Our semi-civilized inviter got a bench for us. Some Indians, when it was not entirely filled, tried to pull it away. Several young ones, as a fellow was trying to tug it from under us, seemed vastly amused at Du Bois for saying, 'Keep your seats! keep your seats!' and mimicked him and laughed. But we were entirely unmolested in any other way, excepting for an instant by one white rascal on the road, as I was coming, who galloped up towards me violently, in the dark, and shouted, 'Who the hell may you be, if one were to let you alone?' Just then, however, I got up to my party, and he said no more.

I have not mentioned, I believe, that no one is allowed in the sacred square who tastes food during the devotional part of the ceremonies; but to get drunk on this occasion is a specially great offence. It is also considered as a desecration for an Indian to allow himself to be touched by even the dress of a white man, until the ceremony of purification is complete. There was a finely, though slightly, built Indian,—more French than Tartar in his look and manner,—a linkister, too,—the whites called him Charley,—and Charley had got very drunk. He was, of course, compelled to keep among the crowd outside. During the evening dance, a chief censured those who stayed from the ceremony, and those who dishonored it by appearing in this unworthy state. Charley was by that time very drunk indeed, but very good humored. He came nearly naked to listen. He heard the lecture; and, as he reeled around, pretending to cover his face for shame, it was amusing to see his tricks to evade tumbling against any of the bystanders, lifting his hands with an air of dandified disdain as he staggered to one side, and repeating the mock contemptuousness when rolling towards the same peril on the other. Next morning I heard numbers of the natives, sitting all along the outside of the sacred square, laughing very loud, and very good-naturedly quizzing poor Charley, who had slept off somewhat of his exhilaration, but none of his good humor. Charley laughed, too, and looked foolish, and laughed again.

So, to go back and resume my story.

We went to our 'field-bed.' It consisted of a shed of loose boards on tall stakes, and under it a raised platform of loose boards upon shorter stakes. There were several human forms already wrapped in blankets and asleep upon the platform. One of our party, attempting to get among them, was told by Milly,—Du Bois's Indian wife,—who just then awoke, 'No here,—no here! dat not de rule!' It seems this was the female side of the house. My buffalo robe was spread at the opposite end. I pulled off my boots, and set them in the grass under the bed, and slept delightfully. The only time I awoke, I saw the eyes of a towering black figure fixed upon me. The chap was seeking a spot for a snooze among us; but finding every inch of room occupied, gazed for a moment at a tree, flung down his blanket, and tumbled on the grass, the tall tree he had been eyeing, at his head, and a lesser one at his heels. The female side of my house was divided from the male side by Du Bois, who slept between the ladies and the gentlemen. Our party consisted of nine in all, Indian ladies included. In the morning, at day-break, we were up. With a joke to Milly about 'de rule,'—which she answered with a good-humored smile, covering her face as she smiled,—we went back to the sacred square among the Indians, who had been all night awake and at their devotions.

I found them preparing for the ceremonies which close the fast. Many were standing about, and all intent on the preparations for the morning forms. They went through the taking of the black drink, repeating all they had done the day previous. But on this occasion I more particularly observed two circular plates of brass and steel, which appeared the remains of very antique shields. They were borne with great reverence by two chiefs. The natives do not pretend to explain whence they came. They keep them apart, as something sacred. They are only produced on great occasions. I was told, too, that ears of green corn were brought in at a part of the ceremony to-day, which I missed, and that they were presented to a chief. He took them, and, after an invocation that the corn might continue plentiful among them the year through, handed them back.

This seemed the termination of the peace-offerings, and the religious part of the affair was now to wind up with emblems of war. These were expressed in what they call a Gun-Dance. When the dispositions were making for it, some persons in carriages were desired by a white linkister to fall back and to remove their horses to a distance. Some ladies, especially, were warned. 'Keep out of their way, ma'am,' said the linkister to a lady, 'for when they come racing about here with their guns, they gits powerful sarcy.' I saw them dressing for the ceremony, if it may be called dressing to throw off nearly every part of a scanty covering. But the Indians are especially devoted to dress, in their way. Some of them went aside to vary their costume with nearly every dance.

Now appeared a procession of some forty or fifty women. They entered the square, and took their seats together in one of the open houses. Two men sat in front of them, holding gourds filled with pebbles. The gourds were shaken so as to keep time, and the women began a long chant, with which, at regular intervals, was given a sharp, short whoop from male voices. The women's song was said to be intended for the wail of mothers, wives, and daughters at the departure of the warriors for the fight; the response conveyed the resolution of the warriors not to be withheld, but to fight and conquer. And now were seen two hideous-looking old warriors, with tomahawks and scalping-knives, painted most ferociously. Each went half round the circle, exchanged exclamations, kept up a sort of growl all the while, and at length stopped with a war-whoop.

At this juncture, we were told to hurry to the outer square. The females and their male leaders left their places inside, and went to the mound in the centre of the outer square. The mound became entirely covered with their forms, and the effect was very imposing. Here they resumed their chant. The spectators mounted on the embankment. I got on a pile of wood,—holy wood, I believe, and heaped there to keep up the sacred fires. There were numbers of Indian women in the crowd. Four stuffed figures were placed, one in each of the four corners of the square.

We now heard firing and whooping on all sides. At length in the high corn on one side we saw crouching savages, some with guns of every sort, some, especially the boys, with corn-stalks to represent guns. A naked chief with a long sabre, the blade painted blood color, came before them, flourishing his weapon and haranguing vehemently. In another corn-field appeared another party. The two savages already mentioned as having given the war dance in the sacred square, now hove in sight on a third side, cowering. One of them I understood was the person who had shot the chief I mentioned in the first part of this letter—the chief who made an objectionable treaty, and whose house was burned. Both these warriors crept slyly towards the outer square. One darted upon one of the puppets, caught him from behind, and stole him off; another grasped another puppet by the waist, flung him in the air, tumbled on him as he fell, ripped him with his knife, tore off the scalp, and broke away in triumph. A third puppet was tomahawked, and a fourth shot. These were the emblems of the various forms of warfare.

After the first shot, the two parties whooped, and began to fire indiscriminately, and every shot was answered by a whoop. One shot his arrow into the square, but falling short of the enemy, he covered himself with corn and crept thither to regain the arrow, and bore it back in safety, honored with a triumphant yell as he returned. After much of this bush skirmishing, both parties burst into the square. There was unremitted firing and war-whooping, the music of chanting and of the pebbled gourd going all the while. At length the fighters joined in procession, dancing a triumphal dance around the mound, plunging thence headlong into the sacred square and all around it, and then scampering around the outside, and pouring back to the battle square; and the closing whoop being given, the entire multitude from the battle square rushed, helter-skelter, yelping, some firing as they went, and others pelting down the spectators from their high places, with the corn-stalks that had served for guns, and which gave blows so powerful that those who laughed at them as weapons before, rubbed their shoulders and walked away ashamed.

We resumed our conveyances homeward, and heard the splashing and shouting, as we departed, of the warriors in the water.

Leave was now given to taste the corn, and all ate their fill, and, I suppose, did not much refrain from drinking; for I heard that every pathway and field around was in the morning strewed with sleeping Indians.

We passed the day following in visits to the picturesque scenery of the neighborhood. We saw the fine falls of the Talapoosa, where the broken river tumbles over wild and fantastic precipices, varying from forty to eighty or a hundred feet in hight; and when wandering among the slippery rocks, we passed an old Indian with his wife and child and bow and arrows. They had been shooting fishes in the stream, from a point against which the fishes were brought to them by the current. The scenery and the natives would have formed a fine picture. An artist of the neighborhood made me a present of a view of these falls, which I will show you when we meet.

The next part of the festival among the red folks—and which I did not see, being that day on my 'tour in search of the picturesque'—consisted, I was told, in the display of wives urging out their husbands to hunt deer. When, from our travels among fine scenery, we went down to the sacred square, towards night, we met Indians with deer slung over their horses. The skin of the first that is shot is presented to a priest, who flings it back to the slayer to be retained by him as a trophy, and at the same time asks from the Great Spirit that this may prove only the harbinger of deer in abundance whenever wanted. There was some slight dancing that evening in the sacred square, but not of significance enough to make it an object with me to remain for it, and as so many were reserving themselves for the winding-up assembly of the ladies, on Sunday morning, I thought I would do the same. Some of our party stayed, however, for the night. They found a miscellaneous dance at a house in the vicinity,—negroes, borderers, and reprobate Indians, all collected in one incongruous mass. A vagabond frontier man there asked a girl to dance. She refused, and was going to dance with another. The first drew his pistol, and swore if she would not dance with him she should not dance at all. Twenty pistols were clicked in an instant; but the borderer, with a horse-laugh, asked if they thought he didn't know there was not a soul in that section of country who dared to draw a trigger against him? He was right, for the pistols were dropped and the room cleared on the instant; whereupon the bully borderer clapped his wings and crowed and disappeared.

The assemblage of the females I was rather solicitous to see, and so I was at my post betimes. I had long to wait. I heard the gathering cry from the men on all sides, in the corn-fields and bushes; it was like the neighing to each other of wild horses. After a while the ladies began to arrive. The spectators crowded in.

The Indian men went to their places, and among them a party to sing while the women danced, two of the men rattling the gourds. The cauldrons had disappeared from the centre of the sacred square.

And now entered a long train of females, all dressed in long gowns, like our ladies, but all with gay colors, and bright shawls of various hues, and beads innumerable upon their necks, and tortoise-shell combs in their hair, and ears bored all around the rim, from top to bottom, and from every bore a massive ear-drop, very long, and generally of silver. A selected number of the dancers wore under their robes, and girded upon their calves, large squares of thick leather, covered all over with terrapin-shells closed together and perforated and filled with pebbles, which rattled like so many sleigh-bells. These they have the knack of keeping silent until their accompaniment is required for the music of the dance. The dresses of all the women were so long as nearly to conceal the feet, but I saw that some had neither shoes nor stockings on, while others were sandalled. The shawls were principally worn like mantles. Broad ribbons, in great profusion and of every variety of hue, hung from the back of each head to the ground, and, as they moved, these, and the innumerable sparkling beads of glass and coral and gold, gave the wearers an air of graceful and gorgeous, and, at the same time, unique wildness.

