguish the fire--they were shot down by the incendiaries.

The inquiry naturally occurs, Are there no extenuating circumstances to be adduced on the part of the Japanese? Were there no acts of provocation on the part of foreigners? If we rely merely on the testimony of the complainants, the reply would be an unqualified negative. An impartial witness, however, finds no difficulty in presenting apologies, which have some claims to be considered as a justification of their conduct. The Japanese affirm that nearly every case of assault was designed to avenge personal insult. The linguist and the sentries of the British legation had perpetrated wrongs upon those by whom they subsequently fell. When the attack was made upon the sentries, it was by a solitary avenger, who stealthily crawled on his hands and knees until he reached and slew the offender; and he killed the other because this last attempted to prevent his escape. In like manner, the servants of the French official had committed outrages upon these vindictive people, from whose resentment they suffered.

It should be remembered that if these men, instead of revenging themselves, had sought legal redress, it could have been obtained, if at all, only at the hands of the masters of the aggressors, who would have been tried and punished, if convicted, according to the foreigners' code. The Chinese sometimes resort to our tribunals, but oftener submit to wrong; the nobler Japanese have a sense of honor which will not easily brook such an invasion of their rights.

With regard to the case which the English make the immediate _casus belli_--the murder of Richardson--there are contradictory statements; it is denied by the Japanese that he and his party turned back to make way for the prince of Satzuma's cortege; they say, on the contrary, that he was killed only after obstinate persistence in dashing through the cavalcade. Moreover, patriotism undoubtedly prompted many of the deeds of violence detailed in the foregoing record. Take for example the reason assigned by one of the assassins who was slain in one of the attacks on the British legation, as declared in a paper found on his body.

'I, though I am a person of low standing, have no patience to stand by and see the sacred empire defiled by the foreigner. If this thing from time to time may cause the foreigner to retire, and partly tranquillize the manes of departed mikados and tycoons, I shall take to myself the highest praise. Regardless of my own life, I am determined to set out.'

There were appended to the paper, from which the above extract is taken, the names of fourteen _Lonins_, or bravos. These impulsive patriots did not restrict their assaults to the aggressive foreigner, but assailed also the nobles who acceded to the foreigners' demands. Several times ministers of state were attacked in the streets, while surrounded by their retainers, and on each occasion many lives were lost in the fight which ensued. Indeed, continuing to follow English official authority, it would appear that the American treaties cost the lives of two tycoons, one regent, and several ministers and nobles, for the most part by self-evisceration. The assassination of the Gotairo, or regent, is fresh in the minds of the public. It took place at noon, while he was in the midst of his guard, on his way to the palace. His head, we are informed, was exposed at the execution ground at Miako, there being placed over it the inscription: 'THIS IS THE HEAD OF A TRAITOR WHO HAS VIOLATED THE MOST SACRED LAWS OF JAPAN--THOSE WHICH FORBID THE ADMISSION OF FOREIGNERS INTO THE COUNTRY,'--but which the Japanese affirm was never written. The sentence, however, seems to express the motives of the murderers. It is the aristocracy of the empire that is fiercely arrayed against an abandonment of the policy of isolation: that the populace is not particularly hostile, is evinced by the comparative immunity of foreigners from violence at the ports of Hakodadi and Nagasaki.

Why should the ruling classes seek to abrogate the treaties and defy foreign powers? The Daimios are not ignorant of the prowess and resources of the country against which they particularly array themselves: they are a well-informed and astute class, and cannot fall to see that feudalism and commerce are antagonistic--that free intercourse with foreigners is incompatible with the existence of the present form of government: and therefore many of them would fain revert to the conservative policy of isolation. More than four years ago, the writer of this article, then in Japan, although his opportunities of observation were limited, published the opinion that a revolution would be the inevitable result of the concessions that had been extorted from the tycoon; that civil war could hardly fail to take place, by which the government would be brought under the sway of one ruler, tycoon, mikado, or some powerful daimio, which would lead to the destruction of the feudal system, and to the introduction of Christian civilization, a consummation which we in the interest of the Japanese may devoutly wish, but which the daimios, having full knowledge of the same, must in self-defence resist to the last. Hence the English base their charge that the attacks on foreigners were instigated by the nobles, and perpetrated by their retainers, which remains to be proved.

