THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

DEVOTED TO

Literature and National Policy.

VOL. VI.—JULY, 1864—NO. I.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
New York:
(FOR THE PROPRIETORS.)
JOHN F. TROW,
PRINTER, STEREOTYPER, AND ELECTROTYPER.
50 Greene street, New York.

Transcriber's Note: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. All other inconstencies in spelling or punctuation are as in the original.

CONTENTS

AN ARMY: ITS ORGANIZATION AND MOVEMENTS.

SECOND PAPER.

Having, in the preceding paper, described the general organization[1] of an army, we proceed to give a succinct account of some of the principal staff departments, in their relations to the troops.

Army organization—notwithstanding the world has always been engaged in military enterprises—is of comparatively recent institution. Many of the principles of existing military systems date no farther back than to Frederic the Great, of Prussia, and many were originated by Napoleon. Staff departments, particularly, as now constituted, are of late origin. The staff organization is undergoing constant changes. Its most improved form is to be found in France and Prussia. Our own staff system is of a composite, and, in some respects, heterogeneous character—not having been, constructed on any regular plan, but built up by gradual accretions and imitations of European features, from the time of our Revolution till the present. It has, however, worked with great vigor and efficiency.

The staff of any commander is usually spoken of in two classes—the departmental and the personal—the latter including the aides-de-camp, who pertain more particularly to the person of the commander, while the former belong to the organization. Of the departmental staff, the assistant adjutant-generals and assistant inspector-generals are denominated the 'general staff,' because their functions extend through all branches of the organization, while the other officers are confined exclusively to their own departments.

The chief of staff is a recent French imitation. The first officer assigned in that capacity was General Marcy, on the staff of General McClellan, in the fall of 1861. Previous to that time the officers of the adjutant-general's department—on account of their intimate relations with commanding officers, as their official organs and the mediums through which all orders were transmitted—had occupied it. The duties of these officers, however, being chiefly of a bureau character, allowing them little opportunity for active external supervision, it has been deemed necessary to select for heads of the staffs, officers particularly qualified to assist the commander in devising strategical plans, organizing, and moving troops, etc.; competent to oversee and direct the proceedings of the various staff departments; untrammelled with any exclusive routine of duty, and able in any emergency, when the commander may be absent, to give necessary orders. For these reasons, although the innovation has not been sanctioned by any law, or any standing rule of the War Department, and although its propriety is discussed by many, the custom of assigning officers as chiefs of staff has become universal, and will probably be permanent. The extent and character of their duties depend, however, upon themselves, being regulated by no orders, and the high responsibilities attached to the position in France have not thus far been assumed by the officers occupying it here. In the French service, the chief of staff is the actual as well as the nominal head of the organization; he supervises all its operations; he is the alter ego of the commander. In the Waterloo campaign, for instance, Marshal Soult was the chief of Napoleon's staff, and the emperor attributed his disaster, in part, to some of the orders issued by the marshal.

Our limits will not permit a description of the duties pertaining to the various members of the staff, but we pass to the consideration of those departments, the operations of which most directly affect the soldier, are indispensable to every army, and are most interesting to the public.

Let us first consider the quartermaster's department, which, from the character and diversity of its duties, the amount of its expenditures, and its influence upon military operations, may be ranked as among the most important. This department provides clothing, camp and garrison equipage, animals and transportation of all kinds, fuel, forage, straw, and stationery, an immense variety of the miscellaneous materials required by an army, and for a vast amount of miscellaneous expenditures. It is, in fact, the great business operator of a military organization. In an active army, the success of movements depends very much on its efficiency. Unless the troops are kept properly clothed, the animals and means of transportation maintained in good condition, and the immense trains moved with regularity and promptness, the best contrived plans will fail in their development and execution.

The department, at the commencement of the war, had supplies in store only for the current uses of the regular army. When the volunteer forces were organized it became necessary to make hasty contracts and purchases to a large amount; but as even the best-informed members of the Government had no adequate prevision of the extent and duration of the war, and of the necessary arrangements for its demands, a considerable period elapsed before a sufficient quantity of the required materials could be accumulated. Those were the days of 'shoddy' cloth and spavined horses. The department, however, exhibited great administrative energy, under the direction of its able head, General M. C. Meigs, and has amply provided for the enormous demands upon it.

Depots for the reception of supplies are established in the large cities, whence they are transferred as required to the great issuing depots near the active armies, and from them to the depots in the field. Thus, the main depots of the Army of the Potomac are at Washington and Alexandria—a field depot being established at its centre, when lying for any length of time in camp. Only current supplies are kept on hand at the latter, and no surplus is transported on the march, except the required amounts of subsistence and forage.

A great deal is said in connection with military movements, of 'bases of operation.' These are the points in the rear of an army from which it receives supplies and reënforcements, and with which its communications must at all hazards be kept open, except it has means of transportation sufficient to render it independent of its depots for a considerable period, or unless the country traversed is able to afford subsistence for men and animals. When an army marches along a navigable river, its secondary base becomes movable, and it is less confined to the necessity of protecting its rear. In Virginia, however, the connection of the Army of the Potomac with Washington is imperative, and this fact explains the contracted sphere of the operations of that army.

The transportation of supplies is limited by the ability of the Government to provide trains, and by the ability of the army to protect them; for large trains create large drafts on the troops for teamsters, pioneers, guards, etc. An army train, upon the most limited allowance compatible with freedom of operations for a few days, away from the depots, is an immense affair. Under the existing allowances in the Army of the Potomac, a corps of thirty thousand infantry has about seven hundred wagons, drawn by four thousand two hundred mules; the horses of officers and of the artillery will bring the number of animals to be provided for up to about seven thousand. On the march it is calculated that each wagon will occupy about eighty feet—in bad roads much more; consequently a train of seven hundred wagons will cover fifty-six thousand feet of road—or over ten miles; the ambulances of a corps will occupy about a mile, and the batteries about three miles; thirty thousand troops need six miles to march in, if they form but one column; the total length of the marching column of a corps is therefore twenty miles, even without including the cattle herds and trains of bridge material. Readers who have been accustomed to think that our armies have not exhibited sufficient energy in surmounting the obstacles of bad roads, unbridged streams, etc., will be able to estimate, upon the above statements, the immense difficulty of moving trains and artillery. The trains of an army have been properly denominated its impedimenta, and their movement and protection is one of the most difficult incidental operations of warfare—particularly in a country like Virginia, where the art of road making has attained no high degree of perfection, and where the forests swarm with guerillas.

To an unaccustomed observer the concourse of the trains of an army, in connection with any rapid movement, would give the idea of inextricable confusion. It is of course necessary to move them upon as many different roads as possible, but it will frequently happen that they must be concentrated in a small space, and move in a small number of columns. During the celebrated 'change of base' from Richmond to Harrison's Landing, the trains were at first obliged to move upon only one road—across White Oak Swamp—which happened fortunately to be wide enough for three wagons to go abreast. There were perhaps twenty-five hundred vehicles, which would make a continuous line of some forty or fifty miles. While the slow and toilsome course of this cumbrous column was proceeding, the troops were obliged to remain in the rear and fight the battles of Savage Station and White Oak Swamp for its protection. A similar situation of trains occurred last fall when General Meade retired from the Rappahannock, but fortunately the country presented several practicable routes. It is on a retreat, particularly, that the difficulty of moving trains is experienced, and thousands of lives and much valuable material have been lost by the neglect of commanding officers to place them sufficiently far in the rear during a battle, so as to permit the troops to fall back when necessary, without interruption.

A march being ordered, supplies according to the capacity of the trains, are directed to be carried. The present capacity of the trams of the Army of the Potomac is ten days' subsistence and forage, and sixty rounds of small-arm ammunition—the men carrying in addition a number of days' rations, and a number of rounds, upon their persons. When the wagons reach camp each evening, such supplies as have been expended are replenished from them. As a general rule the baggage wagons camp every night with the troops, but the exigencies are sometimes such that officers are compelled to deny themselves for one or even two weeks the luxury of a change of clothing—the wagons not reaching camp, perhaps, till after midnight, and the troops resuming their march an hour or two afterward. Those who indulge in satires upon the wearers of shoulder straps would be likely to form a more correct judgment of an officer's position and its attendant hardships, could they see him at the close of a fortnight's campaign. Like the soldier, he can rely on nothing for food or clothing except what is carried by himself, unless he maintains a servant, and the latter will find a few blankets, a coffee pot, some crackers, meat, sugar, coffee, etc., for his own and his employer's consumption, a sufficient burden.

Let us see how the supplies of the quartermaster's department are distributed.

At stated periods, if circumstances permit—usually at the first of each month—the regimental quartermasters, after consultation with the company officers, forward through their superiors to the chief quartermasters of corps, statements of the articles required by the men. These are consolidated and presented to the chief quartermaster of the army, who orders them from Washington, and issues them from the army depot—the whole operation requiring about a week. The number of different kinds of articles thus drawn monthly is about five hundred; the quantity of each kind depends on the number of men to be supplied, and the nature of the service performed since the previous issue. If there has been much marching, there will be a great demand for shoes; if a battle, large quantities of all kinds of articles to replace those lost on the battle field will be required.

An infantry soldier is allowed the following principal articles of clothing during a three years' term of service:

The prices of these are stated each year in a circular from the department, and, as the soldier draws them, his captain charges him with the prices on the company books. The paymaster deducts from his pay any excess which he may have drawn, or allows him if he has drawn less than he is entitled to. The clothing is much cheaper than articles of the same quality at home. Thus, according to the present prices, a coat costs $7.30; overcoat, $7.50; trowsers, $2.70; flannel shirt, $1.53; stockings, 32 cents; shoes, $2.05.

The commissary department provides exclusively the subsistence of the troops. Each soldier is entitled to the following daily ration:

Twelve ounces of pork or bacon, or one pound four ounces of fresh beef.

One pound six ounces of soft bread or flour, or one pound of hard bread, or one pound four ounces of corn meal.

To every one hundred men, fifteen pounds of beans or peas, and ten pounds of rice or hominy.

To every one hundred men, ten pounds of green coffee, or eight pounds of roasted, or one pound and eight ounces of tea.

To every one hundred men, fifteen pounds of sugar, four quarts of vinegar, one pound four ounces of candles, four pounds of soap, three pounds twelve ounces of salt, four ounces of pepper, thirty pounds of potatoes, when practicable, and one quart of molasses.

Fresh onions, beets, carrots, and turnips, when on hand, can be issued in place of beans, peas, rice, or hominy, if the men desire.

They can also take in place of any part of the ration an amount equal in value of dried apples, dried peaches, pickles, etc., when on hand.

A whiskey ration of a gill per day per man can be issued on the order of the commander, in cases of extra hardship. It is, however, rarely issued, on account of the difficulty of finding room for its transportation in any considerable quantities. Moreover, whiskey, in the army, is subject to extraordinary and mysterious leakages, and an issue can scarcely be made with such care that some drunkenness will not ensue. When lying in camp, sutlers and others sell to the soldiers contrary to law, so that old topers usually find methods of gratifying their appetites—sometimes sacrificing a large proportion of their pay to the villains who pander to them. The utmost vigilance of the officers fails to detect the methods by which liquor is introduced into the army. When a cask is broached in any secluded place, the intelligence seems communicated by a pervading electrical current, and the men are seized with a universal desire to leave camp for the purpose of washing, or getting wood, or taking a walk, or other praise-worthy purposes.

The total weight of a ration is something over two pounds, but in marching, some articles are omitted, and but a small quantity of salt meat is carried—fresh beef being supplied from the herds of cattle driven with the army. A bullock will afford about four hundred and fifty rations, so that an army of one hundred thousand men needs over two hundred cattle daily for its supply.

In camp the men can refrain from drawing portions of their rations, and the surplus is allowed for by the commissaries in money, by which a company fund can be created, and expended in the purchase of gloves, gaiters, etc., or luxuries for the table. A hospital fund is formed in the same way—by an allowance for the portions of the rations not consumed by the patients—and is expended in articles adapted to diet for the sick. The rations are ample and of good quality, though the salt meat is rather tough occasionally, and the consistency of the hard bread is shot-proof. Company cooks are allowed, and in camp they contrive to furnish quite appetizing meals. Their position is rather difficult to fill, and woe is the portion of the cook not competent for his profession. The practical annoyances to which he is subject make him realize to the fullest extent 'the unfathomable depths of human woe.' On the march the men usually prefer to boil their coffee in tin cups, and to cook their meat on ram-rods—without waiting for the more formal movements of the cooks. To reach camp before sunset, after a twenty-mile march, to pitch his little shelter tent, throw in it his heavy arms and accoutrements, collect some pine twigs for a couch, wash in some adjacent stream, drink his cup of hot, strong coffee, eat his salt pork and hard bread, and then wrap himself in his blanket for a dreamless slumber, is one of the most delicious combinations of luxurious enjoyment a soldier knows. To-morrow, perhaps, he starts up at the early reveille, takes his hasty breakfast, is marshalled into line before the enemy, there is a shriek in the air rent by the murderous shell, and the soldier's last march is ended.

The next department we shall consider is that of ordnance, which supplies the munitions and portions of accoutrements.

The subject of artillery is perhaps the most interesting of the great number connected with warfare. In the popular estimation it overshadows all others. All the poetry of war celebrates the grandeur of

'Those mortal engines whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit.'

The thunder of great guns and the dashing of cavalry are the incidents which spontaneously present themselves to the mind when a battle is mentioned. Perhaps the accounts of Waterloo are responsible for this. The steady fighting of masses of infantry, having less particulars to attract the imagination, is overlooked; the fact, preëminent above all others in military science, that it is the infantry which contests and decides battles, that artillery and cavalry are only subordinate agencies—is forgotten. So splendid have been the inventions and achievements of the last few years in respect to artillery, as illustrated particularly at Charleston, that some excuse may easily be found for the popular misconception. A few remarks presenting some truths relative to the appropriate sphere of artillery and its powers, and stating succinctly the results which have been accomplished, may be found interesting.

Without entering into the history of artillery, it will be sufficient to state that the peculiar distinguishing excellence of modern improvements in cannon is the attainment of superior efficiency, accuracy, and mobility, with a decrease in weight of metal. A gun of any given size is now many times superior to one of the same size in use fifty or a hundred years ago. It is not so much in big guns that we excel our predecessors—for there are many specimens of old cannon of great dimensions; but by our advance in science we are able so to shape our guns and our projectiles that with less weight of material we can throw larger shot to a greater distance and with more accuracy. A long course of mathematical experiment and calculation has determined the exact pressure of a charge of powder at all points in the bore of a cannon during its combustion and evolution into gas. These experiments have proved that strength is principally required near the breech, and that a cannon need not be of so great length as was formerly supposed to be necessary. We are thus able to construct guns which can be handled, throwing balls of several hundred pounds' weight. Another splendid result of scientific investigation is the method adopted for casting such monster guns. In order that the mass of metal may be of uniform tenacity and character, it should cool equably. This has been secured by a plan for introducing a stream of water through the core of the casting, so that the metal cools both within and without simultaneously.