The procession entered slowly, and wound around the central fire, which still blazed gently there, although the cauldrons had been removed; and the train continued to stretch itself out, till it extended to three circles and a half. The shorter side then became stationary, and stood facing the men, who were seated in that building which contained the chanters. This last rank of dancers seemed to include the principal wearers of the terrapin leg-bands, which they continued to rattle, keeping time with the chant, without shifting their position. At each end of their line was a leader, one an old woman and the other not young, both bearing a little notched stick, with two feathers floating from it. At a particular turn of the general figure of the dance, these two broke off from their fixed rank, and made a circuit outside of all the rest, and more briskly, while the main body of the dancers, the three circles before mentioned, which had never ceased to move, still proceeded slowly round and round, only turning at a given signal to face the men, as the men had turned to face the emblem of the Deity, the central fire. Every eye among the women was planted on the ground. I never beheld such an air of universal modesty. It seemed a part of the old men's privilege to make comments aloud, in order to surprise the women into a laugh. These must often have been very droll, and always personal, I understand, and not always the most delicate. I saw a few instances among the young girls where they were obliged to smother a smile by putting up their handkerchiefs. But it was conquered on the instant. The young men said nothing; but the Indian men, whether old or young, seemed all to take as much interest in the show as we. The chief, Apotheola, had two daughters there. Both are very elegant girls, but the eldest delighted me exceedingly. She seemed about seventeen or eighteen. She is tall, a fine figure; her carriage graceful and distingue, and quite European. She had a white muslin gown; a black scarf, wrought all over with flowers in brilliant colors; an embroidered white collarette, I believe you call it; gold chains, coral beads, gold and jewelled ear-rings,—single ones, not in the usual Indian superabundance,—her hair beautifully dressed in the Parisian style; a splendid tortoise-shell comb, gemmed; and from one large tuft of hair upon one temple to that upon the other there passed a beautiful gold ornament. Her sister's head-dress was nearly the same. The aforesaid elder Princess Apotheola, I am happy to say, looked only at me. Some one must have told her that I meant to run away with her, for I had said so before I saw her to many of her friends. There was a very frolicksome, quizzical expression in her eye; and now and then it seemed to say, 'No doubt you think all these things wonderfully droll. It diverts me to see you so puzzled by them.' But, excepting the look at me, which only proved her excellent taste, her eye dwelt on the ground, and nothing could have been more interestingly reserved than her whole deportment.

The dance over, all the ladies went from the square in the same order that they entered it.

In about an hour, the same dance was repeated. When it ended, signal was made for what they call The Dance of the Olden Time,—the breaking up of the ceremonial, when the men and women are again allowed to intermingle.

This was done in a quick movement around and around and around again, all the men yelping wildly and merrily, as struck their fancy, and generally in tones intended to set the women laughing, which they did, and heartily. The sounds most resembled the yelpings of delighted dogs. Finally came the concluding whoop, and all the parties separated.

Between these two last dances, I sent for a chief, and desired him to take charge of some slight gifts of tobacco and beads which I had brought for them. The chief took them. I saw the others cut the tobacco, and share it. Ere long my ambassador returned, saying, 'The chiefs are mighty glad, and count it from you as very great friendship.' I had been too bashful about my present, and kept it back too long, through over-shyness. If I had sent it before, I might have seen the show to more advantage. As it was, I was immediately invited to sit inside the square, and witness the last dance from one of the places of honor.

But I was now obliged to depart, and to give up all hopes of ever again seeing my beautiful Princess Apotheola. My only chance of a guide through the wilderness would have been lost had I delayed. So I reluctantly mounted my pony; and I left the Indians of Tuckabatchie and their Green-Corn Festival, and their beautiful Princess Apotheola.

* * * * *

It was a great gratification to me to have seen this festival; with my own eyes to have witnessed the Indians in their own nation, with my own ears to have heard them in their own language. Nor was it any diminution of the interest of the spectacle to reflect that this ceremony, so precious to them, was now probably performing in the land of their forefathers for the last, last time. I never beheld more intense devotion; and the spirit of the forms was a right and a religious one. It was beginning the year with fasting, with humility, with purification, with prayer, with gratitude. It was burying animosities, while it was strengthening courage. It was pausing to give thanks to Heaven, before daring to partake its beneficence. It was strange to see this, too, in the midst of my own land; to travel, in the course of a regular journey in the New World, among the living evidences of one, it may be, older than what we call the Old World;—the religion, and the people, and the associations of the untraceable past, in the very heart of the most recent portion of the most recent people upon earth. And it was a melancholy reflection for ourselves, that, comparing the majority of the white and red assemblage there, the barbarian should be so infinitely the more civilized and the more interesting of the two.



ROSIN THE BOW.

A FANTASIA.

In Paris, a famous city in France, That lies by the banks of the sluggish Seine, Where you and I may never have been, But which we know all about in advance;— A place of wild and wicked romance, A place where they gamble, and fiddle and dance, And the slowest coach has always a chance To get put over the road, I ween, Where women are naughty, and men are gay, And the suicides number a dozen a day, And one of the gallant jeunesse doree Will spend the night at prodigious play, And in the morning go out and slay His bosom friend with a rapier keen, Because he loses and cannot pay,— Lived a nice young man named DIDIER.

This nice young man had run aground, As such young men are apt to do; His creditors swore and his mistress frowned, His breeches pockets held ne'er a sou, His boots were getting out at the toes, His hat was seedy, and so were his clothes, And, as he wandered the city around, He could not think of a single friend Slow to dun and prompt to lend, Whose purse he thought he could venture to sound; In such extremities friends are few; At least I think so, friend, don't you?

At length, on the brink of a grim despair, He happened to think of a quaint old fellow, A comical customer, rusty and slow, But who used to be an elegant beau, In dress and manner quite comme il faut; And who, because he happened to know How to play on the violoncello, Which he'd learned for fun long time ago, Before his finances got so low, Had obtained a place in an orchestra choir, And played that beautiful instrument there; And to him monsieur determined to go; And so, Up to the top of a rickety stair, To a little attic cold and bare, He stumbled, and found the artist there. He told his tale; how his former pride Was crushed and humbled into the dust; He swore he had thought of suicide, But the charcoal venders wouldn't trust; He had no profession or trade or art, Money or food, and perish he must; And then like a blacksmith's forge he sighed, A sigh that touched the fiddler's heart. 'Cheer up, mon cher, and never mind; You're the very man I was trying to find. You know at the grand Theatre Francais The leading violoncello I play, And my salary is two francs a day. There's a vacant place; if you are inclined To take the same, you'll find 'twill pay.'

DIDIER looked up in a vast amaze: 'Why, I can't do so, you very well know, For I never fiddled in my born days.' 'Qu'a cela ne tienne,' his friend replied, 'Don't be too certain,—you never have tried; You ought to give your abilities scope; There is an anxiety most of us feel, We may be out of time or tune, Leave off too late, or begin too soon, May pitch too sharp, or perhaps too flat; So here is a cake of excellent soap, The old, original, pure Castile, Just rosin your bow with that.'

He took his seat in an orchestra chair, 'Twould have made you stare Had you been there To see his knowing and confident air, And to hear the considerate manager say, 'There is nobody like young Didier; So nice and exact, so quite au fait, With a style so thoroughly recherche, Some other concern may get him away, So I think I shall have to double his pay!'

In clover the youth continues to graze, And still in the orchestra he plays; He's the man who never was known to make The smallest shadow of a mistake, And there's only one drawback on his praise,— He is too modest by fifty per cent For such a master of the art, For the story went he would never consent To play a solo part.

There's a MORAL, my juvenile friend, in this, And you need not stumble and grope; Just look for it sharp, and you can't go amiss; You will find, there is nothing like soap! Don't suffer yourself to be cast down If capricious luck should happen to frown, Go through with the motions, and if you're acute None will ever suspect that your fiddle is mute; But be sure and do as the rest of us do, And don't flourish your stick till you get your cue. Thus, let prosperity ebb or flow, Still bate no jot of hope, You may draw the longest kind of a bow If 'tis only rosined with soap!



THE GRAVEYARD AT PRINCETON.

Reader, have you ever visited the pleasant village of Princeton, New Jersey, renowned alike in the annals of the country and of the church? While traveling from New York to Philadelphia by the New Jersey Railroad, you have doubtless obtained a glimpse of it, for it is 'a city set on a hill, which can not be hid,' and from the 'station,' a mile or two distant, its spires and belfries, gleaming from amid its thick embowering trees, present an interesting and picturesque appearance.

Passing onward from the station, the first notable object that meets the eye of the traveler is the Theological Seminary, a large, plain building of stone, the head-quarters in America of that branch of the Christian Church of whose stern, unflinching orthodoxy John Knox was at once the type and exponent. Near it stands its Library, an elegant Gothic structure erected through the munificence of James Lenox, of New York, and containing many works of great value. The street on which these buildings stand is appropriately named Mercer Street, for beyond them, at a short distance, lies the battle-field of Princeton, and the spot where the gallant Hugh Mercer fell. That spot was formerly marked by a large tree, but a few years ago the hallowed landmark was cut down and removed by heartless barbarians. The house to which the wounded hero was carried, where the 'two Quaker ladies waited on him' so assiduously, still stands, and on the floor of the room in which he died are certain marks, of doubtful origin, said to be blood-stains from his death-wound. Over the now peaceful battle-field, reddened with nothing more terrible than the ruddy clover-heads, a tall flag-staff, surmounted by a gilded eagle, uprears the glorious stars and stripes, and attests the loyalty of the people of Princeton.

About midway of the long, shady street of which Princeton chiefly consists, stands the crowning glory of the place, the venerable College of New Jersey. The college proper is a long, four-story edifice of stone, its center adorned with a tower and belfry, conspicuous from afar. At either side of it are clustered other buildings, embracing its halls, recitation rooms, and chapel.

