Standing upon these friendly shores, in a land which abolished slavery in the twelfth century, and surrounded by a people devoted to our welfare, looking westward, along the path of empire, across the Atlantic, to my own beloved country, these are my views of her glorious destiny, when the twin hydras of slavery and rebellion are crushed forever.

If our Irish adopted citizens could only hear, as I now do, the condemnation of slavery and of this revolt, by the Irish people; if they could hear them, as I do, quote the electric words of their renowned Curran against slavery, and in favor of universal emancipation; if they could listen, as they repeated the still bolder and scathing denunciations of their great orator, O'Connell, as he trampled on the dehumanizing system of chattel slavery, they would scorn the advice of the traitor leaders, who, under the false guise of Democracy, but in hostility to all its principles, would now lure them, by the syren cry of peace, into the destruction of the Union, which guards their rights, and protects their interests.

The convention now assembled at Chicago, can do much to inaugurate a new era of civilization, freedom, and progress, by aiding in giving to the nation these great interior routes of commerce and intercourse, in the centre of which your great city will hold the urn, as the long-divorced waters of the lakes and the Mississippi are again commingled, and the Union linked together by the imperishable bonds of commerce, interest, and affection.



WOMAN.

The ever-present phenomenon of revolution bears two forms. They may be discrete or concrete, but they are two—ideas, movement,—cause, result—force, effect. And progressive humanity marches upon its future with ideas for its centre, movement its right and left wings. Not a step is taken till the Great Field-Marshal has sent his orders along the lines.

Revolutions go by periods. Are they possibly controlled or influenced in these years by the stellar affinities of the north pole? Is that capricious functionary leading up to Casseopeia, in this cycle, or Andromeda, that we find ourselves turning from great Hercules, fiery Bootes, and even neglecting the shining majesty of belted, sworded Orion, to consider woman? I have not consulted the astronomers. The stars of the heavens are in their places. Male and female, the groups come to us in winter and retire in summer: their faint splendors fall down upon our harvest nights, and then give way to the more august retinue of the wintry solstice. The boreal pivot, whose journal is the awful, compact blue, may, for aught I know, be hobnobbing at this moment with the most masculine of starry masculinities. But if it be, it is in little sympathy with the magnetic pole of human thought, whose fine point turns unwaveringly in these days of many revolutions to woman as the centre and leader of the grandest of them all.

A great storm overtook an ancient navigator of the AEgean. He called on his gods, he importuned them, but the waves rolled and raged the more angrily the more he prayed. 'Neptune, wilt thou not save me?' 'Go below,' was the uncourteous answer, and, as with a great blow struck by the hand of the busy deity, the vessel was suddenly suspended midway between the surface and the depths of the waters. What a peaceful spot she had reached! The astonished mariner looked around him in wonder more than gratitude. 'Good deity,' said he, taking breath, 'I prayed not to be saved thus from the storm, but in it. Return me to the upper world, I beseech thee, and let me do my stroke in its battle.'

Storms have swept over the ages as winds over the blue AEgean, and woman, shrinking from their blasts and the agitations that have followed them, has prayed to her gods, and been suspended between the depths of man's depravity and the heights of his achievements, around whose wintry peaks winds of ambition have roared, storms of vaulting self-love have gathered, tempests of passion have contended in angry and fierce strife. To brighten the heights they assailed each one, to clear the lofty airs embracing them. They shine now where clouds were wont to hover; sunshine steeps the rugged declivities where mists of ages hung their impenetrable folds, paths invite where unknown, forbidding fastnesses repelled even daring feet, and thus the stormy career of conflict is vindicated in its results. The dove testifies a certain divinity in the Doing which has produced it.

But that still region where the more timid life has nestled undaring, unadventured, shrinking from the struggle and the strife above, recoiling from the seething foulness below—what have we in this dreamland inhabited by woman? And wherefore the earnest turning thitherward, in our day, of so many brave, so many earnest, so many sad, so many yearning, aspiring eyes? Wherefore the restlessness, wherefore the groans of imprisonment here, wherefore the passionate longings, the resolute, deep, inextinguishable purpose of escape? Make way, O propitious gods; I can no longer be saved from this struggle of life, but through it. This mariner must be brought to the surface, or the waters will be parted before her by the conquering power in her own soul, and she will present herself there unaided. But not in the fierce spirit of a combatant, not as a conqueror—only as one moved by divine purpose to reach and take her place, to touch and accomplish her work.

What are the qualities of this new soldier in the field of human struggle? Whence comes and whither goes she?

These inquiries point us to the ideas of the Woman Revolution—its Movements will be deductions from them.

Man knows neither woman nor her whence or whither. He acknowledges her a Mystery from his earliest acquaintance with her to the present day. Whatever his conquests over the hidden and the mysterious elsewhere in nature, here is a mystery that confronts him whenever he turns hither—nay, that grows by his attempts at mastering it. The permanently mysterious is only that which exceeds us, and we study this but to learn how widely its embracing horizon can spread as we advance. Thus the woman of the nineteenth century is an incomparably greater mystery to man than was her sister of the ninth. Scientific conquests do but touch the periphery of her being; they explore her nature so far as it is of common quality and powers with the nature of man and of the feminine animals, and would perhaps do more wisely if they stopped dumb before what lies beyond and above these levels. For beyond, man reads but to misread—studies but to vex and confuse himself, and—shall I say it?—learns to sneer at rather than to reverence what baffles his inquiries. Does this statement seem harsh? Is it doubted? See its truth. The only science (so called) which undertakes a study of woman does not inspire its student with an increased respect for her. As a class, medical men, above that of other men, are perhaps less chivalrous than blacksmiths. Lucky is she and lucky are they if it be not diminished instead. For, assuming man as the standard, the corporeal functions, which absolutely elevate her in the scale of development, being added to all that he possesses, and constituting her corporeal womanhood, are seen by this student only as disabilities from which he is happily exempt (as if a disability could come into any life but through the door of an ability); and her larger measure of the divine attributes, faith, hope, and love—love, as compassion and as maternity—are seen as simple weaknesses to which he is happily superior.

The greatness of man's individuality lies in his power over the external; that of woman's is interior, central, as the sun to our planets, which roll through common fields of space, breathe a common ether, share a common light and warmth, but know not that ether, that light, that warmth, whence theirs flows out to them. Central, potent, commanding, superior to laws which alternately move and still their currents—nay, being in themselves those very laws—this hidden power is never touched by them, is shared by them only in fixed measure, beyond which drafts upon it are protested as inexorably as turn the wheels of fate in producing a midge or a mastodon.

The greater includes the less, said the first Mathematician. It is no more true of the geometer's space and the philosopher's matter than of the physiologist's functional power. Apply the axiom to the functional quantity of the feminine and masculine, and it will be seen which includes which, and why man, in all the pride of his highest achievements, is obliged to confess himself defeated, when, as an investigator, he addresses himself to the solution of the problem of womanhood. Her individualizing attributes make in her life a kingdom of her own. Possessing every function and power which man possesses, either in identity or equivalent—the faculties, capacities, and functions common to both differing only comparatively in each from their degree in the other, the masculine being confessedly the lighter side of the balance, when the higher and finer attributes are in the scale—woman has above them all her own unique life, which man can learn only as a student and spectator, the depths of which all his penetration does not enable him to explore, the secrets of which his consciousness can never report. From and through the powers and attributes which centre herein, come those experiences, perceptions—those faiths, hopes, trusts, yearnings, aspirations, loves, which ray out to man that purer and divine light without which he soon stumbles and falls—that warmth without which his life becomes a wintry waste—that harmony without which he is an instrument played at will by the cunning fiend of discord and selfishness—that purity without whose sweet, cleansing current flowing over and around him he is soon mired in the sloughs of appetite, or swamped in the unclean sinks of sensualism—that steadfast holding to things above, without which he soon drops down to grovel along the earth—that unwavering faith and that utter trust in good which keeps alive and warm in the heart of humanity its noblest ideals.

