There are three steam-engines in operation at the works on the hill, one connected with the stocking-department, and two with the other operations carried on here.

Twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of oil is used yearly in lubricating the machinery, and the various pieces of iron and steel, as they are being turned, bored, milled, broached, etc.

At the water-shops there are five miles of leather belting in use, while at the works on the hill the quantity greatly exceeds this amount.

In this establishment there are employed at the present time, as already remarked, twenty-six hundred workmen, who complete, on an average, about one thousand muskets daily, and the works may be increased to almost any extent,—a large square cast of the present works on the hill, and belonging to the Government, being admirably situated for the construction of additional shops.

This extensive manufactory is under the direction of a principal who is styled Superintendent, and who has the chief management of the business of the armory,—contracting for and purchasing all tools and materials necessary for manufacturing arms, engaging the workmen, determining their wages, and prescribing the necessary regulations for the local government of the establishment. To aid him in the important duties of the armory, there is allowed a master-armorer, who manages the mechanical operations, and is held accountable for all stock and tools put under his charge for the use of the armory, and for the proper workmanship of the muskets,—also a paymaster and storekeeper, whose duty it is to liquidate and pay all debts contracted for the armory by the superintendent, and to receive the finished arms, for which he is held accountable, as well as for all other public property delivered him. Each of these officers is allowed a numerous corps of clerks, to aid in keeping the accounts. There is also a foreman, or assistant master-armorer, to each principal branch of the work, and under him a foreman over every job. These are severally held accountable for all stock, tools, and parts of work delivered them for their respective departments, and they in their turn severally hold the individual workmen responsible for all stock, tools, or parts of work delivered to them. The assistant master-armorers, or foremen, are inspectors in their several branches, and are responsible for the faithful and correct performance of the work. Each individual artisan puts his own private mark on the work he executes, as do the inspectors likewise, when they examine and approve of the various parts of the musket. Thus, in case of any defect, the delinquent may readily be found. Monthly returns are made to the superintendent, and from these returns the monthly pay-rolls are made up.

Since the establishment of the armory in 1794-5, there have been fourteen superintendents, all but two of whom are classed as civilians, although a few of these had seen some military service. The armory has been under military rule but fifteen years out of the sixty-eight which have elapsed since it was established: namely, from April, 1841, to August, 1854; and from October, 1861, until the present time. A standing dispute on the subject of the government of the armory, which was kept up with much heat and acrimony for many years, culminated, in 1854, in the passage of a law by Congress, in favor of the civil administration. This continued until after the breaking out of the Rebellion, when Congress restored the military superintendency. The question of civil or military government, however, is of no practical importance to any person other than the aspirant for the place. The same rules and regulations governing the workmen employed at the armory, as well as the mode of payment, and the manner of doing the work, which were inaugurated by Benjamin Prescott, the superintendent from November, 1805, to May, 1815, are substantially in operation now, and have continued through all the changes which have occurred during more than half a century.

At the end of December, 1817, there had been completed in this manufactory 141,761 muskets. The expenditures for land and mill-seats, and for erecting machinery, water-shops, work-shops, stores, and buildings of every description, together with repairs, were estimated at $155,500. The other expenses, exclusive of the cost of stock and parts of work on hand, amounted to $1,553,100; stock and parts of muskets on hand, $111,545; and the total expenditures, from the commencement of the works, to December, 1817, $1,820,120.18.

From the establishment of the armory to the present date there have been manufactured 1,097,660 muskets, 250 rifles, 1,000 pistols, 1,202 carbines, 8,660 musketoons, 4,806 cadets' arms, 18 model muskets, and 16 model pistols and rifles. The reader will be surprised, perhaps, to learn, that there were 1,020 more muskets manufactured at these works during the year 1811 than in the year 1854. In 1850 and 1851, 113,406 muskets were altered in their locks, from flint to percussion, involving an amount of labor equal to the manufacture of 7,630 muskets. From 1809 to 1822, inclusive of those years, and exclusive of 1811 and 1812, nearly 50,000 muskets were repaired, involving labor equal to the manufacture of 11,540 muskets.

In addition to the large number of muskets manufactured at the Government works in Springfield, and which amount to upwards of three hundred thousand per annum, there are a vast number of private establishments throughout the Northern States, which turn out from two to five thousand muskets per month each. These various manufactories are situated at Hartford, Norfolk, Windsor Locks, Norwich, Middletown, Meriden, and Whitneyville, Ct., Providence, R.I., Manchester, N.H., Windsor, Vt., Trenton, N.J., Bridesburg, Pa., and New York City, Watertown, and Ilion, N.Y. Besides these, there are more than fifty establishments where separate parts of the musket are manufactured in large quantities, and purchased by Government to supply the places of those injured or destroyed in the service. It is estimated that the private armories alone are manufacturing monthly upwards of sixty thousand rifled muskets. The Government contracts for these arms extend to January next, and the total number which will then have been produced will be enormous. The cost of manufacturing a musket at the Government works is estimated at about nine dollars; but the contract-price to the private arms-companies is twenty dollars for those which equal the Government standard in every respect, nineteen dollars and ninety cents for those which lack a little in finish, nineteen dollars for the next grade, eighteen for the next, and sixteen for the lowest and poorest which are accepted.

As the arms are finished, they are sent away to the various Government arsenals,—those made in New England to Watertown, Mass.,—where they remain until the exigencies of the service require them. At the present time, there is a sufficient number of new rifled muskets of the best qualify stored in the various arsenals to arm the entire levy about to be called into the field,—and should the war continue so long, there will be enough manufactured during the next twelve months for a new levy of over one million of men. These arms, it must be remembered, are entirely independent of those ordered by the respective State governments, which would swell the amount very largely.

* * * * *

THE PEWEE.

The listening Dryads hushed the woods; The boughs were thick, and thin and few The golden ribbons fluttering through; Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods The lindens lifted to the blue: Only a little forest-brook The farthest hem of silence shook: When in the hollow shades I heard— Was it a spirit, or a bird? Or, strayed from Eden, desolate, Some Feri calling to her mate, Whom nevermore her mate would cheer? "Pe-ri! Pe-ri! Peer!"

Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell With plashy pour, that scarce was sound, But only quiet less profound, A stillness fresh and audible: A yellow leaflet to the ground Whirled noiselessly: with wing of gloss A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, And, wavering brightly over it, Sat like a butterfly alit: The owlet in his open door Stared roundly: while the breezes bore The plaint to far-off places drear,— "Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer!"

To trace it in its green retreat I sought among the boughs in vain; And followed still the wandering strain, So melancholy and so sweet The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain. 'Twas now a sorrow in the air, Some nymph's immortalized despair Haunting the woods and waterfalls; And now, at long, sad intervals, Sitting unseen in dusky shade, His plaintive pipe some fairy played, With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,— "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

Long-drawn and clear its closes were,— As if the hand of Music through The sombre robe of Silence drew A thread of golden gossamer: So sweet a flute the fairy blew. Like beggared princes of the wood, In silver rags the birches stood; The hemlocks, lordly counsellors, Were dumb; the sturdy servitors, In beechen jackets patched and gray, Seemed waiting spellbound all the day That low entrancing note to hear,— "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

I quit the search, and sat me down Beside the brook, irresolute, And watched a little bird in suit Of sober olive, soft and brown, Perched in the maple-branches, mute: With greenish gold its vest was fringed, Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged, With ivory pale its wings were barred, And its dark eyes were tender-starred. "Dear bird," I said, "what is thy name?" And thrice the mournful answer came, So faint and far, and yet so near,— "Pe-wee! Pe-wee! Peer!"

For so I found my forest-bird,— The pewee of the loneliest woods, Sole singer in these solitudes, Which never robin's whistle stirred, Where never bluebird's plume intrudes. Quick darting through the dewy morn, The redstart trills his twittering horn, And vanisheth: sometimes at even, Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven, The high notes of the lone wood-thrush Fall on the forest's holy hush: But thou all day complainest here,— "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

Hast thou too, in thy little breast, Strange longings for a happier lot,— For love, for life, thou know'st not what,— A yearning, and a vague unrest, For something still which thou hast not?— Thou soul of some benighted child That perished, crying in the wild! Or lost, forlorn, and wandering maid, By love allured, by love betrayed, Whose spirit with her latest sigh Arose, a little winged cry, Above her chill and mossy bier! "Dear me! dear me! dear!"

Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars The pewee's life of cheerful ease! He sings, or leaves his song to seize An insect sporting in the bars Of mild bright light that gild the trees. A very poet he! For him All pleasant places still and dim: His heart, a spark of heavenly fire, Burns with undying, sweet desire: And so he sings; and so his song, Though heard not by the hurrying throng, Is solace to the pensive ear: "Pewee! pewee! peer!"

* * * * *

MRS. LEWIS.

A STORY IN THREE PARTS.

PART II.

VI.

In due time we found our way, through deafening clatter, to Miss Post's door, a little below the Astor House, and in the midst of all that female feet the soonest seek. In Maiden Lane and on Broadway it was easy to find all that a Weston fancy painted in the shape of dry goods; and I did my errands up with conscientious speed before indulging in a fashionable lounge on the Battery.

The first twenty-four hours were full of successive surprises, which ought to have been chronicled on the spot and at the time. They affected me like electric shocks; but in a day or two I forgot to be surprised at the queer Dutch signs over the shops and the swine in the streets. Now I only remember the oddity of Miss Post's poverty in the water-line; and that she had to buy fresh water by the gallon and rain-water by the barrel. Also, the faithlessness of the two brilliant black boys who waited on table and at the door, and who couldn't be depended on to take up a bundle or carry a message to your room, so unmitigatedly wicked were they.