It stands a little distance back from the street, between it and which lies the 'Campus,' a beautiful grassy slope of vivid green, surrounded with an iron fence, laid out with neat gravel walks, and shaded by noble and magnificent trees of more than a century's growth. Nothing can be more beautiful in summer time than this shady lawn. Here, at all hours of the day, students may be seen reading alone, or conversing in groups, seated on the benches placed at intervals among the trees, or stretched at full length on the fragrant grass, kicking their heels gymnastically in the air, or sauntering with arms interlocked along the gravel walks, singing, perhaps, some college song, such as

'Gaudeamus igitur, Juvenes dum sumus,'

or others less classical and more uproarious.

Here, too, those known to their class-mates as the 'hard fellows,' are wont to prowl in the darkened hours, making night hideous with terrific voices, or stealing in darkness and silence to play some trick on the 'Profs.' or 'Tutes.'

From the gates of the Campus, every afternoon at the hour of five, or after prayers, the whole troop of students, to the number of three hundred, issue, for the purpose of taking their evening walk. Down the street they march, by twos and threes, chatting, laughing, telling college stories, or rehearsing the gossip of the day, into the extreme lower end of the long street, a locality known as Orthodox Corner, where they turn and march back in the same order. As they proceed, their ranks are gradually swelled by a couple of hundreds of 'Seminary' students (distinguishable by their more mature appearance, their heavier beards, and their 'stove-pipe hats'), and their walk enlivened by the sight of numerous ladies, who, by a remarkable coincidence, have also chosen the hour between five and six as the most fashionable for promenading, the dames of course usually going up the street as the students are going down, and down as, the students are going up, in order to afford them opportunities to exercise their graces in bowing to those whom they know, and staring at those whom they do not. For one brief hour, the quiet street presents the appearance of a crowded city, the pedestrians jostling each other as they pass and repass; but soon as the hour of six arrives, all is still again, for youths and maidens are alike engaged in discussing that meal for which their long walk has served as a whet.

But it was of the dead, not the living, that I was about to speak. Nearly opposite the college Campus we find Witherspoon Street, named after that brave and good man who was president of the college in the days of the Revolution, and one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Following this street a short distance, we come to the city of the dead. It is situated on an eminence, commanding a fine view of the surrounding country, embracing the village of Kingston, the distant spires of Trenton, and the blue range of hills beyond which roll the dark waters of the Atlantic. In natural advantages it can not compare with some of our modern cemeteries, but the historic interest which attaches to it more than compensates for the lack of picturesque effect.

The first spot to which the visitor is directed, is the inclosure containing the graves of the presidents of Princeton College. They are all of the old-fashioned style of 'table tombs,' now so seldom constructed; a flat slab, stretched on four walls of solid masonry, covering the whole grave. It was on such a tombstone that, in the old Greyfriars churchyard in Edinburgh, the solemn League and Covenant, from which resulted events so important to Scotland, was signed. No 'storied urn or animated bust' records the virtues of these venerable men,—not even marble in its simplest form has been used to mark their resting-place. The slabs are of coarse, grey stone, with long inscriptions in Latin occupying their entire surface. Many of them, especially that of the pious and renowned JONATHAN EDWARDS, who left his New England home only to find a grave in New Jersey, having died a month after his removal to Princeton, have been most shamefully mutilated by relic-hunters and curiosity-mongers; innumerable pieces having been chipped off the edges of the slabs, until even the inscriptions have been encroached upon. To prevent, if possible, further mutilation, the following unique and elaborate, but eloquent notice, enclosed in an iron frame, has been placed over the graves of these reverend fathers. It was written by Professor, now Dr. Giger, of the college.

Keep your sacrilegious hands off these venerable stones! Parian marble, wrought with consummate skill, could not replace them. Connected with these homely monuments are historical associations that ought not to be forgotten. The scarcity of better materials, the rudeness of monumental sculpture, the poverty of the country, the early struggles and pecuniary embarrassments of the colony, at the period when these monuments were erected, as well as the self-denial and hardships and labors of the distinguished men who gave fame and usefulness to Nassau Hall, are indicated by these rough stones. Nothing modern, nothing polished or magnificent, could suggest the early history of New Jersey. Spare what remains of these broken memorials. Thoughtless young man! why do you break and deface these old monuments? A few fragments carried in your pocket, or placed in your cabinet, will not impart to you the activity and energy of Burr, or the profound and logical intellect of Edwards, or the eloquence of Davies, or the piety and triumphant death of Finley, or the poetical wisdom, the power of governing and inspiring youth, the love of knowledge, and the stern, unflinching patriotism of Witherspoon. If you admire and reverence the character of these great and good men, read their works imitate their example; and forbear, we beseech you, to add to the shameful mutilation of the frail memorials intended to protect their bones from insult.

But there is a strange and startling incongruity observable in this enclosure. At the foot of the grave where rest the remains of the venerable Aaron Burr, first president of the College of New Jersey, stands a tall white marble monument of modern form and appearance, so utterly out of keeping with the rest of the tombs, that the visitor at once turns to it, and is none the less startled to find that it marks the last resting-place of that other Aaron Burr, the traitor, the duellist, the libertine, whose remains, brought hither in the night, were surreptitiously buried at the feet of his venerated father, and this monument placed over them, years afterwards, in the same manner. And for his father's sake, there they were suffered to remain. 'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well,' in the midst of these old grey stones, and surrounded by the honored dead. The monument bears no record, except his name, the dates of his birth and death, and the statement that he was Vice-President of the United States from 1801 to 1805. It is as if it said,—

'No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode.'

Not a quarter of a mile from where his dust thus reposes, there sleeps, in a neglected grave in a small grove of trees behind the college, one of his hapless victims, a young lady of Philadelphia, who died, as the mouldering headstone, half sunken in the turf, informs us, 'at the early age of twenty-two.'

The next point of interest is the spot where seven or eight elegant shafts of white marble, erected by their class-mates, mark the graves of students who have died during their collegiate course. They are all remarkable for the beauty and chaste simplicity of their design, and the appropriateness of their inscriptions. No historic interest attaches to them; no well-earned fame gilds them with a halo of glory; but a feeling touching and sad creeps over the heart as we read on the tomb the name of each sleeper's distant home, and think of the poor young man dying in the midst of strangers, while doubtless

'There was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim.'

Passing on, we reach the graves of the three Alexanders, father and two sons, whose writings are dear to so many Christian hearts. Side by side they repose, under three slabs of pure white marble, inscribed with appropriate epitaphs. That of the father, Archibald Alexander, for fifty years professor in the Theological Seminary, is a simple, unadorned record of his personal history; that of the younger brother, Joseph Addison, who was a man of immense learning, able to read, write, and converse in sixteen languages, tells us that 'his great talents and vast learning were entirely devoted to the exposition and elucidation of the Word of God;' but to New Yorkers that of the elder brother, Dr. James W. Alexander, is fraught with the greatest interest, from his having so lately occupied a prominent place among the first divines and scholars of our country. It runs thus:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

JAMES WADDEL ALEXANDER.

A man of God, thoroughly furnished unto all good works; a learned, elegant, and accomplished scholar; a faithful, affectionate, and beloved pastor; an able, eloquent, and successful preacher; professor of mathematics in the College of New Jersey; professor of ecclesiastical history in Princeton Theological Seminary; pastor of the Presbyterian Church, corner of Fifth Avenue and Nineteenth Street, New York.

Throughout his life and labors, he illustrated those gifts and graces that exalt humanity and adorn the church of God.

Scattered about the graveyard are many monuments, attractive and interesting from their artistic beauty alone. One of the most chaste and elegant designs I have ever seen is the tomb erected by a gentleman of Philadelphia, to the memory of his wife, son, and daughter, who perished in the burning of the 'Henry Clay' on the Hudson River. It is in the form of a casket, of white marble, beautifully carved and of graceful form, elevated on a pedestal of polished stone, of a blueish tint. On one end of the casket are inscribed the words

WIFE DAUGHTER SON

on the other end,

MOTHER SISTER BROTHER

while one side bears the appropriate text of Scripture:—

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee;

and the other the comforting words:—

For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.

Under a drooping cypress tree, half hidden amid its dark green foliage, is a monument of white marble, in the form of a Greek cross, low but massive, on which there is no epitaph or inscription whatever; but on the little foot-stone beyond it are the simple words:—

GENEVIEVE. Died 1851, Aged 18.

Numerous 'broken rosebuds' mark the graves of children, and the device is so often repeated as to become tiresome; but on one handsome monument is carved a wreath of flowers, from which a rose has apparently dropped, and fallen on the pedestal,—a beautiful illustration of the loss the family circle had sustained in the death of her who rests below. Another child-grave, the tombstone a small upright slab surmounted by a wreath of flowers, bears the touching inscription:—

Our only Son, JOHN AGUR E——. Aged 2 years.

Many graves here, as elsewhere, are adorned with examples of 'graveyard poetry;' but most of it is of that humble character which is illustrated by the following:—

'Farewell, beloved wife: I must go And leave you in this world of woe. A few short years, then we shall meet Together at our Saviour's feet.'

One more epitaph, before we leave this interesting and time-honored place of graves. It is from a plain horizontal slab, not far from the entrance; and is, to our thinking, one of the most beautiful and touching monumental inscriptions ever penned.

SARAH B——, Wife of the Rev. C—— K——.

A humble worshiper of Christ, she lived in love and died in faith. Truthful woman, delightful companion, ardent friend, devoted wife, self-sacrificing mother, we lay you gently here, our best beloved, to gather strength and beauty for the coming of the Lord.



AMONG THE PINES.

Some winters ago I passed several weeks at Tallahassee, Florida, and while there made the acquaintance of Colonel J——, a South Carolina planter. Accident, some little time later, threw us together again at Charleston, when I was gratified to learn that he would be my compagnon du voyage as far north as New York.

He was accompanied by his body-servant, 'Jim,' a fine specimen of the genus darky, about thirty years of age, born and reared in his master's family. As far as possible we made the journey by day, stopping at some convenient resting-place by night; on which occasions the Colonel, Jim, and myself would occupy the same or adjoining apartments, 'we white folks' sleeping on four posts, while the more democratic negro spread his blanket on the floor. Thrown together thus intimately, it was but natural that we should learn much of each other.