Thus the Cross of the feminine life embodies the idea of the revolution in its favor: revolution, which, above all its wars, national or civil, its struggles for or against freedom, above all its discoveries in the world of matter and of force, above all its inventions, its new arts and its improved old arts, its philanthropies, its religious agitations, is destined to command for the nineteenth century the respect of the coming ages. Dion's star upon its forehead, already the dim and distant future diaphaned in its light, comes up to cheer our waiting, wandering eyes.

It is only woman who can state woman. The unknown quantity falls not within the terms of any equation to which man can reduce her. Master, teacher of all other lessons in nature, here he must be the taught. Leader of all other movements, here he must be follower. Greater must not only include, it must conduct less.

Whence?

Out of the peaceful, still waters below: no longer stay possible there. The vis vitae overruling the vis inertia, we take up the line of march. Fold the napkin away from your eyes, O daughter of the ages, and behold, there lies your road—a throng already pressing their way where you thought you were alone. Upward, as well by the universal as by the special law of the case. Many a tearful eye turned backward to the land we are leaving—land beloved by woman, though stained with oppression, darkened by slavery, impoverished by lack of action, dwarfed in its proportions, devious in many of its loveliest lines—some of its sweetest paths leading those who set feet of innocent trust in them down to hell at last; beloved despite all, because the heart of the traveller is tender and loving; cherished, because her repressed soul is timid and doubting. We have lacked light, freedom, space for action and growth, yet are there pleasant places there. All these are now before us. Dry your tears, O tender souls, suppress your sighs, stifle your groans. Let us press forward in courage and hope. Forty years, it may be, in the wilderness, but deliverance at last. The gentle cloud will be over us by day, the path of duty will shine as a fire upon us by night.

Farewell, then, Africa, land of despot and victim; farewell, Asia, land of satrap and slave; farewell, Europe, land of monarch and subject: welcome, broad, varied, exhaustless New World, spreading inviting fields before longing eyes that falter while they gaze.

Whither?

Two thoughts naturally result from this new attitude: first, to go straight to the kingdom already laid out and well beaten into paths by man; second, to be so polite when arrived there as to accept him, his life, power, work, as standards to which it were wisest that we conform ourselves with all expedient haste, and thus blot out as speedily as may be the woman world—let its existence be remembered only as an evil escaped, a humiliation left behind forever. Has not its narrowness shamed us, its poverty of action cramped and starved the capacities we begin to feel unfolding in us—has not its peace made us seem cowards while we lingered in it, and will not its imperishable purity bear transplantation, and bloom in perennial beauty on the wider fields to which we are hastening?

We touch the borders of the promised land. Weary and spirit-sore, less from the travel than the bitter experiences which prompted it, we yearn for the hospitable welcome due to a stranger, a helper arrived in due season. We are come, O potentate. Open wide the glad gates that shall receive us. Is not this the Canaan which we but ask to divide with thee?—a goodly land, and a prosperous, which it were joyful to go in and possess. But the heathen inhabitant thereof turns his back upon us, shuts his gates, closes his doors, ascends his throne, takes up his sceptre, and waving it before our astonished eyes, says: 'This is my own kingdom. I have created it from a wilderness to suit my own life, not another. It cannot be shared; nobody, not you, my mother, my wife, sister, daughter—not even you, most beloved, cherished, worshipped woman, shall divide it with me. No admittance except on business.'

What to do in such an unexpected emergency!—such behavior, with all sorts of personal and external power to back it, to say nothing of those proverbial fractions of law, nine out of ten of which instantly convert themselves into an adamantine cement, binding his to him, so that indeed it were a critical piece of practice to essay their sundering, for Nature is in the union, and she is high to be overreached, deep to be undermined, strong to be defeated, compact and wary to be foiled.

Sit down, then, a beggar at the border of man's realm, craving permission to enter and share it with him? Essay to conquer an entrance? And when once within, whether by courtesy or conquest, what then? Competition with that stronger physique, that ruggeder life, that loves the wrestle with external hindrances which I love not, and am inferior for, did I love them? An equal part in that career with one who is exempt from the offices that absorb the half of my full lifetime, and require the best powers of every sort that I possess?

Surely, here, with this body and this constitution rivalling that body and that constitution, I am doomed to an inferiority more slavish and scarcely less painful than that I have left behind. For identity of career, identity of powers. Nature does nothing inductively; does not fit the parts of her scheme to each other experimentally; works at the centre, in the sublime repose of certainty, and lets facts, experiences, possibilities at the circumference take care of themselves. She has made man to dominate this kingdom which he calls his, else should I have had my share in it from the first. Wherein she has differed me from him, she has also differed my real kingdom from his. To stop him, I require as much and no more than man possesses. What is over in kind would place me in false relations with the objective; what is more in degree would imperil my subjective peace—what is less would try me by the measure another is made for, and leave me in the shadow projected by him. Nor would the standards which prevail here harmonize with my spiritual more happily than the activities with my corporeal nature. Could I work for outward success only, or chiefly, subordinating aspiration to what stifles aspiration? Would riches satisfy me? Would actual power over men, ecclesiastical, civil, or social? Could I live for ambition, and sit down unapproved of my better life to enjoy its achievements? Would the acquisition of knowledge and its employment as a means of worldly power, distinction, and advantage satisfy the inner hunger which longs for the truth, the light, the harmony of highest heavens? In short, would so much of the flesh as I could gratify, so much of the world as I could conquer, so much devil's service as I could cover up with any patched robe of decency, drawn tight, stretched to its utmost reach, satisfy me? Truly not. Not here then is Beulah, and I must journey on.

Again, whither? This time whither my own nature leads. I have learned this by experience, that leadership for me lies not without, but within myself. So much is gained, and now once more for movement. Gather up the effects—all that we have brought with us out of the past: it will find use. For woman has been woman so far as she has been anything, and the aromas of that high estate have hung and still hang about her. Bear them along. The finest effluence of her life in the first century of our era, as in this last, was love. Mary then bore the Christ; other Mary's loved him. Woman was first in his life, and last in it. When the bearded magi adored, she loved; she was the illustrator of his teachings, the repository of his hopes for their future realization. Bring all those memories, visions, yearnings, trusts, faiths—dreams of the good, never yet seen but by the inner sight of the woman-soul,—along, and let us set out for Beulah. Its blooming fields and fair mountains lie dim but sweet on the distant horizon. We will go over and possess them—a kingdom of our own. Why have we waited so long in bondage and darkness? Why submitted to the heaped-up wrongs of the ages? Patience very excellent: once admit the idea of a scheme, and some parts must necessarily arrive in the afternoon. Development presupposes the delay or withholding of things not yet developed. By the law of climax, these are not the unimportant parts. Woman's sovereignty has been long deferred, because of the preparation necessary for it. A John the Baptist must precede the Christ in the wilderness. Fiends robed and sceptred, once reigned over fiends clothed in skins and armed with broadsword and battle axe. To-day a gentleman, or gentlewoman can sit secure on any throne of Christendom. While we congratulate ourselves, let us not deny that the Tamerlanes, the Alarics, the Napoleons have had their share in the intermediate work of preparation.