"If I owned 'em," said Miss Post to me, confidentially, "I would have 'em whipped every day of their lives. It's what they need, and can't do without. They're just like bad children!"

That was true enough. However, she didn't own them, and got very little out of them but show; and they looked like princes, with their white aprons and jackets, and their glittering, haughty eyes. They played with their duties, and disdained all directions. I used to follow them with my eyes at the table with amused astonishment. It was very grand, and, as the Marchioness says, "If you made believe a good deal," reminded one of barbaric splendor, and Tippoo Saib. But poor Miss Post couldn't order an elephant to tread their heads off, or she would have extinguished her household twice a day. I looked back with a feeling of relief to Weston, and my good Polly, who would scorn to be an eye-servant or men-pleaser.

At the long table, where sat Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, Babbit, and so on, I looked sharply for Mr. and Mrs. Lewis. But neither was there the first day. All the people were childless and desolate-looking, though much bedecked with braids and curls, which ladies wore at that time without stint. Nobody looked as if she could be Mr. Lewis's wife. However, the ladies all treated me with so much cordiality and politeness that I set New York down at once as a delightful spot.

Happening to speak of Mrs. Lewis, I saw that the corners of Mrs. Jones's mouth went immediately down, and Mrs. Smith's eyebrows immediately up. Of course, no woman is going to stand that; and I inquired minutely enough to satisfy myself either that Mrs. Lewis was very peculiar, or that a boarding-house was not a favorable atmosphere for character. My husband, to whom I told all they said, considered "the abundant leisure from family-cares which these ladies enjoyed as giving them opportunities for investigation which they carried to excess."

"But think of Gus not being Mr. Lewis's child!" said I, after faithfully relating all I had heard.

"He looks like an Italian. I always thought so. But Lewis seems very fond of him."

"Yes, they said so. But that the mother cared nothing for him, nor for her other children, who are off in Genesee County somewhere."

"For health, doubtless," said my "he," dryly.

"And the way they talked of Mr. Remington! calling him George, and more than insinuating that she likes too well to be at the Oaks,—that is his place. They say she has been there all the time Mr. Lewis has been gone!"

"Mr. Remington has been gone too, as you and I can testify," more dryly.

"So he has. I wish I had thought to tell them so."

I hadn't been in a boarding-house for nothing.

"It was like Lewis to take her as he did. Very noble and generous, too, even supposing he loved her. I dare say he does. Is Montalli dead?"

"I don't know. I think so. At all events, they were divorced, and for his cruelty. Only think of a lady, a young lady, not sixteen, and the darling and idol at home, being beaten and pounded! Ugh! what horrid creatures Italians are!"

"And you say Lewis happened to be in Mobile at the time?"

"Yes, and fell in love with her,—she, scarcely eighteen, and to have had this shocking experience! I don't like to tell you how much these ladies have hinted about her, but enough to make me feel as if I were reading the "Mysteries of Udolpho," instead of hearing of a live woman, out of a book, and belonging to our own time."

"Very likely she may have amused herself at the expense of their credulity. I have seen women do that, just for sport, and to see how much people would believe. It is a dangerous game to play."

Mr. Lewis came to dinner, and brought me a little three-cornered note from his wife, written with much grace and elegance, so far as the composition was concerned. It was sealed with a dove flying, and expressed her thanks for my bringing the "sweet remembranser" from her beloved child, and so on, expecting to see me the next day at the Oaks.

The surprising part of the note was, that the writing was scrawled, and the words misspelt in a manner that would have disgraced the youngest member of a town-school in Weston. She had "grate" pleasure, and spoke of my "truble" in a way that made me feel as if I should see a child.

The next day brought Mr. Remington himself, fresh and handsome as ever, saying that a carriage was waiting, and his tulips were at their best, and the ladies expecting to see us,—adding, with an informality which I had not associated with New York, that the day was all planned out for us,—tulips and lunch at the Oaks, Hoboken in the afternoon.

That was a white day, and one long to be remembered. First of all, for Hoboken, which, whatever it may be now, was then a spot full of picturesque beauty and sweet retirement, relieving and contrasting the roar and tumult of the city; second, for the tulips, which were the most glorious things I ever saw, and still remain the pattern of exceeding beauty, though I have since seen wealth of floral splendor, but none that came up to the Royal Adelaide,—nothing so queenly and so noble as the large white cup, fit for Hebe to bear and the gods to drink out of, and holding at least a pint within the snowy radiance of its ample brim. I did not wonder Mr. Remington had a passion for tulips. He flitted about among his brilliant brigade like a happy butterfly, rejoicing in our delight and exulting in our surprise like a pleased child.

"And is each of these different?"

"Not a duplicate among them. Fifteen hundred varieties."

If he had said fifteen thousand, it would not have added to my astonishment. To be sure, no king was ever arrayed like one of these. And fifteen hundred! each gorgeous enough for a king's ransom! It took my breath away to look at the far-reaching parterre of nodding glories, moved by the breath of the south-wind.

"I am satisfied. I see you are sufficiently impressed with my tulips, Mrs. Prince," said Mr. Remington, gleefully, "and I shall send you no end of bulbs for your Weston garden."

Mr. Remington had taken us directly to the garden on our arrival, and now led the way, through large evergreens, and by a winding path, to the house. The land was not half an acre in size, yet I was sure that I had been over a large estate. The same delusion clung to the house, which was in looks like one of Gainsborough's cottages, and ought to have been at least two hundred years old, instead of two. But Downing's advent had already wrought miracles here and there in our land; and a little while before Mr. Remington had been bitten with an architectural mania. So under the transplanted trees, and beneath trailing vines of Virginia creeper and Boursault roses, there peeped the brown gables of a cottage, which arose and stood there as reposeful and weather-stained as if it had been built before the Revolution. Mr. Remington showed us twenty unexpected doors, and juttings-out here and there, to catch a view, or to let in the sun, and rejoiced in our pleasure, as he had in the garden, like a child. In the library, Mrs. Remington received us, looking pale, and being very silent.

I sat down by her without being attracted at all—rather repelled by the faint sickliness of everything connected with her appearance. But neither her pale blue eyes, nor her yellow hair, nor her straw-colored gown and blue ribbons would have repelled me; I could not make her talk at all. I never saw such reticence before or since. As if she were determined "to die and make no sign," she sat, bowing and smiling, and amounting to nothing, one way or another,—giving no opinion, if asked, and asking no question. She was passively polite, but so very near nothing that I was rejoiced when Mr. Remington entered with my husband, and proposed that we should go into the dining-room. He carelessly introduced Mrs. Remington, but further than that seemed not to know she was in existence; and I must confess, I did not wonder. While my husband made, or tried to make, some conversation with her, Mr. Remington showed me an exquisite Clytie in marble, and a landscape by Cole, which hung in a good light, and showed its wonderful wild beauty. And now for the third reason that this was a white day.

VII.

In a little room connected with the refreshment-room there stood before a large mirror somebody winding a red scarf about her head. I had only time to see that the head was small and shapely, and the figure full of flexible grace, when it turned and nodded to the party. Of course, it could only be Mrs. Lewis, as she at once said, in a honey-sweet voice, and with what seemed to me a foreign accent; but then I had never heard the Southern accent, which is full of music, and seems somehow to avoid the sibilant tone as well as the nasal drawl characteristic of Northern tongues.

I was attracted to her, not by her beauty, though that was marked, but by her cordial, unaffected manner of placing her two hands in ours, and by her infantine sweetness of expression. Whatever she might have gone through, I saw she had not suffered. There was no line or track of experience, on her broad, tranquil brow, nor was there the hushed, restrained expression left in all eyes that have deeply mourned and bitterly wept. The look was serene and youthful, with such happiness as might come from health and elemental life,—such as a Dryad might have in her songful bowers, or a Naiad plunging in the surf. But it was a shallow face, and pleased only as the sunshine does. For my part, I would rather listen to the sorrowful song of the pine-tree: that is the tune of life.

So, after the first five minutes, the face of Mrs. Lewis ceased to attract me, and I only wondered how she came to attract her husband.

At Miss Post's, our rooms were quite near each other; and I frequently passed an hour in the morning with Mrs. Lewis, chatting with her, and looking about her fanciful apartment. She had dozens of birds of all gay colors,—paroquets from Brazil, cockatoos, ring-doves, and canaries; fresh flowers, in vases on the mantel-pieces, and a blue-ribboned guitar in the corner. No books, no pictures. A great many scarfs, bonnets, and drapery generally, fell about on the chairs and tables.

She never asked about Auguste, nor talked of her children. Once she said they were at Madam somebody's, she couldn't think of the name, but a very nice school, she believed. Everything was "very nice" or "very horrid." Much of the time she passed in draping herself in various finery before the mirror, and trying the effects of color on her complexion. I could think of nothing but field-lilies, that toil not, and yet exceed Solomon in glory; sometimes it seemed gaudiness rather than glory, only that her brilliant complexion carried off the brightest hues, and made them only add to the native splendor of lip and eye. Then she had a transparent complexion, where the blood rippled vividly and roseately at the least excitement. This expressed a vivacity of temperament and a sensitiveness which yet she had not, so that I was constantly looking for more than there was in her, and as constantly disappointed. The face suggested, and so did the conversation, far more both of native sensibility and of culture than she had of either. This was apparent during the first twenty-four hours.