The 'Colonel' was a highly cultivated and intelligent gentleman, and during this journey a friendship sprung up between us,—afterward kept alive by a regular correspondence,—which led him, with his wife and daughter, and the man Jim, to my house on his next visit at the North, one year later. I then promised,—if I should ever again travel in South Carolina,—to visit him on his plantation in the extreme north-eastern part of the State.

In December last, a short time prior to the passage of the ordinance of secession, I had occasion to again visit Charleston, and, previous to setting out, dispatched a letter to the Colonel with the information that I was then ready to be led of him 'into the wilderness.' On arriving at the head-quarters of Secession, I found a missive awaiting me, in which he cordially renewed his previous tender of hospitality, gave me particular directions how to proceed, and stated that his 'man Jim' would meet me with a carriage at Georgetown, and convey me thence, seventy miles, to 'the plantation.'

Having performed the business which led me to Charleston, I set out for the rendezvous five days before the date fixed for the meeting, intending to occupy the intervening time in an exploration of the ancient town and its surroundings. Having passed the half of one day and the whole of one night in that delectable place,—during which night I was set on and nearly annihilated, while lying defenceless in my bed, by a myriad of Carolina big-bugs,—I found it so intolerably dull that, to escape a siege of 'the blues,' I hired a horse and a negro driver at a livery-stable, and started off for the plantation.

I make this preliminary statement to give the reader a satisfactory reason for taking him over wretched roads, at so inclement a season, with no companion but an ebony Jehu, into the very heart of Secessiondom.

My companion was a very intelligent native African, of the name of Scipio, who 'hired his time' of his mistress, and obtained his living by doing odd jobs around the streets and wharves of Georgetown. Portions of the country through which we passed were almost as wild as the forests of Oregon, and in some places the feeling against the North and Northern travelers ran very high. I had some strange encounters with swollen streams and roaring secessionists, in which my negro driver was of great service to me; and the knowledge I thus gained of him led me for the first time to the opinion, that real elevation and nobility of character may exist under an ebony skin.

Our first day on the road was clear, sunshiny, and of delicious temperature—one of those days so peculiar to the Southern winter, when the blood bounds through every vein as if thrilled by electricity, and a man of lively temperament can scarcely restrain his legs from dancing a breakdown. Night found us thirty miles on our way, and under the roof of a hospitable planter. A storm came on with the going down of the sun, and lasted during the following day; but, desiring to arrive at my destination before the servant should set out to meet me, I decided to push on in the rain.

Our second day's travel was attended with sundry interruptions and adventures, and night overtook us in the midst of a forest, uncertain where we were, and half dead from exposure to the storm; but after several hours of hard riding, we found ourselves, drenched to the skin and benumbed with the cold, before the door of a one-story log cabin, tenanted by a family of

POOR WHITES.

The rain was falling in torrents, and the night was as 'dark as the darkest corner of the dark place below.' We were in the midst of what seemed an endless forest of turpentine pines, and had seen no human habitation for hours. Not knowing where the road might lead us, and feeling totally unable to proceed, we determined to ask shelter at the shanty for the night.

In answer to our summons a wretched-looking, half-clad, dirt-bedraggled woman thrust her head from the door-way, with the inquiry, 'Who are ye?'

'We'm only massa and me, and de hoss, and we'm half dead wid de cold,' said Scipio; 'can't we cum in out ob de rain?'

'Wal, strangers,' replied the woman, eying us as closely as the darkness would permit, 'you'll find mighty poor fixins har, but I reckon ye can come in.'

Entering the house, we saw, by the light of a blazing pile of pine knots, which roared and crackled on the hearth, that it contained only a single apartment, about twenty feet square. In front of the fire-place, which occupied the better half of one side of the room, the floor was of the bare earth, littered over with pine chips, dead cinders, live coals, broken pots, and a lazy spaniel dog. Opposite to this, at the other end of the room, were two low beds, which looked as if they had been 'slept in forever, and never made up.' Against the wall, between the beds and the fire-place, stood a small pine table, and on it was a large wooden bowl, from whose mouth protruded the handles of several unwashed pewter spoons. On the right of the fire was a razeed rocking-chair, evidently the peculiar property of the mistress of the mansion, and three blocks of pine log, sawn off smoothly, and made to serve for seats. Over against these towered a high-backed settle, something like that on which

'sot Huldy all alone, When Zeke peeked thru the winder;'

and on it, her head resting partly on her arm, partly on the end of the settle, one small, bare foot pressing the ground, the other, with the part of the person which is supposed to require stockings, extended in a horizontal direction,—reclined, not Huldy, but her Southern cousin, who, I will wager, was decidedly the prettier and dirtier of the two. Our entrance did not seem to disconcert her in the least, for she lay there as unmoved as a marble statue, her large black eyes riveted on my face as if seeing some nondescript animal for the first time. I stood for a moment transfixed with admiration. In a somewhat extensive observation of her sex, in both hemispheres, I had never witnessed such a form, such eyes, such faultless features, and such wavy, black, luxuriant hair. A glance at her dress,—a soiled, greasy, grayish linsey-woolsey gown, apparently her only garment,—and a second look at her face, which, on closer inspection, had precisely the hue of a tallow candle, recalled me to myself, and allowed me to complete the survey of the premises.

The house was built of unhewn logs, separated by wide interstices, through which the cold air came, in decidedly fresh if not health-giving currents, while a large rent in the roof, that let in the rain, gave the inmates an excellent opportunity for indulging in a shower-bath, of which they seemed greatly in need. The chimney, which had intruded a couple of feet into the room, as if to keep out of the cold, and threatened momentarily to tumble down, was of sticks, built up in clay, while the windows were of thick, unplaned boards.

Two pretty girls, one of perhaps ten and the other of fourteen years, evidently sisters of the unadorned beauty, the middle-aged woman who had admitted us, and the dog,—the only male member of the household,—composed the family. I had seen negro cabins, but these people were whites, and these whites were South Carolinians. Who will say that the days of chivalry are over, when such counterparts of the feudal serfs still exist?

After I had seated myself by the fire, and the driver had gone out to stow the horse away under the tumble-down shed at the back of the house, the elder woman said to me,—

'Reckon yer wet. Ben in the rain?'

'Yes, madam, we've been out most of the day, and got in the river below here.'

'Did ye? Ye mean the "run." I reckon it's right deep now.'

'Yes, the horse had to swim for it,' I replied.

'Ye orter strip and put on dry cloes to onst.'

'Thank you, madam, I will.'

Going to my portmanteau, which the darky had placed near the door, I found it dripping with wet, and opening it, discovered that every article in it had undergone the rite of total immersion.

'Everything is thoroughly soaked, madam. I shall have to dry myself by your fire. Can you get me a cup of tea?'

'Right sorry, stranger, but I can't. Hain't a morsel to eat or drink in the house.'

Remembering that our excellent hostess of the night before had insisted on filling our wagon-box with a quantity of 'chicken fixins,' to serve us in an emergency, and that my brandy flask was in my India-rubber coat, I sent Scipio out for them.

Our stores disclosed boiled chicken, bacon, sandwiches, sweet potatoes, short cake, corn bread, buttered waffles, and 'common doin's' too numerous to mention, enough to last a family of one for a fortnight, but all completely saturated with water. Wet or dry, however, the provisions were a godsend to the half-starved family, and their hearts seemed to open to me with amazing rapidity. The dog got up and wagged his tail, and even the marble-like beauty arose from her reclining posture and invited me to a seat with her on the bench.

The kettle was soon steaming over the fire, and the boiling water, mixed with a little brandy, served as a capital substitute for tea. After the chicken was re-cooked, and the other edibles 'warmed up,' the little pine table was brought out, and I learned—what I had before suspected—that the big wooden bowl and the half dozen pewter spoons were the only 'crockery' the family possessed.

I declined the proffered seat at the table, the cooking utensils being anything but inviting, and contented myself with the brandy and water; but, forgetting for a moment his color, I motioned to the darky—who was as wet and jaded, and much more hungry than I was—to take the place offered to me. The negro did not seem inclined to do so, but the woman, observing my gesture, yelled out, her eyes flashing with anger,—

'No, sar! No darkies eats with us. Hope ye don't reckon yerself no better than a good-for-nothin, no-account nigger!'

'I beg your pardon, madam; I intended no offense. Scipio has served me very faithfully for two days, and is very tired and hungry. I forgot myself.'

This mollified the lady, and she replied,—

'Niggers is good enuff in thar place, but warn't meant to 'sociate with white folks.'

There may have been some ground for a distinction in that case; there certainly was a difference between the specimens of the two races then before me; but, not being one of the chivalry, it struck me that the odds were on the side of the black man. The whites were shiftless, ragged, and starving; the black well clad, cleanly, energetic, and as much above the others in intellect as Jupiter is above a church steeple. To be sure, color was against him, and he was, after all, a servant in the land of chivalry and of servant-owners. Of course the woman was right, after all.

She soon resumed the conversation, with this remark:—

'Reckon yer a stranger in these parts; whar d'ye come from?'

'From New York, madam.'

'New York! whar's that?'

'It's a city at the North.'

'Oh! yas; I've heern tell on it; that's whar the Cunnel sells his turpentine. Quite a place, ain't it?'

'Yes, quite a place. Something larger than all South Carolina.'

'What d'ye say? Larger nor South Carolina! Kinder reckon tain't, is't?'

'Yes, madam, it is.'

'Du tell! Tain't so large as Charles'n, is't?'

'Yes, twenty times larger than Charleston.'

'Lord o'massy! How does all the folks live thar?'

'Live quite as well as they do here.'

'Ye don't have no niggers thar, does ye?'

'Yes, but none that are slaves.'

'Have Ablisherners thar, don't ye? Them people that go agin the South?'

'Yes, some of them.'

'What do they go agin the South for?'

'They go for freeing the slaves. Some of them think a black man as good as a white one.'