Not always, as it seems to us, do the swiftest and clearest methods find favor with these hard-pressed worthies, but rather such methods as they can employ; and in time, as we see, the work gets done.

Take our planet in the condition in which its first proprietor found it on his arrival, and you will see that the improvements would be a heavy item in transactions with a real-estate broker for it. Liberal governments established—Canton, Paris, London, New York built—grain fields, mills, patent offices, world's fairs, electric telegraphs, ocean steamers, iron-clads, Central Park, show a long road travelled, and much rough, terrible, fearful work done by the way—work which has developed a condition for the exercise of the fine sovereignty of woman's pure, gentle, loving, harmonious nature—road which leads by divine intention to her empire. If the hand which has opened it has been red at times, let us remember that no purer color could have been preserved in the Thermopylae—if the heart has been hard, that a softer one would have been surely defeated and we disadvantaged. Well could we afford to abide in the twilight-land when such struggle was going forward in our behalf, when the sunshine was descending upon such seedtime of the ages—to whose harvest we are drawing nigh.

The sceptre of Supreme Use on the earth is to the hand that is sovereign for that use. In its day every other power is subordinate to that, for it is the nature of sovereignty to be unitary, whether lodged in an idea or a person. It is because of this that personal sovereignty has been indispensable to human progress. Nothing could reign over the strong, undeveloped, turbulent brute life of the early and middle ages but the tremendous will and self-love of a man great according to his time—Charlemagne, Peter of Russia, Henry of Navarre.

And shall we complain that a development is slow which began with a Soudanese, a Papuan, and gives us now a Ruskin and an Emerson—that a career is tedious which opened, if you please, on Ararat, and has trailed its waxing splendors up to the Free American States—the libraries, the art galleries, the penetrating humanities which characterize the nineteenth century? For one, I cannot. Beulah has stood adjourned from Eden till now—wisely, needfully adjourned; and woman will enter its boundaries gratefully and gracefully, as a queen waited for and desired: grateful for the gift to the One who gave it in the Great Distribution—graceful in the reception of a right from him whose ages of struggle have made smooth her road to it.

What will she be therein? What will her life be? I close my eyes to the Actual around me, and I see her in that high land whose plains spread above the mountain peaks that surround us here. I see a creature whom the poets have sung, the artists have painted and chiselled, and the common heart of mankind has longed for, prayed for, and, in its hours of high communion, has trusted and believed in with the utter faith of a child in its mother's love. I see a being whom the pure, divine Imagination, the eye of God dimmed in man, has foreseen.

I see her not a dream—not an airy form haunting the unreal walks of night, to vanish when cockcrow recalls us to the cares of household life, the fields of labor, the paths of effort. No, but an enduring, very real, very practical embodiment of the poet's ideal, with new powers and relations illustrating its harmony in and fitness for the world that is purified and sanctified by its presence. There to my eye

'Her shape arises: She less guarded than ever, yet more guarded than ever; The gross and soiled she moves among do not make her gross and soiled; She knows the thoughts as she passes—nothing is concealed from her; She is none the less considerate or friendly therefore; She is the best beloved—it is without exception—she has no reason to fear, and she does not fear; Oaths, quarrels, hiccupped songs, proposals, smutty expressions, are idle to her as she passes; She is silent—she is possessed of herself—they do not offend her; She receive them as the laws of nature receives them—she is strong; She, too, is a law of nature—there is no law stronger than she is.'

I look beneath, the ethereal drapery of qualities in which the prophetic imagination has clothed her, and central to them all I find a new phenomenon—the latest of the ages—TRUE WOMANHOOD. From this proceeds the veiled glory hitherto seen but by poet's eye—not far hence to be felt and known of all. For it is no longer the vision of a distant and dim land, separated from this actual present by a fathomless abyss. Out of the yawning chasm that has divided that from this there rise to-day, clear, shining, visible to open eyes, the everlasting pillars of truth, which will shortly bridge it and make broad the road thither, so that neither he who walks straight with exact step between the pales of science, nor he outside wending, heedless, with wide-wandering eyes and feet who stumbles along, shall miss it.

A being planted above man, taking root where he blooms, in the pure affections, flowering in the high airs which he dreams of but sees not, or sees only in moments of inspiration from her—a being, who, more complex on her physical side, is therefore more affluent on her spiritual—who, from the established premises of science, demands not new, but the very largest deductions to reach the borders of her life—a being whose support with the earth-life is widened and strengthened by each added organ, function, susceptibility—whose divine support is opened, established, confirmed in increased degrees over man's by each womanly inlet to the spiritual nature—I see such a being irradiating the future years and paths of my race, and my soul grows strong and glad at the sight. In her the self-love of man is replaced by love; ambition pales its ineffectual fires in the light of that pure, undying flame of aspiration which her soul feeds; patriotism, ashamed of its narrowness, unfolds shining pinions over humanity, and becomes philanthropy; pleasure retreats in her wornout, patched-up harlequin robes; and happiness, pure, clean, bright from the sweet inner chambers of the soul, takes her place.

Life acknowledges a higher fealty. With the new sovereign, new aims, new standards, new methods for the improvement of humanity.

Under the masculine dynasty we have had force, organization, investigation, discovery, experiment—methods violent, harsh, selfish, slow, confused, chaotic: a magnanimous career at intervals spanning the wide weltering strife, as a bow the stormy heavens; noble deeds, not a few, shining out of the darkness here and there; real victory crowning the crests of the rolling sea now and then, and casting where they have shone long shadows over the waters darkened with selfish contention around them. Power under this reign has been applied to the multiplication of external resources, means, opportunities for the race. It has clothed the earth with them in forms so numerous, so varied—so good, so bad, so indifferent—so noble, so mean—so rich, so poor—so high, so low, that the most active memory of the longest life fails to furnish the catalogue of them. It professes human good; it cultivates personal good, family good, community good, or, at the largest, national good. But whatever the stature it attains, its methods are through external appeals to the soul—influences from without. Its common theology steadily refused for eighteen hundred years to credit the union of the divine with the human in the soul of mankind. Its deductive intellect is blind to truth till her presence is proved by facts—as if we would hale an archangel, with the shining light of the upper world yet flowing adown him, before the police magistrate, and swear the butchers and the newsboys on the question of identity. Its Art is timid, thin, and self-distrusting, because the Ideal is flouted as worthy only of women, dreamers, and liberal ministers—the silver wing of imagination is rarely loosed but to be soon folded in humiliation before the reproof of the exacting senses. Its statesmanship is smart, crafty, treacherous, because it cherishes a state, a nation, rather than humanity. Its jurisprudence is a gigantic, vigilant detective, dealing with a population of suspects. Its physical methods only are uniformly clear, honorable, straight-forward though. Even these in times and places might be nobler, more open; but it fights well, labors well, cultivates well, invents well, manufactures well, because in these it is dealing chiefly between its native elements, force and matter;—but being characteristically inductive, it cannot deal liberally with human nature, lacking the ideal of it, the faith in it, the reverence for it which are the only sustaining root of such behavior toward it.