Apart from the prospective evils consequent on an abandonment of the restrictive policy under which the empire has long prospered, there were immediate consequences which to a high-minded people must be galling and degrading beyond endurance. The treaties have robbed them of their independence: compelling them to abdicate sovereignty to the extent of absolving resident foreigners from Japanese jurisdiction. In various publications in the East and in Europe the writer has attempted to show how disastrous extra-territoriality has been to China; on the present occasion it will suffice to name this violation of a nation's rights as justifying resistance to the last on the part of patriots in Japan.

While for good political reasons some daimios have endeavored to render the treaties inoperative, and to frighten foreigners out of the land, there has been springing up among the people a strong antipathy toward them, for which they have themselves alone to blame. Who that read the glowing accounts of the reception at first accorded to our people, did not admire the suavity and hospitality of the Japanese? This friendly intercourse lasted only until the parties came to understand each other. Now, we are told that when a western man passes through the streets he is hooted at as 'Tojin baka,' a foreign fool, a gentler way of putting it than in China--where it is 'Fanqui'--foreign devil. The practical joking in which many foreigners are apt to indulge is often carried too far, and being accompanied by an arrogant demeanor of superiority, proves highly offensive. Again, we find the _Tojin baka_ often fail to discriminate between different classes of females. Discovering that the Japanese were lewd beyond all other people, with institutions fostering vice, without even the flimsy pretext of hygienic considerations, they take liberties which rouse the vindictive rage of husbands.

Palliation may be found for the alleged arson mentioned in the catalogue of complaints that have excited British indignation. In the question of a site for the residence of the ambassadors, the irrepressible foreigner demanded a celebrated temple, and its magnificent grounds, the Hyde Park of Yedo--a favorite place of resort of the citizens on holiday merrymaking. Recent accounts represent this cession of a popular place of recreation as having cost the tycoon much of his popularity, and as involving him in a controversy with the spiritual emperor, who, as Pontifex maximus, has exclusive authority over religious edifices. Yielding to pressure from above and below, the tycoon begged the ambassadors to consent to the removal of the buildings to some other site in the metropolis less obnoxious to the mikado and to the populace, all the expense of which the Japanese Government offered to pay. Only one of the buildings had been completed, that for the British legation. Colonel Neal, H. B. M. _charge d'affaires_, was solicited to give his consent, which he refused. Time was precious. The mikado's envoy was about to return with a final answer; it was necessary that something should be done to save the tycoon from the consequences of his disobedience. The knot was cut, as we have seen, by the torch and by gunpowder.

In the use of firearms the prejudices of the natives have been needlessly offended. Shooting game is not generally allowed to the people, yet foreigners here often been reckless in the pursuit of sport, regardless where they sought it, and terrifying the people. Again, riding on horseback is allowed only to the nobles, and it is a source of provocation to all classes to witness the equestrian performances of foreigners of every station in life, whose amusement at times consists in making pedestrians scatter as they gallop through crowded streets. Moreover, the Chinese servants in the employ of foreigners habitually insult and oppress the natives, presuming on immunity as retainers of the privileged stranger. As the Japanese hold the Celestials in supreme contempt, and as that feeling is fully reciprocated, collisions are the consequence, and it is pretty certain that the 'servants' of the legation who were murdered were offending Chinamen.