'Quar, that; yer an Ablisherner, ain't ye?'

'No, I'm an old-fashioned Whig.'

'What's that? Never heerd on them afore.'

'An old-fashioned Whig, madam, is a man whose political principles are perfect, and who is as perfect as his principles.'

That was a 'stumper' for the poor woman, who evidently did not understand one half of the sentence.

'Right sort of folks, them,' she said, in a half inquiring tone.

'Yes, but they're all dead now.'

'Dead?'

'Yes, dead, beyond the hope of resurrection.'

'I've heern all the dead war to be resurrected. Didn't ye say ye war one on 'em? Ye ain't dead yet,' said the woman, chuckling at having cornered me.

'But I'm more than half dead just now.'

'Ah,' replied the woman, still laughing, 'yer a chicken.'

'A chicken! what's that?'

'A thing that goes on tu legs, and karkles,' was the ready reply.

'Ah, my dear madam, you can out-talk me.'

'Yes, I reckon I kin outrun ye, tu. Ye ain't over rugged.' Then, after a pause, she added,—'What d'ye 'lect that darky Linkum for President for?'

'I didn't elect him. I voted for Douglass. But Lincoln is not a darky.'

'He's a mullater, then; I've heern he war,' she replied.

'No, he's not a mulatto; he's a rail-splitter.'

'Rail-splitter? Then he's a nigger, shore.'

'No, madam; white men at the North split rails.'

'An' white wimmin tu, p'raps,' said the woman, with a contemptuous toss of the head.

'No, they don't,' I replied,' but white women work there.'

'White wimmin work thar!' chimed in the hitherto speechless beauty, showing a set of teeth of the exact color of her skin,—yaller. 'What du the' du?'

'Some of them attend in stores, some set type, some teach school, and some work in factories.'

'Du tell! Dress nice, and make money?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'they make money, and dress like fine ladies; in fact, are fine ladies. I know one young woman, of about your age, that had to get her own education, who earns a thousand dollars a year by teaching, and I've heard of many factory-girls who support their parents, and lay up a great deal of money, by working in the mills.'

'Wal!' replied the young woman, with a contemptuous curl of her matchless upper lip; 'schule-marms ain't fine ladies; fine ladies don't work; only niggers does that har. I reckon I'd ruther be 'spectable than work for a livin'.'

I could but think how magnificently the lips of some of our glorious Yankee girls would have curled had they heard that remark, and seen the poor girl that made it, with her torn, worn, greasy dress; her bare, dirty legs and feet, and her arms, neck, and face so thickly encrusted with a layer of clayey mud that there was danger of hydrophobia if she went near a wash-tub. Restraining my involuntary disgust, I replied,—

'We at the North think work is respectable. We do not look down on a man or a woman for earning their daily bread. We all work.'

'Yas, and that's the why ye'r all sech cowards,' said the old woman.

'Cowards!' I said; 'who tells you that?'

'My old man; he says one on our boys can lick five of your Yankee men.'

'Perhaps so. Is your husband away from home?'

'Yes, him and our Cal. ar down to Charles'n.'

'Cal. is your son, is he?'

'Yes, he's my oldest, and a likely lad he ar tu—He's twenty-one, and his name ar JOHN CALHOUN MILLS. He's gone a troopin' it with his fader.'

'What, both gone and left you ladies here alone?'

'Yes, the Cunnel sed every man orter go, and they warn't to be ahind the rest. The Cunnel—Cunnel J.—looks arter us while they is away.'

'But I should think the Colonel looked after you poorly—giving you nothing to eat.'

'Oh! it's ben sech a storm to-day, the gals couldn't go for the vittles, though tain't a great way. We'r on his plantation; this house is his'n.'

This last was agreeable news, and it occurred to me that if we were so near the Colonel's we might push on, and get there that night, in spite of the storm; so I said,—

'Indeed; I'm going to the Colonel's. How far is his house from here?'

'A right smart six mile; it's at the Cross-roads. Ye know the Cunnel, du ye?'

'Oh, yes, I know him well. If his house is not more than six miles off, I think we had better go on to-night. What do you say, Scip?'

'I reckon we'd better gwo, massa,' replied the darky, who had spread my traveling-shawl in the chimney-corner, and was seated on it, drying his clothes.

'Ye'd better not,' said the woman; 'ye better stay har; thar's a right smart run twixt har and the Cunnel's, and tain't safe to cross arter dark.'

'If that is so we'd better stay, Scip; don't you think so?' I said to the darky.

'Jess as you like, massa. We got tru wid de oder one, and I reckon tain't no woss nor dat.'

'The bridge ar carried away, and ye'll have to swim shore,' said the woman. 'Ye'd better stay.'

'Thank you, madam, I think we will,' I replied, after a moment's thought; 'our horse has swum one of your creeks to-night, and I dare not try another.'

I had taken off my coat, and had been standing, during the greater part of this conversation, in my shirt-sleeves before the fire, turning round occasionally to facilitate the drying process, and taking every now and then a sip from the gourd containing our brandy and water; aided in the latter exercise by the old woman and the eldest girl, who indulged quite as freely as I did.

'Mighty good brandy that,' at last said the woman. 'Ye like brandy, don't ye?'

'Not very much, madam. I take it to-night because I've been exposed to the storm, and it stimulates the circulation. But Scip, here, don't like spirits. He'll get the rheumatism because he don't.'

'Don't like dem sort of sperits, massa; but rumatics neber trubble me.'

'But I've got it mighty bad,' said the woman, 'and I take 'em whenever I kin get 'em.'

I rather thought she did, but I 'reckoned' her principal beverage was whisky.

'You have the rheumatism, madam, because your house is so open; a draught of air is always unhealthy.'

'I allers reckoned 'twar healthy,' she replied. 'Ye Yankee folks have quar notions.'

I looked at my watch, and found it was nearly ten o'clock, and, feeling very tired, said to the hostess,—

'Where do you mean we shall sleep?'

'Ye can take that ar bed,' pointing to the one nearest the wall, 'the darky can sleep har;' motioning to the settle on which she was seated.

'But where will you and your daughters sleep? I don't wish to turn you out of your beds.'

'Oh! don't ye keer for us; we kin all bunk together; dun it afore. Like to turn in now?'

'Yes, thank you, I would;' and without more ceremony I adjourned to the further part of the room, and commenced disrobing. Doffing my boots, waistcoat, and cravat, and placing my watch and purse under the pillow, I gave a moment's thought to what a certain not very old lady, whom I had left at home, might say when she heard of my lodging with a grass-widow and three young girls, and sprung into bed. There I removed my undermentionables, which were still too damp to sleep in, and in about two minutes and thirty seconds sunk into oblivion.

A few streaks of grayish light were beginning to creep through the crevices in the logs, when a movement at the foot of the bed awakened me, and glancing downward I beheld the youngest girl emerging from under the clothes at my feet. She had slept there, 'cross-wise,' all night. A stir in the adjoining bed soon warned me that the other feminines were preparing to follow her example; so, turning my face to the wall, I feigned to be asleep. Their toilet was soon made, and they then quietly left Scip and myself in full possession of the premises.

The darky rose as soon as they were gone, and, coming to me, said,—

'Massa, we'd better be gwine. I'se got your cloes all dry, and you can rig up and breakfust at de Cunnel's.'

The storm had cleared away, and the sun was struggling to get through the distant pines, when Scipio brought the horse to the door, and we prepared to start. Turning to the old woman, I said,

'I feel greatly obliged to you, madam, for the shelter you have given us, and would like to make you some recompense for your trouble. Please to tell me what I shall pay you.'

'Wal, stranger, we don't gin'rally take in lodgers, but seein' as how as thar ar tu on ye, and ye've had a good night on it, I don't keer if ye pay me tu dollars.'

That struck me as 'rather steep' for 'common doin's,' particularly as we had furnished the food and 'the drinks;' yet, saying nothing, I handed her a two-dollar bank note. She took it, and held it up curiously to the sun, then in a moment handed it back, saying, 'I don't know nothin' 'bout that ar sort of money; hain't you got no silver?'

I fumbled in my pocket a moment, and found a quarter-eagle, which I gave her.

'I hain't got nary a fip o' change,' she said, as she took it.

'Oh! never mind the change, madam; I shall want to stop and look at you when I return,' I replied, good-humoredly.

'Ha! ha! yer a chicken,' said the woman, at the same time giving me a gentle poke in the ribs. Fearing she might, in the exuberance of her joy at the sight of the money, proceed to some more decided demonstration of affection, I hastily stepped into the wagon, bade her good-by, and was off.

We were still among the pines, which towered gigantically all around us, but were no longer alone. Every tree was scarified for turpentine, and the forest was alive with negro men and women gathering the 'last dipping,' or clearing away the stumps and underbrush preparatory to the spring work. It was Christmas week; but, as I afterwards learned, the Colonel's negroes were accustomed to doing 'half tasks' at that season, being paid for their labor as if they were free. They stopped their work as we rode by, and stared at us with a sort of stupid, half-frightened curiosity, very much like the look of a cow when a railway train is passing. It needed but little observation to conclude that their status was but one step above the level of the brutes.

As we rode along I said to the driver, 'Scipio, what did you think of our lodgings?'

'Mighty pore, massa. Niggas lib better'n dat.'

'Yes,' I replied, 'but these folks despise you blacks; they seem to be both poor and proud.'

'Yas, massa, dey'm pore 'cause dey won't work, and dey'm proud 'cause dey'r white. Dey won't work 'cause dey see de darky slaves doin' it, and tink it am beneaf white folks to do as de darkies do. Dis habin' slaves keeps dis hull country pore.'

'Who told you that?' I asked, astonished at hearing a remark showing so much reflection from a negro.

'Nobody, massa, I see it myseff.'

'Are there many of these poor whites around Georgetown?'

'Not many 'round Georgetown, sar, but great many in de up-country har, and dey'm all 'like—pore and no account; none ob 'em kin read, and dey all eat clay.'

'Eat clay!' I said; 'what do you mean by that?'