About the time that the Italian war commenced, the subject of rifled cannon excited much popular interest. Exaggerated expectations were formed of the changes to be produced by them in the art of warfare. Many saw in them the means of abolishing war entirely. Of what use is it, they said, to array armies against each other, if they can be destroyed at two or three miles' distance? At the commencement of our own contest there was an undue partiality for rifled ordnance. Almost every commander of a battery desired to have rifled guns. The more correct views of the thoroughly accomplished artillery officers to whom was confided the arrangement of this branch of the service, and actual experience, have dissipated the unfounded estimate of their utility for field service, and established the proper proportions in an artillery force which they should compose. It has been ascertained that fighting will never be confined to long ranges—that guns which can throw large volumes of spherical case and canister into lines only a few hundred yards distant are as necessary as ever.

The necessity for rifled cannon arose from the perfection of rifled muskets. When these arms reached such a degree of excellence that horses and gunners could be shot down at a distance of one thousand yards, the old-fashioned smooth-bore artillery was deprived of its prestige. To retrieve this disadvantage and restore the superiority of artillery over musketry in length of range, methods of rifling cannon for field service became an important study. For assailing distant lines of troops, for opening a battle, for dispersing bodies of cavalry, for shelling intrenchments, for firing over troops from hills in their rear, rifled guns are of invaluable service. But, notwithstanding troops are now universally armed with muskets of long range, no battle of importance is fought without close engagements of the lines. The alternate advances and retreats of the infantry, firing at distances of less than one hundred yards, charging with fixed bayonets and frantic shouts, will always characterize any battle fought with vigor and enthusiasm. In such conflicts, wide-mouthed smooth bores, belching their torrents of iron, must play a conspicuous part.

Another fact, which will perhaps surprise the general reader, is that the form and character of projectiles have been matters of as much difficulty, have received as much investigation, and are of as much importance, as the shape and character of the guns. In fact, rifled pieces would be comparatively ineffective except projectiles adapted to them had been invented. It was necessary that projectiles of greater weight, of less resistance to the atmosphere, and of more accuracy of flight, than the old round shot, should be introduced. To accomplish these ends several things were necessary: 1st, the projectiles should be elongated; 2d, they should have conical points; 3d, the centre of gravity should be at a proper distance in front of the centre; 4th, there should be methods of steering them so that they should always go point foremost through the whole curve of their flight; 5th, they should fit the gun so as to take the rifles, yet not so closely as to strain it. To attain these and other requisites, innumerable plans have been devised. The projectile offering the best normal conditions is the arrow; it has length, a sharp point, centre of gravity near the head, and feathers for guiding it (sometimes so arranged that it shall rotate like a rifled ball). Improved projectiles, therefore, both for muskets and cannon, correspond in these essentials to the first products of man in the savage state.

We cannot, in this article, further discuss either such general principles or those of a more abstruse character, in their application to artillery, but will briefly state a few facts relative to its employment—confining ourselves exclusively to the field service.

The guns now principally used for battles, in the Northern armies, are 10 and 12-pounder Parrotts, three-inch United States rifles, and light 12-pounder smooth bores. The distinguishing characteristic of the Parrott guns is lightness of construction, secured by strengthening the breech (in accordance with the principles mentioned a few paragraphs back) with a band of wrought iron. This has been applied to guns of all sizes, and its excellence has been tested by General Gillmore in the reduction of Forts Pulaski and Sumter. The three-inch guns are made of wrought iron, are of light weight, but exceedingly tenacious and accurate. The 12-pounders, sometimes called Napoleons, are of bronze, with large caliber, and used chiefly for throwing shell and canister at comparatively short distances.

The greatest artillery conflict of the war (in the field) occurred at Gettysburg. For two hours in the afternoon of the memorable third day's battle, about four hundred cannon were filling the heavens with their thunder, and sending their volleys of death crashing in all directions.

It was estimated that the discharges numbered five or six a second; in fact, the ear could hardly detect any cessations in the roar. The air was constantly howling as the shells swept through it, while the falling of branches, cut from the trees by the furious missiles, seemed as if a tornado was in the height of its fury: every few minutes, a thunder heard above all other sounds, denoted the explosion of a caisson, sweeping into destruction, with a cataract of fire and iron, men and animals for hundreds of feet around it. The effect of such a fire of artillery is, however, much less deadly than any except those who have been subject to it can believe. The prevalent impression concerning the relative destructiveness of cannon and musketry is another instance of popular error. In the first place, all firing at over a mile distance contains a large proportion of the elements of chance, for it is impossible to get the range and to time the fuses so accurately as to make any considerable percentage of the shots effective; and in the next place, except when marching to a close conflict, the men are generally protected by lying down behind inequalities of the ground, or other accidental or designed defences. The proportion killed in any battle by artillery fire is very small. Lines of men frequently lie exposed to constant shelling for hours, with small loss; in fact, in such cases, old soldiers will eat their rations, or smoke their pipes, or perhaps have a game of poker, with great equanimity.

No portion of the military service has been more misrepresented than the medical department. An opinion seems to prevail quite extensively that the army surgeon is generally a young graduate, vain of his official position, who cares little for the health of the soldier, and glories in the opportunities afforded by a battle for reckless operations. Such an opinion is altogether fallacious. In the regiments there are undoubtedly many physicians who have adopted the service as a resource for a living which they were unable to find at home, but the majority are exactly the same class of professional men as those who pursue useful and honorable careers in all our cities and villages. When a physician is called upon at home, it happens in a majority of cases—as every honest member of the profession will admit—that there is little or no necessity for his services. Too sagacious to avow this, he gravely makes some simple prescription, and as gravely pockets his fee. In camp, however, the potent argument of the fee does not prevail, and men who run to the doctor with trifling ailments, by which they hope to be relieved from duty, receive a rebuff instead of a pill. They instantly write letters complaining of his inhumanity. In regard to operations, it is a frequent remark by the most experienced surgeons that lives are lost from the hesitancy to amputate, more frequently than limbs are removed unnecessarily.

The medical department of an army, like every other, is controlled by a system, and it is this which regulates its connections with the soldier more than the qualifications of individual surgeons. In the army the system takes care of everything, even to the minutest details. Hygienic regulations for preserving the salubrity of camps and the cleanliness of the troops and their tents, are prescribed and enforced. Every day there is a 'sick call' at which men who find themselves ill present themselves to the surgeons for treatment. If slightly affected, they are taken care of in their own quarters; if more seriously, in the regimental hospitals; if still more so, in the large hospitals established by the chief medical officer of the corps; and if necessary, sent to the Government hospitals established at various places in the country. To the latter almost all the sick are transferred previous to a march. To be ill in the army, amid the constant noises of a camp, and with the non-luxurious appliances of a field hospital, is no very pleasant matter; but the sick soldier receives all the attention and accommodation possible under the circumstances.

To every corps is attached a train of ambulances, in the proportion of two or three to a regiment. They are spring wagons with seats along the sides, like an omnibus, which can, when necessary, be made to form a bed for two or three persons. With each train is a number of wagons, carrying tents, beds, medicine chests, etc., required for the establishment of hospitals. On the march, the ambulances collect the sick and exhausted who fall out from the columns and have a surgeon's certificate as to their condition. When a battle is impending, and the field of conflict fixed, the chief medical officers of the corps take possession of houses and barns in the rear, collect hay and straw for bedding, or, if more convenient, pitch the tents at proper localities. A detail of surgeons is made to give the necessary attendance. While the battle proceeds, the lightly wounded fall to the rear, and are there temporarily treated by the surgeons who have accompanied the troops to the field, and then find their way to the hospitals. If the fighting has passed beyond the places where lie the more dangerously wounded, they are brought to the rear by the 'stretcher bearers' attached to the ambulance trains, and carried to the hospitals in the ambulances. Sometimes it happens that the strife will rage for hours on nearly the same spot, and it may be night before the 'stretcher bearers' can go out and collect the wounded. But the surgeons make indefatigable exertions, often exposed to great danger, to give their attention to those who require it. At the best, war is terrible—all its 'pomp, pride, and circumstance' disappear in the view of the wounded and dead on the field, and of the mangled remnants of humanity in the hospitals. But everything that can be devised and applied to mitigate its horrors is provided under the systematized organization of the medical department. In the Army of the Potomac, at least, and undoubtedly in all the other armies of the North, that department combines skill, vigor, humanity, and efficiency to an astonishing degree. Its results are exhibited not only in the small mortality of the camps, but in the celerity of its operation on the field of battle, and the great proportion of lives preserved after the terrible wounds inflicted by deadly fragments of shell and the still more deadly rifle bullet. Military surgery has attained a degree of proficiency during the experiences of the past three years which a layman cannot adequately describe; its results are, however, palpable.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Since that article was written, some changes of detail have been made, but the principles remain the same.

ÆNONE:

A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME.

CHAPTER VIII.

Raising himself with an assumed air of careless indifference, in the hope of thereby concealing the momentary weakness into which his better feelings had so nearly betrayed him, Sergius strolled off, humming a Gallic wine song. Ænone also rose; and, struggling to stifle her emotion, confronted the new comer.

She, upon her part, stood silent and impassive, appearing to have heard or seen nothing of what had transpired, and to have no thought in her mind except the desire of fulfilling the duty which had brought her thither. But Ænone knew that the most unobservant person, upon entering, could not have failed at a glance to comprehend the whole import of the scene—and that therefore any such studied pretence of ignorance was superfluous. The attitude of the parties, the ill-disguised confusion of Sergius, her own tears, which could not be at once entirely repressed—all combined to tell a tale of recrimination, pleading, and baffled confidence, as plainly as words could have spoken it. Apart, therefore, from her disappointment at being interrupted at the very moment when her hopes had whispered that the happiness of reconciliation might be at hand, Ænone could not but feel indignant that Leta should thus calmly stand before her with that pretence of innocent unconsciousness.

'Why do you come hither? Who has demanded your presence?' Ænone cried, now, in her indignation, caring but little what or how she spoke, or what further revelations her actions might occasion, as long as so much had already been exposed.

'My lady,' rejoined the Greek, raising her eyes with a well-executed air of surprise, 'do I intrude? I came but to say that in the antechamber there is—'

'Listen!' exclaimed Ænone, interrupting her, and taking her by the hand. 'Not an hour ago you told me about your quiet home in Samos—its green vines—the blue mountains which encircled it—the little chamber where your mother died, and in which you were born—and the lover whom you left weeping at your cruel absence. You spoke of your affection for every leaf and blade of grass about the place—and how you would give your life itself to go back thither—yes, even your life, for you would be content to lie down and die, if you could first return. Do you remember?'

'Well, my lady?'

'Well, you shall return, as you desired. You have been given to me for my own; and whether or not the gift be a full and free one, I will claim my rights under it and set you free. In the first ship which sails from Ostia for any port of Greece, in that ship you may depart. Are you content, Leta?'

Still holding her by the hand, Ænone gazed inquiringly into the burning black eyes which fastened themselves upon her own, as though reading the bottom of her soul. She could not as yet believe that even if the Greek had actually begun to cherish any love for Sergius, it could be more than a passing fancy, engendered by foolish compliments or ill-judged signs of admiration, and therefore she did not doubt that the offer of freedom and restoration would be gratefully received. Her only uncertainty was with regard to the manner in which it would be listened to—whether with tears of joy or with loud protestations of gratitude upon bended knees; or whether the prospect of once again visiting that cottage home and all that had so long been held dear, would come with such unpremeditated intensity as to stifle all outward manifestations of delight, except, perhaps, that trembling of the lip or ebb and flow of color which is so often the surest sign of a full and glowing heart.

For a moment Leta stood gazing up into the face of her mistress, uttering no word of thanks, and with no tear of joy glistening in her eye, but with the deepened flush of uncontrollable emotion overspreading her features. And yet that flush seemed scarcely the token of a heart overpowered with sudden joy, but rather of a mind conscious of being involved in an unexpected dilemma, and puzzled with its inability to extricate itself.

'My mistress,' she responded at length, with lowered gaze, 'it is true that I said I would return, if possible, to that other home of mine. But now that you offer me the gift, I would not desire to accept it. Let me stay here with you.'

Ænone dropped the hand which till now she had held; and an agony of mingled surprise, suspicion, disappointment, and presentiment of evil swept across her features.

'Are you then become like all others?' she said with bitterness. 'Has the canker of this Roman life already commenced to eat into your soul, so that in future no memory of anything that is pure or good can attract you from its hollow splendors? Are thoughts of home, of freedom, of friends, even of the trusted lover of whom you spoke—are all these now of no account, when weighed against a few gilded pleasures?'

'Why, indeed, should I care to return to that home?' responded the girl. 'Have not the Roman soldiers trodden down those vines and uprooted that hearth? Is it a desolated and stricken home that I would care to see?'

'False—false!' cried Ænone, no longer regardful of her words, but only anxious to give utterance—no matter how rashly—to the suspicions which she had so long and painfully repressed. 'It is even more than the mere charms of this imperial city which entice you. It is that you are my enemy, and would stay here to sting the hand that was so truly anxious to protect you—that for your own purposes you would watch about my path, and ever, as now, play the spy upon my actions, and—'

'Nay, nay!' cried the Greek, her flashing eye and erect attitude in strong contrast with the softened tone in which, more from habit than from prudence, she had spoken. 'When have I played the spy upon you? Not now, indeed, for I have come in, not believing that I was doing harm, but simply because my duty has led me hither. I came to tell you that there is a stranger—an old man—standing in the court below, and that he craves audience with you. Is this a wrong thing for me to do? Were I to forbear performance of this duty, would not my neglect insure me punishment?'

Ænone answered not, but, by a strong effort, kept back the words that she would have uttered. Still angry and crushed with the sense of being deceived, and yet conscious that it was not a noble or dignified thing to be in disputation with her own slave, and that there was, moreover, the remote possibility that the girl was not her enemy, and might really dread returning to a desolated and devastated home, what could she say or do? And while she pondered the matter, the door again opened.

'And this is he of whom I spoke. Do you doubt me now?' exclaimed the Greek, in a tone in which a shade of malicious triumph mingled with soft reproach. And she moved away, and left the room, while Ænone, lifting her eyes, saw her father standing before her.

'A plague take the wench who has just left you!' he muttered. 'Did she not tell you that I was below? I sent word by her, and here she has left me for half an hour kicking my heels together in the courtyard. And I might have stayed there forever, if I had not of myself found my way up. Even then, there were some who would have stopped me, deeming me, perhaps, too rough in appearance to be allowed to ascend. But I told them that there was a time when members of the house of Porthenus did not wait in antechambers, but stood beside the consuls of the old republic, and I touched the hilt of my dagger; and whether it was the one argument or the other which prevailed, here I am.'