Guizot remarks, in his 'History of Civilization,' 'of all systems of government, it may be asserted, without fear of contradiction, that the most difficult to establish and render effectual, is the federative system--which eminently requires the greatest maturity of reason, of morality, and of civilization, in which it is applied. The very nature itself of feudalism is opposed to order and legality.' It was with the executive of a feudal federative system that European and American governments negotiated these treaties, a duplicate sovereign over six hundred and twenty feudal barons, commanding above two hundred thousand armed retainers, governing a people wanting in reason and morality. The existence of the theocratic element served further to complicate the machinery of government at Yedo. It may be questioned whether the ministers of the tycoon were ever heartily in favor of an abandonment of the policy of exclusivism. It is probable that they yielded to the demands made upon them, as the least of two evils, a refusal promising to involve them in wars, which might eventually lead to their subjugation to one of the least scrupulous of the aggressive powers. In the inauguration of the system, Japanese statesmanship was exposed to a severe ordeal. On one hand was the task of pacifying the native opponents of the fundamental change in polity, and on the other, the duty of evading, as far as possible, the concessions that had been wrung from them by the foreigner. Something answering to demagoguism is found in the Ultra Orient: there was not only the honest opposition of the patriot, but the factious hostility of the office seeker, against whom the ministry were called to contend. As a consequence, those who were responsible for the innovation soon lost their lives or their posts. Their successors found themselves, as is often the case in political changes, obliged, when in power, to carry out the general policy which, when in opposition, they decried. Instead of abrogating the treaties, they aimed, by evasions and restrictions, to render nugatory many of their stipulations. The _Japanese Herald_, an English mercantile newspaper, published in Yokuhama, gives the following list of concessions made to the Japanese Government:

'The right to trade in gold was given up; the right to exchange money, weight for weight, was given up; enforcing recovery of debts clause was given up; Ne-egata was given up; Yedo followed; non-circulation of dollars in the country unopposed; Kanagawa as a residence given up; land leases at the usual rate of the country given up; restrictions on employment of servants allowed without remonstrance; immunity from local jurisdiction endangered; and, lastly, Osaka given up on our own minister's representation.'

Still, the gioro, or council of state, failed to appease the factious opposition, and are charged by Sir Rutherford with not being really desirous of securing foreigners from injurious treatment even from the hands of their own officials. A candid observer, on reviewing all the circumstances of the case, will absolve the Government of the tycoon from the charge of complicity in the injurious treatment from which foreigners have suffered. It must be admitted that the Government were, as they protested, helpless in the matter. In almost every instance they failed to discover and punish the murderous assailants, who were screened by disaffected powerful daimios. They encountered obstacles, the same in character, but far greater in degree, in repressing the hostility toward foreigners which our authorities had in restraining aggression against natives; and further, it ought not to be forgotten that they acceded promptly to all the demands made upon them for pecuniary compensation as an atonement for lives taken and for wounds inflicted. Ten thousand dollars was sent through Mr. Harris to Philadelphia, for the widowed mother of the murdered Heuskin, and such was their regret for the occurrence that the Government would have paid manifold more, if our minister had seen fit to exact as much. English sufferers, or their relations, also received liberal compensation.

Menaced by the feudal aristocracy, and by the theocratic element of the Government, the tycoon's ministers could not but look forward to the period when, by treaty stipulations, the concessions which had been so fatal to their predecessors, and against which they had themselves inveighed, were to be extended to new ports. If the admission of foreigners into or near the metropolis or seat of the temporal authority had proved disastrous, what evils might not be expected when, by admitting them to Hiogo, or Osaca, they would be brought so near to the capital or seat of the spiritual power!

To avert, or rather to postpone this impending evil, an embassy was despatched to European countries with which treaties had been made, soliciting an extension of time (five years) for the opening of new ports. Mr. Harris easily obtained the assent of our Government to the reasonable request. Earl Russell acceded also, but required as an equivalent the strict execution of all the other points of the treaty; viz., the abolition of all restrictions, whether as regards quantity or price, on the sale by Japanese to foreigners of all kinds of merchandise; all restrictions on labor, and more particularly on the hire of carpenters, boatmen, boats and coolies, teachers, and servants, of whatever denomination; all restrictions whereby daimios are prevented from sending their produce to market, and from selling the same directly to their own agents; all restrictions resulting from attempts on the part of the customhouse authorities and other officials to obtain fees; all restrictions limiting the classes of persons who shall be allowed to trade with foreigners; and all restrictions imposed on free intercourse of a social kind between foreigners and the people of Japan. These all seem reasonable, and are only what the Japanese Government was already bound by treaty to fulfil; but as our Federal Government has found itself embarrassed by South Carolina's treatment of colored British subjects, so the tycoon's ministers find some of the feudal daimios nullifying or disregarding the treaty obligations of the general government.