Under the new sovereignty, the methods, like the power employing them, will have their nearest relations with the interior life. They will draw helps from the outward; and here the glory of man as a creator of conditions and opportunities, will be first measured and fully appreciated, for it is the woman only who can penetrate his works, draw thence their full significance and value, transmute their evils to goods, and incorporate their best spirit in humanity. It is a great thing to create that which helps any human soul to be diviner than without such help it would be. It is greater to develop conditions which establish and confirm true relations between the soul and its helps. It is greatest to create the soul to be divine—with helps, or in spite of hindrances. The first is eminently the office of the masculine. The second is shared between it and the feminine, with a preponderance to the latter; and the last belongs so exclusively to woman, that the day of its doing is necessarily the day of her sovereignty.

The divine, artistic, harmonious creation of the human spirit in the divine, artistic, harmonious human body, this is the grand function of the feminine era. For this it is that woman has those special finer endowments which in all ages have distinguished her from man, and foreshown a higher life for her in some future—some Beulah, visible to eyes that could o'ershoot the bounds of the passing age. Wanting this power, preparing the day of its advent, John Baptist has toiled, sweated, groaned, fumed, devastated in his wilderness, to touch its hither border at last in this pregnant nineteenth century. Age of revolution—age of wonders!—of which the very greatest are, I think, the beginnings we already see of settlement here. As a question, that of woman is not an old one. There can be no Woman Question among any people till it is advanced enough to ask for better methods than man's. When this stage is reached, life is ripe for the advent of woman—it appeals to her to come forward. It prepares better conditions, that it may invite her—opens fields, that it may engage her powers—seeks to clothe her in a real dignity, of which she has before worn rather the semblance than itself. Society, obeying the higher view of her, enacts new laws for her enlargement, modifies or sets aside social canons which restricted and warped and suppressed her, and begins with these movements to find itself enriched by the presence of finer influences; led upward to more exalted standards, penetrated with a subtler humane sentiment than it before knew.

Yet with all these movements in her favor, woman, bone of man's bone, remains a bone of contention to him, till nature, read truly and trusted reverently, is allowed to lead him as a little child by the hand and show him woman's real kingdom. He must not look on it with a timid or a grudging eye. A Chinese mandarin in California, becoming acquainted with the fact that American women could read and write and be trusted with accounts, replied, with a warning shake of the head, 'If he readee, writee, by and by he lickee all the men.' Does this apprehension possibly extend beyond the Celestial Empire? It will not be expressed, I know, but there is much unexpressed feeling which is none the less real for its silence.

'Every woman is an embodied revolution, now-a-days,' said a lank, grumbling dyspeptic, while the autumn leaves of '62 yet hung in bright profusion on the bordering forests of the Hudson. 'If you had said every woman is in these days an embodied revelation,' was the superb reply, 'you would have done both truth and my sex more even justice.' Man must not fear woman, for whatever nature designed for her is not only inevitable, but is his only means of salvation. He need not fear her, for she is the daughter of nature, so full of loyalty and filial devotion to her mother, that no wide or continued departure from her designs is possible. He will not fear her when he is religious enough to feel that each natural revolution is a step in the march upward, ordered in its season as calmly and inexorably as were the secondary rocks laid down when the primary had been prepared for receiving them, as the nebulous vapor is consolidated into a planet or sun, or the morning-glory brought forth of its sown seed. He will be comforted, too, by remembering that natural revolution does never dethrone. It only enthrones above the present ruler. Work out your kingdom. Define and fill its bounds and metes, and never will usurper's foot print its soil. No invasion of your sovereignty is possible. The magnetisms of the universe hold you there, and every other being outside—an infallible police, bent on the protection of your rights, charged to secure them to you without so much as a flaw in their finest edges. Nature knows your kingdom, and charges all yet unsettled parties to go aside. But in the coming cycles she will develop others above it.

The wheel revolves. You can only remain at the summit by its standing still. It is not your degradation, but another's glory, that is sought. Open your eyes to the scheme: look adown its vistas of grandeur, and at every step taken above you, you will sing, Hosanna! We also rise by your ascent.



LITERARY NOTICES

MYSTERIES OF LIFE, DEATH, AND FUTURITY. By HORACE WELBY. New York: James S. Gregory.

A very suggestive book, full of manifold and curious research. The author, in his preface, says: 'It has been undertaken with the view of concentrating within its focus the views and opinions of some of the leading writers of the present day, and, by placing them before the reader in a popular form and setting, adapt them for a larger class than would be likely to consult the authorities themselves whence the substance of this volume has been derived. In virtue of the Scriptural character of the subjects, the rewards will be a special blessing on those who read and understand them; the interpretations and inferences, in many instances, being the deductions of men venerated for their piety and learning in ministering the most precious of all knowledge—the inestimable comfort of the hope that is in us.'

The work which the author proposed to himself has been well done. A single glance at the index would be sufficient to assure the reader of the great variety of subjects embraced in these carefully selected extracts. Although from so many different sources, a unity of subject gives them unity of interest. The book contains a valuable array of the best thoughts, impressions, and beliefs of the most distinguished minds on the phenomena of life, death, and futurity.

THE FAIRY BOOK. The best Popular Fairy Stories selected and rendered anew. By the Author of 'John Halifax, Gentleman,' &c. &c. New York: Harper & Brothers, Franklin Square. 1863.

The name of Miss Mulock is sufficient guarantee that the little ones will find abundance of entertainment, and no harmful matter in the pretty 'Fairy Book' published by Harper & Brothers. The tales are well selected and well told. Bits of quaint humor are interspersed through the narratives, increasing their interest to both old and young, and lightening the labor of the 'reader out' by many a pleasant smile. Mothers cannot fail to find this judicious collection an assistance in their labors, and an agreeable addition to the library of their young people.

LETTERS FROM ITALY AND SWITZERLAND. By FELIX MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY. Translated from the German by LADY WALLACE, with a Biographical Notice by JULIE DE MARGUERITTES. Published by Frederick Leypoldt, Philadelphia. 1863. For sale by F. W. Christern, 763 Broadway, New York, and A. K. Loring, 319 Washington Street, Boston.

Again are we indebted to Mr. Leypoldt for a delightful book, a truthful record of feeling from the hand of a man noted for purity of life, scholarship, and an enviable reputation in the world of music. The letters are such as we should expect from the character of Mendelssohn's compositions—pure, elegant, fanciful, flowing, serious, and dignified, but without the passionate intensity, the soul-searching pathos and energy characterizing spirits deeply acquainted with the bitterest griefs incident to humanity, griefs arising either from without or within. Rich, handsome, and happily married, he was not exposed to the many privations and trials generally pertaining to artist life; his amiable character drew round him many friends, and his wealth enabled him to bring out his works during his own lifetime, and thus make them known under the most favorable auspices. He was indeed, as Goethe said of him, 'born on a lucky day.' The translation is beautifully executed, and we hope the tasteful little volume may receive a substantial welcome from our reading public.

LILIAN. Published by Ticknor & Fields, Boston. For sale by D. Appleton & Co., New York.

This is a novel of considerable ability. The story is exciting and interesting, the scenes varied, the descriptions vivid, and the denouement well imagined and sustained. There are no dull pages in the book. There is much to praise, but something also to regret. There is a want of calm, of continuity in the style. The sentences are short and closely cut, falling upon the ear more like the broken rattling of hailstones than the full flowing music of a strong deep river. Such a style, introduced at proper intervals and in appropriate positions, is frequently very effective; but, when long continued, it grows wearisome and monotonous. As our late writers are much given to it, they should be on their guard lest it become a national characteristic.