With a grim smile the centurion then threw himself down upon a settee near the door, arranged as properly as possible the folds of his coarse tunic, drew his belt round so as to show more in front his dagger with richly embossed sheath—the sole article of courtly and ceremonious attire in which he indulged—and endeavored to assume an easy and imposing attitude. For an instant he gazed around the room, observantly taking in its wealth of mosaic pavement, paintings, statuary, and vases. Then, as he began to fear lest he might be yielding too much of his pride before the overbearing influence of so much luxury, he straightened himself up, gathered upon his features a hard and somewhat contemptuous expression, and roughly exclaimed:

'Yes, by the gods, the Portheni lived with consuls and proconsuls long before the house of Vanno began to rise from the dregs and become a house at all. And the imperator knows it, and is jealous of the fact, too, or else he would the better acknowledge it. What, now, is that?' he added, pointing to the central fresco of the ceiling.

'It is—I know not for certain, my father—but I think—'

'Nay, but I know what it is. It is the old story of the three Vanni overcoming the five Cimbri at the bridge of Athesis. No great matter, nor so very long ago, even if it were true. But why did he not paint up, instead, how the founder of the Portheni, with his single arm, slew the ten Carthaginians under the aqueduct of Megara? Is not now your family history a portion of his own? His jealousy prevented him, I suppose; though I doubt not that, when in his cups with his high associates, he often boasts of his connection with the house of Porthenus. And yet he would let the only relic of the family starve before assisting him.'

Ænone stood as in a maze of confusion and uncertainty. Were the trials of the day never to end? First her unsatisfactory strife and pleading with her husband; then the undignified contest with her own slave into which she had been betrayed; and now came this old man—her father, to be sure—but so much the more mortifying to her, as his vulgarity, querulous complaining, and insulting strictures were forced upon her ears.

'Are you not comfortable? What more can he or I do for you?' she said, with some impatience.

'Ay, ay; there it is,' growled the centurion. 'One person must have all luxuries—paintings, silver, and the like; but if the other has only mere comforts, an extra tunic, perhaps, or a spare bit of meat for a dog, what more can he want? But I will tell you what you can do? And it is not as a gift, I ask it. Poor and despised as he may be, no one can say that the centurion Porthenus is a beggar. It is as a fair matter of business that I offer it.'

'Well, my father?'

'It is this: I have two slaves, and can afford to keep only one of them, particularly as but one can be of use to me. Will the imperator purchase the other? I will give it for a fair price, and therefore no one can say that I have asked for anything beyond a proper trade, with which either side should be well satisfied.'

Ænone listened with a blush of shame for her father overspreading her face. It did not occur to her that the slave rejected as useless could be any other than the hunchback, whom her husband had bestowed upon the centurion a few days before; and for the receiver to try to sell back a gift to the giver was a depth of meanness for which no filial partiality or affection could find an excuse.

'I will show him to you,' cried the centurion, losing a little of his gruffness in his eagerness to effect a transaction, whereby, under the thin guise of a simple trade, he could extort a benefit. 'I have brought him with me, and left him below. You will see that he is of good appearance, and that the imperator will be pleased and grateful to me for the opportunity of possessing him.'

So saying, Porthenus strode to the head of the stairway, and issued his commands in a stern voice, which made the vaulted ceilings of the palace ring. A faint, weak response came up in answer, and in a moment the slave entered the room.

'Is this the one of whom you spoke?' faltered Ænone, unable for the moment to retain her self-possession as she beheld, not the angular, wiry form of the hunchback, but the careworn and slim figure of Cleotos. 'I thought—indeed I thought that you spoke of the inferior of the two.'

'Ay, and so I do,' responded her father. 'Of what use to me can this man be? The other one, indeed, is of tenfold value. There is no slave in Rome like unto him for cleaning armor or sharpening a weapon, while to run of an errand or manage any piece of business in which brains must bear their part, I will trust him against the world. But as for this man here, with his weak limbs and his simple face—do you know that I did but set him to polish the rim of a shield, and in his awkwardness he let it fall, and spoiled the surface as though a Jewish spear had stricken it.'

Ænone remained silent, scarcely listening to the words of her father, while, in a troubled manner, she again mentally ran over, as she had done hundreds of times before, the chances of recognition by the man who stood before her.

'But listen to me still further,' continued the centurion, fearful lest his disparaging comments might defeat the projected sale. 'I only speak of him as he is useful or not to me. To another person he would be most valuable; for, though he cannot polish armor, he can polish verses, and he can write as well as though he were educated for a scribe. For one favored of fortune like the imperator Sergius Vanno,' and here again the centurion began to roll the high-sounding name upon his tongue with obvious relish, 'who wishes an attendant to carry his wine cup, or to bear his cloak after him, or to trim his lamps, and read aloud his favorite books, where could a better youth than this be found?'

Ænone, still overpowered by her troubled thoughts, made no response.

'Or to yourself,' eagerly continued the centurion, 'he would be most suitable, with his pale, handsome face, and his slender limbs. Have you a page?'

'I have my maidens,' was the answer.

'And that amounts to nothing at all,' asserted her father. 'A plebeian can have her maidens in plenty, but it is not right that the wife of a high and mighty imperator,' and here again the words rolled majestically off his tongue, 'should not also have her male attendants. And the more so when that wife has been taken from an ancient house like that of Porthenus,' he added, with a frown in derogation of any tendency to give undue importance to her present position. 'But with this Cleotos—come forward, slave, and let yourself be seen.'

Cleotos, who, partly from natural diffidence, and partly from being abashed at the unaccustomed splendor about him, had, little by little, from his first entrance, shrunk into a corner, now advanced; and Ænone, once more resolutely assuring herself that, with the changes which time, position, difference of place and costume had thrown about her, she could defy recognition, summoned all her courage, and looked him in the face. It may have been with an unacknowledged fear lest, now that she saw him so freely in the broad daylight, some latent spark of the old attachment might burst into a flame, and withdraw her heart from its proper duty; but at the first glance she felt that in this respect she had nothing to dread. In almost every particular, Cleotos had but little changed. His costume was but slightly different from that which he had always been accustomed to wear; for the centurion, in view of the chance of effecting a profitable sale, had, for that occasion, made him put on suitable and becoming attire. The face was still youthful—the eye, as of old, soft, expressive, and unhardened by the ferocities of the world about him. As Ænone looked, it seemed as though the years which had passed rolled back again, and that she was once more a girl. But it also seemed as though something else had passed away—as though she looked not upon a lover, but rather upon a quiet, kindhearted, innocent friend—one who could ever be dear to her as a brother, but as nothing else. What was it which had so flitted away that the same face could now stir up no fire of passion, but only a friendly interest? Something, she could not tell what; but she thanked the gods that it was so, and drew a long breath of relief.

But it was none the less incumbent upon her, for the sake of that present friendship and for the memory of that old regard, to cast her protection over him. For an instant the thought flashed across her that it would be well to purchase him, not simply for a page, but so that she could have him in the way of kind treatment and attention until some opportunity of restoring him to his native land might occur. But then again was the danger that, if any great length of time should meanwhile elapse, unconsidered trifles might lead to a recognition. No, that plan could not be thought of. She must keep a protecting eye upon him from a distance, and trust to the future for a safe working out of the problem.

'It cannot be,' she murmured, in answer, half to her father, half to her own suggestion.

''Tis well,' muttered the centurion, rising with an air of displeasure which indicated that he thought it very ill. 'I supposed that it would be a kindness to the imperator or to yourself to give the first offer of the man. But it matters little. The captain Polidorus will take him any moment at a fair price.'

'You will not send him to the captain Polidorus?' exclaimed Ænone in affright. For at once the many atrocities of that man toward his slaves rose in her mind—how that he had slain one in a moment of passion—how that he had deliberately beaten another to death for attempting to escape to the catacombs—how that stripes and torture were the daily portion of the unfortunates in his power—and that, not by reason of any gross neglect of their duty, but for the merest and most trifling inadvertencies. Better death than such a fate.

'Pah! What can I do?' retorted Porthenus, skilfully touching the chord of her sympathies, as he saw how sensitive she was to its vibrations. 'It is true that Polidorus is no fawning woman, and that he greets his slaves with the rod and the brand, and what not. It is true that he thinks but little of sending one of them to Hades through the avenue of his fishponds. But that, after all, is his affair, and if he chooses to destroy his property, what should it matter to me? Am I so rich that I can afford to lose a fair purchaser because he may incline to hang or drown his bargain? Such self-denial may suit the governor of a province, but should not be expected of a poor centurion.'

Ænone trembled, and again the impulse to make the purchase came upon her. Better to risk anything for herself—recognition, discovery, suspicion, or misconstruction, than that her friendship should so far fail as to allow this poor captive to fall into the hands of a brutish tyrant. There was a purse of gold in the half-opened drawer of a table which stood near her; and, in sore perplexity, she raised it, then let it fall, and again lifted it. As the centurion listened to the ring of the metal, his eyes sparkled, and he prepared to apply new arguments, when Cleotos himself sprang forward.

'I know nothing about this Polidorus of whom they speak,' said he, dropping upon one knee at her feet. 'And it is not to save myself from his hands that I ask your pity, most noble lady. There is much that I have already suffered, and perhaps a little more might make no difference, or, better yet, might close the scene with me forever. It is for other reasons that I would wish to be in this house—even as the lowest, meanest slave of all, rather than to live in the halls of the emperor Titus himself. There is one in this house, most noble lady, from whom I have long been cruelly separated, and who—what can I say but that if, when I was a free man, she gave me her love, now, in my abasement, she will not fail with that love to brighten my lot?'

Ænone started. At hearing such words, there could be but one thought in her mind—that he had actually recognized her, and that, without waiting to see whether or not she had forgotten him, and certainly knowing that in any event her position toward him had become changed, he was daring to covertly suggest a renewal of their old relationship. But the next words reassured her.

'We lived near each other in Samos, my lady. I was happy, and I blessed the fates for smiling upon us. How was I then to know that she would be torn away from me upon the very day when I was to have led her to my own home?'

'You say that she is here? Is it—do you speak of Leta?' cried Ænone.

'Leta was her name,' he responded, in some surprise that his secret had been so promptly penetrated before he had more than half unfolded it. 'And she is here.'

There was to Ænone perhaps one instant of almost unconscious regret at learning that she had been forgotten for another. But it passed away like a fleeting cloud—banished from her mind by the full blaze of happiness which poured in upon her at the thought that here at last was what would counteract the cruel schemes which were warring against her peace, and would thereby bring sure relief to her sorrow.

'And she is here,' repeated Cleotos. 'When at the first she was torn from my side, most noble lady, I would have died, if I could, for I did not believe that life had any further blessing in store for me. But, though the Roman armies were cruel, the fates have been kind, and have again brought us near. It was but a week ago that, as I looked up by the moonlight at these palace walls, I saw her. Can it be, that after so long a time, the gods meant I should be brought near, to have but this one glimpse of happiness, and then again be sundered from it?'

'It cannot be—it was not meant to be,' exclaimed Ænone, with energy; and again lifting the purse of gold, she placed it in the centurion's hand. 'There, I will purchase your slave,' she said. 'Take from this his proper price, and leave him with me.'

CHAPTER IX.

The centurion received the purse with ill-dissembled joy. Had he been fully able to control himself, he would doubtless have maintained a quiet air of dignified self-possession, befitting one giving full value for what he had received, and therefore not expected to exhibit any peculiarly marked or lively satisfaction. But the affair had been concluded so suddenly, and with such a liberal confidence in his discretion, that, for the moment, his hands trembled with excitement, and his face shone with avaricious pleasure.

Then he began to count out the gold pieces, gleefully dropping some into his pouch, and reluctantly putting others back into the purse. From the first he had established in his own mind the valuation which he would place upon the slave; and he had taken care to make his calculation upon such a liberal scale that he could well afford to consent to a large deduction, if it were required of him. Now he reasoned that, as his child had merely told him to take out what was proper, there could be no impropriety in paying himself at the highest possible price. She would never mind, and there were many comforts which he needed, and which an extra gold piece or two would enable him to procure for himself.

Then, as he weighed the purse and pondered over it, numerous wants and requirements, which he had hardly known until that time, came into his mind. He might supply them all, if he were not too timid or scrupulous in availing himself of an opportunity such as might never come to him again. Had even his first valuation of the slave been a sufficient one? He ought certainly to consider that the man could read and write, and was of such beauty and grace that he could be trained to a most courtly air; and it was hardly proper to sell him for no more than the price of a couple of gladiators, mere creatures of bone and brawn. And, in any event, it was hardly probable that Ænone knew the true value of slaves, or even remembered how much her purse had contained.

Thus meanly reflecting, the centurion dropped more of the gold pieces into his pocket, all the while eying the slave with keen scrutiny, as though calculating the market value of every hair upon his head. Then, with a sigh, he handed back the purse, most wofully lightened of its contents, and turned from the room, endeavoring to compose his features into a decent appearance of sober indifference, and muttering that he would not have allowed himself to be betrayed into giving up such a prize so cheaply had it not been that he had an especial regard for the imperator Sergius Vanno, and that the house of Porthenus had never nourished mere traders to wrangle and chaffer over their property.

In one of his conjectures he had been correct. It was little that Ænone knew or cared about the price she was paying. Had the purse been returned to her entirely empty, she would have thrown it unheedingly into the drawer, and have never dreamed but that all had been rightly done. There was now but one idea filling her heart. She thought not about money nor any imprudence which she was committing, nor yet upon the chance of recognition. She only reflected that the day of her triumph had come—that at the sight of the long-absent lover, Leta would abandon the wrong path in which she had been straying, would throw herself into his arms, would tell him how, through the loss of him, she had become reckless, and had allowed her suffering mind to become perverted from the right—but that now all was again well; and thus confessing and being forgiven, would, in the ever-present joy of that forgiveness, lead for the future a different life, and, instead of a rival, become to her mistress a friend and ally.

Glowing with this bright hope, Ænone scarcely noticed the shuffling departure of the centurion, but, fixing her eyes upon the captive, keenly scrutinized his appearance. Not that it was likely that Leta, in the first flush of her joy at meeting him, would notice or care in what guise he was presented, so long as the soul which had so often responded to her own was there. But it was well that there should be nothing neglected which, without being directly essential to the production of a proper impression, might be tributary to it.

The inspection was satisfactory. Not only was the dress of the captive clean, neat, becoming, and suitable to his station, but his appearance had undergone visible improvement since Ænone had last seen him. The rest and partial composure of even the few intervening days had sufficed to restore tone to his complexion, roundness to his cheeks, and something of the old merry smile to his eyes. And though complete restoration was not yet effected, enough had been accomplished to show that there was much latent beauty which would not fail to develop itself under the stimulant of additional rest and kindly treatment.

'Go in, thither,' said Ænone, pointing to the adjoining room, in which Leta was occupied. 'When you are there, you will—it will be told you what you are to do.'

Cleotos bowed low, and passed through into the other room; and Ænone followed him with a glance which betrayed the longing she felt to enter with him and witness the meeting of the two lovers. But a sense of propriety outweighed her curiosity and restrained her. It was not right, indeed, that she should intrude. Such recognitions should be sacred to the persons directly interested in them. She would therefore remain outside, and there await Cleotos's return. And as she took into her hands a little parchment ode which lay upon her table, and nervously endeavored to interest herself in it, she delightedly pictured the sudden transport of those within the next room, and the beaming joy with which, hand in hand, they would finally emerge to thank her for their newly gained happiness.