It may seem strange that I should cultivate such a disappointing acquaintance as Mrs. Lewis. But, first, I liked Mr. Lewis, and he was much of the time in their parlor; and, secondly, Mrs. Lewis took a decided fancy to me, and that had its effect. I could not deem her insensible to excellence of some sort; besides, she was a curious study to me, and besides, I had occasion, as the time wore on, to think more of her. Our lives are threaded with black and gold, not of our own selecting, and we feel that we are guided by an Unseen Hand in many of our associations.

There was a want of arrangement of material in her mind, which prevented her from using what she knew, to any advantage; and what she knew, though it had the originality of first observation, and a grace of expression so great that more met the ear than was meant, was still so wanting, either in insight or reflection, as to be poor and vapid as small-beer after the first sparkle is gone. The manner was all in Mrs. Lewis, but that was ever varying and charming.

One day she had been wrapping some green and gold gauzes about her, and draping herself so that you could think of nothing but sunsets and tulip-beds, when, in pulling over her finery, she came across a miniature of herself. She handed it to me.

"This was what made William dead in love with me, before he saw me. I used to wear my hair so for years after I married him; he liked me to."

It was a very delicately painted miniature, by Staigg, I think. Still a very good likeness, and with the perpetual childhood of the large brown eyes, and the clusters of chestnut curls over brow and neck, that gave an added expression of extreme youth to the face.

"Will she never mature?" I thought.

But always there was the same promise, the same expectation, and the same disappointment. I used to think I would as soon marry Hoffman's machine, who looked so beautiful, and said, "Ah! ah!" and the husband thought her very sensible. But Hoffman's husband thought he had an admiring wife, and her "ah! ah-s!" were appreciative, whereas Mr. Lewis could be under no such delusion. Once I heard him say, "he cared only for love in a wife: intellect he could find in books, but the heart only in woman." "Eyes that look kindly on me are full of good sense,—lips that part over pearls are better than wisdom,—and the heart-beat is the measure of true life."

He liked to talk in this proverb-fashion, and would often turn towards his wife, giving his remarks point and affectionate direction by smoothing her curls or gently touching her shoulder. He was very happy in her beauty.

Notwithstanding this, he often brought in books of an evening, to read to us, leaving Lulu to get her entertainment as she could, and would sometimes sit a whole hour, discussing literary points with me, and metaphysical ones with the Dominie, who was only too happy to pull the Scotch professors over the coals, and lead to condign execution Brown, Reid, and Stewart, in their turn. Sometimes Lulu would come in, with a bird on each hand, and sit at our feet. She then never mingled in the conversation, but just smoothed the birds' plumage, or fed them with crumbs from her own lips, like a child, or a princess trifling in the harem.

Once we were at Hoboken, where we had passed most of the warm day, and, being weary with strolling among the trees, had seated ourselves on a bank, whence we had a good view of the water and the vessels in the hazy distance. Mr. Lewis took Wordsworth from his pocket, and read aloud the "Ode to Immortality." It was so beautiful, and the images of "the calm sea that brought us hither" so suggestive, that we listened with rapture. Lulu twined oak-leaves into wreaths, sitting at her husband's feet. I don't know whether she heard or not, but, as we discussed afterwards the various beauties of the expression, and the exquisite thoughts, Mr. Lewis leaned over and laid his hand lightly on his wife's hair. He had done it a hundred times before. But to-day she shook her head away from him, blushed angrily, and said, "Don't, William! I am not a baby!"

VIII.

We stayed in New York over ten days. In that time we seemed to have known the Lewises ten years. In the last three days I had some new views, however, and puzzled myself over manners which were apparently contradictory.

Lulu had told me in the morning that her husband was going to Philadelphia, and wouldn't be back for two days. I asked her if she were not going with him. She said, no,—that she wouldn't encounter the dust of those Jersey wagons again; and then described, with much vivacity, the method of transportation which was soon after succeeded by the present railroad.

"There were a hundred horses, at least," said she, "to drag us. Magnificent creatures, too. But nothing pays for having one's mouth and eyes full of grit."

As she spoke, Mr. Lewis passed by the door, and looked at her. She went to him at once, put up her lips to be kissed, and I heard his loving good-bye, as they went along the entry to the top of the stairway.

When she came back to my room, which was half an hour after, she was dressed to go out, in a new hat and pelisse of green silk, with a plume of the same. With her bright color, it was very becoming to her.

"I have just got these home. William just hates me in green, but I would have them. They make one think of fern-leaves and the deep woods, don't they?" said she, standing before the mirror with childish admiration of her own dress.

She turned slowly round, and faced me.

"Now I suppose you would dress up in a blue bag, if your husband liked to see you in it?"

I said I supposed so, too.

"That's because you love him, and know that he loves you!"

"I am sure, you may say one is true of yourself," said I, surprised at her knitted brow and flushed cheek.

"What was that you were reading last night in Plato's Dialogues? What does he say is real love? for the body or the soul?"

I was confounded. For I had never supposed she listened to a word that was read.

"If any one has been in love with the body of Alcibiades, that person has not been in love with Alcibiades," said she, reciting from memory.

"Yes, I remember."

"But one that loves your soul does not leave you, but continues constant after the flower of your beauty has faded, and all your admirers have retired."

I nodded, as much nonplussed as if she had been Socrates.

"That is a love worth having, is it not, which will continue, though the cheek be white and furrowed, and the eye dim?"

I nodded again, staring at her.

"And what is that worth," said she, stamping her foot, "which does not recognize a soul at all? If he ever encouraged me to improve,—if he ever read to me, or talked to me as he does to you, I might make something of myself! I am in earnest. I do want to be something,—to think, to learn, if I only knew how!"

Childish tears ran down her face as she spoke. Presently she went into her room and brought me a set of malachite, in exquisite cameo-cuttings. I took up a microscope, and began admiring and examining them, recognizing the subjects, which were taken from Raphael's History of Psyche.

"Beautiful! where did they come from?"

"William bought them of Lloyd, who had them long ago of the Emperor's jeweller. They had been ordered for Marie Louise."

"And why didn't she have them, pray?"

"Just the question I asked. He said, 'Oh, because the Emperor was down and the Allies in Paris, and the Emperor's jeweller nobody, and glad to sell the cameos for one-third their cost, when they were finished.'"

"Oh, yes! I see,—at the time of Waterloo."

Mrs. Lewis looked at me again with the same knitted brow and flushed cheek as before.

"All you say is Greek to me. I don't know what malachite is, nor who Raphael is, nor who Psyche is, nor who Marie Louise is, scarcely who Napoleon, and nothing about Waterloo. A pretty present to make to me, is it not? I could make nothing of it. To you it is a whole volume."

I said, with some embarrassment, that it was easy to learn, and that if she—that is, that women should endeavor to improve themselves, and so on. She heard me through, and then said, dryly,—

"How old were you when you were married?"

"I was nearly twenty."

"Were you well-informed? had you read a great deal?"

"What one gets in a country-school,—and being fond of reading;—but then I had always been in an atmosphere of books; and one takes in, one knows not how, a thousand facts"—

I stopped; for I saw by her impatient nodding that she understood me.

"Yes, yes. I knew it must be so. Now, if William would ever bring me books, instead of jewels, or talk to me and with me, I might have been a rational being too, instead of being absolutely ashamed to open my mouth!"

She clasped the jewel-case and went out; and I heard her chatting a minute after with some gentlemen in the house, as if she were perfectly and childishly happy.

IX.

How I wished I could give Mr. Lewis some hint of what had passed between his wife and myself! But that I could not do. Besides that it was always best to let matrimonial improvements originate with the parties themselves, I had an inability to interfere usefully. I could talk to her a little,—not at all to him. He seemed fond and proud of her as she was, and her dissatisfaction with herself was a good sign. It was strange to me, accustomed to intellectual sympathy, that he could do without that of his wife. But I suppose he had come to feel that she would not understand him, and so did not try to hit her apprehension, much less to raise or cultivate her intellect. He had lived too long at the South.

Her moral nature was very oddly developed, showing how starved and stunted some of the faculties, naturally good, become without their proper nourishment. As, intellectually, she seemed not to comprehend herself, except that she had a vague sense of want and waste, so, from the habit of occupying herself with the external, she had not only a keen sense of the beautiful in outward form, but as ready a perception of character as could consist with a want of tact. Adaptation she certainly had. Tact she could not have, since her sympathies were so limited and her habit so much of external perception and appreciation. All this desolate tract in her nature might yet possibly be cultivated. But thus far it had never been. Beyond a small circle of thoughts and feelings, she was incapable of being interested. She didn't say, "Anan!" but she looked it.

There was the same want of comprehension, I may call it, in reference to propriety of conduct. A certain nobleness, and freedom from all that was petty and cold, kept her from coquetry. At the same time she had a womanish vanity about her admirers, and entire freedom in speaking of them. In vain I endeavored to insinuate the unpleasant truth, that the fervency of her adorers was no compliment to her. She could not understand that she ought to shrink from the implied imputation of such manifestations.

Somewhat out of patience, one day, at her pleasure in receiving a bouquet of rare flowers from one of these adorers, I said,—

"Isn't this the person who you said professed an attachment to you, or rather sent heliotrope to you and told you it meant je vous aime?"

"The very man!" said she, smiling.

"Then I am sure you are, as I should be, sadly mortified at his continuing these attentions."

"I don't see why I should be mortified," said she, "He may be, if he likes."

"You know what the poet says, Lulu, and it is excellent sense,—

'In part she is to blame that has been tried, He comes too near that comes to be denied.'"

The crimson tide rippled over her forehead at this, but it was only a passing disturbance, and she answered sweetly,—

"I don't think you are quite fair," as if she had been playing at some game with me.