If, however, a more conciliatory policy on the part of British residents had been pursued toward the Japanese people, if greater allowance had been made by English officials for the peculiar difficulties surrounding the Government to which they were accredited, and if more confidence had been placed in the good faith of the tycoon's ministers, it is certain that all opposition would have been gradually overcome. At one time a majority of the daimios had become reconciled to foreign intercourse; but the anti-foreign party has been increased and incensed by recent events; and there is danger that a compliance with the new demands of the foreigner will involve the country in civil war.

The treatment which the luckless envoys experienced on their return from Europe after a successful mission, shows how imperfectly the demands of the British minister will be complied with: we find official accounts from the Swiss embassy published in the _Dagblad_ of the Hague, that they were degraded from rank and dismissed from office; the secretary and linguist having been a pupil and friend of the writer, he perused their political obituary with much regret. However, office holding in the far East is not only an equivocal honor, but a precarious means of subsistence, which, as the aspirants fully understand, one can somewhat economize his commiseration. Why, they are used to it in that strange country. The last mail brings intelligence of the degradation of one hundred and ten office holders of all grades, from the proud minister of state down to the humble clerk. In this list of casualties, too, a friend and pupil turns up. Dr. Itowo Gambono was a fussy fellow, something of a politician and courtier, and never mindful of professional etiquette when it stood in the way of his advancement. His Imperial Majesty the Tycoon, a dissolute youth of nineteen, with three wives, is subject, of course, to various maladies. The court physician administered a prescription so nauseous that the royal patient kicked against the whole materia medica; and great was the consternation of the court, when Dr. Itowo Gambono, who had been engineering for the office of surgeon royal, allayed apprehension by making known his qualifications, and the palatable character of his prescriptions. He was installed in office; but trusting exclusively to the _vis medicatrix naturae_, and having been discovered in administering nothing but sweetened water, he suffered in the general proscription. A medical jury might render the verdict: Served him right for intriguing against his _confrere_.

The curious reader will be gratified with learning what some of the Japanese themselves have to say on the question of the relations betwixt the foreigner and their own Government, and it is not likely that the subjoined translation of a document, purporting to be a protest addressed to the tycoon's ministers, but intended as a complaint against them to the mikado or spiritual emperor, will be found too long for perusal:

'When you consulted us about the new relations into which we were to enter with foreigners, you told us, upon the authority of a certain Harisoo (Mr. Harris) the American, that the treaty would give us plenty and abundance. Both you and Harisoo said that cotton would be sold for a mere nothing, and that silk and manufactured goods would not cost us anything. The daily necessaries of life would be brought to our country from all quarters of the globe, and our farmers would not be required to sow and reap. We anxiously expect these miracles, and at present we enjoy advantages which you never mentioned, namely, that those articles which you and Harisoo promised to give us at very low prices are now three times as expensive as they formerly were. You told us that our treasuries would be always open to receive the enormous riches which our intercourse with foreigners would always give us. It is an undeniable fact that our treasuries have been always open, but, instead of receiving money, we have been called upon to sacrifice the little we possess. You monopolize the import and export duties completely, and we had a right to suppose that those duties which, according to your statement and those of your financier Harisoo, would enrich the Japanese nation, ought to cover expenses such as building fortifications and buying men-of-war, which you say must inspire the barbarians with the respect due to our country. But what have you done for the last three years? What has been the tenor of all your despatches? Japan must be fortified, fortifications must be built, the artillery and navy increased. Money is required. If we could only see those fortifications, those men-of-war, we would complain less about expenses; but everything is proposed and nothing executed. You think that drawings and plans will scare foreigners, and cause them to flee from our country; but we doubt it, for they really equal us in this art. You sometimes talk to us about political economy; we candidly own you give us excellent advice; unfortunately we have numerous proofs that you do not follow the precepts that you give us. Why was such an incredible sum of money spent for all the vain and useless pomp which accompanied the sister of the mikado on her journey to Yedo, preparatory to her marriage with the tycoon? Why was so much money wasted in rebuilding the palace of the tycoon? We shall not mention the various ways in which the public money is wasted, as this would cause the nation to blush, and the mikado to mourn. As you always remind us of the great principles of political economy when you demand pecuniary supplies, pardon us for making the following remarks. Owing to the troubled state of the country, the presence of the daimios at Yedo was formerly very necessary. Now, this is not the case at present, and still our lords are always travelling to and from the capital. The personal fatigue, the vexation, the expense of the immense retinue which always accompanies them, can no longer be supported.