In the mean time, Leta, having delivered her message, and received her rebuke for the interruption, had retired to the other room, and there, as usual, resumed her daily task of embroidery. Bending low over the intricate stitches and counting their spaces, her features, at a casual glance, still bore their impress of meek and unconscious humility, so far did her accustomed self-control seem to accompany her even when alone. But a more attentive scrutiny would have detected, half hidden beneath the fringed eyelids, a sparkle of gratified triumph, and, in the slightly bent corners of the mouth, a shade of haughty disdain; and little by little, as the moments progressed, these indications of an inner, irrepressible nature gained in intensity, and, as though her fingers were stayed by a tumult of thought, her work slowly began to slip from her grasp.

At length, lifting her head, and, perhaps, for the first time realizing that she was alone and might indulge her impulses without restraint, she abruptly threw from her the folds of the embroidery, and stood erect. Why should she longer trifle with that weak affair of velvet and dyes? Who was the poor, inanimate, and tearful statue in the next room, to order her to complete those tasks? What to herself were the past deeds of the Vanni, that they should be perpetuated in ill-fashioned tapestry, to be hung around a gilded banquet hall? By the gods! she would from that day make a new history in the family life; and it should be recorded, not with silken threads upon embroidered velvet, but should be engraved deeply and ineffaceably upon human hearts!

Standing motionless in the centre of the room, with one foot upon the half-completed tapestry, she now for the first time, and in a flash of inspiration, gave shape and comeliness to her previously confusedly arranged ideas. Until the present moment she had had but little thought of accomplishing anything beyond skilfully availing herself of her natural attractions so as to climb from her menial position into something a little better and higher. If, in the struggle to raise herself from the degradation of slavery, she were obliged to engage in a rivalry with her mistress, and, by robbing her of the affection naturally belonging to her, were to crush her to the earth, it was a thing to be deplored, but it must none the less be done. She might, perhaps, pity the victim, but the sacrifice must be accomplished all the same.

But now these vague dreams of a somewhat better lot, to be determined by future chance circumstances, rolled away like a shapeless cloud, and left in their place one bright image as the settled object of her ambition. So lofty, so dazzling seemed the prize, that another person would have shrunk in dismay from even the thought of striving for it, and even she, for the moment, recoiled. But she was of too determined a nature to falter long. The higher the object to be attained the fewer would be the competitors, and the greater the chance of success to unwearying determination. And if there were but one chance of success in a thousand, it were still worth the struggle.

This great thought which stimulated her ambition was nothing less than the resolution to become the wife of the imperator Sergius. At first it startled her with its apparent wild extravagance; but little by little, as she weighed the chances, it seemed to become more practicable. There was, indeed, nothing grossly impossible in the idea. Men of high rank had ere now married their slaves, and the corrupted society of Rome had winked at mesalliances which, in the days of the republic, would not have been tolerated. And she was merely a slave from accidental circumstances—being free born, and having, but a month before, been the pride and ornament of a respectable though lowly family. Once let her liberty be restored, and the scarcely perceptible taint of a few weeks' serfdom be removed from her, and she would be, in all social respects, fully the equal of the poor, trembling maid of Ostia, to whom, a few years before, the patrician had not been ashamed to stoop.

This bar of social inequality thus removed, the rest might be in her own hands. Sergius no longer felt for his wife the old affection, under the impulse of which he had wedded her; and the few poor remains of the love which he still cherished, more from habit than otherwise, were fast disappearing. This was already so evident as to have become the common gossip of even the lowliest slaves in the household. And he loved herself instead, for not only his actions, but his words had told her so. A little more craft and plotting, therefore—a little further display of innocent and lowly meekness and timid obedience—a few more well-considered efforts to widen the conjugal breach—a week or two more persistent exercise of those fascinations which men were so feeble to resist—jealousy, recrimination, quarrels, and a divorce—and the whole thing might be accomplished. In those days of laxity, divorce was an easy matter. In this case there was no family influence upon the part of the wife to be set up in opposition—but merely an old centurion, ignorant and powerless. A few writings, for form's sake—and the day that sent the weeping wife from the door might install the manumitted and triumphant slave in her place.

All aglow with the ravishing prospect—her eager hopes converting the possible into the probable, and again, by a rapid change, the probable into the certain, the Greek stood spurning the needle work at her feet. Then glancing around, the whim seized upon her to assume, for a moment in advance, her coming stately dignity. At the side of the room, upon a slightly elevated platform, was a crimson lounge—Ænone's especial and proper seat. Over one arm of this lounge hung, in loose folds, a robe of purple velvet, with an embroidered fringe of pearls—a kind of cloak of state, usually worn by her upon the reception of ceremonious visits. To this lounge Leta strode, threw herself upon it, drew the velvet garment over her shoulders, so that the long folds fell down gracefully and swept the marble pavement at her feet, and there, half sitting, half reclining, assumed an attitude of courtly dignity, as though mistress of the palace.

And it must be confessed that she well suited the place. With her lithe, graceful figure thrown into a position in which the gentle languor of unembarrassed leisure was mingled with the dignity of queenly state—with her burning eyes so tempered in their brilliancy that they seemed ready at the same instant to bid defiance to impertinent intrusion, and to bestow gracious condescension upon suppliant timidity—with every feature glowing with that proper pride which is not arrogance, and that proper kindliness which is not humility—there was probably in all Rome no noble matron who could as well adorn her chair of ceremony. Beside her, the true mistress of the place would have appeared as a timid child dismayed with unaccustomed honors; and in comparison, the empress herself might not fill her throne in the palace of the Cæsars with half the grace and dignity.

Then, as she there sat, momentarily altering her attitude to correspond the better with her ideas of proper bearing, and gathering into newer and more pleasing folds the sweeping breadths of the velvet mantle, the door was slowly swung open, and there glided noiselessly in, clad in its neat and coarse tunic, the timid figure of her old lover Cleotos.

For an instant they remained gazing at each other as though paralyzed. Cleotos—who had looked to see her in her simple white vestment as of old, and had expected at her first glance to rush to her arms, and there be allowed to pour forth his joy at again meeting her, never more to part—beheld with dismay this gorgeously arrayed and queenly figure. This could not be the Leta whom he had known, or, if so, how changed! Was this the customary attire of slaves in high-placed families? Or could it be the token of a guilty favoritism? His heart sank within him; and he stood nervously clinging against the door behind him, fearing to advance, lest, at the first step, some terrible truth, of which he had already seemed to feel the premonitions, might burst upon him.

And she, for the moment, sat aghast, not knowing but that the gods, to punish her pride and ambition, had sent a spectre to confront her. But being of strong mind and but little given to superstitious terrors, she instantly reasoned out the facts of his simultaneous captivity with herself and coincidence of ownership; and her sole remaining doubt was in what manner she should treat him. They had parted in sorrow and tears, and she knew that he now expected her to fall into his arms and there repeat her former vows of constancy and love. But that could not be. Had he come to her but an hour before, while her dreams of the future were of a vague and unsatisfactory character, she might have acted upon such an impulse. But now, a glorious vision of what might possibly happen had kindled her ambition with brighter fires than ever before; and could she surrender all that, and think again only upon starving freedom in a cottage home?

'Is it thou, Cleotos? Welcome to Rome!' she said at length, throwing from her shoulder the purple cloak, and approaching him. As she spoke, she held out her hand. He took it in his own, in a lifeless and mechanical sort of way, and gazed into her face with a strange look of inquiring doubt, which momentarily settled into an expression of deeper apprehension. The blackness of despair began to enter into his soul. Now that she was divested of her borrowed richness, she looked more like herself, and that was surely her voice uttering tones of greeting; but somehow her heart did not seem to be in them, and, for a certainty, this had not been her wonted style of welcome.

'I thought,' she continued, 'that thou wert slain. Certainly when I parted from you ere you fled into the mountains—'

'You know that I fled not at all,' he interrupted, the color mounting into his temples. 'Why do you speak so, Leta? I retired to the mountains to meet my friends there and with them carry on the defence; and, previous thereto, I conducted you to what I believed to be a place of safety. And I fought my best against the foe, and was brought nigh unto death. This I did, though I can boast of but a weak and slender frame. And it is hard that the first greeting of one so well loved as you should be a taunt.'

'Nay, forgive me,' she said. 'I doubt not your valor. It was but in forgetfulness that I spoke. I meant it not for a taunt.' And in truth she had not so meant it. It was but the inadvertent expression of a feeling which the sight of his feeble and boyish figure unwittingly made upon her—an incapacity to connect deeds of valor with apparent physical weakness. But this very inability to judge of his true nature by the soul that strove to look into her own rather than by material impressions was perhaps no slight proof of the little unison between her nature and his.

'Sit down here,' she continued, 'and tell me all that has happened to you.' And they sat together, and he briefly told her of his warlike adventures, his wound, his captivity, his recognition of herself, and his successful attempt to be once more under the same roof with her. And somehow it still seemed to him that their talk was not as of old, and that her sympathy with his misfortunes was but weak and cheerless; and though he tried to interweave the customary words of endearment with his story, there was a kind of inner check upon him, so that they came not readily to his lips as of old. And she sat, trying to listen, and indeed keeping the thread of his adventures in her mind; but all the while finding her attention fail as she speculated how she could best give that explanation of her feelings which she knew would soon be demanded of her.

'And here I am at last, Leta—as yourself, a slave!' he concluded.

'Courage, my friend!' was her answer. 'There are very many degrees and fates reserved for all in this old Rome, and much for every man to learn. And many a one who has begun as a slave has, in the end, attained not only to freedom, but to high honor and station.'

'If the gods were to give me honor and station, far be it from me to refuse the gift,' he said. 'But that, of itself alone, would not content me, unless you were there to share the good with me. And with yourself I would crave no other blessing. We are slaves here, Leta, but even that fate may have its mitigations and happiness for us.'

She was silent. How could she tell it to him? But his suspicions, at first vague, were now aroused by her very silence into more certainty.

'Tell me,' he cried, again taking her hand, 'tell me my fate; and if sorrow is to come upon me, let it come now. It seems as though there were indeed evil tidings in store for me. The blight of anticipated evil even weighed upon me ere I passed yonder hall, and when I knew no reason why I should not find you loving of heart and humble of desire as in other days. Is it all gone? Are you no longer the same? This tawdry velvet in which I found you arrayed—is it the type of a something equally foreign to your nature, and which imperial Rome has thrown about you to aid in crushing out the better feelings of your heart?'

'My friend, my brother,' she said at length, with some real pity and some false sorrow, 'why have we again met? Why is it now forced upon me to tell you that the past must always be the past with us?'

He dropped her hand, and the tears started into his eyes. Much as the words and gestures of the last few minutes had prepared him for the announcement, yet when it came, it smote him as though there had been no premonition of it; so lovingly had his heart persisted in clinging to the faint hope that he might have been mistaken. A low wail of anguish burst from his lips.

'And this is the end of all?' he sobbed.

'Think only,' she said, 'think only that I am not worthy of you.'

'The old story—the old story which has been repeated from the beginning of the world,' he cried, stung into life by something of heartlessness which he detected in her affected sympathy. 'The woman weaves her toils about the man—gilds his life until there is no brightness which can compare with it—fills his heart with high hopes of a blissful future—so changes his soul that he can cherish no thought but of her—so alters the whole tenor and purpose of his existence that he even welcomes slavery as a precious boon because it brings him under the same roof with her. And then—some other fancy having crossed her mind—or an absence of a week or two having produced forgetfulness—she insults him with a cruel mockery of self-unworthiness as her sole apology for perfidy.'

'Nay,' she exclaimed, half glad of an excuse to quarrel with him. 'If you would rather have it otherwise, think, then, that I have never loved you as I should, even though I may have imagined that I did.'

'Go on,' he said, seeing that she hesitated.

'I know,' she continued, 'that in other days you have had my words for it, uttered, indeed, in sympathy and truth, as I then felt them. But I was a simple girl, then, Cleotos. The sea before me and the mountains behind bounded all my knowledge of the world. The people whom I saw were but few. The tastes I had were simple. Is it wonderful that I should have listened to the first one who spoke to me of love, and should have imagined that my heart made response to him? But now, now, Cleotos—'

'Now, what?' he exclaimed. 'Would you say that now you have seen the world better and think differently? What is there in all that you have since known that should change you? Is it that the sight of war and tumult—of burning towns and bleeding captives—of insolent soldiers and cruel taskmasters can have made you less in favor with our own native, vine-covered retreat, with its neighborhood of simple peasantry? Or would you say that since then you have met others whom you can love better than me? Whom, indeed, have you seen but weary prisoners like myself, or else unpitying conquerors whose love would be your shame? You blush, Leta! Pray the gods that it be not the latter! Struggle sternly with yourself to realize that you are merely for the moment fascinated by the unaccustomed splendors of this swarming city; and that after its first brightness has worn off from your dazzled eyes, your soul may return to its native, pure simplicity and innocence, and—and to me.'

'Speak not so, Cleotos,' she responded. 'My eyes are not dazzled with any splendors; but for all that, our ways now and forever lie in different directions. We are slaves, and can give little heed to our affections. Our only course must be for each to strive to rise above this serfdom; and if, in doing so, either can help the other, it must be done—but in friendship, not in love. To you, through good conduct, there may open, even in slavery, many posts of influence and profit; and, in so much, of better worth than our own boasted liberty with poverty. And as for me—I see my destiny already beckoning me to a position such as many a free Roman woman might envy.'

Speaking thus obscurely of her anticipated grandeur—to be gained, perhaps, by abasement, but none the less in her mind certain to end in such legitimate position as might sanctify the previous steps thereto—her face again lit up with a glow of pride, as though she were already the powerful patrician's wife. And revelling in such dreams, she saw not the agony which overspread her listener's face as he read her thoughts partly awrong, and believed her content to throw herself away forever, in order to gain some temporary exaltation as a wealthy Roman's plaything.

'And when that day does come,' she continued, 'if, for the memory of our old friendship, I can help to elevate you to some better sphere—'

'Enough! No more!' he cried bitterly; and starting from her, he fled out of the room. It were hard enough that he should lose her, harder yet that he should hear her marking out for herself a life of ruin for some temporary gain, but harder than all, that she should dare to mistake his nature so far as to insult him with the promise of aiding his prosperity through such an influence.

'Let me go hence!' he cried, in his agony, to Ænone, who, still radiant with her newly discovered hope, met him at the door. 'Send me to the captain Polidorus—anywhere—only let me leave this house!'

AMERICAN SLAVERY AND FINANCES.

By Hon. Robert J. Walker.