Apparently, too, she had as little religious as moral sense, though she called herself a member of the Church, and said she was confirmed at twelve years old.

But once, in speaking of Mr. Lewis's going to church, she told me, "William has no religion at all." Much in the same way she would have said he had not had luncheon. A strange responsibility, if he felt it, had this William, a man nearly forty years old, for this young creature not yet twenty-three, and with powers so undeveloped and a character so unbalanced!

In the ten days we passed together I often wished I could have known her early, or that I now had a right to say to her what I would. However, perhaps I overestimated the influence of outward circumstances.

We parted rather suddenly, and in the next three years they were mostly in Cuba, while my husband was called to leave Weston for a larger field of usefulness.

We had lived more than a year in Boston, and it was in the autumn of 1833 that I sat alone by a sea-coal fire, thinking, and making out faces in the coal. I was too absorbed to hear the bell ring, or the door open, till I felt a little rustle, and a soft, sudden kiss on my lips. I was no way surprised, for Lulu's was the foremost face in the coals. Mr. Lewis was close behind her, with my husband. As soon as the astral was lighted, we gazed wistfully for a few moments at each other. Each looked for possible alteration.

"You have been ill!"

"And you have had something besides Time."

We had had grief and bereavement. Mr. Lewis had been very ill, and very near death, with the fever of the country. It had left traces on his worn face, and thinned his already thin enough figure.

But a greater change had come over Mrs. Lewis. Personally, she was fuller and handsomer than ever. She had the same grace in every motion, the same lulling music in her sweet voice. But a soul seemed to be born into that fine body. The brown eyes were deeper, and the voice had thrills of feeling and sentiment. For all that, she had the same incompleteness that she had when I last saw her, and an inharmoniousness that was felt by the hearer whenever she spoke. It was very odd, this impression I constantly had of her; but they were to remain in Boston through the winter, and I supposed time would develop the mystery to me.

X.

One evening, soon after Lulu's return, for she soon took up her old habits of intimacy, she sat listlessly by the fire, holding her two hands in her lap, as usual, and not even dawdling at netting. Perhaps the still evening and the quiet room induced confidence, or she may have felt the effect of my "receptivity," as she called it. (She always insisted that she could not help telling me everything.) She turned away abruptly from the fire, saying,—

"Do you know I don't love William a particle,—not the smallest atom?"

"I hope you are only talking nonsense," said I, rising, and ringing for lights; "but it is painful for me to hear you. Don't! I beg!"

"No, it isn't nonsense. It is the simple truth. And it is best you should know it. Because,—you don't want me to be a living lie, do you? To the world I can keep up the old seeming. But it is better you should know the truth."

"There I differ from you entirely, Lulu. If you are so sadly unfortunate, so wretched, as not to love your husband, it is too painful and serious a matter lightly to be talked of. It is a matter for grievous lamentation,—a matter between your conscience and your God. I don't think any friend can help you; and if not, of course you can have no motive in confiding it."

She had the same old look, as if she would say, "Anan!" but presently added,—

"He cares only for himself,—not at all for me. Don't I see that every day? Am I but the plume in his cap? but the lace on his sleeve? but the jewel in his linen? Whatever I might have felt for him, I am sure I have no need to feel now; and I repeat to you, I should not care at all if I were never again to lay my eyes on him!"

I shuddered to hear this talk. It was said, however, without anger, and with the air rather of a simple child who thought it right not to have false pretences. Her frankness, if it had been united with deep feeling, would have touched me exceedingly. As it was, I was bewildered, yet only anxious to avoid explanations, which it seemed to me would only increase the evil.

Thoughts of the ill-training that had made such a poor piece of life-work out of the rich materials before me made my heart ache. She sat still, looking in the fire, like a child, rebuked and chidden for some unconscious fault. So many fine traits of character, yet such a hopeless want of balance, such an utter wrongheadedness! I turned, and did what I very seldom do, yielded to my impulses of compassionate tenderness and kissed her. To my surprise, she burst into a hearty fit of crying.

"If I had known you early! or if my mother had lived!" she sobbed; "but now I am good for nothing! I don't know what is right nor what is wrong!"

"Don't say so,—we can always try."

"Not this. I could at first. But to be always treated like a baby,—and if I express any contrary opinion, or show that I've a mind of my own,—a sick baby! I can tell you this comes pretty hard three hundred and sixty-five days in a year! Oh, I wish I were a free woman! There! I am going to stop now. But you know."

I was only too glad to be interrupted by our two husbands. Lulu ran up-stairs,—I supposed, to bathe her eyes and compose herself. She, however, was down again in a minute, with some drapery which she wound about her after the fashion Lady Hamilton was said to do, and represented, like her, the Muses, and various statues. With the curtain and one light she managed to give a very statuesque effect. Mr. Lewis was evidently very proud of her grace and talent, and she had a pretty, wilful, bird-like way with him, that was fascinating, and did not seem, as I thought it must really be, mechanical. I felt, more than ever, how idle it must be to talk with her. The affectionate respect, the joyful uplooking of wifehood, was not to be taught by words, nor to be taught, in fact, any way. Mr. Lewis's manner to his wife, which I criticized carefully, was always tender and dignified. And, from my knowledge of him, I felt sure that his expression was that of genuine feeling. Evidently he did not understand her feelings at all. She longed for encouragement and improvement. He looked at her as a lovely child only.

Being a minister's wife, I felt called on to labor in my vocation, and from time to time watch the pliant moment, and endeavor to lead Lulu's mind to the foundation of all truth. But, surely, never fell seed on such stony ground. To be sure, the flowers sprang up. Dewy, rich, and running, they climbed over the rocks beneath; but they shed their perfume, and shrank dead in a day, leaving the stones bare. I was discouraged about sowing seed.

The Lewises had been but a few weeks in Boston, when Lulu brought Mr. Remington in one morning to make a call. He was dressed in black, and told me he had been a widower six months. His bright, genial face and healthful nature seemed not to have sustained any severe shock, however, and he spoke with great composure of his loss.

He was at Mr. Lewis's a great deal. It seemed as a matter of course. As an accomplished man, with great powers of entertaining, he must naturally be acceptable there; but we were too much occupied with family and parish matters to see much of him, and about that time went on a journey of some weeks.

* * * * *

THE CONQUEST OF CUBA.

One hundred years ago the people of America were as much moved by martial ardor as are the American people of to-day. The year 1762 was, indeed, a far more warlike time than was 1862. "Great war" is now confined to the territory of the United States, and exists neither in Asia, Africa, nor Europe. Garibaldi's laudable attempt to get it up in Italy failed dismally. There was a flash of spirit, and there were a few flashes of gunpowder, and all was over. "The rest is silence." There are numerous questions unsettled in the Old World, but the disputants are inclined to wait for settlement, it would seem, until our affairs shall have been brought into a healthful state. Europeans complain that our quarrel has wrought them injury, and very great injury, too. They are right as to the fact. England has suffered more from the consequences of the Southern Rebellion than have the Free States of the Union, and France quite as much, and Spain as severely as any one of our States. In Germany, in Switzerland, and in Belgium, thousands of families have had bitter reasons for joining in the cry that Americans do not know how to manage their politics. We have heard of riots in Moravia, not far from the scene of Lafayette's imprisonment and that of Napoleon's greatest victory, caused by the scarcity of cotton. Yankee cloths that used to go into remote and barbarous regions, through the medium of the caravan-commerce, will be known no more there for some time. Perhaps those African chiefs who had condescended to shirt themselves, thus taking a step toward civilization, will have to fall back upon their skins, because Mr. Jefferson Davis and some others of the Southern Americans chose to make war on their country, and so stop the supply of cotton. The "too-many-shirts" cry, which so revolted the benevolent heart of Mr. Carlyle twenty years since, has ceased to be heard. The supply is getting exhausted. The old shirts are vanishing, and the new ones, instead of being of good stout cloth, are of such stuff as dreams are made of. There might be a new version of "The Song of the Shirt" published, specially adapted to the state of the times, and which would come home to the bosoms and backs of many men. Mr. Davis's war may be considered as a personal one against all civilized men, for it affects every one's person. The great civil war between Charles I. and the English Parliament was in part caused by soap, which the monopolists made of so bad a quality that it destroyed the clothes which it should have cleaned. Of "the monopolers and polers of the people," as he called them, Sir John Culpeper said, "We find them in the dye-fat, the wash-bowl, and the powdering-tub." As a monarchy was made to fall through the monopoly of soap and other ordinary articles, so was it purposed that a republic should be crushed through the monopoly of the material from which the sheets and shirts of laborers are manufactured. There was not much chivalry in the basis of Southern power, but most grand revolutions are brought about by acting on the lives of the masses, who are more easily moved by appeals to their sense of immediate interest than by reference to the probable consequences of a certain kind of political action. Our party-men know this, and hence it is, that, while they have not much to say about the excellence of slavery, they ask the Irish to oppose the overthrow of that institution, on the ground, that, if it were to cease to exist, all the negroes of the South would come to the North, and work for a dime a day,—which nonsense there are some persons so ignorant as to believe.