'The time has come that these ruinous journeys should cease, and the lords of Japan declare themselves unable to defray the expense which you impose upon them. As foreign trade has nearly ruined us, and as fortifications and numerous other unforeseen expenses are deemed necessary in all the parts which have been opened to barbarians, we not only demand that the new ports Osaka, Neegata, and Yedo shall not be opened, but that Kanagawa be closed. You always assert that we are opposed to friendly intercourse with foreign nations, but this is utterly false; we willingly consent to open the whole of Japan, if this step does not occasion expenses which are beyond our means. We have not murdered our servants who were favorably inclined toward the opening of Japan to foreigners. We never spread insulting libels against foreigners amongst our people. _We_ never called Harisoo a fool, Aroako (Sir R. Alcock) a ----, and Borrookoroo (M. de Bellecourt, French consul general) a ----. _We_ never called the consuls drunkards and foreign merchants thieves. _You_ teach the young to despise and insult foreigners, and although you always tell us that the foreign nations are powerful and greatly to be feared, a high functionary lately said, 'With the exception of one of the nations, all the foreigners could be insulted with impunity.''

Although this document, evidently a clumsy forgery, bears traces of having been composed apparently by a native penny-a-liner for the foreign newspaper, yet it apparently expresses the opinion of a large class of rulers and people, and serves to exhibit some of the features of the varied opposition which the tycoon has to encounter.

The perils which menace the tycoon, or rather the council of state, are multiform. In the Prince of Mito, they have an aspirant to the tycoonship, by whose machinations it is believed foreigners have suffered, merely that the Government might be embarrassed. Rulers like the Prince of Kago, preferring death to compliance with the foreigners' demands; recent events admonishing the council and ministers that this penalty is likely to attend their yielding; at the same time importunity is used at the court of Miako--the spiritual emperor--to curtail or abolish the authority at Yedo; while the barbarian stands, torch in hand, ready not only to fire another palace, but with formidable fleets prepared to bombard cities!

One of the most resolute and powerful of the daimios who hold that it were better to die fighting rather than yield the points in dispute, is Shimadzu Sabara, Prince of Satzuma. It was his retainers who killed Richardson, and he will not suffer them to be delivered up for punishment, from the conviction doubtless that they committed the deed while resisting the advance of an arrogant foreigner. He seems to have the ability and the will to resist any attempt on the part of the general government to coerce him, hence the embarrassment which is occasioned by the British demand for the punishment of the assassins. He has particularly allied himself to the spiritual emperor, in whose capital he is popular; we read of him a short time since making a donation to the poor of Miako of ten thousand piculs of rice. Strictly speaking, Shimadzu Sabara is regent of Satzuma, the prince, who is his nephew, being only six years of age. Satzuma, the principality, is on the southerly extremity of the most southerly island of the Archipelago Kiusiu. Its capital, Kagosima, is a rich port, having 500,000 inhabitants; the Loo Choo Islands acknowledge the Prince of Satzuma as suzerain. Much of the prosperity of that part of Japan is due to the sagacity and enterprise of the late prince. He applied himself to the study of natural science, particularly the practical part, and established manufactories on a large scale, introducing all foreign arts that could be acquired. His glass manufactures have attained to a good degree of perfection, and the foundery for smelting and forging iron ore is on an extensive scale, employing about two thousand men. Some bronze guns made there were of a caliber for balls of 150 pounds weight. He constructed also several spacious docks. This prince paid the writer of this article the compliment of republishing his 'Treatise on the Law of Storms,' published several years ago in the Chinese language. He died in 1859, much lamented by his subjects.