[The following article, from the pen of Hon. R. J. Walker, forms the Appendix to the volume just published in England, and now exciting great attention there, containing the various pamphlets issued by him during the last six months. The subjects discussed embrace Jefferson Davis and Repudiation, Recognition, Slavery, Finances and Resources of the United States. It would be difficult to overestimate the effect of these Letters abroad. As our readers already possess them in the pages of The Continental, we enable them to complete the series by furnishing the ensuing Appendix. It closes with an extract from an 'Introductory Address' delivered by Mr. Walker before the National Institute, at Washington, D. C., giving a short account of the various improvements and discoveries made by our countrymen in the Inductive Sciences. As showing to England what a high rank we had even then taken in the world of science, and pointing out to her the number and fame of our savants, it will be read with just pride and interest. As the Address was delivered in 1844, it of course contains no details of our marvellous progress since that date in science and discovery.—Ed. Continental.]

We have seen by the Census Tables, if the product per capita of the Slave States in 1859 had been equal to that of the Free States for that year, that the ADDITIONAL value produced in 1859 in the Slave States would have been $1,531,631,000. Now as our population augmented during that decade 35.59 per cent., this increased value, at that ratio, in 1869 would have been $2,052,332,272. If multiplying the amount each year by three only, instead of 3-559/1000 the result, during that decade, would have been as follows:

That is, the total increased product of the Slave States, during the decade from 1859 to 1869, would have been $17,873,539,511, if the production in the Slave States had been equal, per capita, to that of the Free States. This, it will be remembered, is gross product. This, it will be perceived, is far below the actual result, as we can see by comparing the real product of 1869, $2,052,332,272, as before given, with the $2,034,317,524, as the result of a multiplication by three each year.

The ratio of the increase of our wealth, from 1850 to 1860, as shown by the census, was much greater than that of our population—namely, 126.45 per cent. Multiplying by this ratio (126.45), the result would be an additional product in 1860, in the Slave States, of $3,427,619,475. But our wealth increases in an augmented ratio during each decade.

Thus, the ratio of the increase of our wealth, as shown by the census, was as follows:

Thus, the increase of our wealth from 1840 to 1850, was more than 50 per cent. greater than from 1830 to 1840; and from 1850 to 1860, nearly double that from 1840 to 1850. At the same duplicate ratio, from 1850 to 1870, the result would be over 250 per cent. That such would have been a close approximation to the true result, is rendered still more probable by the fact, that the product of 1859, as shown by the census, was 250 per cent. greater than that of 1849.

If, then, instead of 126.45 per cent., we were to assume 250 per cent. as the ratio, the result would be in 1869, $5,297,708,612, as the increased product of the Slave States that year, if the ratio per capita were equal to that of the Free States. If we carry out these ratios from 1859 to 1869, either of 126.45, or of 250, into the aggregate of the decade, the results are startling. Assuming, however, that of the population only, we have seen that the aggregate result in the decade from 1859 to 1869 was over seventeen billions of dollars, or largely more than ten times our debt incurred by this rebellion.

When, then, I reassert the opinion, heretofore expressed by me, that as the result of the superiority of free over slave labor, our wealth in 1870, and especially in each succeeding decade, as a consequence of the entire abolition of Slavery in the United States, will be far greater, notwithstanding the debt, than if the rebellion had never occurred, there is here presented conclusive official proof of the truth of this statement. We have seen that our wealth increased from 1850 to 1860, 126.45 per cent., whilst that of England, from 1851 to 1861, augmented only at the rate of 37 per cent.

Applying these several ratios to the progress of the wealth of the United Kingdom and the United States, respectively, in 1870, 1880, 1890, and 1900, the result is given below.

We have seen by the census, that our national wealth was, in

Increase from 1850 to 1860, 126.45 per cent.

England, from 1851 to 1861, 37 per cent.

Assuming these ratios, the result would be as follows:

Thus, it appears by the census of each nation, that, each increasing in the same ratio respectively as for the last decade, the wealth of the United States in 1880 would exceed that of the United Kingdom $23,743,518,849; that in 1890 it would be much more than double, and in 1900, approaching quadruple that of the United Kingdom.

When we reflect that England increases in wealth much more rapidly than any other country of Europe, the value of these statistics may be estimated, as proving how readily our national debt can be extinguished without oppressive taxation.

These are the results, founded on the actual statistics, without estimating the enormous increase of our national wealth, arising from the abolition of Slavery. We have seen that, by the official tables of the census of 1860, the value of the products of the United States, so far as given, for the year 1859, was $5,290,000,000. But this is very short of the actual result. The official report (pages 59, 190, 198 to 210) shows that this included only the products of 'agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries.' In referring to the result as to 'manufactures,' at page 59 of his official report before given, the Superintendent says: 'If to this amount were added the very large aggregate of mechanical productions below the annual value of $500, of which no official cognizance is taken, the result would be one of startling magnitude.'

1. This omission alone, for gross product, is estimated at $500,000,000.

2. Milk and eggs, fodder, wood, poultry, and feathers, omitted, gross products, estimated at $350,000,000.

3. Gross earnings of trade and commerce, including freights, &c., by land and water, $1,000,000,000.

4. Gross earnings of all other pursuits and business, including all other omissions, $1,000,000,000.

Total gross products of 1860, as thus estimated, $8,140,000,000, of which the amount for the Free States, as estimated, is $6,558,334,000, and for the Slave States, $1,581,666,000.

I have heretofore referred to the vast influence of education as one of the principal causes of the greater product per capita in the Free than in the Slave States, of the much larger number of patents, of inventions, and discoveries, in the former than in the latter.

At the April meeting of 1844, upon the request of the Society, I delivered at Washington (D. C.) the Introductory Address for the National Institute, in which, up to that date, an account was given by me of 'the various improvements and discoveries made by our countrymen in the inductive sciences.' On reference to that address, which was published at its date (April, 1844), with their bulletin, it will be seen that, from the great Franklin down to Kinnersley, Fitch, Rumsey, Fulton, Evans, Rush, the Stevenses of New Jersey, Whitney, Godfrey, Rittenhouse, Silliman, J. Q. Adams, Cleveland, Adrain, Bowditch, Hare, Bache, Henry, Pierce, Espy, Patterson, Nulty, Morse, Walker, Loomis, Rogers, Saxton, and many others; these men, with scarcely an exception, were from the Free States.

EXTRACT.

And, first, of electricity. This has been cultivated with the greatest success in our country, from the time when Franklin with his kite drew down electricity from the thunder cloud, to that when Henry showed the electrical currents produced by the distant lightning discharge. In Franklin's day the idea prevailed that there were two kinds of electricity, one produced by rubbing vitreous substances, the other by the friction of resinous bodies. Franklin's theory of one electric fluid in all bodies, disturbed in its equilibrium by friction, and thus accumulating in one and deserting the other, maintains its ground, still capable of explaining the facts elicited in the progress of modern discovery. Franklin believed that electricity and lightning were the same, and proceeded to the proof. He made the perilous experiment, by exploring the air with a kite, and drawing down from the thunder cloud the lightning's discharge upon his own person. The bold philosopher received unharmed the shock of the electric fluid, more fortunate than others who have fallen victims to less daring experiments. The world was delighted with the discoveries of the great American, and for a time electricity was called Franklinism on the continent of Europe; but Franklin was born here, and the name was not adopted in England. While Franklin made experiments, Kinnersley exhibited and illustrated them, and also rediscovered the seemingly opposite electricities of glass and resin. Franklin's lightning rod is gradually surmounting the many difficulties with which it contended, as experience attests the greater safety of houses protected by the rod, properly mounted, whilst the British attempt to substitute balls for points has failed. This question, as to powder magazines, has lately excited much controversy. Should a rod be attached to the magazine, or should it be placed upon a post at some distance? This question has been solved by Henry. When an electrical discharge passes from one body to another, the electricity in all the bodies in the neighborhood is affected. Henry magnetized a needle in a long conductor, by the discharge from a cloud, more than a mile from the conductor. If a discharge passes down a rod, attached to a powder house, may it not cause a spark to pass from one receptacle for powder to another, and thus inflame the whole? The electrical plenum, which Henry supposed, is no doubt disturbed, and to great distances; but the effect diminishes with the distance. If all the principal conductors about a building can be connected with a lightning rod, there is no danger of a discharge; for it is only in leaving or entering a conductor that electricity produces heating effects; but if not, the rod is safer at a moderate distance from the building. The rate at which electricity moved was another of the experiments of Franklin. A wire was led over a great extent of ground, and a discharge passed through it. No interval could be perceived between the time of the spark passing to and from the wire at the two ends. Not long since, Wheatston of England, aided by our own great mechanic, Saxton, solved the problem. This has induced Arago, of France, to propose to test the rival theories of light, by similar means—to measure thus a velocity, to detect which has heretofore required a motion over the line of the diameter of the earth's orbit.

In galvanism, our countrymen have made many important discoveries. Dr. Hare invented instruments of such great power as well to deserve the names of calorimeter and deflagrator. The most refractory substances yielded to the action of the deflagrator, melting like wax before a common fire. Even charcoal was supposed to be fused in the experiments of Hare and Silliman, and the visionary speculated on the possibility of black as well as white diamonds. Draper, by his most ingenious galvanic battery, of two metals and two liquids, with one set of elements, in a glass tube not the size of the little finger, was able to decompose water. Faraday, of England, discovered the principle, that when a current of electricity is set in motion, or stopped in a conductor, a neighboring conductor has a current produced in the opposite direction. Henry proved that this principle might be made available to produce an action of a current upon itself, by forming a conductor in the whirls of a spiral, so that sparks and shocks might be obtained by the use of such spirals, when connected with a pair of galvanic plates, a current from which could give no sparks and no shocks. Henry's discoveries of the effects of a current in producing several alternations in currents in neighboring conductors—the change of the quality of electricity which gives shocks to the muscles into that producing heat, and vice versa—his mode of graduating these shocks—his theoretical investigations into the causes of these alternations—are abstruse, but admirable; and his papers have been republished throughout Europe. The heating effects of a galvanic current have been applied by Dr. Hare to blasting. The accidents which so often happen in quarries may be avoided by firing the charge from a distance, as the current which heats the wire, passing through the charge, may be conveyed, without perceptible diminution, through long distances. A feeble attempt to attribute this important invention of Dr. Hare to Colonel Pasley, an English engineer, has been abandoned. This is the marvellous agent by which our eminent countryman, Morse, encouraged by an appropriation made by Congress, will, by means of his electric telegraph, soon communicate information forty miles, from Washington to Baltimore, more rapidly than by whispering in the ear of a friend sitting near us. A telegraph on a new plan at that time, invented by Mr. Grout, of Massachusetts, in 1799, asked a question and received an answer in less than ten minutes through a distance of ninety miles. The telegraph of Mr. Morse will prove, I think, superior to all others; and the day is not distant when, by its aid, we may perhaps ask questions and receive replies across our continent, from ocean to ocean, thus uniting with steam in enlarging the limits over which our Republic may be safely extended.[2]

Many of our countrymen have contributed to the branch which regards the action of electrified and magnetic bodies. Lukens's application of magnetism to steel (called touching), the compass of Bissel for detecting local attraction, of Burt for determining the variation of the compass, and the observations on the variations of the needle made by Winthrop and Dewitt, deserve notice and commendation. Not long since, Gauss, of Germany, invented instruments by which the changes of magnetic variation and force could be accurately determined. Magnetic action is ever varying. The needle does not point in the same direction for even a few minutes together. The force of magnetism, also, perpetually varies. 'True as the needle to the pole' is not a correct simile for the same place, and, if we pass from one spot to another, is falsified at each change of our position; for the needle changes its direction, and the force varies. Enlarged and united observations, embracing the various portions of the world, must produce important results. The observations at Philadelphia, conducted by Dr. A. D. Bache, and now continued by him under the direction of the Topographical Bureau, are of great value, and will, it is hoped, be published by Congress. Part of them have already first seen the light in Europe—a result much to be regretted, for we are not strong enough in science to spare from the national records the contributions of our countrymen.

These combined observations, progressing throughout the world, are of the highest importance. The University of Cambridge, the American Philosophical Society, and Girard College have erected observatories; and one connected with the Depot of Charts and Instruments has been built in this city last year by the Government, and thoroughly furnished with instruments for complete observations. The names of Bache, Gillis, Pierce, Lovering, and Bond are well known in connection with these establishments.

A magnetic survey of Pennsylvania has been made by private enterprise, and the beginning of a survey in New York. Loomis has observed in Ohio, Locke in Ohio and Iowa, and to him belongs the discovery of the position of the point of greatest magnetic intensity in the Western World. Most interesting magnetic observations (now in progress of publication by Congress) are the result of the toilsome, perilous, and successful expedition, under Commander Wilkes, of our navy, by whom was discovered the Antarctic continent, and a portion of its soil and rock brought home to our country.

The analogy of the auroral displays with those of electricity in motion, was first pointed out by Dr. A. D. Bache, whose researches, in conjunction with Lloyd of Dublin, to determine whether differences of longitude could be measured by the observations of small simultaneous changes in the position of the magnetic needle, led to the knowledge of the curious fact, that these changes, which had been traced as simultaneous, or nearly so, in the continent of Europe, did not so extend across the Atlantic.

Kindred to these two branches are electro-magnetism and magneto-electricity, connected with which, as discoverers, are our countrymen Dana, Green, Hare, Henry, Page, Rogers, and Saxton. The reciprocal machine for producing shocks, invented by Page, and the powerful galvanic magnet of Henry, are entitled to respectful notice. This force, it was thought, might be substituted for steam; but no experiments have as yet established its use, on any important scale, as a motive power. The fact that an electrical spark could be produced by a peculiar arrangement of a coil of wire, connected with a magnet, is a recent discovery; and the first magneto-electric machine capable of keeping up a continuous current was invented by Saxton.

Electricity and magnetism touch in some points upon heat. Heat produces electrical currents; electrical currents produce heat. Heat destroys magnetism. Melted iron is incapable of magnetic influence. Reduction of temperature in iron so far decreases the force, that a celebrated philosopher made an elaborate series of experiments to ascertain whether a great reduction of temperature might not develop magnetic properties in metals other than iron. This branch of thermo-electricity has received from us but little attention. Franklin's experiments, by placing differently colored cloths in the snow, and showing the depth to which they sank, are still quoted, and great praise has been bestowed abroad on a more elaborate series of experiments, by a descendant of his, Dr. A. D. Bache, proving that this law does not hold good as to heat, unaccompanied by light. The experiments of Saxon and Goddard demonstrate that solid bodies do slowly evaporate. It is proper here to mention our countryman, Count Rumford, whose discoveries as to the nature and properties of heat, improvement in stoves and gunnery, and in the structure of chimneys and economy of fuel, have been so great and useful.