OUT-DOOR PAPERS. By THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. For sale by D. Appleton & Co., New York.

The articles contained in this book are: Saints and their Bodies; Physical Courage; A Letter to a Dyspeptic; The Murder of the Innocents; Barbarism and Civilization; Gymnastics; A New Counterblast; The Health of Our Girls; April Days; My Out-Door Study; Water Lilies; The Life of Birds; The Procession of the Flowers; Snow.

This work was received by us too late to give it, in our July number, that meed of attention and praise so justly its due. Fortunately it requires no words from us to introduce it to notice; some of its articles, having been already published in the Atlantic Monthly, are already known to and valued by some of the highest minds among us. The book is written by an ardent admirer but close observer of nature, and is full of tender traceries, of rainbow-hued fancies, and marked by the keen insight of a glowing and far-reaching imagination. The chapter on 'Snow' is one of the most exquisite things ever written, pure, chaste, and delicately cut as the starry crystals it so lovingly commemorates. Nor is the 'Procession of the Flowers' less admirable. In all their simple loveliness they rise from earth, and bloom before us as we read. Writers of such high finish, such delicate perceptions of beauty as T. W. Higginson, are seldom characterized by great originality—his expletives and imagery are as original as tender and beautiful. His illustrations are never morbid, but ever strong and healthful. If he be, as we have been informed he is, the Colonel Higginson now acting in the service of his country, Heaven preserve the life of the patriot, poet, and scholar—for such men are jewels in our national crown of glory!

Mr. Higginson says: 'If, in the simple process of writing, one could physically impart to his page the fragrance of this spray of azalea beside me, what a wonder it would seem!—and yet one ought to be able, by the mere use of language, to supply to every reader the total of that white, honeyed, trailing sweetness which summer insects haunt and the Spirit of the Universe loves. The defect is not in language, but in men. There is no conceivable beauty of blossom so beautiful as words—none so graceful, none so perfumed. It is possible to dream of combinations of syllables so delicious that all the dawning and decay of summer cannot rival their perfection, nor winter's stainless white and azure match their purity and their charm. To write them, were it possible, would be to take rank with nature; nor is there any other method, even by music, for human art to reach so high.'

To this very height of human art has Mr. Higginson, in the article from which the above is a quotation, himself attained!

IN THE TROPICS. By a Settler in Santo Domingo. With an Introductory Notice by RICHARD B. KIMBALL, Author of 'St. Leger,' 'Undercurrents,' &c. Carleton, publisher. 1863.

A 'Settler in Santo Domingo' has given us a good book—a fresh, wholesome, and evidently truthful narrative of his every-day experience in the tropics. It is a book eminently sui generis, reminding one of Robinson Crusoe or Dana's 'Two Years before the Mast.' There is a gentle earnestness, a mild yet positive concentration of purpose about it, that enlists our sympathies from the start. The young farmer's mind is on his work. We suspect he has capacities outside of his cornfield and yuca patch, but to this point in the record before us he gives no clue. He is a farmer, and nothing else. The bright-winged birds flit and gleam and twitter in the evergreen woods about him, but his hand is on the plough and his ear drinks in only the music of his panting team. From his window, looking eastward, he sees the advance beams of the sun flung across the savanna: he takes the hint, and hurries out to look after his young plantains. At night the sea keeps up its everlasting chant by the side of his palenca, and the pure stars watch over his humble roof; yet, unconscious of both, he sleeps on the calm deep sleep appointed as the best recompense of honest toil.

The author of 'In the Tropics' is a young man born and reared on a farm in the interior of the State of New York, who was afterward condemned to what seemed to him the perpetual servitude of a clerk's life in the city. Weary and heart-sick he yearns for a better existence. Not little Nell beseeching her grandfather to leave the dark rooms and melancholy houses of her abhorrence, and go out into the open country and sleep in fields and under trees and have the sun and wind upon their faces, has a more intense loathing of the dull, artificial routine of town life than he. His escape is easily managed, and his transition to the cheerful freedom of a widely different career is so speedy and so satisfying that he is in no mood to dwell upon the monotonous past. We get an estimate of the bondage from which he has fled by the tone of pleasant surprise and buoyant gratitude with which he welcomes the commonest gifts of mother nature. He is as impressible as a schoolboy let loose for the long vacation.

There is a vein of loving trustfulness pervading his narrative that is really touching. Our young, vigorous, and hearty settler, glorying in his privilege to struggle, achieve, and conquer difficulties, is too proud to be ashamed of his dependence on Him who appointed the planets to their courses, and is not unmindful of a sparrow's fall. How fine and delicately tender is this retrospective glance at the close of his monthly record for April!

'Four months have fled away like a busy though pleasant dream since I laid myself down to my first night's repose in my homestead. The Giver of all good gifts has crowned my poor efforts with his tender mercies, and as I look up from these pages through the arcade of fruit-bearing trees and onward to the gentle hill-slope now green with springing corn, and beautiful in the promise of future abundance, I feel a perfect and grateful trust—far, far too deep for my weak powers of utterance—that He will never forsake the humble laborer in this fair field of His creation.'

And he is instructive withal. His book is a perfect vade mecum for beginners in tropical farming. To such it is literally 'guide, counsellor, and friend.' Colonists going out to Santo Domingo will do well to include a copy in their outfit, and, as far as practicable, follow in the footsteps of their sturdy and genial predecessor.

The reader need not expect to find in this work a sensation story. It is anything but that. Neither, being exclusively descriptive of the beneficent arts of peace, can it in any sense come under the head of what is termed war literature. Yet it is safe to affirm that without the great rebellion this book had never been written. It is full of novel, picturesque, and widely suggestive ideas. Some of its statements tear away old fallacies as by a cannon ball. For instance, where the young settler states as matter of experience:

'Those who say the treasures of the tropics are to be best won by the brute force of ignorant labor, cannot have studied with sufficient patience the march of invention. Intelligent laborers, men who know how to make wood and iron do their harvest work to the sparing of human sinews, men who can work steam in harness, these are what is wanted here. Those, too, are mistaken who fancy that no skin but a black one can cover the firm muscle and vigorous endurance of a perfect and hardy manhood. The most manly workers I have seen in this country are white men. They know how to obtain and use the best class of labor-saving machines, and they trust no one but themselves to manage them, for they know that superior implements and the recklessness of brute force don't work well together. Under the warm sun of the tropics white men and machinery will yet open the grandest field of civilization.'

This goes to confirm us in the opinion we have long entertained and advanced in these pages, that the result of the great political change we are now undergoing will be for the benefit of white men. It has been so often asserted that only black men can work in the tropics, that people have come to acquiesce in the statement without investigation. The record of this work is to the point in helping to dispel so widespread a delusion.

Whoever, at this delightful season, wishes to enjoy a book written in pure, gushing English, attuned to the gentle harmonies of nature, and be refreshed by sympathy with its kind and grateful spirit, will not fail to read 'In the Tropics.'

HARPER'S PICTORIAL HISTORY OF THE GREAT REBELLION IN THE UNITED STATES.