To return to 1762: the people of the Colonies were as martially disposed as are the people of the States in these days. "In the heat of the Old French War," says Mr. Hawthorne, speaking of the inhabitants of New England, "they might be termed a martial people. Every man was a soldier, or the father or brother of a soldier; and the whole land literally echoed with the roll of the drum, either beating up for recruits among the towns and villages, or striking the march toward the frontier. Besides the provincial troops, there were twenty-three British regiments in the northern colonies. The country has never known a period of such excitement and warlike life, except during the Revolution,—perhaps scarcely then; for that was a lingering war, and this a stirring and eventful one." There has not been so much movement in the Secession War as characterized that in which our ancestors were engaged a century ago, and which was fought in America and in India, in Germany and in Portugal, in Italy and in Africa, in France and in Bohemia. As the great Lisbon earthquake had been felt on the shores of Ontario, so had the war which began the year of that earthquake's occurrence shaken the world that lay on the American lakes. Forty years ago, old men talked as much of the Old French War—the Seven Years' War of European historians—as of the War of the Revolution. It was a contest but for the happening of which there could have been no American Revolution, at least none of the character that now occupies so high a place in history. Or, had it happened, and had the event been different, our annals would have been made to read differently, and the Fourth of July could never have become an institution. It opened well for the French, and, had not fortune changed, the colonists, instead of looking to Paris for aid, only a dozen years after its conclusion, might have been ruled by proconsuls sent from that "centre of civilization," as it delights to call itself. And even if the terms of the treaty which put an end to that war had been a little differently arranged, England might have triumphed in the war that she carried on against our ancestors. Both the war itself, and the manner of concluding it, were necessary to the creation of that American empire which, according to Earl Russell, we are fighting to maintain,—as unquestionably we are, though not in the ignoble sense in which the noble Earl meant that his words should be taken and understood.

Of the many conquests which were made by the English in the Seven Years' War, no one was more remarkable than that which placed the Havana and its neighborhood in their hands, virtually giving them possession of the island of Cuba; and the manner in which they disposed of their magnificent prize, when George III. forced peace upon his unwilling subjects, was among the causes of their failure to conquer the Thirteen States in the War for Independence.

That England should have been favored with the opportunity to seize Cuba was not the least singular of the incidents of a contest that was waged wherever Christians could meet for the pious purpose of cutting one another's throats. The English owed it to the hatred for them that was felt by one man, who assailed them in their hour of triumph, in the hope of gratifying his love of revenge, but who reaped only new humiliations from his crusade. He had better luck in after days; but in 1762 he must have entertained some pretty strong doubts as to the wisdom of hating his neighbors, and of allowing that sentiment to get the better of his judgment. Charles III., King of the Spains, the best of all the Spanish Bourbons, had, when he was King of Naples, been most grossly insulted by a British naval commander, and he had had to swallow the affront. "Being a good Christian, and vindictive," though he swallowed the affront, he could not digest it. He cherished the hope of being able to repay the English with that usurious interest with which men of all grades love to discharge their debts of the kind. He little thought that he was to wait near forty years for the settlement of his account, and that a generation was to pass away before he should be able to feel as Loredano felt when he heard of the death of Francesco Foscari.

The fortunes of France have seldom been lower than they were in 1759, when the energy of William Pitt had imparted itself to the whole of the alliance which was acting against Louis XV. That year, Charles III. ascended the Spanish throne. For some time he was apparently disposed to continue the judicious system of neutrality which had been adopted and pursued by his predecessor; but in 1760, partly from his fear of British power, and partly because of the insulting conduct, of England, which revived his recollection of her officer's action at Naples in 1742, he was induced to enter into that arrangement which is known as the Family Compact, (Pacte de Famille,) which was destined to have the most memorable consequences,—consequences that are far from being now exhausted. By the terms of this treaty, the sovereign princes of the House of Bourbon agreed to support each other against all enemies. The wisdom of this compact, on the part of France, cannot be doubted, for her condition was so bad that it could not be made much worse, happen what would, and it might be changed for the better through the assistance of Spain; but it is not so clear that they were as wise at Madrid as were the statesmen at Paris. Mr. Pitt obtained intelligence of this treaty's existence, though it was "a profound secret," of course; but then Mr. Pitt always had good intelligence, because he was ready to pay roundly for it, knowing that it was the best article for which a war-minister could lay out his money. The object of keeping secret an arrangement that depended for its usefulness upon open action was, that time might be gained for the arrival of the Spanish treasure-ships from America. Mr. Pitt, who was as wise as he was arrogant, was for taking immediate measures against Spain. He would have declared war at once, and have seized the plate fleet. Had George II. still lived, this judicious course—all boldness is judicious in war, in which there is nothing so imprudent as prudence—would have been adopted. But that monarch died on the 25th of October, 1760, and his grandson and successor, George III., had domestic objects to accomplish with which the continuance of the war was incompatible. His intention was to make peace with France, and he must have deemed it the height of folly to make war on Spain. Pitt, finding his advice disregarded, resigned his office, much to the joy of most of his colleagues, whom he had treated as if they had been the lackeys of his lackeys. How they ever got along with him through one month is among the mysteries of statesmanship. President Jackson was not the mildest of men, but he was meekness itself in comparison with the first William Pitt.

But if Pitt was offensive to his colleagues, he was even more offensive to the enemies of his country. In a few weeks after he left the Ministry, the justice of his views became clear even to the young King and to Lord Bute, the latter personage having virtually made himself Premier. The Spanish Government, in compliance with the terms of the Family Compact, made war on England, and that country lost most of the advantages which would have been hers, if the King had been governed by Pitt's advice. The treasure-ships reached Spain in safety, and their cargoes furnished the new belligerent with the sinews of war. So far as they could, the English Ministers resolved to carry on the war with Spain in conformity with the plan which Pitt had formed. One of his projects was to send a force to seize the Havana, which, though not the important place that it now is, in itself, was nevertheless one of the most valuable of the commmanding points of the Spanish Indies. At that time the colonial dominion of Spain embraced the greater part of America, and the Havana was regarded as the key to the Occidental possessions of Charles III.[5] This key Secretary Pitt had meant to seize; and his successors, forced to act, availed themselves of the preparations which he had made. An expedition sailed from Spithead on the 5th of March, 1762, which was joined by other forces, the whole number of vessels being almost two hundred, of which about a fifth were ships of war. The total of the land-forces, including those sent from North America, was 14,041. The fleet was commanded by Admiral Sir George Pocock, and the army by General the Earl of Albemarle. Lord Albemarle was descended from that Arnold van Keppel who came into England, not with William the Conqueror, but with William of Orange, and who, through the favor of the Dutch King of England, founded one of the most respectable of British patrician houses. He was a good soldier, and in Cuba he showed considerable energy; but his name is not high in the list of commanders.

It is uncertain whether the Spaniards had knowledge of the intentions of the English, who, in those days, did not announce their points of attack to the enemy; but the Captain-General, Don Juan de Prado Porto Carrero, found it so very difficult to believe that the English would attack his Government, that even so late as the 6th of June, when the invaders were within a few hours of landing, he insisted that their fleet was a homeward-bound convoy from Jamaica; and he found fault with one of his officers who had taken some precautionary measures. The next day he was compelled to admit that he was mistaken, for then the British troops had landed. He could not have been more blind to the coming storm, had he lived in 1861, and held a high post in the Government of the United States. Once convinced of his error, he went vigorously to work, and prepared for defence. He had 27,610 men, including soldiers, seamen, marines, militia, and negroes,—for, in those days, it was not thought wise to refuse the services of black men, and even slaves were allowed the honor of being slain in the service of their masters. There were, however, but few regular troops at the command of the Captain-General,—only 4,610; but the seamen and marines, who numbered 9,000, helped to make the deficiency good. The Spaniards were situated somewhat as were the Russians, the other day, at Sebastopol. Their naval force was too small to have any chance whatever against that of the English, and the men who belonged to it were employed on land, where they behaved bravely. The best officers among the defenders were from the fleet. The Morro was put under the charge of Don Luis de Velasco, captain of a line-of-battle ship, who maintained the credit of his ancient name; and he was well supported by the Marques de Gonzales, another naval officer. Don Manuel Brizenio, also from the fleet, with a brother-officer for his lieutenant, had charge of the Punta castle. The army-officers did not like these arrangements, but it was argued that seamen were better qualified than either cavalry or infantry to defend fortified places; and of regular artillerists there were but three hundred in the whole Spanish force. These considerations had their weight with the soldiers, and the conduct of the seamen fully justified the conduct of the Captain-General.

The English troops were landed on the 7th of June, and Colonel Carleton—the Sir Guy Carleton of our Revolutionary history—repulsed a cavalry attack that was made upon a detachment under his command. This so disheartened the Spaniards, that they abandoned the position which they had taken up at Guanabacoa for the purpose of impeding the advance of the invaders, and fell back on the Havana. The women and children, with the monks and nuns, were all sent out of the town, and the suburbs destroyed. On the 11th, the Cabana fortress, which commands the Morro, was taken by Colonel Carleton. The Spaniards also abandoned the Chorrera fort, on the other side. Operations against the Morro were then begun. The English suffered much from the heat, and a little from the assaults of the defenders; and, though greatly aided by the fleet, it was not until the 1st of July that they were able to open fire on the Morro. Among their laborers were five hundred black slaves, purchased at Antigua and Martinique. Fatigue and sickness had reduced the army's strength more than one-third, without counting the soldiers who had died, or been slain by the Spanish fire; and three thousand seamen also were unfit for duty. Water was procured with difficulty, and fresh provisions were almost unknown.

