REASON, RHYME, AND RHYTHM.

CHAPTER V.—ORDER, SYMMETRY, AND PROPORTION.

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!