Light accompanies heat of a certain temperature. That it acts directly to increase or decrease magnetic force, is not yet proved; and the interesting experiments made by Dr. Draper, in Virginia, go to show that it is without magnetic influence. The discussion of this subject forms, the branch of optics, touching physical science on the one side, the most refined, and the highest range of mathematics on the other. Rittenhouse first suggested the true explanation of the experiment, of the apparent conversion of a cameo into an intaglio, when viewed through a compound microscope, and anticipated many years Brewster's theory. Hopkinson wrote well on the experiment made by looking at a street lamp through a slight texture of silk. Joscelyn, of New York, investigated the causes of the irradiation manifested by luminous bodies, as for instance the stars. Of late, photographic experiments have occupied much attention, and Draper has advanced the bold idea, supported by experiment, that the agent in the so-called photography, is not light, nor heat, but an agent differing from any other known principle. Henry has investigated the luminous emanation from lime, calcined with sulphur, and certain other substances, and finds that it differs much from light in some of its qualities.

Astronomy is the most ancient and highest branch of physics. One of our earliest and greatest efforts in this branch was the invention of the mariner's quadrant, by Godfrey, a glazier of Philadelphia. The transit of Venus, in the last century, called forth the researches of Rittenhouse, Owen, Biddle, and President Smith, near Philadelphia, and of Winthrop, at Boston. Two orreries were made by Rittenhouse, as also a machine for predicting eclipses. Most useful observations, connected with the solar eclipses, from 1832 to 1840, have been made by Paine, of Boston. We have now well-supplied observatories at West Point, Washington, Cambridge, Philadelphia, Hudson, Ohio, and Tuskaloosa, Alabama; and the valuable labors of Loomis, Bartlett, Gillis, Bond, Pierce, Walker, and Kendall are well known. Mr. Adams, so distinguished in this branch and that of weights and measures, laid last year the corner stone of an observatory at Cincinnati, where will soon be one of the largest and most powerful telescopes in the world. Most interesting observations as to the great comet of 1843 were made by Alexander, Anderson, Bartlett, Kendall, Pierce, Walker, Downes, and Loomis, and valuable astronomical instruments have been constructed by Amasa Holcomb, of Massachusetts, and Wm. J. Young, of Philadelphia.

It is difficult to class the brilliant meteors of November the 13th, 1833. If such meteors are periodic, the discovery was made by Professor Olmsted; and Mr. Herrick, of New Haven, has added valuable suggestions. The idea that observers, differently placed at the time of appearance and disappearance of the same meteor, would give the means of determining differences of longitude, was first applied in our own country, where the difference of longitude of Princeton and Philadelphia was determined by observations of Henry and Alexander, Espy and Bache. In meteorology our countrymen have succeeded well. Dr. Wells, of South Carolina, elaborated his beautiful and original theory of the formation of dew, and supported it by many well-devised and conclusive experiments. The series of hourly observations, by Professor Snell and Captain Mordecai, are well known; and the efforts of New York and Pennsylvania, of the medical department of the army, and its present enlightened head, Dr. Lawson, have much advanced this branch of science. The interesting question, Does our climate change? seems to be answered thus far in the negative, by registers kept in Massachusetts and New York. There are two rival theories of storms. That of Redfield, of a rotary motion of a wide column of air, combined with a progressive motion in a curved line. Espy builds on the law of physics, examines the action of an upmoving column of air, shows the causes of its motion and the results, and then deduces his most beautiful theory of rain and of land and water spouts. This he puts to the test of observation; and in the inward motion of wind toward the centre of storms, finds a striking verification of his theory. This theory is also sustained by the overthrow or injury, in the recent tornado at Natchez, of the houses whose doors and windows were closed, while those which were open mostly escaped unhurt. Mr. Espy must be considered, not only here, but throughout the world, as at the head of this branch of science. This subject has been greatly advanced by Professor Loomis, whose paper has been pronounced, by the highest authority, to be the best specimen of inductive reasoning which meteorology has produced. The most recent and highly valuable meteorological works of Dr. Samuel Forry are much esteemed. Many important discoveries in pneumatics were made by Dr. Franklin and Count Rumford, and the air pump was also greatly improved by Dr. Prince, of Salem.

Chemistry, in all its departments, has been successfully pursued among us. Dana, Draper, Ellet, Emmet, Hare, the Mitchells, Silliman, and Torrey, are well known as chemical philosophers; and Booth, Boyé, Chilton, Keating, Mather, R. Rogers, Seybert, Shepherd, and Vanuxen, as analysts; and F. Bache, Webster, Greene, Mitchell, Silliman, and Hare, as authors. In my native town of Northumberland, Pennsylvania, resided two adopted citizens, most eminent as chemists and philosophers, Priestley and Cooper. The latter, who was one of my own preceptors, was greatly distinguished as a writer, scholar, jurist, and physician, as well as a chemist. Priestley, although I do not concur in his peculiar views of theology, was certainly one of the most able and learned of ecclesiastical writers, and possessed also a mind most vigorous and original. His discoveries in pneumatic chemistry have exceeded those of any other philosopher. He discovered vital air, many new acids, chemical substances, paints, and dyes. He separated nitrous and oxygenous airs, and first exhibited acids and alkalies in a gaseous form. He ascertained that air could be purified by the process of vegetation, and that light evolved pure air from vegetables. He detected the powerful action of oxygenous air upon the blood, and first pointed out the true theory of respiration. The eudiometer, a most curious instrument for fixing the purity of air, by measuring the proportion of oxygen, was discovered by Dr. Priestley. He lived and died in my native town, universally beloved as a man, and greatly admired as a philosopher. Chemistry has actively advanced among us during the present century. Hare's compound blowpipe came from his hand so perfect, in 1802, that all succeeding attempts of Dr. Clark, of England, and of all others, in Europe and America, to improve upon it or go beyond the effects produced, have wholly failed. His mode of mixing oxygen and hydrogen gases, the instant before burning them, was at once simple, effective, and safe. The most refractory metallic and mineral substances yielded to the intense heat produced by the flame of the blowpipe. In chemical analysis, the useful labors of Keating, Vanuxen, Seybert, Booth, Clemson, Litton, and Moss, would fill many volumes. In organic chemistry, the researches of Clark, Hare, and Boyé were rewarded by the discovery of a new ether, the most explosive compound known to man. Mitchell's experiments on the penetration of membranes by gases, and the ingenious extension of them by Dr. Rogers, are worthy of all praise. The softening of indiarubber, by Dr. Mitchell, renders it a most useful article. Dyer's discovery of soda ash yielded him a competence. Our countrymen have also made most valuable improvements in refining sugar, in the manufacture of lard oil and stearin candles, and the preservation of timber by Earle's process. Sugar and molasses have been extracted in our country from the cornstalk, but with what, if any profit, as to either, is not yet determined. No part of mechanics has produced such surprising results as the steam engine, and our countrymen have been among the foremost and most distinguished in this great and progressive branch. When Rumsey, of Pennsylvania, made a steamboat, which moved against the current of the James River four miles an hour, his achievement was so much in advance of the age, as to acquire no public confidence. When John Fitch's boat stemmed the current of the Delaware, contending successfully with sail boats, it was called, in derision, the scheme boat. So the New Yorkers, when the steamboat of their own truly great mechanic, Stevens, after making a trip from Hoboken, burnt accidentally one of its boiler tubes, it was proclaimed a failure. Fulton also encountered unbounded ridicule and opposition, as he advanced to confer the greatest benefits on mankind by the application of steam to navigation. So Oliver Evans, of Pennsylvania (who has made such useful improvements in the flour mill), was pronounced insane, when he applied to the Legislatures of Pennsylvania and Maryland for special privileges in regard to the application of steam to locomotion on common roads. In 1810 he was escorted by a mob of boys, when his amphibolas was moved on wheels by steam more than a mile through the streets of Philadelphia to the river Schuylkill, and there, taking to the water, was paddled by steam to the wharves of the Delaware, where it was to work as a dredging machine. Fulton's was the first successful steamboat, Stevens's the first that navigated the ocean, Oliver Evans's the first high-pressure engine applied to steam navigation. Stevens's boat, by an accident, did not precede Fulton's, and Stevens's engine was wholly American, and constructed entirely by himself, and his propeller resembled much that now introduced by Ericsson. Stevens united the highest mechanical skill with a bold, original, inventive genius. His sons (especially Mr. Robert L. Stevens, of New York) have inherited much of the extraordinary skill and talent of their distinguished father. The first steamboat that ever crossed the ocean was built by one of our countrymen, and their skill in naval architecture has been put in requisition by the Emperor of Russia and the Sultan of Turkey. The steam machines invented by our countrymen to drive piles, load vessels, and excavate roads, are most ingenious and useful. The use of steam, as a locomotive power, upon the water and the land, is admirably adapted to our mighty rivers and extended territory. From Washington to the mouth of the Oregon is but one half,[3] and to the mouth of the Del Norte but one fourth, of the distance of the railroads already constructed here; and to the latter point, at the rate of motion (thirty miles an hour) now in daily use abroad, the trip would be performed in two days, and to the former in four days. Thus, steam, if we measure distance by the time in which it is traversed, renders our whole Union, with its most extended limits, smaller than was the State of New York ten years since. Steam cars have been moved, as an experiment, both here and abroad, many hundred miles, at the rate of sixty miles an hour; but what will be the highest velocity ultimately attained in common use, either upon the water or the land, is a most important problem, as yet entirely unsolved. Our respected citizens, Morey and Drake, have endeavored to substitute the force of explosion of gaseous compounds for steam. The first was the pioneer, and the second has shown that the problem is still worth pursuing to solution. An energetic Western mechanic made a bold but unsuccessful effort to put in operation an engine acting by the expansion of air by heat; and a similar most ingenious attempt was made by Mr. Walter Byrnes, of Concordia, Louisiana; as also to substitute compressed air, and air compressed and expanded, as a locomotive power. All attempts to use air as a motive power, except the balloon, the sail vessel, the air gun, and the windmill, have thus far failed; but what inventive genius may yet accomplish in this respect, remains yet undetermined. There is, it is true, a mile or more of pneumatic railway used between Dublin and Kingstown. An air pump, driven by steam, exhausts the air from a cylinder in which a piston moves; this cylinder is laid the whole length of the road, and the piston is connected to a car above, so that, as the piston moves forward on the exhaustion of the air in front of it, the car is also carried forward. The original idea of this pneumatic railway was derived from the contrivance of an American, quite unknown to fame, who, as his sign expressed it, showed to visitors a new mode of carrying the mail,[4] more simple, and quite as valuable, practically, as this atmospheric railway. The submerged propeller of Ericsson, and the submerged paddle wheel, the rival experiments of our two distinguished naval officers, Stockton and Hunter, are now candidates for public favor; and the Princeton on the ocean, as she moves in noiseless majesty, at a speed never before attained at sea, seems to attest the value of one of these experiments, while the other is yet to be determined. The impenetrable iron steam vessel of Mr. Stevens is not yet completed, nor have those terrific engines of war, his explosive shells, yet been brought to the test of actual conflict.

In curious and useful mechanical inventions, our countrymen are unsurpassed, and a visit to our new and beautiful Patent Office will convince the close observer that the inventive genius of America never was more active than at the present moment. The machines for working up cotton, hemp, and wool, from their most crude state to the finest and most useful fabrics, have all been improved among us. The cotton gin of Eli Whitney has altered the destinies of one third of our country, and doubled the exports of the Union. The ingenious improvements for imitating medals, by parallel lines upon a plain surface, which, by the distances between them, give all the effects of light and shade that belong to a raised or depressed surface, invented by Gobrecht and perfected by Spencer, has been rendered entirely automatic by Saxton, so that it not only rules its lines at proper distances and of suitable lengths, but when its work is done it stops. In hydraulics, we have succeeded well; and the great aqueduct over the Potomac at Georgetown, constructed by Major Turnbull, of the Topographical Corps, exhibits new contrivances, in overcoming obstacles never heretofore encountered in similar projects, and has been pronounced in Europe one of the most skilful works of the age.

The abstract mathematics does not seem so well suited to the genius of our countrymen as its application to other sciences. Those among us who have most successfully pursued the pure mathematics, are chiefly our much-esteemed adopted citizens, such as Nulty, Adrain, Bonnycastle, Gill, and Hassler. Bowditch was an American, and is highly distinguished at home and abroad. Such men as Plana and Babbage rank him among the first class, and his commentary on the 'Mécanique Céleste' of Laplace, has secured for him a niche in the temple of fame, near to that of its illustrious author. Anderson and Strong are known to all who love mathematics, and Fischer was cut off by death in the commencement of a bright career. And may I here be indulged in grateful remembrance of two of my own preceptors, Dr. R. M. Patterson and Eugene Nulty. The first was the professor at my Alma Mater (the University of Pennsylvania) in natural philosophy and the application of mathematics to many branches of science. He was beloved and respected by all the class, as the courteous gentleman and the profound scholar; and the Mint of the United States, now under his direction, at Philadelphia, has reached the highest point of system, skill, and efficiency. In the pure mathematics Nulty is unsurpassed at home or abroad. In an earlier day, the elder Patterson, Ellicot, and Mansfield cultivated this branch successfully in connection with astronomy.

A new and extensive country is the great field for descriptive natural history. The beasts, birds, fishes, reptiles, insects, shells, plants, stones, and rocks are to be examined individually and classed; many new varieties and species are found, and even new genera may occur. The learned Mitchell, of New York, delighted in these branches. The eminent Harlan, of Philadelphia, and McMultrie were of a later and more philosophic school. Nuttall, of Cambridge, has distinguished himself in natural history, and Haldeman is rising to eminence.

Ornithology is one of the most attractive branches of natural history. Wilson was the pioneer; Ord, his biographer, followed, and his friend Titian Peale; Audubon is universally known, and stands preëminent; and the learned Nuttall and excellent and enthusiastic Townsend are much respected. Most of these men have compassed sea and land, and encountered many perils and hardships to find their specimens. They have explored the mountains of the North, the swamps of Florida, the prairies of the West, and accompanied the Exploring Expedition to the Antarctic, and round the world. As botanists, the Bartrams, Barton, and Collins, of Philadelphia, Torrey, of New York, Gray and Nuttall of Cambridge, Darlington, of Westchester, are much esteemed. The first botanical garden in our country was that of the Bartons, near Philadelphia; and the first work on botany was from Barton, of the same city. Logan, Woodward, Brailsford, Shelby, Cooper, Horsfield, Colden, Clayton, Muhlenburg, Marshall, Cutler, and Hosack, were also distinguished in this delightful branch.

A study of the shells of our country has raised to eminence the names of Barnes, Conrad, Lea, and Raffinesque. The magnificent fresh-water shells of our Western rivers are unrivalled in the Old World in size and beauty. How interesting would be a collection of all the specimens which the organic kingdom of America presents, properly classified and arranged according to the regions and States whence they were brought! Paris has the museum of the natural history of France, and London of Great Britain; but Washington has no museum[5] of the United States, though so much richer in all these specimens.