The land-batteries opened on the Morro July 1st, and were supported by a fire from several ships. The latter were roughly received by the Spaniards, and lost one hundred and eighty-two men, besides being greatly damaged in hull, masts, and rigging, so that they were forced to abandon the conflict, without having made any impression on the fortress, though they had effected an important diversion in favor of the land-batteries, the fire from which had proved most injurious. On the 2d there were but two guns in condition to bear upon the besiegers. The latter, however, had a worse enemy than the Spaniards to contend against, the heat causing fires in their works that neither earth nor water could extinguish; and they had to remove their mortars from the left parallel, and substitute cannon. This was the crisis of the siege; and had a hurricane occurred, as was expected, the fleet would have been driven off, and the army probably captured. But no storm came, and the English, with characteristic stubbornness, repaired their damaged works, and erected others. On the 9th they renewed their fire, having twelve guns, and the Spaniards but nine. The English increased the strength of their batteries, while the Spanish guns were reduced to two by the 16th; and on the 17th the castle made no reply to the fire of the Valiant, a line-of-battle ship. Sapping-operations began that evening, and on the 18th a small lodgment was effected. The Spanish commander made a morning sally against the besiegers in three columns, which, if successful, would have necessitated the abandonment of the siege; but the first and second columns were driven back with heavy loss, and the third retreated without firing a shot. In this action a battalion of North Americans bore a prominent part, aiding to drive the first Spanish column to the water, where one hundred and fifty men were drowned. The total loss of the assailants was four hundred, besides those wounded who returned into the town.

The result of this action decided the fate of the Morro. The work of sapping went on. Reinforcements arrived from New York; and on the 30th a practicable breach was made. Lord Albemarle had previously summoned Don Luis de Velasco to surrender, in the most complimentary terms; but the gallant Spaniard declined to abandon his duty, preferring death to dishonor. On the afternoon of the 30th, the English storming-party, headed by Lieutenant Forbes, of the Royals, mounted the breach, taking the defenders by surprise, and dispersing them. Don Luis disdained to fly, and was mortally wounded. He lived until the afternoon of the 31st, receiving every possible attention from the victors, who sent him over to the Havana, where he was buried with military honors. His son was created Vizconde del Morro, and it was ordered that in the Spanish navy there should always be a ship named Velasco.

The storming of the castle cost the English but two officers and thirty men. The Spaniards lost five hundred and thirty men, besides those who were drowned in seeking to reach the town. During the siege the Spanish loss exceeded a thousand men. The conquerors found a large number of cannon, mortars, muskets, and hand-grenades, and great quantities of powder and ball, and fixed ammunition, in the castle.

As soon as the fortress had fallen, the Spaniards opened fire on it, which was directed principally against the water-tank. The English carried on their works on both sides of the city, and on the 10th of August Lord Albemarle summoned the Governor to capitulate. After a long detention, the flag was sent back without an answer. It was not until the forenoon of the 11th that the English opened fire upon the city, their batteries containing forty-five guns. That regard for "unoffending inhabitants" with which the English of 1847 were afflicted, when American guns fired on Vera Cruz, was not felt by their ancestors of 1762. Judging from the language of English writers, we should infer that England has a vested right to pound and pulverize all places that refuse to acknowledge her supremacy but that such conduct as distinguished her troops at Copenhagen and elsewhere is wanton butchery when imitated by the military of other nations. Be that as it may, it is a fact that the British batteries pounded the Havana savagely on the 11th of August, one hundred and one years ago, without causing any alarm to either Lord Albemarle or his army as to the opinion of their countrymen; and the pounding-match was so pronouncedly in favor of the English, that by two o'clock in the afternoon the Spaniards offered to surrender. A suspension of hostilities followed, and the negotiations ended in the capitulation of the place on the 13th of August. At ten o'clock on the 14th, the Punta was taken possession of by General Keppel; and two hours later, the city gate and battery of that name. The landward gate was held by Colonel Howe, the Sir William Howe of our Revolutionary War. The number of regular troops who became prisoners was nine hundred and ninety-three, without counting the sick or wounded, and including both men and officers. They were sent on board the English ships.

The terms granted by the English were honorable to both parties. The Spanish troops marched out with all the honors of war. The officers were allowed to preserve all their personal effects. Civil officers were permitted to remain on the island, or to leave it, as they should elect. Everything that belonged to the Spanish army or navy, that was within the limits of the territory surrendered, became prize of war. The Catholic religion was to be maintained in all its force, but the nomination of all religious functionaries was to be subject to the approval of the English Governor. The inhabitants were to be protected in all their rights, and might go or stay, as they should think best for their interest. There were other liberal provisions made, indicative of a desire on the part of the conquerors to behave handsomely toward the conquered. The only portion of the property of the King of Spain which the victors allowed him to retain consisted of his slaves, of which he was left at liberty to dispose as he might think proper. England was then a slave-holding and a slave-trading nation, and she could not afford to set the example of disregarding the right of man to hold property in men. Though the age of cotton had not then dawned, the age of conscience was quite as far below the moral horizon.

Besides the Havana and its immediate territory, the terms of the surrender placed in the hands of the English as much of the island of Cuba as extended one hundred and eighty miles to the west, which belonged to the government of the place. This was a great conquest, and it was in the power of the conquerors to become masters of the whole island.

The most remarkable fact connected with the conquest of Cuba was the success with which the English contended, not only against a valiant enemy, but against the difficulties of climate. No severer trial was ever presented to troops than that which they encountered and overcame on the Cuban coast at a time of the year when that coast is at its worst; and it was a much more unhealthy quarter then than it is to-day. They had to bear up against drought, heat, hunger, thirst, sickness, and the fire of the Spaniards; and they stood in constant danger of being separated from their supporting fleet, which had no sufficient shelter, and might have been destroyed, if a tropical hurricane had set in. Yet against all these evils they bore up, and, with very inferior means, succeeded in accomplishing their purpose, and in making one of the greatest conquests of the most brilliant war in which their country ever was engaged. All this they did with but little loss, comparatively speaking. They had 346 men and officers killed or mortally wounded; 620 wounded; 691 died from sickness or fatigue; and 130 were missing. This loss, 1790 in all, exclusive of the casualties on shipboard, cannot be considered large, for it could not have been above one-eighth part of the invading force, counting the reinforcements that arrived while the siege was going on. Compared with the enormous losses of life and limb that characterize our war, it is a mere bagatelle; and the magnitude of the prize is to be set off in contrast to the price which it cost. Some of the regiments employed, however, were destined to suffer severely from the effects of their visit to Cuba; for, being sent to New York, the severity of a North-American winter was too much for constitutions that had been subjected for months to the heats of the tropics. They were Irishly decimated, losing about nine-tenths of their men.[6]

If we can believe the Spaniards,—and we see no reason for doubting the substantial correctness of their assertions,—Lord Albemarle's government was one of much severity, and even cruelty. He ruled the Havana with a bundle of fasces, the rods being of iron, and the axe sharp, and which did not become rusty from want of use. It was enough that a man was "guilty of being suspected" to insure him a drum-head court-martial, which tribunal sent many men to the scaffold, sometimes denying them religious consolations, an aggravation of punishment peculiarly terrible to Catholics, and which seems to have been wantonly inflicted, and in a worse spirit than that of the old persecutors, for it had not even fanaticism for its excuse. The spirit of the capitulation seems to have been quite disregarded, though its letter may have been adhered to. There may be some exaggeration in the Spanish statements, too,—men who are subject to military rule generally looking at the conduct of their governors through very powerful glasses. It is impossible for them to do otherwise; and the mildest proconsul that ever ruled must still be nothing but a proconsul, even if he were an angel. Every man thus placed is entitled to as charitable construction of his conduct as can conscientiously be made; but this the English do not appear to understand, when the conduct of men of other races is canvassed. With their own history blotched all over with cruel acts perpetrated by their military commanders, they set themselves up to judge of the deeds of the generals of other peoples, as if they alone could furnish impartial courts for the rendering of historical verdicts. Their treatment of some American commanders, and particularly General Butler, is not decent in a people whose officers have wantonly poured out blood, often innocent, in nearly every country under the sun. There was more cruelty practised by the English in any one month of the Sepoy War than has disgraced both sides of the Secession contest for the two years through which it has been waged. The English are not a cruel people,—quite the reverse,—but it is a fact that their military history abounds more in devilish acts than that of any other people of corresponding civilization. The reason of this is, that they look upon all men who resist them in some such spirit as the Romans regarded their foes, and as being in some sense rebels. It is only with those who rebel against other Governments that those who live under the English Government ever sympathize.