'Didn't you see, massa, how yaller all dem wimmin war? Dat's 'cause dey eat clay. De little children begin 'fore dey can walk, and dey eat it till dey die; dey chaw it like 'backer. It makes all dar stumacs big, like as you seed 'em, and spiles dar 'gestion. It am mighty onhealfy.'

'Can it be possible that human beings do such things! The brutes wouldn't do that.'

'No, massa, but dey do it; dey'm pore trash. Dat's what de big folks call 'em, and it am true; dey'm long way lower down dan de darkies.'

By this time we had arrived at the run. We found the bridge carried away, as the woman had told us; but its abutments were still standing, and over these planks had been laid, which afforded a safe crossing for foot-passengers. To reach these planks, however, it was necessary to wade into the stream for full fifty yards, the 'run' having overflowed its banks for that distance on either side of the bridge. The water was evidently receding, but, as we could not well wait, like the man in the fable, for it all to run by, we alighted, and counseled as to the best mode of making the passage.

Scipio proposed that he should wade in to the first abutment, ascertain the depth of the stream, and then, if it was not found too deep for the horse to ford to that point, we would drive that far, get out, and walk to the end of the planking, leading the horse, and then again mount the wagon at the further end of the bridge. We were sure the horse would have to swim in the middle of the current, and perhaps for a considerable distance beyond; but, having witnessed his proficiency in aquatic performances, we had no doubt of his getting safely across.

The darky's plan was decided on, and divesting himself of his trowsers, he waded into the 'run' to take the soundings.

While he was in the water my attention was attracted to a printed paper, posted on one of the pines near the roadside. Going up to it, I read as follows:—

$250 REWARD.

Ran Away from the subscriber, on Monday, November 12th, his mulatto man, SAM. Said boy is stout-built, five feet nine inches high, 31 years old, weighs 170 lbs., and walks very erect, and with a quick, rapid gait. The American flag is tattooed on his right arm above the elbow. There is a knife-cut over the bridge of his nose, a fresh bullet-wound in his left thigh, and his back bears marks of a recent whipping. He is supposed to have made his way back to Dinwiddie County, Va., where he was raised, or to be lurking in the swamps in this vicinity.

The above reward will be paid for his confinement in any jail in North or South Carolina, or Virginia, or for his delivery to the subscriber on his plantation at ——. D. W. J——. ——, December 2, 1860.

The name signed to this hand-bill was that of the planter I was about to visit.

Scipio having returned, reporting the stream fordable to the bridge, I said to him, pointing to the 'notice,'—

'Read that, Scip.'

He read it, but made no remark.

'What does it mean—that fresh bullet wound, and the marks of a recent whipping?' I asked.

'It mean, massa, dat de darky hab run away, and ben took; and dat when dey took him dey shot him, and flogged him arter dat. Now, he hab run away agin. De Cunnel's mighty hard on his niggas!'

'Is he! I can scarcely believe that.'

'He am, massa; but he ain't so much to blame, nuther; dey'm awful bad set, most ob 'em,—so dey say.'

Our conversation was here interrupted by our reaching the bridge. After, safely 'walking the plank,' and making our way to the opposite bank, I resumed it by asking,—

'Why are the Colonel's negroes so particularly bad?'

'Cause, you see, massa, de turpentime business hab made great profits for sum yars now, and de Cunnel hab been gettin' rich bery fass. He hab put all his money, jes so fass as he made it, into darkies, so as to make more; for he's got berry big plantation, and need nuffin' but darkies to work it to make money jess like a gold mine. He goes up to Virginny to buy niggas; and up dar now dey don't sell none less dey'm bad uns, 'cep when sum massa die or git pore. Virginny darkies dat cum down har ain't gin'rally of much account. Dey'm either kinder good-for-nuffin, or dey'm ugly; and de Cunnel d'rather hab de ugly dan de no-account niggas.'

'How many negroes has he?'

''Bout two hundred, men and wimmin, I b'lieve, massa.'

'It can't be very pleasant for his family to remain in such an out-of-the-way place, with such a gang of negroes about them, and no white people near.'

'No, massa, not in dese times; but de missus and de young lady ain't dar now.'

'Not there now? The Colonel said nothing to me about that. Are you sure?'

'Oh yas, massa; I seed 'em go off on de boat to Charles'n most two weeks ago. Dey don't mean to cum back till tings am more settled; dey'm 'fraid to stay dar.'

'I should think it wouldn't be safe for even the Colonel there, if a disturbance broke out among the slaves.'

''Twouldn't be safe den anywhar, sar; but de Cunnel am berry brave man. He'm better dan twenty of his niggas.'

'Why better than twenty of his niggers?'

''Cause dem ugly niggas am gin'rally cowards. De darky dat is quiet, 'spectful, and does his duty, am de brave sort; dey'll fight, massa, till dey'm cut down.'

We had here reached a turn in the road, and passing it, came suddenly upon a coach, attached to which were a pair of magnificent grays, driven by a darky in livery.

'Hallo dar!' said Scipio to the driver, as we came nearly abreast of the carriage. 'Am you Cunnel J——'s man?'

'Yas, I is dat,' replied the darky.

At this moment a woolley head, which I recognized at once as that of the Colonel's man 'Jim,' was thrust out of the window of the vehicle.

'Hallo, Jim,' I said. 'How do you do? I'm glad to see you.'

'Lor bress me, massa K——, am dat you?' exclaimed the astonished negro, hastily opening the door, and coming to me. 'Whar did you cum from? I'se mighty glad to see you;' at the same time giving my hand a hearty shaking. I must here say, in justice to the reputation of South Carolina, that no respectable Carolinian refuses to shake hands with a black man, unless—the black happens to be free.

'I thought I wouldn't wait for you,' I replied. 'But how did you expect to get on? the "runs" have swollen into rivers.'

'We got a "flat" made for dis one,—it's down dar by dis time,—de oders we tought we'd get ober sumhow.'

BLACK FREEMASONRY.

'Jim, this is Scip,' I said, seeing that the darkies had taken no notice of each other.

'How d'ye do, Scipio?' said Jim, extending his hand to him. A look of singular intelligence passed over the faces of the two negroes as their hands met; it vanished in an instant, and was so slight that none but a close observer would have detected it, but some words that Scip had previously let drop put me on the alert, and I felt sure it had a hidden significance.

'Won't you get into de carriage, massa?' inquired Jim.

'No, thank you, Jim. I'll ride on with Scip. Our horse is jaded, and you had better go ahead.'

Jim mounted the driver's seat, turned the carriage, and drove off at a brisk pace to announce our coming at the plantation, while Scip and I rode on at a slower gait.

'Scip, did you know Jim before?' I asked.

'Neber seed him afore, massa, but hab heern ob him.'

'How is it that you have lived in Georgetown for five years, and he only seventy miles off, and you never have seen him?'

'I cud hab seed him, massa, good many time, ef I'd liked, but darkies hab to be careful.'

'Careful of what?'

'Careful ob who dey knows; good many bad niggas 'bout.'

'Pshaw, Scip, you're "coming de possum;" that game won't work with me. There isn't a better nigger than Jim in all South Carolina. I know him well.'

'P'raps he am; reckon he am a good enuff nigga.'

'Good enough nigga, Scip! Why, I tell you he's a splendid fellow; just as true as steel. He's been North with the Colonel, often, and the Abolitionists have tried to get him away; he knew he could go, but wouldn't budge an inch.'

'I knew he wouldn't,' said the darky, a pleasurable gleam passing through his eyes; 'dat sort don't run; dey face de music!'

'Why don't they run? What do you mean?'

'Nuffin', massa,—only dey'd ruther stay har.'

'Come, Scip, you've played this game long enough. Tell me, now, what that look you gave each other when you shook hands meant.'

'What look, massa? Oh! I s'pose 'twar 'cause we'd both heerd ob each oder afore.'

''Twas more than that, Scip. Be frank; you know you can trust me.'

'Wal, den, massa,' he replied, adding, after a short pause, 'de ole woman called you a Yankee,—you can guess.'

'If I should guess,'twould be that it meant mischief.'

'It don't mean mischief, sar,' said the darky, with a tone and air that would not have disgraced a Cabinet officer; 'it mean only RIGHT and JUSTICE.'

'It means that there is some secret understanding between you.'

'I tole you, massa,' he replied, relapsing into his usual manner, 'dat de blacks am all Freemasons. I gabe Jim de grip, and he know'd me. He'd ha known my name ef you hadn't tole him.'

'Why would he have known your name?'

''Cause I gabe de grip, dat tole him.'

'Why did he call you Scipio? I called you Scip.'

'Oh! de darkies all do dat. Nobody but de white folks call me Scip. I can't say no more, massa; I SHUD BREAK DE OATH EF I DID!'

'You have said enough, Scipio, to satisfy me that there is a secret league among the blacks, and that you are a leader in it. Now, I tell you, you'll get yourself into a scrape. I've taken a liking to you, Scip, and I should be very sorry to see you run yourself into danger.'

'I tank you, massa, from de bottom ob my soul I tank you,' he said, as the tears moistened his eyes. 'You bery kind, massa; it do me good to talk wid you. But what am my life wuth? What am any slave's life wuth? Ef you war me you'd do like me!'

I could not deny it, and made no reply.

The writer of this article is aware that he is here making an important statement, and one that may be called in question by those persons who are accustomed to regard the Southern blacks as only reasoning brutes. The great mass of them are but a little above the brutes in their habits and instincts, but a large body are fully on a par, except in mere book-education, with their white masters.

The conversation above recorded is, verbatim et literatim, TRUE. It took place at the time indicated, and was taken down, as were other conversations recorded in these papers, within twenty-four hours after its occurrence. The name and the locality, only, I have, for very evident reasons, disguised.

From this conversation, together with previous ones, held with the same negro, and from after developments made to me at various places, and at different times, extending over a period of six weeks, I became acquainted with the fact—and I know it to be a fact—that there exists among the blacks a secret and wide-spread organization of a Masonic character, having its grip, pass-word, and oath. It has various grades of leaders, who are competent and earnest men, and its ultimate object is FREEDOM. It is quite as wide-spread, and much more secret, than the order of the 'Knights of the Golden Circle,' the kindred league among the whites.