Not less enterprising is the Prince of Fizen, in whose principality the well-known port of Nagasaki is situated. The foundery, with its steam hammer and other appliances, for his navy, consisting of several steamers purchased from foreigners, is a striking object in that beautiful harbor. He is in favor of intercourse with foreigners; we read of his assembling his vassals like a baron of olden time, and taking their opinions, and that of his officers, on the question of admitting foreigners, and informing his suzerain of their acquiescence. Stimulated by the example of these two princes, other nobles are desirous of acquiring power by adopting improvements from abroad. It has been stated that applications have been made for sixty steamers. A Dutch mercantile paper lately published a list of twenty steamers in course of construction for the Japanese. As American steamers have been found best adapted for the Chinese waters, we ought to construct more for our Japanese neighbors than we have yet done.

The British Government demands an indemnity for the families of the slain--L5,000 for each sentry, and L10,000 for Mr. Richardson, and the punishment of the murderers. As the validity of the treaties has been questioned, Japanese having recently in several instances taken the position that the tycoon had no authority to make them, it has been proposed that Miako should be visited and the mikado compelled to ratify it; and as the Prince of Satzuma is responsible for the latest murder, it has been proposed that Kagosima should be bombarded, and that his fief, the Loo Choo Islands, should be held as a material guarantee for the fulfilment of his (the tycoon's) and the mikados' obligations. Some British journalists have maintained that as the expense of a war, from the courage of the people and the appliances of the rulers, would be great, as the trade is of small value, and as the Japanese have right on their side in resisting the encroachments of foreigners, it is advisable, after obtaining due reparation, to withdraw from the country altogether:--a proposition little in accordance with Britain's antecedents; such a relinquishment of purpose would occasion a loss of prestige which would jeopardize her sway from Hong Kong to Bombay. The response made to the proposition to retire from the country is that it would not only be ignominious, but perilous to their interests in the far East, which are now in jeopardy from the 'encroachments of Russia, the diplomacy, not always honest and aboveboard, of America, and the ambitious policy of France.'

An ulterior object with that power is to obtain a foothold in the North Pacific, which shall connect Hong Kong with British Columbia, and events will be shaped as far as possible to secure that end. With France strongly fortified at Annam, and Russian power growing on the Amoor, the English are apprehensive that in a war with either of those countries their cargoes of silk, tea, and opium would be somewhat insecure. While England has the merit of extending free trade to her new acquisitions, she makes them, even in peace, a means of annoyance to American commerce; consequently, we cannot regard with indifference her territorial expansion in the North Pacific. When we come to devote the attention to our interests in that part of the world which they merit, our friends on the Pacific coast will discover that European Governments are in possession of all the commanding points, if, indeed, they do not find China and Japan under an Anglo-French protectorate--an end for which many are devoting their energies. In view of the fact that it is through our agency that this country has been opened, and thus exposed to its present dangers, and considering that the Japanese Government is nearly, if not wholly, blameless, as regards its foreign relations, Americans cannot but hope that in the approaching conflict, Japan will suffer neither loss of territory, power, or character.

An article, in the American treaty says:

'The President of the United States, at the request of the Japanese Government, will act as a friendly mediator in such matters of difference as arise between the Government of Japan and the European powers.'

Accordingly, application has been made to Mr. Pruyn, soliciting through him an extension of time in replying to Colonel Neal's ultimatum, which has been accorded, but as a sharp correspondence is said to have arisen between the English and American ambassadors in relation to the sale of arms by our merchants to the Japanese, Mr. Pruyn's mediation is not likely to avail much in the approaching strife. As Japan is a friendly power, to which we are allied by treaty, we feel curious to hear what arguments have been adduced by the English to show that we ought not to deal in material of war with that country.

The position of Americans in Japan, as regards diplomacy, commerce, and Christian missions, with other matters of general interest, omitted for want of space, will form subjects of another article in the series which is proposed for publication in THE CONTINENTAL on Eastern Asiatic questions.

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one _lives_ it--to not many is it _known_; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'--GOETHE.

'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'--WEBSTER'S _Dictionary_.