The capture of the Havana produced a "sensation" in the North-American colonies. The news was a month in reaching this part of the country, and Philadelphia, the most important place in British America, had the pleasure of first hearing it in fourteen days from the seat of war. It was "expressed" to New York, which town got it on the 11th of September; and it was published in the Boston "Gazette" of Monday, September 13th, the same day on which our ancestors were gratified by the publication of the London "Gazette" Extraordinary giving a detailed account of Prince Ferdinand's victory at Wilhelmsthal, on the 24th of June. There is not a line of editorial comment, but the news is clearly and vigorously given, special mention being made of the spoil, which included, according to one authority, fourteen million milled dollars. It is stated, in conclusion, that "the Spanish families that had withdrawn from the city to the country were all returned with their baggage, and were in possession of their habitations; and some soldiers and English Negroes were hanged for committing some small thefts on them." In the "Gazette" of September 20th there are published some details of the operations in Cuba; and under the "Boston head" is a brief account of the rejoicings that took place in Boston, on the 16th, in honor of the great event, and of British successes in Germany. "In the morning," says the account, "His Excellency, [Governor Bernard,] accompanied by the two Houses of Assembly, attended divine service at the Old Brick Meeting House, and a sermon well adapted to this joyful occasion was preached by the Rev. Dr. SEWALL: At 12 o'clock the cannon at Castle William and the batteries in this town and Charlestown were discharged: In the afternoon the Bells rang; and His Excellency with the two Houses was escorted by his Company of Cadets to Concert Hall, where a fine piece of music was performed, to the satisfaction of a very large assembly; and in the evening there were beautiful illuminations, and a great variety of fire works in many parts of the town.... We hear there has also been great rejoicings on the late success of the British arms in most of the neighboring towns, particularly at Charlestown, Salem, and Marblehead, where were illuminations, bonfires, and other demonstrations of joy." Old newspapers, letters, and pamphlets show that "demonstrations of joy" were far from being confined to New-England towns. They extended over the whole of the thirteen colonies, every man in which was proud of belonging to a nation which had achieved such great things in a war that had opened most gloomily, as do most English and American contests. The conquest of Canada had removed a weight from the colonial mind that had preyed upon it for generations; and though not one man in a hundred, it is probable, thought of the vast consequences that were to follow from the victories of Wolfe and Amherst, it is certain that those victories had greatly exalted the American heart; and now that they were followed by the conquest of Cuba, made at the expense of a great nation with which England was at peace when Quebec and Montreal had passed into her possession, it is not strange that our ancestors should have become more impressed than ever with the honor of belonging to the British empire. They were not only loyal, but they were loyal to a point that resembled fanaticism. It has been said of them that they were "as loyal to their prince and as proud of their country as the people of Kent or Yorkshire,"—and these words do not exaggerate what was the general sentiment of the colonists in 1762. England was still "home" to them, though more than a hundred and fifty years had gone by since the first permanent English colony was founded in America; and to the feeling that belonged to the inhabitants of England the colonists added that reverence which is created for the holders of power by remoteness from their presence and want of familiarity. Such was the condition of America a century ago, but soon to be changed through conduct on the part of George III., conduct that amounted to a crime, and for which no defence can be made but that of insanity,—a defence but too well founded in this instance. The sense of the colonists, therefore, was well expressed by Governor Bernard, when, on the 23d of September, he put forth a proclamation, at the request of the Assembly, for a Public Thanksgiving on the 7th of October. After enumerating various causes for thankfulness that existed, all of which relate to victories won in different parts of the world, His Excellency proceeds to say,—"But above all, with hearts full of gratitude and amazement, we must contemplate the glorious and important conquest of the Havana; which, considering the strength of the place, the resolution of the defendants, and the unhealthiness of the climate, seems to have the visible hand of God in it, and to be designed by His Providence to punish the pride and injustice of that Prince who has so unnecessarily made himself a party in this war."

Thus did our fathers rejoice over a great military success which gave additional glory to a country to which they were proud to belong. Nor were they insensible to the solid gains of that success, which, indeed, they overrated, not only because they supposed the conquered territory would be retained by the conquerors, but because they believed the immediate fruits of victory were far greater than they proved to be. In the Boston "Gazette" of September 20th it is stated that one of the captured Spanish ships had five million dollars on board, that almost forty million dollars in specie had already been counted, and that the share of Lord Albemarle would give him an income of twelve thousand pounds per annum, and Admiral Pocock was to have an equal amount.

In our time, politicians have the advantage of all other men in the matter of spoils. Such was not the state of things one hundred years ago. The politicians were as well off in those times as they are in these,—perhaps they were bettor off, for things could then be openly done by civilians, in the way of plundering, that the men of to-day have to do as secretly as good Christians say their prayers. There were also many lucrative offices then in existence which have since disappeared under the labors of those economical reformers of whom Edmund Burke was the first in every respect. But in 1762 military men had "rights" which this modern world has ceased to regard as utterly as if all soldiers were Negroes. One hundred years ago it was not an uncommon thing for a successful general to win as much gold on a victorious field as glory. It was the sunsetting time of the age of plunder; and the sun set very brilliantly. The solid gains of heroes were then so great that their mere statement in figures affects the reader's mind, and perverts his judgment of their actions. Not quite twenty years earlier, the gallant Anson made his famous cruise round the world; and when he took the Manila galleon, he found in her, besides other booty, silver of the value of a million and a half of dollars, to defend which the Spaniards fought as men generally fight for their money. Five years before Albemarle took the Havana, Clive took, for his own share of Surajah Doulah's personals, over a million of dollars, from the treasury of Moorshedabad. That was the prize of Plassey. A little later, he accepted a present in land that must have been worth over two million of dollars, as the annual income it yielded was twenty-seven thousand pounds, or about one hundred and thirty thousand dollars. Other British proconsuls were also fortunate in India. The same year that saw the English flag flying over so much of Cuba saw another English force, commanded by Sir William Draper, reduce the Philippine Islands, taking possession of the whole group by virtue of a capitulation. The naval force that accompanied Draper captured the Acapulco galleon, which had a cargo of the value of three million dollars. The English attacked Manila without the Spanish garrison's having had any official notification of the existence of hostilities. The town was defended by the Archbishop, who behaved with bravery, and showed considerable skill in war; but after some days' fighting the English got into the town by storming it, and then gave it up to the rough mercies of a hardened soldiery, some of whom were Sepoys, a description of warriors of whom the English now ask us to believe all that is abominable. Manila was most savagely treated by heathen soldiers led by Christian chiefs, a fact to be commended to the consideration of those humane Englishmen who can with difficulty breathe while reading General Butler's arrangement for the maintenance of order in New Orleans. The Archbishop and some of the officers got into the citadel, and there they negotiated a capitulation. They agreed to ransom their property by paying down two million dollars, and by drawing bills for a like sum upon the Spanish treasury, which bills Draper was green enough to accept. The Spanish Government refused to pay the bills when they had matured, and though Draper entreated the English Ministers to interpose in behalf of himself and his comrades, no interposition could he induce them to make. When Sir William was so unwise as to run a course of pointed pens with "Junius," that free lancer, who upset men of all degrees as easily as Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe unhorsed the knights-challengers in the lists at Ashby, brought up the Manila business, and, with his usual hardihood, charged his antagonist with having most dishonorably given up the ransom, and with having sold his comrades. Sir William, who had volunteered in defence of his friend, Lord Granby, (the same gentleman who used to figure on sign-boards, and whose name was then as much in English mouths as General Meade's is on American tongues to-day,) soon had to fight in his own defence, and he made a very poor figure in the contest. In a letter from Clifton, to the printer of the "Public Advertiser," he wrote,—"I here most solemnly declare, that I never received either from the East India Company, or from the Spaniards, directly or indirectly, any present or gratification or any circumstance of emolument whatsoever, to the amount of five shillings, during the whole course of the expedition, or afterwards, my legal prize-money excepted. The Spaniards know that I refused the sum of fifty thousand pounds offered me by the Archbishop, to mitigate the terms of the ransom, and to reduce it to half a million, instead of a whole one; so that, had I been disposed to have basely sold the partners of my victory, Avarice herself could not have wished for a richer opportunity." Sir William's language is valuable, as showing what sort of prizes were then in the wheel of Fortune, with military men only to take tickets. More than one British house of high consideration owes its affluence to the good luck of some ancestor in the noble art of pillage. Yet how often do we come across, in English books, denunciations of the deeds of plunder done by the French in Spain and Portugal! Shall we ever hear the last of Marechal Soult's Murillos? It was but yesterday that the Koh-i-Noor was stolen by the English, and added to the crown-jewels of Great Britain; and it was exhibited at the Crystal Palace in 1851, where it must have been regarded as a proof of the skill of the Chevaliers d'Industrie. Why it should be lawful and honorable to seize diamonds, and unlawful and improper to seize pictures, we cannot say; but Mr. Stirling, in his "Annals of the Artists of Spain," says, "Soult at Seville, and Sebastiani at Granada, collected with unerring taste and unexampled rapacity, and, having thus signalized themselves as robbers in war, became no less eminent as picture-dealers in peace." Was it more immoral in Marechal le Due de Dalmatie to take Murillos than it was in Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington to take the lead in cutting the Koh-i-Noor, the pictures as well as the diamond being spoil of war? There is something eminently absurd in English morality, when Englishmen seek to lay down rules for the governance of the world. It amounts to this: that they shall be at liberty to plunder everybody, but that all other men shall stay their hands, no matter how great may be the temptation, to help themselves to their enemies' goods.

The conquerors of the Havana had no scruples on the subject of plunder. They obtained, in treasure and other property, about fourteen millions of dollars,—a great sum, though not a third part so large as had been assigned them by the newspapers. Not content with this, they sought to get a donation from the citizens, to the amount of two hundred thousand dollars; but the attempt failed, and was not persisted in, when it was found that the Spaniards were utterly averse to giving on compulsion. A demand was made, through Colonel Cleveland, who commanded the artillery, "on the Bishop and the clergy, requiring an account of the bells of the churches, convents, and monasteries of the Havana and the other towns in the district, as well as of the ingenios in the neighborhood, and of all such metal as is used in the making of bells, in order that the value might be adjusted, and the amount paid, according, as he asserted, to the laws and customs of war, when a city after a siege has surrendered by capitulation." The astonished Bishop wrote to Lord Albemarle, and had the satisfaction of learning from that eminent authority, that, "when a city was besieged and taken, the commander of the artillery receives a gratification, and that Colonel Cleveland had made the demand with his Lordship's concurrence." This mode of kissing the rod was not at all to the taste of the worthy prelate, excellent Christian though he was. It was bad enough to give "a gratification" to an enemy because he had pounded them with balls until they had been forced to surrender; but it was an aggravation of the original evil to have to redeem "blessed bells" from the heretics who had come four thousand miles to disturb the repose of the Spanish Indies. But negotiation was unavoidable. What would the Colonel take, and close the transaction? The Colonel said he would take such a sum as the captured churches could reasonably contribute to his purse. He was offered one thousand dollars; but that he treated as a mistake, and to assist the reverend and venerable negotiators to a conclusion, he named thirty thousand dollars. To this they objected, and appealed to Lord Albemarle against the demand of his officer. His Lordship, with his pockets crammed with Spanish gold, was disposed to act handsomely in this instance, and cut down the Colonel's bill to ten thousand dollars. But even this sum the clergy professed themselves utterly unable to pay. According to their own showing, they were genuine successors of the Apostles, being without a penny in their purses. They began to beg for aid; but, either because the Spaniards were sulky with the Saints for having allowed the heretics to succeed, or that they did not wish to attract the attention of those heretics to their property, the begging business did not pay. Only one hundred and three dollars could be collected. This failure was made known to Lord Albemarle, but he kept a profound silence, sending no reply to the clergy's plaintive communication. They, however, had not long to wait for an answer. Colonel Cleveland waited upon them again, and said, that, as the cash was not forthcoming, he should content himself with taking the bells, all of which must be taken down, and delivered to him on the 4th of September. After this there was no further room for negotiation with a gentleman who commanded great guns. The Bishop handed over the ten thousand dollars, and the Colonel departed from his presence. The bells remained in their proper places, and some of them, no doubt, remain there to this day, the bell being long-lived, and making sweet music years after Albemarle, Cleveland, and the rest of the spoilmen have gone to their account.