This latter organization, which was instituted by John C. Calhoun, William L. Porcher, and others, as far back as 1835, has for its sole object the dissolution of the Union, and the establishment of a Southern Empire;—Empire is the word, not Confederacy, or Republic;—and it was solely by means of its secret but powerful machinery that the Southern States were plunged into revolution, in defiance of the will of a majority of their voting population.

Nearly every man of influence at the South (and many a pretended Union man at the North) is a member of this organization, and sworn, under the penalty of assassination, to labor, 'in season and out of season, by fair means and by foul, at all times, and on all occasions,' for the accomplishment of its object. The blacks are bound together by a similar oath, and only bide their time.

The knowledge of the real state of political affairs, which the negroes have acquired through this organization, is astonishingly accurate; their leaders possess every essential of leadership,—except, it may be, military skill,—and they are fully able to cope with the whites.

The negro whom I call Scipio, on the day when Major Anderson evacuated Fort Moultrie, and before he or I knew of that event, which set all South Carolina in a blaze, foretold to me the breaking out of this war in Charleston harbor, and as confidently predicted that it would result in the freedom of the slaves!

The knowledge of this organization I acquired by gaining the confidence of some of the blacks, who knew me to be a Northern man, and supposed I sympathized with them. Having acquired it in that manner, I could not communicate it; but now, when our troops have landed in South Carolina, and its existence is sure to be speedily developed, no harm can result from this announcement.

The fact of its existing is not positively known (for the black is more subtle and crafty than anything human), but is suspected, by many of the whites; the more moderate of whom are disposed to ward off the impending blow by some system of gradual emancipation,—declaring all black children born after a certain date free,—or by some other action that will pacify and keep down the slaves. These persons, however, are but a small minority, and possess no political power, and the South is rushing blindly on to a catastrophe, which, if not averted by the action of our government, will make the horrors of San Domingo and the French Revolution grow pale in history.

I say the action of our government, for with it rests the responsibility. What the black wants is freedom. Give him that, and he will have no incentive to insurrection. If emancipation is proclaimed at the head of our armies,—emancipation for all—confiscation for the slaves of rebels, compensation for the slaves of loyal citizens,—the blacks will rush to the aid of our troops, the avenging angel will pass over the homes of the many true and loyal men who are still left at the South, and the thunderbolts of this war will fall only—where they should fall—on the heads of its blood-stained authors. If this is not done, after we have put down the whites we shall have to meet the blacks, and after we have waded knee-deep in the blood of both, we shall end the war where it began, but with the South desolated by fire and sword, the North impoverished and loaded down with an everlasting debt, and our once proud, happy and glorious country the by-word and scorn of the whole civilized world.

I have all my life long been a true friend to the South. My connections, my interests, and my sympathies are all there, and there are those now in the ranks of this rebellion who are of my own blood; but I say, and I would to God that every lover of his country would say it with me, 'Make no peace with it until slavery is exterminated.' Slavery is its very bones, marrow, and life-blood, and you can not put it down till you have destroyed that accursed institution. If a miserable peace is patched up before a death-stroke is given to slavery, it will gather new strength, and drive freedom from this country forever. In the nature of things it can not exist in the same hemisphere with liberty. Then let every man who loves his country determine that if this war must needs last for twenty years, it shall not end until this root of all our political evils is weeded out forever.

A short half-hour took us to the plantation, where I found the Colonel on the piazza awaiting me. After our greeting was over, noticing my soiled and rather dilapidated condition, he inquired where I had passed the night. I told him, when he burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and for several days good-naturedly bantered me about 'putting up' at the most aristocratic hotel in South Carolina,—the 'Mills House.'

We soon entered the mansion, and the reader will, I trust, excuse me, if I leave him standing in its door-way till another month.



THE LESSON OF WAR.

Lex est, non poena, perire.—Martial.

Ye warriors of the past, whose flashing swords Light up with fitful gleams the misty night Of half-forgotten eld, in fiery words Ye teach a truth 'twere well we read aright.

God sends the gentle breeze to woo the flower, And stir the pulses of the ripening corn; He, too, lets loose the whirlwind's vengeful power To quench the plagues of foul stagnation born.

And thus in love, sometimes disguised as wrath, He sends his hidden blessings in the storm, Which dashes down in its resistless path The hoar abuses that defied reform.

When Cyrus ravaged fair Chaldea's plain, And mocked the strength of Babylon's haughty wall, The proud Assyrian's guilt had earned the chain, And man rejoiced to mark the oppressor's fall.

And when, made drunk with power, the Persian lost The stern and simple virtues of his sires, His empire's ruin and his slaughtered host Kindled in Greece her world-illuming fires.

Then Greece, her swift career of glory stayed, Exhausted by her madman's triumphs lay, Till Rome's protecting arm the loss repaid Of Corinth's sack and Pydua's fatal day.

Imperial Rome! though crime succeeded crime As earth fell prostrate 'neath her giant tread, Still shall her subjects reap to endless time The priceless harvests by her wisdom spread.

What though the stern proconsul's grinding rule Close followed on the legion's merciless sword? Laws, arts, and culture, in that rigid school, Evoked a nation from each savage horde.

And when at last her crimes, reacting, wrought Their curse upon herself, to her, supine And helpless, the barbarian spoiler brought, With fire and sword, new life to her decline.

Theodoric, Clovis, Charles, your endless strife, From Weser's marsh to Naples' laughing bay, Was but the throe that marked the nascent life Emerging from the worn-out world's decay.

Ye were, amid that elemental war, But straws to show its course. Ye toiled, and won, Or lost; your people bled—yet slow and far The mighty cause of man pressed ever on.

Long has that travail been. Kings, Kaisers, Popes, The stern Crusader and the pirate Dane, Each, centered in his own ambitious hopes, But helped the cause he labored to restrain.

Hildebrand's voice sets Christendom on fire; 'Neath Frederic's plow sinks Milan's lofty wall; Unnumbered victims glut De Montfort's ire; From Ecclin's dungeon shrieks the night appall.

If the tide ebbs, 'tis but to flow again. Each fierce convulsion gains some vantage ground. Man's fettered limbs grow stronger, and the chain Falls link by link at each tumultuous bound.

The timid burgher dons the helm and shield, The wretched hind reluctant grasps the bow, To fight their master's quarrels. Courtrai's field And Sempach's hill that lesson's worth may show.

The restless soul still yearns for things unknown; It chafes against its bondage, points the way That leads to freedom, but the sword alone Makes good the dreams that else would but betray.

See, Luther speaks, and Europe flies to arms: Her stubborn fight outlasts a hundred years; A thousand fields her richest life-blood warms, Yet gain the vanquished more than pays their tears.

If Orange and Gustavus conquering died, Not Coligny nor Hampden fell in vain, For one domain escaped the furious tide, And peace made that one desolate—chivalrous Spain!

So, when the traitorous truth was whispered round,— Equality for man on earth as heaven,— It was but speculation's idlest sound, Till by the sword the time-worn bonds were riven.

Though Moscow, Leipzig, Waterloo, might seem To roll the tide back, they but marked its flood; Nor could the Holy Allies' darkest scheme Restore the wrongs so well effaced in blood.

The end is not yet. God's mysterious way Evolves its purpose in its destined time. Vainly we seek its fated march to stay: All things subserve it—wisdom, folly, crime.

We are his instruments. The past has fled For us. We suffer for the future dim. Then sternly face the darkness round us spread, Do each his duty—leave the rest to Him!



RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

The Nineteenth Century dawned upon a nation already glorious with the sublime promise of a prophetic infancy. The strong serpents of Tyranny and Superstition had been crushed in its powerful grasp. The songs of two oceans—the lullaby of its earlier days—had cheered it on to a youth whose dignity and beauty were bought with sword and rifle, with blood and death. Wrapped at last in the toga of an undisputed manhood, it took its place among the empires of the earth, the son of a king, mightier than all; free to enact new laws, to promulgate new systems of economy, social and political, free to worship and to think. With what success a government grounded on a principle so faultless has been administered, may not now be written, but is not more doubtful than it was when the drum beat its reveille only on our distant frontiers, and the booming of guns from ship or shore was but the nation's welcome to days made memorable by its great men. But before the new republic stretched a vast field for thought, and within its almost boundless limits, hidden beneath the husks of old theories, lay the seed ready for the ripening. Far back toward the east rolled, like a mighty desert, the history of the Progress of Mind. Here and there, on its arid surface, rose, stately and awe-inspiring, great pyramids which marked those eras of agitation when Humanity, awaking suddenly to her power, grappled with giant strength the mighty enigmas of Being, and endeavored to wrench from their mute souls the great secrets that Faith alone has expounded to the satisfaction of her devotees. It availed little that one by one, in the vaults of these temples, the axioms and deductions of their founders were laid away lifeless and powerless. Another generation, vigorous and persevering, laid stone after stone the foundations of another edifice that strove to reach, with its yearning apex of desire, the very heavens. Still high and unmoved curved the blue infinitude above, while below its mirror in the soul of man surged wildly against shores stern, rock-bound, immutable, unanswering.