This work is issued in semi-monthly numbers, at twenty-five cents per number, appearing about the first and fifteenth of each month. The introduction contains a succinct account of the formation of the Confederacy of the States; the formation and adoption of the Constitution of the United States, and the establishment of the National Government; the origin, development, and progress of the doctrines of nullification and secession, and the various phases which they assumed until their final culmination in the Great Rebellion.

The illustrations comprise portraits of those who have borne a prominent part in the struggle; maps of the different localities; plans of the leading actions; views of scenes of interest and of the most important battles.

The work is profusely and graphically illustrated, and we think this serial cannot fail to become popular. We learn much and readily through the eye, and the importance of faithfully executed pictures can scarcely be overestimated. The portraits given in the work are portraits, and not caricatures. It contains a careful, comprehensive, and minute record of the progress of the war, and is written with ability and spirit. It promises to be impartial, accurate, and artistic.

THE NORTH PACIFIC REVIEW. A Journal of Literature, History, Science, Correspondence, and Fine Arts. San Francisco: Dalgleish & Co., publishers and proprietors.

The Continental extends a warm greeting to her sister of the West, feeling not only the strong bonds of the literary amenities, but the far stronger ties of patriotism and loyalty, so ably defined in the opening article of the North Pacific. Loyalty is indeed something more than fidelity to one's country and Government, based upon a sense of interest or of obligation: it is fidelity based upon love.

Young and glorious West! May such loyalty ever distinguish you, and such feelings link in close and ever closer union the children of the Atlantic and Pacific shores! On the maintenance of such love hangs the whole future of humanity!

SANDERS' UNION FOURTH READER; embracing a full Exposition of the Principles of Rhetorical Reading, with numerous exercises for practice, both in prose and poetry, various in style, and carefully adapted to the purposes of teaching in schools of every grade. By CHARLES W. SANDERS, A.M. New York: Ivison, Phinney & Co.

A valuable aid to scholar and teacher. The selections have been made with great care, and give evidence of refined taste, and, while perfectly adapted for practice in rhetorical reading, are admirably calculated to quicken the moral perceptions and awaken the finer sensibilities of the scholar.



RECEIVED.

A HISTORY OF THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE. By JOHN WILLIAM DRAPER, M.D., LL.D., Prof. of Chemistry and Physiology in the University of New York, author of a 'Treatise on Human Physiology,' &c., &c. Harper and Brother, publishers, Franklin Square, New York.

A book apparently of great erudition and research. Being received too late for reading, and reviewing in the July number of THE CONTINENTAL, it is our intention to return to it in our August issue.



EDITOR'S TABLE.

MATTER AND SPIRIT.

We do not ordinarily feel disposed to criticize the articles of our contributors; nor do we feel disposed now to do more than to offer a brief suggestion in reference to a philosophical position assumed by the author of an interesting article in our last number, entitled, 'TOUCHING THE SOUL.' The writer assumes that matter and spirit are so utterly opposite in their respective natures that they cannot be made to act together in any way. For instance, he says: 'Here again the argument is clinched by the mere distinction between matter and spirit, the one being the very antipodes of, and incapable of acting upon the other.' And again: 'To sum up the whole argument in a single sentence, the physical senses are dependent for their perceptions upon the action of matter, and hence spirit, which is not matter, can in no way affect them.'

Unquestionably this statement is contradictory in itself, and, at all events, cannot possibly be sustained to the extent of the assertion. The actual existence of the soul in the body, and the perception of physical objects and effects by the senses, are proofs undeniable that in this instance, at least, there are mutual action and reaction between matter and spirit. If it be said that this connection of the soul with the organized frame is the only condition in which the material and immaterial are known to be capable of acting upon each other, it is yet wholly inaccurate and unphilosophical to say that this mutual action is impossible.

But, in truth, the assertion is unphilosophical and incorrect in a far wider sense, and in reference to a much more extensive range of phenomena than those which concern the mysterious relations of the soul with the human body. Throughout all nature are to be seen the plainest indications of the influence and operation of spirit on the material world. It is spirit only which animates, informs, and shapes the whole universe. Wherever law prevails (and where does it not?) there is intelligence, spirit, soul, acting to sustain it, during every moment of its operation. Indeed it is doubtful whether any other than spiritual power is to be found anywhere in nature. It seems to be too obvious a truth to admit of any doubt or question, that matter, if it be of a nature opposite to that of spirit, has been created as the instrument of soul, having properties suited to the harmonious cooeperation of the two, in their respective purposes in nature. To represent matter as something wholly antagonistic to spirit and incapable of any relations with it, is to ignore all our own experience, and the significance of all the grand phenomena of nature.

However great may be the distinction between matter and spirit, the Creator has evidently established the closest relationship between them. All that we can ever know of matter arises from its power to affect the soul,—through the senses while we remain in the body, whatever may be its relations to the spirit in another state of existence. If we take, for instance, the inertia of matter, and consider it philosophically, we can make of it nothing more than a power of resistance, or persistence, residing in certain points, which we call particles of matter. The same is true of attraction and repulsion. These are forces residing in the same points; and these forces are all we know, or can know, about them. So of the sensible qualities of matter; color, for instance. This is merely the power of the same points, to cause vibrations in an elastic medium; and these, acting on the sensorium, communicate sensations, and become the basis of ideas in the soul. Who can say this subtile power, residing in the points which we call particles of matter, is not spiritual in its nature? Or, indeed, who can affirm, with absolute certainty, that there is anything else known to us in the universe, except that which is kindred to the soul by its power to communicate with and inform it. From the very dawn of our existence we have been encased in what we call matter, and have derived all our education from it. It is the only medium by which we communicate with each other; nor have we any other means of climbing up to a knowledge of GOD himself. We do not mean to say that the spirit of man has no faculties for a direct perception of divine influences; but simply that the material world is the appointed instrument for educating the human soul, through the senses, to the consciousness and intelligent use of its highest and noblest faculties.

By human means, and, also, by all the tremendous operations of nature, so far as they are known to man, matter is wholly indestructible. No instance is known, from the beginning of creation, in which a single particle of matter has been annihilated. Can anything more be said of the soul? Or should we not rather feel relieved, and freed from much doubt, if we had an equal assurance of the continued existence of the soul after the great change which separates it from the body? May we not, at least, without any humiliation, admit our kindred to the dust in which we dwell, and recognize in it a creation, coeval with the soul and intended for its use, with points of contact and mutual cooeperation, which render matter and spirit not wholly at war with each other, but united in a common destiny, to be continued at least as long as the duration of the human race on the surface of the earth?

As to the singular phenomena to which our author intends to apply his argument, we can only say that they cannot be disproved in the mode attempted. We have no such knowledge of the facts as would enable us to form any opinion on the subject. But if many good men have not been egregiously deceived, the phenomena in question indicate the speedy discovery of relations not hitherto suspected to exist between matter and spirit. We do not anticipate the development of any other than natural laws. We are not credulous as to the interference of supernatural agencies; but we are fully prepared for almost any discoveries in the department of psychology, unveiling the mysterious but unquestionable relations of harmony—of action and reaction—existing between the soul of man and the universe of GOD.

ON HORSEBACK.