In mineralogy, the work of Cleveland is most distinguished. Shepherd, Mather, Troost, Torrey, and a few others, still pursue mineralogy for its own sake; but, generally, our mineralogists have turned geologists, studying rocks on a large scale, instead of their individual constituents, and vieing with their brethren in Europe in bold and successful generalization, and in the application of physical science to their subject. Maclure was one of the pioneers, and Eaton and Silliman contributed much to the stock of knowledge. This school has given rise to the great geological surveys made or progressing in several of the States. Jackson, in Maine, Hitchcock, in Massachusetts; Vanuxen, Conrad, and Mather, in New York; the Rogerses, in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Virginia; Ducatel, in Maryland; Owen and Locke, in the West; Troost, in Tennessee; Horton, in Ohio; the courageous, scientific, and lamented Nicolet, in Missouri, Iowa, and Wisconsin, have made contributions, not only to the geology of our country, but to the science of geology itself, which are conceded to be among the most valuable of the present day. The able reports of Owen and Nicolet were made to Congress, and deserve the highest commendation.

In geographical science, the explorations of Lewis and Clark; of Long, Nicolet, and the able and intrepid Fremont; the effective State survey of Massachusetts; the surveys of our public lands; the determination of the boundaries of our States, and especially those of Pennsylvania, by Rittenhouse and Elliott; of part of Louisiana, by Graham and Kearny; of Michigan, by Talcott; and of Maine, by Graham; have gained us great credit. The national work of the coast survey, begun by the late Mr. Hassler, and prosecuted through all discouragements and difficulties by that indomitable man, has reflected honor upon his adopted country, through the Government which liberally supported the work, and through whose aid it is now progressing, under new auspices, with great energy.[6] The lake survey is also now advancing under the direction of Captain Williams, of the Topographical Corps. Among the important recent explorations, is that of the enlightened, untiring, and intrepid Fremont, to Oregon, which fixes the pass of the Rocky Mountains within twenty miles of the northern boundary of Texas. Lieutenant Fremont is a member of the Topographical Corps, which, together with that of Engineers, contains so many distinguished officers, whose labors, together with those of their most able and distinguished chiefs, Colonel Totten and Colonel Abert, fill so large a portion of the public documents, and are so well known and highly appreciated by both Houses of Congress and by the country. The Emperor of Russia has entered the ranks of our Topographical Corps, and employed one of their distinguished members, Captain Whistler, to construct his great railroad from St. Petersburg to Moscow. The travels of our countrymen, Stephens, to Yucatan and Guatemala, to Egypt, Arabia, and Jerusalem, and of Dr. Grant to Nestoria, have increased our knowledge of geography and of antiquities, and have added new and striking proofs of the truths of Christianity.

Fossil geology occupied much of the time and attention of the great philosopher and statesman, Jefferson, and he was rewarded by the discovery of the megatherium. The mastodon, exhumed in 1801, from the marl pits of New York, by Charles Wilson Peale, has proved but one of an order of animal giants. Even the tetracaulodon, or tusked mastodon, of Godman, upon which rested his claims to fame, is not the most curious of this order, as the investigations of Hayes and Horner have proved. This order has excited the attention, not only of such minds as Cooper, Harlan, and Hayes, but has also occupied the best naturalists of France, Britain, Germany, and Italy.

Fossil conchology has attracted the attention of Conrad, the Lees, and the Rogerses, not only calling forth much ingenuity in description and classification, but also throwing great light upon the relative ages of some of the most interesting geological formations. The earthquake theory of the Rogerses is one of the boldest generalizations, founded upon physical reasoning, which our geologists have produced. In the parallel ridges into which the Apalachian chain is thrown, they see the crests of great earthquake waves, propagated from long lines of focal earthquake action, more violent than any which the world now witnesses. The geologist deals in such sublime conceptions as a world of molten matter, tossed into waves by violent efforts of escaping vapors, cooling, cracking, and rending, in dire convulsion. He then ceases to discuss the changes and formation of worlds, and condescends to inform us how to fertilize our soil, where to look for coal and iron, copper, tin, cobalt, lead, and where we need not look for either. He is the Milton of poetry, and the Watt of philosophy. And here let me add, that the recent application of chemistry to agriculture is producing the most surprising results, in increasing and improving the products of the earth, and setting at defiance Malthus's theory of population.

In medicine, that great and most useful branch of physics, our countrymen have been most distinguished. From the days of the great philosopher, physician, patriot, and statesman, Benjamin Rush, down to the present period, our country has been unsurpassed in this branch; but I have not time even to give an outline of the eminent Americans, whose improvements and discoveries in medicine have contributed so much to elevate the character of our country, and advance the comfort and happiness of man. Rush, one of the founders of this branch in America, was one of the signers of our Declaration of Independence, and his school of medicine was as independent and national as his course in our Revolutionary struggle. Statistics are chiefly concerned, as furnishing the facts connected with government and political economy, but they are also ancillary to physics. The statistical work of Mr. Archibald Russell, of New York, which immediately preceded the last census, contained many valuable suggestions, some of which were adopted by Congress; and had more been incorporated into the law, the census would have been much more complete and satisfactory. The recent statistical work of Mr. George Tucker, of Virginia, on the census of 1840, is distinguished by great talent and research, and is invaluable to the scholar, the philosopher, the statesman, and philanthropist.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] This address was made and published several months before any electric telegraph line was in operation, and is believed to be the first prediction of the success of this principle, as Continental or Oceanic.

[3] Now only one tenth.

[4] This Idea unquestionably originated in the United States, but was improved last year, and has been introduced by Mr. Rammel, of England.

[5] We now have several such museums in Washington.

[6] Our Coast Survey, as commenced by Hassler, and being completed by Bache, is admitted in Europe to be the best in the world.

THE CROSS.

Holy Father, Thou this day
Dost a cross upon me lay.
If I tremble as I lift,
First, and feel Thine awful gift,
Let me tremble not for pain,
But lest I may lose the gain
Which thereby my soul should bless,
Through mine own unworthiness.

Let me, drawing deeper breath,
Stand more firmly, lest beneath
Thy load I sink, and slavishly
In the dust it crusheth me.
Bearing this, so may I strength
Gather to receive at length
In turn eternal glory's great
And far more exceeding weight.

No, I am not crushed. I stand.
But again Thy helping hand
Reach to me, my pitying Sire:
I would bear my burden higher,
Bear it up so near to Thee,
That Thou shouldst bear it still with me.

He, upon whose careless head
Never any load is laid,
With an earthward eye doth oft
Stoop and lounge too slothfully:
Burdened heads are held aloft
With a nobler dignity.

By Thine own strong arm still led,
Let me never backward tread,
Panic-driven in base retreat,
The path the Master's steadfast feet
Unswervingly, if bleeding, trod
Unto victory and God.

The standard-bearer doth not wince,
Who bears the ensigns of his prince,
Through triumphs, in his galled palm,
Or turn aside to look for balm?
Nay, for the glory thrice outweighs
The petty price of pains he pays!

Till the appointed time is past
Let me clasp Thy token fast.
Ere I lay it down to rest,
Late or early, be impressed
So its stamp upon my soul
That, while all the ages roll,
Questionless, it may be known
The Shepherd marked me for His own;
Because I wear the crimson brand
Of all the flock washed by His hand—
For my passing pain or loss
Signed with the eternal cross.

THE ENGLISH PRESS.

IV.

It was in January, 1785, that there appeared, for the first time, a journal with the title of The Daily Universal Register, the proprietor and printer of which was John Walter, of Printing House Square, a quiet, little, out-of-the-way nook, nestling under the shadow of St. Paul's, not known to one man in a thousand of the daily wayfarers at the base of Wren's mighty monument, but destined to become as famous and as well known as any spot of ground in historic London. This newspaper boasted but four pages, and was composed by a new process, with types consisting of words and syllables instead of single letters. On New Year's day, 1788, its denomination was changed to The Times, a name which is potent all the world over, whithersoever Englishmen convey themselves and their belongings, and wherever the mighty utterances of the sturdy Anglo-Saxon tongue are heard. It was long before the infant 'Jupiter' began to exhibit any foreshadowing of his future greatness, and he had a very difficult and up-hill struggle to wage. The Morning Post, The Morning Herald, The Morning Chronicle, and The General Advertiser amply supplied or seemed to supply the wants of the reading public, and the new competitor for public favor did not exhibit such superior ability as to attract any great attention or to diminish the subscription lists of its rivals. The Morning Herald had been started in 1780 by Parson Bate, who quarrelled with his colleagues of The Post. This journal, which is now the organ of mild and antiquated conservatism, was originally started upon liberal principles. Bate immediately ranged himself upon the side of the Prince of Wales and his party, and thus his fortunes were secured. In 1781 his paper sustained a prosecution, and the printer was sentenced to pay a fine of £100, and to undergo one year's imprisonment, for a libel upon the Russian ambassador. For this same libel the printers and publishers of The London Courant, The Noon Gazette, The Gazetteer, The Whitehall Evening Journal, The St. James's Chronicle, and The Middlesex Journal received various sentences of fine and imprisonment, together with, in some cases, the indignity of the pillory. Prosecutions for libel abounded in those days. Horace Walpole says that, dating from Wilkes's famous No. 45, no less than two hundred informations had been laid, a much larger number than during the whole thirty-three years of the previous reign. But the great majority of these must have fallen to the ground, for, in 1791, the then attorney-general stated that, in the last thirty-one years, there had been seventy prosecutions for libel, and about fifty convictions, in twelve of which the sentences had been severe—including even, in five instances, the pillory. The law of libel was extremely harsh, to say the least of it. One of its dogmas was that a publisher could be held criminally liable for the acts of his servants, unless proved to be neither privy nor assenting to such acts. The monstrous part of this was that, after a time, the judges refused to receive any exculpatory evidence, and ruled that the publication of a libel by a publisher's servant was proof sufficient of that publisher's criminality. This rule actually obtained until 1843, when it was swept away by an act of Parliament, under the auspices of Lord Campbell. The second was even worse; for it placed the judge above the jury, and superseded the action of that dearly prized safeguard of an Englishman's liberties, it asserting that it was for the judge alone, and not for the jury, to decide as to the criminality of a libel. Such startling and outrageous doctrines as these roused the whole country, and the matter was taken up in Parliament. Fierce debates followed from time to time, and the assailants of this monstrous overriding of the Constitution—for it was nothing less—were unremitting in their efforts. Among the most distinguished of these were Burke, Sheridan, and Erskine, the last of whom was constantly engaged as counsel for the defence in the most celebrated libel trials of the day. In 1791, Fox brought in a bill for amending the law of libel, and so great had the change become in public opinion, through the agitation that had been carried on, that it passed unanimously in the House of Commons. Erskine took a very prominent part in this measure, and, after demonstrating that the judges had arrogated to themselves the rights and functions of the jury, said that if, upon a motion in arrest of judgment, the innocence of the defendant's intention was argued before the court, the answer would be, and was, given uniformly, that the verdict of guilty had concluded the criminality of the intention, though the consideration of that question had been by the judge's authority wholly withdrawn from the jury at the trial. The bill met with opposition in the House of Lords, especially from Lord Thurlow, who procured the postponement of the second reading until the opinion of the judges should have been ascertained. They, on being appealed to, declared that the criminality or innocence of any act was the result of the judgment which the law pronounces upon that act, and must therefore be in all cases and under all circumstances matter of law, and not matter of fact, and that the criminality or innocence of letters or papers set forth as overt acts of treason, was matter of law, and not of fact. These startling assertions had not much weight with the House of Lords, thanks to the able arguments of Lord Camden, and the bill passed, with a protest attached from Lord Thurlow and five others, in which they predicted 'the confusion and destruction of the law of England.' Of this bill, Macaulay says: 'Fox and Pitt are fairly entitled to divide the high honor of having added to our statute book the inestimable law which places the liberty of the press under the protection of juries.' Intimately connected with this struggle for the liberty of public opinion was another mighty engine, which was brought to bear, and that was the Public Association, with its legitimate offspring, the Public Meeting. The power and influence which this organization exerted were enormous, and, though it was often employed in a bad or unworthy cause—such, for instance, as the Protestant agitation, culminating in Lord George Gordon's riots in 1780—yet it has been of incalculable advantage to the progress of the state, the enlightenment of the nation, and the advancement of civilization, freedom, and truth. Take, for instance, the Slave-Trade Association, the object and scope of which are thus admirably described by Erskine May, in his 'Constitutional History of England':

'It was almost beyond the range of politics. It had no constitutional change to seek, no interest to promote, no prejudice to gratify, not even the national welfare to advance. Its clients were a despised race in a distant clime—an inferior type of the human family—for whom natures of a higher mould felt repugnance rather than sympathy. Benevolence and Christian charity were its only incentives. On the other hand, the slave-trade was supported by some of the most powerful classes in the country—merchants, shipowners, planters. Before it could be proscribed, vested interests must be overborne—ignorance enlightened—prejudices and indifference overcome—public opinion converted. And to this great work did Granville Sharpe, Wilberforce, Clarkson, and other noble spirits devote their lives. Never was cause supported by greater earnestness and activity. The organization of the society comprehended all classes and religious denominations. Evidence was collected from every source to lay bare the cruelties and iniquities of the traffic. Illustration and argument were inexhaustible. Men of feeling and sensibility appealed with deep emotion to the religious feelings and benevolence of the people. If extravagance and bad taste sometimes courted ridicule, the high purpose, just sentiments, and eloquence of the leaders of the movement won respect and admiration. Tracts found their way into every house, pulpits and platforms resounded with the wrongs of the negro; petitions were multiplied, ministers and Parliament moved to inquiry and action.... Parliament was soon prevailed upon to attempt the mitigation of the worst evils which had been brought to light, and in little more than twenty years the slave trade was utterly condemned and prohibited.'

And this magnificent result sprang from a Public Association. In this, the most noble crusade that has ever been undertaken by man, the newspapers bore a conspicuous part, and though, as might be expected, they did not all take the same views, yet they rendered good service to the glorious cause. But this tempting subject has carried us away into a rather lengthy digression from our immediate topic. To return, therefore:

In 1786 there was a memorable action for libel brought by Pitt against The Morning Herald and The Morning Advertiser, for accusing him of having gambled in the public funds. He laid his damages at £10,000, but only obtained a verdict for £250 in the first case, and £150 in the second. In 1789 John Walter was sentenced to pay a fine of £50, to be exposed in the pillory for an hour, and to be imprisoned for one year, at the expiration of which he was ordered to find substantial bail for his good behavior for seven years, for a libel upon the Duke of York. In the following year he was again prosecuted and convicted for libels upon the Prince of Wales, the Duke of York, and the Duke of Clarence, but, after undergoing four months of his second term of one year's imprisonment, he was set free, at the instance of the Prince of Wales. The last trial for libel, previous to the passing of Fox's libel bill, was that of one Stockdale, for publishing a defence of Warren Hastings, a pamphlet that was considered as libellously reflecting upon the House of Commons. However, through the great exertions of Erskine, his counsel, he was acquitted.