The 'limits of the forefathers' (fines quos posuerunt patres nostri) had been first transgressed by Abelard, and the speculating spirit of Scholasticism disseminated by him overwhelmed Europe with that rage for investigations, so futile yet so laborious, that terrified the theologians of the mediaeval church, and marked the first modern epoch in Philosophy—the beginning of the revolt of Reason against Authority. Next, colossal against the still unrelenting skies, towered what may be called the Natur-Philosophie, 'Nature Philosophy' of Giordano Bruno. The echoes of Luther's bugle still pierced the mountain-fastnesses of Northern Italy and the gorges of Spain. In the church, Bruno found only skepticism and licentiousness, ignorance and tyranny. Before him four centuries had been swallowed up in debate on the fruitless question of Nominalism, and others equally insignificant, but were visible to him by the light of a logic so shallow, futile, and despotic, that it was known only to be scorned. With an energy that astonished the feeble and degraded clergy of his time, a fearlessness that exacted the admiration while it aroused the indignation of his contemporaries, and a genius that compelled the attention of those who were most zealous to combat its evidences, Bruno, casting off the shackles of the cloister, that 'prigione angusta e nera,' boldly advanced a system of Philosophy, startling, in those Inquisitorial times, from its independence, and horrible from its antagonism to Aristotle, the Atlas of the church. This was no less than pure Pantheism,—God in and through all, the infinite Intelligence. Deus est monadum monas—nempe entium entitas. This creed, by an incomprehensible metamorphosis, was styled, in the language of the day, Atheism; its promulgation, even its conception, was pronounced a crime whose penalty was death. And Bruno, who, from the depths of infamous superstition, had risen into the pure light of heaven, to a theory whose principles, though they might not satisfy, could not fail to refine, elevate, and encourage the soul long groveling in the mire of ignorance, or languishing in the dark dungeons of Scholasticism,—Bruno died for the truth. More foolish than the savages of whom Montesquieu speaks, who cut down trees to reach their fruit, these judges of Bruno destroyed the tree whose seeds were already strewn broadcast over the world. They hushed forever the voice whose echoes are not yet stilled,—echoes that resound in the cautious Meditations of Descartes, that rise from peak to peak of the majestic method of the great Spinoza, who was no less a martyr because reputation and not life was the forfeit of his earnestness; and that vibrate with thrilling sweetness in the Idealism of Schelling. 'The perfect theory of Nature,' says Schelling, 'is that by virtue of which all Nature is resolved into the intellectual element,' which 'intellectual element' is at once composed of intuitions and is the source of intuitions,—the Deus in nobis of Giordano Bruno. 'It is evident,' he continues, 'that Nature is originally identical with that which in us is recognized as the subject and the object.'

Thus the empirical school, in its representative, Aristotle, met in the martyr of Nola an opponent vigilant, earnest, powerful. And while the legitimate prosecution of the former mode of philosophizing has led to deism, skepticism, atheism, and materialism, it is to those who have retained in methods, more mathematically clear and more perfectly developed than that which Bruno disseminated, but still bearing, as their key-note, the one great idea of his bold crusade,—to those we must look for all that is most pure, most noble, in Philosophy: a system or succession of systems whose primitive idea—substance and essence—is the very God for a supposed denial of whom Bruno died. 'Cosi vince Goffredo!'

Thus rolled on the centuries. Germany, France, England, and Scotland had each contributed her knights to the great tournament of Mind. And now the first symptoms of agitation appeared on the hitherto unruffled surface of Thought in the New World. Still panting after her victories, scarcely used to her new freedom, at first the presence of a power antagonistic to the orthodox faith was unsuspected even by those who first entertained it. But the stone had been dashed into the tranquil ocean when the May-flower was moored on the New England coast, and its circling eddies drew curve after curve among the descendants, brave, conscientious, energetic, of the old Puritans. The stern Calvinism, by which their fathers had lived and died, was, by these early recreants, first mistrusted, then questioned, and finally abjured. The murmurs of dissent that had long agitated the sturdy upholders of the accepted faith, broke out in a demand for a system whose claims should be less absolute, and whose nature should satisfy those fugitive appeals to Reason and the Understanding, that, weak indeed, and faint, were yet distinctly audible to the thinkers of the day. From the cloud of accusation and denial, of suspicion and trial, the new Perseus, Unitarianism,—whilom a nursling of Milton, Locke, and Hartley,—was born, and took its place among the sects, sustained by the few, dreaded and condemned by the many.

To brand this new theory, no terms were found too strong even by the religious periodicals of the day. Unwilling to bide their time, to test its soundness by its strength and duration, its opponents rested not. It was confidently predicted that the movement would influence its followers to skepticism and atheism. The accusation of the sixteenth century was revived, and St. Bernards cried from pulpit and press, 'The limits of the forefathers have been transgressed!' To the great mass of the opposition, the horror was not that Trinitarianism had been assailed, but that men had been found so bold as to question it. The crime with the unlearned and the majority of the professors was not heresy, but daring. But Christians, fervent and earnest, were not wanting who denounced the movement in its anticipated consequences. The young and adventurous, the men of impulse and daring, would drift, it was feared, to the very borders of open infidelity. But the contrary was the result. A pietism the very reverse was developed, which, aided by the beloved Channing, was disseminated through New England. Justice Story even asserted that in Unitarianism he found refuge from the skepticism to which in youth he had tended.

Permitted, by the liberal character of the welcome substitute for a theology that had become too stringent for the age, to prosecute their researches into fields hitherto forbidden to the orthodox, thinkers, economists, statesmen and theologians gathered round the standard, and a new impulse was given to the intellectual character of the times. A revolution in Thought was impending.

In Literature we dared challenge the nations. The popularity of Cooper was at its high noon. Irving, with the graphic and delicate strokes of his sympathetic pencil, had written himself the Claude Lorraine among litterateurs; and Prescott, with his sentences of granite, was building himself an immortal name. Still, we were behind Germany, and even France, in that wide comprehension and universal criticism that determines more accurately than its politics the real status of a nation. These elements were now to be supplied. Carlyle had played in England the role so humorously yet thoroughly enacted in Germany by Heine, and so gracefully and airily performed in France by Cousin. He had popularized the philosophers. Without the acute, electric perceptions of the great German or the industry and amiable vanities of that De Sevigne among philosophers, Cousin, he presented, by fierce dashes of his crayon, black, blunt, and bluff, to the hitherto ignorant British public, some phases of the great metaphysical bearings of the age upon Literature and Art, as developed in Teutonic poetry and prose. In a word, he familiarized his readers with the AEsthetik of Germany. He published in 1830 his Sartor Resartus, which, clothing the man in 'der Gottheit lebendiges Kleid,' usurped for him at once an office not inferior to that of the Erd-geist in Faust. The shrill notes of the bagpipe of the critic of Craigenputtock blew across the mountains and valleys of his island home, rousing the judge on the bench, and, penetrating the long halls of Cambridge and Oxford, streamed yet distinct and powerful to our shores. Astonished by the richness and fullness of a literature so comprehensive, which seemed to inclose in its brilliant mazes all that their meagre and unfruitful dogmas denied of comfort to the heart and systematic development to the mind, the men who, with girded loins and scrips in their hands, had long wandered disconsolately on the shores of a seething ocean, now saw its waters parted, and crossed upon dry ground. Before them stretched the vast wilderness of German Philosophy. To their bewildered gaze, each system was an Arabia Felix, and every axiom a graceful palm.

Meanwhile, a second influence was at work among the orthodox, an influence that tended to the same great result, no longer an accident, but a necessity of the age. The Biographia Literaria and The Friend of Coleridge, embodying a dwarfed but not distorted version of the metaphysical system of Kant, which had created a profound sensation in England, met with an even more enthusiastic reception in this country. The Christian character of their author was beyond reproach, his genius undisputed; as a poet he ranked among those to whom Great Britain owed the laurel; and as an essayist, even the bitterest critics yielded him the palm. When, therefore, this man, one of the most evangelical of his time in the Established Church, brought to the aid of a time-honored and beloved theology the principles of that very philosophy which was deemed by others its fiercest antagonist, not a few who had been hitherto deterred from its investigation by a dread of the accusation of heresy, eagerly availed themselves of his labors. His Aids to Reflection was presented to the American public under the patronage of Dr. Marsh, late president of Burlington College, Vt. An elaborate preliminary essay by this eminently pious clergyman established the claims of the work to favor, and it was even taken up as a text-book in Amherst and one or two liberal Congregational universities in New England.

The effort of Coleridge, rendered obscure by his turgid and florid style, was to explain the religious doctrines of Archbishop Leighton and the early Puritans, which he held as orthodox, by means of the momentous distinction between Reason and the Understanding, which he borrowed from the Critik der Reinen Vernunft of Kant. However plausible, when disencumbered of its poetical drapery, the theory of Coleridge may be, and however convincing, so far as it goes, of the truth of his principles, we can not forget that the final tendency of the critical philosophy of Kant is, if not a positive approach to skepticism, at least to afford a scientific basis for it. But the formula of the author of Christabel was the pure exponent of his creed. The terror of metaphysics vanished as the oft-repeated words met the eye of the wary and suspicious investigator. 'World—God = 0: God—world = Reality Absolute. The world without God is nothing: God without the world is already, in and of himself, absolute perfection, absolute authority.'

Thus, while Carlyle, bold, versatile, shrewd, untrammeled, worked upon the Unitarian element in America, Coleridge, evangelical, polished, yet adventurous, leavened the Congregationalists and other shades of orthodox Christians with the same result. But the first literary outgrowth and original product of the Transcendental movement in America was Emerson's Essay on Nature, which appeared in 1838, forming a nucleus for the writings of the Dial-ists, and proving a sort of prolegomena to the new edition of Hermetic Philosophy. 'Non est philosophus nisi fingit et pinxit,' said the great pioneer. Here Emerson does both, proving, by inversion, his claim to the title. Whatever may be the negative virtues of this preliminary essay, it undoubtedly possesses the positive one of having given a strong impulse to the study and love of Nature. True, the man who is to grasp its details, sympathies, significations, to hear, in all their grand harmony, its various discordant symphonies and fugues, to see its marvelous associations, needs to be Briarean-armed, Israfel-hearted and Argus-eyed, as perhaps none in our imperfect day and generation can claim to be. But at least this 'Nature' of Emerson's insinuated, dimly and dreamily, in spite of its positive air, an occult relation between man and Nature. It invested rock and sky and air with new and startling attributes. The deep thinker might even draw upon its pages some pays-de-Cocagne landscape, flowing indeed with milk and honey, but in Tantalian distance. Nature's true heart is invested with a pericardium so thick that it resists the scalpel of the skillful critics, to whom the stethoscope alone betrays the healthful throb of vitality beneath. With portly arguments, Emerson bars the door to the simple but earnest-hearted. That Nature, whose prophet he is, gleams, bright and unloving, down from a cold, unsympathizing heaven.