Those who have scanned with critical eye the cavalry regiments that have lately trooped through our cities from various States of the Union, on their way to the banks of the Potomac, must in candor, if with reluctance, acknowledge that we are not just yet a nation of horsemen. That our troopers have got a knack of 'sticking on' we will admit; but there are ways of fulfilling that necessary condition with more ease to the horse, more grace in the action, and more certainty of being able to use the weapons with precision, than the present very unartistic method common to horsemen generally in most parts of the country. Within a quarter of a century much improvement has taken place in the system of equestrianism under which the cavalry riders of Europe are instructed. Years ago, the long stirrups, such as our dragoons for the most part ride with, were taken up some inches by the riding masters of the British and other foreign services. It was the superior horsemanship of riders brought up in that best of all riding schools, the fox-hunting field, that first drew the attention of cavalry teachers to the necessity of affording a firmer appui to the horseman than he can obtain from stirrups, to keep his feet in contact with which he is obliged to point his toes downward with painful perseverance. All the good 'hunting horsemen,' as they are termed, of England and Ireland, ride with short stirrups. So do the Cossack cavalry, the best troop horsemen, perhaps, in the world. The Arab rides with very short stirrups, which makes him look, when mounted, as if he were sitting on a low chair. But the seat thus obtained by the Arab is not one for men who have to gallop across a country intersected with fences and other obstacles. In stirrups, as in most other things, there is a juste milieu; and if the American dragoon is on one side of that, so is the Arab of the Desert on the other. The late Capt. Nolan, who fell in the famous charge of the Six Hundred at Balaklava, did much to introduce a perfect system of horsemanship into cavalry regiments. He published a work upon the subject, in which he advocates the short stirrup, and bases his system, generally, upon the hunting style of horsemanship. We have seen some very bad riders among British cavalry officers, brought up in the old-school method of seat and band. Indeed, some satirical writer or another has said there are two professional classes to whom it is impossible to impart the art of horsemanship—sailors and cavalry officers: but that was going a trifle too far, as we have seen specimens of both the one and the other capable of acquitting themselves very well 'across country,' which is the test, par excellence, of good riding. That was in later days, however, and since the reforms of the riding master.

* * * * *

In spite of some repulsive features, we insert the accompanying picture. The subject chosen is not of that character which the highest genius loves to depict; yet it is vigorously drawn, and doubtless true to nature. At the present time it may be useful as a fair representation of many specimens of the boasted Southern cavalier.—F. P. S.

THE SOUTHERN COLONEL.

Strolling, one morning in 1847, into a Virginia barroom, I accosted a little, puffy-looking man with "Major, can you"—whereupon, drawing up like a bantam, he snapped out, "You're mistaken; I am a colonel;" the colonel being in those days as peculiar to Southern society as the cross to southern constellations. I proceeded to anatomize this representative specimen.

Where he obtained his title no one knew. Some thought it hereditary, his grandfather having been a colonel in the Revolution; others supposed it to have been won by conducting the Mexican campaign in the columns of the Warrior, after the manner of modern editors; and a few ignorant souls believed he had been born with it in his mouth, instead of a silver spoon. As to the man himself, his great-great-grandmother was a Huguenot; his grandissimo-grandfather came over with Lafayette, and when he made affirmation on "my stars and garters," he was supposed to have reference to certain insignia of nobility, heirlooms in the family from the time of Charlemagne. He had not stature enough for tallness, nor bulk enough for breadth, in his figure resembled the wooden soldiers in the panorama of Bunker Hill, who ran down hill at every fire without moving their legs, and, like a kangaroo, had small feet and head in proportion. He made his front hair into a curl, hanging over his nose, like an index finger, and signed his initials with astonishing flourish, G. B. A., usually rendered by the boys "Great Big Ayres." He spent the winter dormant, like a polar bear, and, in summer, like chaste Diana, followed the hunt, took his morals from Tom Paine, and was, as he said of himself, neither a good Christian nor a bad infidel. He entered Government service in his youth, got drunk, and had been in that condition ever since, varied by occasionally getting gloriously drunk. The only difference between him and a sot was drinking his liquors genteelly from his own cellar, and lying in bed when a sot lies in the gutter. When he was beastliest, he made frequent allusions to the cooling board, referring to a revel, in which, having covered himself with glory, he awoke from a dead drunk to find himself arrayed in his shroud, since which he has been in the habit of designating himself a resurrectionist. He sported an immense diamond, represented to be one of the honors awarded him by Government, and loaded himself with rings, chains, and charms, which gave him resemblance to the show figure in a jeweller's window. He had a passion for the drama, was forever posting to the city to inspect debutantes and prima donnas, was a connoisseur of women, and considered a young girl, who knew "the times that try men's souls" to be a quotation from Tom Paine, the most astonishing specimen that had ever come under his observation. He was the victim of scandal, and usually finished his anathemas on the village gossips by wishing that they were in "Father Abraham's bosom or some other old gentleman's." He attended all the fashionable soirees, and might generally be heard informing his friends that the next piece on the programme "is brandy smash and cocktails." He had a habit of mistaking his quotations, and had been known to declare, in his fits of drunken aberration, that he could say with John Quincy Adams, "I still live." At last accounts he had joined a rebel company, which mustered twelve guns and an officer for every private. A. JACK STONE.



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The Continental Monthly.

The readers of the CONTINENTAL are aware of the important position it has assumed, of the influence which it exerts, and of the brilliant array of political and literary talent of the highest order which supports it. No publication of the kind has, in this country, so successfully combined the energy and freedom of the daily newspaper with the higher literary tone of the first-class monthly; and it is very certain that no magazine has given wider range to its contributors, or preserved itself so completely from the narrow influences of party or of faction. In times like the present, such a journal is either a power in the land or it is nothing. That the CONTINENTAL is not the latter is abundantly evidenced by what it has done—by the reflection of its counsels in many important public events, and in the character and power of those who are its staunchest supporters.

Though but little more than a year has elapsed since the CONTINENTAL was first established, it has during that time acquired a strength and a political significance elevating it to a position far above that previously occupied by any publication of the kind in America. In proof of which assertion we call attention to the following facts:

1. Of its POLITICAL articles republished in pamphlet form, a single one has had, thus far, a circulation of one hundred and six thousand copies.

2. From its LITERARY department, a single serial novel, "Among the Pines," has, within a very few months, sold nearly thirty-five thousand copies. Two other series of its literary articles have also been republished in book form, while the first portion of a third is already in press.

No more conclusive facts need be alleged to prove the excellence of the contributions to the CONTINENTAL, or their extraordinary popularity; and its conductors are determined that it shall not fall behind. Preserving all "the boldness, vigor, and ability" which a thousand journals have attributed to it, it will greatly enlarge its circle of action, and discuss, fearlessly and frankly, every principle involved in the great questions of the day. The first minds of the country, embracing the men most familiar with its diplomacy and most distinguished for ability, are among its contributors; and it is no mere "flattering promise of a prospectus" to say that this "magazine for the times" will employ the first intellect in America, under auspices which no publication ever enjoyed before in this country.

While the CONTINENTAL will express decided opinions on the great questions of the day, it will not be a mere political journal: much the larger portion of its columns will be enlivened, as heretofore, by tales, poetry, and humor. In a word, the CONTINENTAL will be found, under its new staff of Editors, occupying a position and presenting attractions never before found in a magazine.

TERMS TO CLUBS.

Two copies for one year, Five dollars. Three copies for one year, Six dollars. Six copies for one year, Eleven dollars. Eleven copies for one year, Twenty dollars. Twenty copies for one year, Thirty-six dollars. PAID IN ADVANCE

Postage, Thirty-six cents a year, to be paid BY THE SUBSCRIBER.

SINGLE COPIES.