Lord Albemarle had a correspondence with the Bishop respecting the use of one of the churches as a place of Protestant worship, and laid down the cannon law so strongly and clearly, that the prelate, after making such resistance as circumstances admitted of,—and he would not have been a good Catholic, if he had done less,—told him to take whichever church he chose; and he took that of the Franciscans. His Lordship, however, was much more devoted to the worship of Mammon than to the worship of God, and, accordingly, on the 19th of October, he wrote to the Bishop concerning the donation-dodge, in the following polite and peremptory terms;—"Most Illustrious Sir, I am sorry to be under the necessity of writing to your Lordship what ought to have been thought of some days ago, namely, a donation from the Church to the Commander-in-Chief of the victorious army. The least that your Lordship can offer will be one hundred thousand dollars. I wish to live in peace with your Lordship and with the Church, as I have shown in all that has hitherto occurred, and I hope that your Lordship will not give me reason to alter my intentions. I kiss your Lordship's hand. Your humble servant, Albemarle." The Bishop, though a clever and clear-sighted man, could not see this matter in the light in which Lord Albemarle looked upon it. He thought the demand a violation of the terms of surrender; and he sought the mediation of Admiral Pocock, but without strengthening his position. To a demand for the list of benefices, coupled with the declaration that non-compliance would lead to the Bishop's being proclaimed a violator of the treaty, the prelate replied, that he would refer the matter, and some others, to the courts of Spain and England. Upon this the British General lost all patience, and issued a proclamation, declaring "that the conduct of the Bishop was seditious; that he had forgotten that he was now a subject of Great Britain; and that it was absolutely necessary he should be expelled from the island, and sent to Florida in one of the British ships of war, in order that public tranquillity might be maintained, and that good correspondence and harmony might continue between the new and the old subjects of the King, which the conduct of the Bishop had visibly interrupted." The whole of this business presents the English commander in a most contemptible light. Not content with the six hundred thousand dollars which he had already pocketed, as his share of the spoil, he assumed the part of Bull Beggar toward the Bishop, in the hope that he might extort one hundred thousand dollars more from the Church, for his own personal benefit, for the "donation" was not to go into the common stock; and when his threats failed, he turned tyrant at the expense of a venerable officer of the most ancient of Christian churches. What an outcry would be raised in England, if an American commander were to make a similar display of avarice and cruelty!

The manner in which the spoil was divided among the conquerors caused much ill-feeling, and not unnaturally. Lord Albemarle took to himself L122,697 10s. 6d., and an equal amount was bestowed upon Admiral Pocock. Lieutenant-General Elliot and Commodore Keppel had L24,539 10s. 1d. each. To a major-general was given L6,816 10s. 6-1/2d. and to a brigadier-general L1,947 11s. 7d. A captain in the navy had L1,600 10s. 10d., and an army-captain, L184 4s. 7-1/4d. And so the sums went on decreasing, until there were paid to the private soldier, L4 1s. 8-1/2d., and to the ordinary seaman L3 14s. 9-3/4d. The profit as well as the honor of the expedition all went to the leaders. What made the matter worse was, that the distribution was made in violation of rules, which were not formed to favor "the common file," but which would have done them more justice than they received at the hands of Pocock and Albemarle. After all, no worse was done than what we see daily happen in the world, and the distribution appears to be a practical satire on the ordinary course of human life.

Lord Albemarle was severely censured in England for his manner of assailing the Havana, it being held that he should have attacked the town, which was in an almost defenceless condition, whereas the Morro was strong, and made a good defence, which might have led to the failure of the expedition, and would have done so but for the circumstance that no hurricane happened. But the general public was satisfied with the victory, and did not trouble itself much about the manner in which it had been gained. It was right. Had General McClellan taken Richmond, how many of us would have listened to the military critics who should have been so kind as to show us how he ought to have taken it? Judging from some observations in Horace Walpole's "Correspondence," the English, though surfeited with victory, were much pleased with their Cuban conquest. Sir Joseph Yorke, writing on the 9th of October, ten days after the news had reached England, says,—"All the world is struck with the noble capture of the Havana, which fell into our hands on the Prince of Wales's birthday, as a just punishment upon the Spaniards for their unjust quarrel with us, and for the supposed difficulties they have raised in the negotiations for peace." Those negotiations had been openly commenced in less than a month after the fall of the Havana, and some weeks before news of that brilliant event had reached Europe. The terms of the treaty of peace were speedily settled, one of the stipulations being, that Spain should preserve her old limits; and, "moreover," says Earl Stanhope, "it was agreed that any conquests that might meanwhile have been made by any of the parties in any quarter of the globe, but which were not yet known, (words comprising at that period of the negotiation both the Havana and the Philippines,) should be restored without compensation." Had the preliminary articles been signed at once, the Spaniards would have recovered all they had lost in Cuba, without further trouble or cost; but their negotiator, the celebrated Grimaldi, was so confident that the invaders of Cuba would be beaten, that he played the waiting game, and was beaten himself. When intelligence of English success arrived at Paris, where the treaty was making, Grimaldi was suddenly found as ready to sign as formerly he had been backward; but now the English negotiator, the Duke of Bedford, became backward in his turn, as representing the unwillingness of his Government to give up the Havana without an equivalent. Lord Bute would have given up the conquest without a word said, but all his colleagues were not so blind to the advantages which that conquest had placed at the command of England; and finally it was agreed that the Duke of Bedford should demand the cession of Florida or Porto Rico as the price of the restoration of that portion of Cuba which was in English hands. The Spaniards gladly complied with the British demand, and gave Florida in exchange for Cuba. At one time it was supposed that the victory of Albemarle and Pocock would lead to the continuance of the war. Horace Walpole wrote to his friend Conway that the Havana was more likely to break off the peace than to advance it, and that the English were not in a humor to give up the world, but were much more disposed to conquer the rest of it. He added, "We shall have some cannonading here, I believe, if we sign the peace." But the King and the Premier were peace-at-any-price men, and the way to their purpose was smoothed completely; yet Lord Bute wrote to the Duke of Bedford, on the 24th of October, "Such is the change made here by the conquest of the Havana, that I solemnly declare, I don't meet with one man, let his attachment be never so strong to the service of the King, his wishes for peace never so great, that does not positively affirm, this rich acquisition must not be ceded without satisfaction in the fishery, and some material compensation: this is so much the opinion of all the King's servants, that the greatest care has been taken to soften every expression," etc. In July, 1763, the English restored their acquisitions in Cuba to the Spaniards, and their soldiers returned to Europe.

In a few years it was seen that the Bute arrangement, so far as concerned the Havana, was, for England, thoroughly a Glaucian bargain. She had obtained Florida, which was of no worth to her, and she had given up the Havana, which might have been made one of her most useful acquisitions. That place became the chief American port of the great alliance that was formed against England after she had become committed to war with the new United States. Great fleets and armies were there assembled, which did the English much mischief. Florida was reconquered by an expedition from the Havana, and another expedition was successful in an attack on Nassau; and Jamaica was threatened. Had England not given up the place to the Spaniards, not only would these things have been impossible, but she might have employed it with effect in her own military operations, and have maintained her ascendency in the West-Indian seas. Or, if she had preferred that course, she might have made it the price of Spain's neutrality during the American War, returning it to her on condition that she should not assist the United States; and as the Family Compact then existed in all its force, Spain's influence might have been found sufficiently powerful to prevent France from giving that assistance to our fathers which undoubtedly secured their independence. All subsequent history has been deeply colored by the surrender of the Havana in 1763. But for that, Washington and his associates might have failed. But for that, the French Revolution might have been postponed, as that Revolution was precipitated through the existence of financial difficulties which were largely owing to the part France took in the war that ended in the establishment of our nationality. But for that, England might have secured and consolidated her American dominion, and the House of Hanover at this moment have been ruling over the present United States and Confederate States. George III, and Lord Bute could not foresee any of these things, and they cannot be censured because they were blind to what was invisible to all men; but their reckless desire for peace led them to regret the successes of the English arms, and they were ready to make any sacrifices that could be named, not because they loved peace for itself, but because, while the war should last, it would not be possible for the monarch to follow his mother's advice to "be a king" in fact as well as in name,—advice that was destined to cost the King much, and his realm far more.