Three dollars a year, IN ADVANCE. Postage paid by the Publisher.

JOHN F. TROW, 50 Greene St., N. Y., PUBLISHER FOR THE PROPRIETORS.

As an Inducement to new subscribers, the Publisher offers the following liberal premiums:

Any person remitting $3, in advance, will receive the magazine from July, 1862, to January, 1864, thus securing the whole of Mr. KIMBALL'S and Mr. KIRKE'S new serials, which are alone worth the price of subscription. Or, if preferred, a subscriber can take the magazine for 1863 and a copy of "Among the Pines," or of "Undercurrents of Wall Street," by R. B. KIMBALL, bound in cloth, or of "Sunshine in Thought," by CHARLES GODFREY LELAND (retail price, $1. 25.) The book to be sent postage paid.

Any person remitting $4.50, will receive the magazine from its commencement, January, 1862, to January, 1864, thus securing Mr. KIMBALL'S "Was He Successful?" and Mr. KIRKE'S "Among the Pines," and "Merchant's Story," and nearly 3,000 octavo pages of the best literature in the world. Premium subscribers to pay their own postage.

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EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!

MAY BE PROCURED

At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,

Near Markets, Schools, Railroads, Churches, and all the blessings of Civilization.

1,200,000 Acres, in Farms of 40, 80, 120, 160 Acres and upwards, in ILLINOIS, the Garden State of America.

* * * * *

The Illinois Central Railroad Company offer, ON LONG CREDIT, the beautiful and fertile PRAIRIE LANDS lying along the whole line of their Railroad. 700 MILES IN LENGTH, upon the most Favorable Terms for enabling Farmers, Manufacturers, Mechanics and Workingmen to make for themselves and their families a competency, and a HOME they can call THEIR OWN, as will appear from the following statements:

ILLINOIS.

Is about equal in extent to England, with a population of 1,722,666, and a soil capable of supporting 20,000,000. No State in the Valley of the Mississippi offers so great an inducement to the settler as the State of Illinois. There is no part of the world where all the conditions of climate and soil so admirably combine to produce those two great staples, CORN and WHEAT.

CLIMATE.

Nowhere can the Industrious farmer secure such immediate results from his labor as on these deep, rich, loamy soils, cultivated with so much ease. The climate from the extreme southern part of the State to the Terre Haute, Alton and St. Louis Railroad, a distance of nearly 200 miles, is well adapted to Winter.

WHEAT, CORN, COTTON, TOBACCO.

Peaches, Pears, Tomatoes, and every variety of fruit and vegetables is grown in great abundance, from which Chicago and other Northern markets are furnished from four to six weeks earlier than their immediate vicinity. Between the Terre Haute, Alton & St. Louis Railway and the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, (a distance of 115 miles on the Branch, and 136 miles on the Main Trunk,) lies the great Corn and Stock raising portion of the State.

THE ORDINARY YIELD

of Corn is from 60 to 80 bushels per acre. Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep and Hogs are raised here at a small cost, and yield large profits. It is believed that no section of country presents greater inducements for Dairy Farming than the Prairies of Illinois, a branch of farming to which but little attention has been paid, and which must yield sure profitable results. Between the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, and Chicago and Dunleith, (a distance of 56 miles on the Branch and 147 miles by the Main Trunk,) Timothy Hay, Spring Wheat, Corn, &c., are produced in great abundance.

AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS.

The Agricultural products of Illinois are greater than those of any other State. The Wheat crop of 1861 was estimated at 35,000,000 bushels, while the Corn crop yields not less than 140,000,000 bushels besides the crop of Oats, Barley, Rye, Buckwheat, Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes, Pumpkins, Squashes, Flax, Hemp, Peas, Clover, Cabbage, Beets, Tobacco, Sorgheim, Grapes, Peaches, Apples, &c., which go to swell the vast aggregate of production in this fertile region. Over Four Million tons of produce were sent out the State of Illinois during the past year.

STOCK RAISING.

In Central and Southern Illinois uncommon advantages are presented for the extension of Stock raising. All kinds of Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep, Hogs, &c., of the best breeds, yield handsome profits; large fortunes have already been made, and the field is open for others to enter with the fairest prospects of like results. Dairy Farming also presents its inducements to many.

CULTIVATION OF COTTON.

The experiments in Cotton culture are of very great promise. Commencing in latitude 39 deg. 30 min. (see Mattoon on the Branch, and Assumption on the Main Line), the Company owns thousands of acres well adapted to the perfection of this fibre. A settler having a family of young children, can turn their youthful labor to a most profitable account in the growth and perfection of this plant.

THE ILLINOIS CENTRAL RAILROAD

Traverses the whole length of the State, from the banks of the Mississippi and Lake Michigan to the Ohio. As its name imports, the Railroad runs through the centre of the State, and on either side of the road along its whole length lie the lands offered for sale.

CITIES, TOWNS, MARKETS, DEPOTS.

There are Ninety-eight Depots on the Company's Railway, giving about one every seven miles. Cities, Towns and Villages are situated at convenient distances throughout the whole route, where every desirable commodity may be found as readily as in the oldest cities of the Union, and where buyers are to be met for all kinds of farm produce.

EDUCATION.

Mechanics and working-men will find the free school system encouraged by the State, and endowed with a large revenue for the support of the schools. Children can live in sight of the school, the college, the church, and grow up with the prosperity of the leading State in the Great Western Empire.

* * * * *

PRICES AND TERMS OF PAYMENT—ON LONG CREDIT.

80 acres at $10 per acre, with interest at 6 per ct. annually on the following terms:

Cash payment $48 00

Payment in one year 48 00 " in two years 48 00 " in three years 48 00 " in four years 236 00 " in five years 224 00 " in six years 212 00

40 acres, at $10 00 per acre:

Cash payment $24 00

Payment in one year 24 00 " in two years 24 00 " in three years 24 00 " in four years 118 00 " in five years 112 00 " in six years 106 00

* * * * *

Number 20. 25 Cents.

THE

CONTINENTAL

MONTHLY.

DEVOTED TO

Literature and National Policy.

AUGUST, 1863.

NEW YORK: JOHN F. TROW 50 GREENE STREET (FOR THE PROPRIETORS).

HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY. WASHINGTON, D.-C.: FRANCK TAYLOR.



CONTENTS.—No. XX.

Our Future. By Lieut. Egbert Phelps, U.S.A., 121 Autumn Leaves. By Mrs. M. W. Cook, 136 Across Maine in Mid-Winter, 138 Diary of Frances Krasinska, 150 The Sleeping Peri, 159 My Lost Darling, 160 Reason, Rhyme, and Rhythm. Compiled and written by Mrs. M. W. Cook, 168 The Buccaneers of America. By W. L. Stone, 175 Under the Palmetto. By H. G. Spaulding, 188 The Spirit's Reproach. By Mrs. M. W. Cook, 204 Jefferson Davis and Repudiation. A Letter from Hon. Robert J. Walker, 207 Evergreen Beauty. By Major Samuel H. Hurst, 227 Dying in the Hospital. By Mary E. Nealy, Louisville, Ky., 229 Literary Notices, 231 Editor's Table, 237

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND and EDMUND KIRKE have withdrawn from the editorial management of this Magazine.

All communications, whether concerning MSS. or on business, should be addressed to

JOHN F. TROW, Publisher, 50 GREENE STREET, NEW YORK.

ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by JOHN F. TROW, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER.

THE END