In 1788 appeared the first daily evening paper, The Star, which continued until 1831, when it was amalgamated with The Albion. The year 1789 is memorable for the assumption of the editorship of The Morning Chronicle by James Perry, under whose management it reached a greater pitch of prosperity and success than it ever enjoyed either before or since—greater, in fact, than any journal had hitherto attained. One of the chief reasons of this success was that he printed the night's debates in his next morning's issue, a thing which had never before been accomplished or even attempted. Another secret of Perry's success was the wonderful tact with which, while continuing to be thoroughly outspoken and independent, he yet contrived—with one exception, hereafter to be noticed—to steer clear of giving offence to the Government. He is thus spoken of by a writer in The Edinburgh Review: 'He held the office of editor for nearly forty years, and he held firm to his party and his principles all that time—a long time for political honesty and consistency to last! He was a man of strong natural sense, some acquired knowledge, a quick tact, prudent, plausible, and with great heartiness and warmth of feeling.' His want of education, however, now and then betrayed him into errors, and a curious instance of this is, that on one occasion, when he meant to say 'epithalamia,' he wrote and printed 'epicedia,' a mistake which he corrected with the greatest coolness on the following day thus: 'For 'epicedia' read 'epithalamia.'

The next event of importance is the appearance of Bell's Weekly Messenger, in 1796, a newspaper that met with immediate success, and is the only one of the weeklies of that period which have survived to the present time. The year '96 is also remarkable for an action brought by The Telegraph against The Morning Post, for damages suffered by publishing an extract from a French paper, which purported to give the intelligence of peace between the Emperor of Germany and France, but which was forged and surreptitiously sent to The Telegraph by the proprietors of The Morning Post. The result was that The Telegraph obtained a verdict for £100 damages. In 1794, The Morning Advertiser had been established by the Licensed Victuallers of London, with the intention of benefiting by its sale the funds of the asylum which that body had recently established. It at once obtained a large circulation, inasmuch as every publican became a subscriber. It exists to the present day, and is known by the slang sobriquet of the 'Tub,' an appellation suggested by its clientèle. Its opinions are radical, and it is conducted not without a fair share of ability, but, occasionally venturing out of its depth, it has more than once been most successfully and amusingly hoaxed. One of these cases was when a correspondent contributed an extraordinary Greek inscription, which he asserted had been recently discovered. This so-called inscription was in reality nothing but some English doggerel of anything but a refined character turned into Greek.

In 1797, Canning brought out The Anti-Jacobin as a Government organ, and Gifford—who began life as a cobbler's apprentice at an out-of-the-way little town in Devonshire, and afterward became editor of The Quarterly Review in its palmiest days—was intrusted with its management. The Anti-Jacobin lasted barely eight months, but was probably the most potent satirical production that has ever emanated from the English press. The first talent of the day was engaged upon it; and among its contributors we find Pitt, Lord Mornington, afterward Marquis of Wellesley, Lord Morpeth, afterward Earl of Carlisle, Jenkinson, afterward Earl of Liverpool, Canning, George Ellis, Southey, Lord Bathurst, Addington, John Hookham Frere, and a host of other prominent names at the time. The poetry of The Anti-Jacobin—its strongest feature—has been collected into a volume, which has passed through several editions. This journal was the first to inaugurate 'sensation' headings; for the three columns which were respectively entitled 'Mistakes,' 'Misrepresentations,' 'Lies,' and which most truculently slashed away at the opponents of the political opinions of The Anti-Jacobin, decidedly come under that category.

We have now arrived at another era of persecution. Those were ticklish times, and Pitt, fearing lest revolutionary theories might be promulgated through the instrumentality of the press, determined to tighten the reins, and curb that freedom of expression which, after an interval of rest from prosecution, was manifestly degenerating. Poor Perry was arraigned on a charge of exhibiting a leaning toward France, and he and his printer were fined and sent to prison. Pitt really appears to have had good ground for action, in one instance, at least, for The Courier had made certain statements which might fairly be construed as hostile to the Government, and favorable to France. Moreover, it was stated in the House of Commons by the attorney-general, that a parcel of unstamped newspapers had been seized in a neutral vessel bound to France, containing information 'which, if any one had written and sent in another form to the enemy, he would have committed the highest crime of which a man can be guilty.' Among other things, the departure of the West India fleet under the convoy of two frigates only was noticed, and the greatest fears were expressed for its safety in consequence. Another thing mentioned was, that as there was to be a levy en masse in this country, the French would not be so ill advised as to come here, but would make a swoop upon Ireland. A bill was brought forward, the chief provisions of which were that the proprietors and printers of all newspapers should inscribe their names in a book, kept for that purpose at the stamp office, in order that the book might be produced in court on occasion of any trial, as evidence of the proprietorship and responsibility, and that a copy of each issue of every newspaper should be filed at the stamp office, to be produced as good and sufficient evidence of publication. A vehement debate followed, in the course of which Lord William Russell declared the bill to be an insidious blow at the liberty of the press; and Sir W. Pulteney said that 'the liberty of the press was of such a sacred nature that we ought to suffer many inconveniences rather than check its influence in such a manner as to endanger our liberties; for he had no hesitation in saying that without the liberty of the press the freedom of this country would be a mere shadow.' But the great speech of the debate was that of Sir Francis Burdett, who did not then foresee that the time would come when he himself should make an attack upon the press.

'The liberty of the press,' he said, 'is of so delicate a nature, and so important for the preservation of that small portion of liberty which still remains to the country, that I cannot allow the bill to pass without giving it my opposition. A good Government, a free Government, has nothing to apprehend, and everything to hope from the liberty of the press; it reflects a lustre upon all its actions, and fosters every virtue. But despotism courts shade and obscurity, and dreads the scrutinizing eye of liberty, the freedom of the press, which pries into its secret recesses, discovering it in its lurking holes, and drags it forth to public detestation. If a tyrannically disposed prince, supported by an unprincipled, profligate minister, backed by a notoriously corrupt Parliament, were to cast about for means to secure such a triple tyranny, I know of no means he could devise so effectual for that purpose as the bill now upon the table.'

Spite, however, of this vigorous opposition, the bill passed, and among other coercive measures it decreed heavy penalties against any infringement of the stamp act, such as: 'Every person who shall knowingly and wilfully retain or keep in custody any newspaper not duly stamped, shall forfeit twenty pounds for each, such unstamped newspaper he shall so have in custody'—'every person who shall knowingly or wilfully, directly or indirectly, send or carry or cause to be sent or carried out of Great Britain any unstamped newspaper, shall forfeit one hundred pounds,' and 'every person during the present war who shall send any newspaper out of Great Britain into any country not in amity with his Majesty, shall forfeit five hundred pounds.' Stringent measures these, with a vengeance! The onslaught initiated by Parliament was well seconded by the judges, and Lord Kenyon especially distinguished himself as an unscrupulous (the word is not one whit too strong) foe to the press. To such an extent was this persecution carried, that the printer, publisher, and proprietor of The Courier were fined and imprisoned for the following 'libel' upon the Emperor Paul: 'The Emperor of Russia is rendering himself obnoxious to his subjects by various acts of tyranny, and ridiculous in the eyes of Europe by his inconsistency. He has now passed an edict prohibiting the exportation of timber deal,' etc. To fine a man £100 and imprison him for six months for this was a little overstepping the mark, and a reaction soon followed, as a proof of which may be noticed the act 39th and 40th George III., cap. 72, which allows the newspaper to be increased from the old regulation size of twenty-eight inches by twenty to that of thirty inches and a half by twenty.

William Cobbett now makes his bow as an English journalist. He was already notorious in America, as the author of the 'Letters of Peter Porcupine,' published at Philadelphia; and, upon his return to England, he projected an anti-democratic newspaper, under the title of The Porcupine, the first number of which appeared in November, 1800. It was a very vigorous production, and at once commanded public attention and a large sale. Nevertheless it was but short lived, for the passions and fears to which it ministered soon calmed down; and, its occupation being gone, it naturally gave up the ghost and died. Among other celebrities who now wrote for the newspapers are Porson, the accomplished but bibulous Greek scholar and critic; Tom Campbell, several of whose most beautiful poems first appeared in the columns of The Morning Chronicle, Charles Lamb, Southey, Wordsworth, and Mackintosh. These last five wrote for The Morning Post, and raised it, by their brilliant contributions, from the last place among the dailies—its circulation had actually sunk to three hundred and fifty before they joined its ranks—to the second place, and caused it to tread very closely upon the heels of The Chronicle. Tom Campbell, besides his poetry, wrote prose articles, and was also regularly engaged as a writer in The Star. Porson married James Perry's sister, and many scholarly articles which graced the columns of The Morning Chronicle toward the close of the eighteenth century are generally believed to have emanated from his pen. Mackintosh had written foreign political articles in The Oracle and Morning Chronicle, but, marrying the sister of Daniel Stuart, the proprietor of The Morning Post and The Courier, he transferred his services to those journals, as well as occasionally to The Star, which belonged to a brother of Stuart. Southey and Wordsworth's contributions to Stuart's papers were principally poetry. Charles Lamb's contributions were principally short, witty paragraphs, which he contributed to any of the papers that would receive them, and for which he received the magnificent remuneration of sixpence each! Coleridge had first appeared in the newspaper world as a contributor of poetry to The Morning Chronicle, but was soon after regularly engaged upon The Morning Post and The Courier. Some of his prose articles have been collected together into a volume, and republished with the title of 'Essays on His Own Times.' He was especially hostile to France, and the best proof of the ability and vigor of his anti-Gallican articles is that Napoleon actually sent a frigate in pursuit of him, when he was returning from Leghorn to England, with the avowed intention of getting him into his power if possible. The First Consul had endeavored to get him arrested at Rome, but Coleridge got a friendly hint—according to some from Jerome Bonaparte, and according to others from the Pope, who assisted him in making his escape. Bonaparte had probably gained intelligence of the whereabout of Coleridge from a debate in the House of Commons, in the course of which Fox said that the rupture of the Peace of Amiens was owing to Coleridge's articles in The Morning Post, and added that the writer was then at Rome, and therefore might possibly fall into the hands of his enemy. Napoleon was very much irritated by the attacks upon him in The Morning Chronicle as well as by those in Cobbett's Political Register—The Porcupine under a new name—the Courrier François de Londres—the French emigrés' paper—and L'Ambigu, which was rather a political pamphlet, published at periodical intervals, than a regular newspaper. He therefore thought proper peremptorily to call upon the English Government to put these papers down with a high hand. But the British cabinet sent this noble reply:

'His Majesty neither can nor will in consequence of any representation or menace from a foreign power make any concession which may be in the smallest degree dangerous to the liberty of the press as secured by the Constitution of this country. This liberty is justly dear to every British subject; the Constitution admits of no previous restraints upon publications of any description; but there exist judicatures wholly independent of the executive, capable of taking cognizance of such publications as the law deems to be criminal; and which are bound to inflict the punishment the delinquents may deserve. These judicatures may investigate and punish not only libels against the Government and magistracy of this kingdom, but, as has been repeatedly experienced, of publications defamatory of those in whose hands the administration of foreign Governments is placed. Our Government neither has, nor wants, any other protection than what the laws of the country afford; and though they are willing and ready to give to every foreign Government all the protection against offences of this nature which the principles of their laws and Constitution will admit, they can never consent to new-model those laws or to change their Constitution to gratify the wishes of any foreign power.'

But Napoleon indignantly declined to avail himself of the means of redress suggested to him, and continued to urge the English Government; who at length made a sort of compromise, by undertaking a prosecution of Peltier, the proprietor of L'Ambigu. Mackintosh was his counsel; and in spite of his speech for the defence, which Spencer Perceval characterized as 'one of the most splendid displays of eloquence he ever had occasion to hear,' and Lord Ellenborough as 'eloquence almost unparalleled,' Peltier was found guilty—but, as hostilities soon after broke out again with France, was never sentenced. The best part of the story, however, is, that all the time ministers were paying Peltier in private for writing the very articles for which they prosecuted him in public! This did not come out until some years afterward, when Lord Castlereagh explained the sums thus expended as 'grants for public and not private service, and for conveying instructions to the Continent when no other mode could be found.' The trial of Peltier aroused a strong feeling of indignation in the country; the English nation has always been very jealous of any interference with its laws at the dictation of any foreign potentate, as Lord Palmerston on a recent occasion found to his cost.

Cobbett was soon after tried for a libel—not, however, upon Napoleon, but upon the English Government. There must have been an innate tendency in Cobbett's mind to set himself in opposition to everything around him, for whereas he had made America too hot to hold him by his anti-republican views, he now contrived to set the authorities at home against him by his advanced radicalism. He had to stand two trials in 1804, in connection with Robert Emmet's rebellion. On the second of these he was fined £500, and Judge Johnson, one of the Irish judges, who was the author of the libels complained of, retired from his judicial position with a pension. These reflections in question upon the Irish authorities would hardly be called libels now-a-days, consisting as they did chiefly of ridicule and satire, which was, after all, mild and harmless enough. In 1810, Cobbett got into trouble again. Some militia soldiers had been flogged, while a detachment of the German Legion stood by to maintain order. Cobbett immediately published a diatribe against flogging in the army and the employment of foreign mercenaries. He was indicted for a 'libel' upon the German Legion, convicted, and sentenced to two years' imprisonment, to pay a fine of £1,000, and to find security in £3,000 for his good behavior during seven years—a sentence which created universal disgust among all classes, and which was not too strongly designated by Sydney Smith as 'atrocious.'

The Oracle—which, by the way, boasted Canning among its contributors—was rash enough to publish an article in defence of Lord Melville. The House of Commons fired up at this, and, led on by Sheridan—quantum mutatus ab illo!—Fox, Wyndham, and others, who had formerly professed themselves friends to the liberty of the press, but who were now carried away by the virulence of party spirit, caused the publisher to be brought before them, and made him apologize and make his submission upon his knees.

In 1805 appeared The News, a paper started by John Hunt and his brother Leigh, then but a mere boy, but who had, nevertheless, had some experience in newspaper writing from having been an occasional contributor to The Traveller, an evening paper, that was afterward amalgamated with The Globe, which still retains the double title. The year 1808 was fruitful in prosecutions for libels, but is chiefly remarkable for the appearance of Hunt's new paper, The Examiner. This was conducted upon what was styled by their opponents revolutionary principles, an accusation which Leigh Hunt afterward vehemently repudiated. This same year also gave birth to the first religious paper which had as yet appeared, under the name of The Instructor, as well as to The Anti-Gallican, which seems to have quickly perished of spontaneous combustion, and The Political Register, an impudent piracy of the title of Cobbett's paper, and directed against him. In 1809, Government passed a bill in favor of newspapers, to amend some of the restrictions under which they labored. This was done on account of the high price of paper: and yet in the following year another attempt was made to exclude the reporters from the House of Commons. These men had always done their work well and honestly, although in their private lives some of them had not borne the very best character. A capital story is told of Mark Supple, an Irish reporter of the old school, who was employed on The Chronicle. One evening, when there was a sudden silence in the midst of a debate, Supple bawled out: 'A song from Mr. Speaker.' The members could not have been more astonished had a bombshell been suddenly discharged into the midst of them; but, after a slight pause, every one—Pitt among the first—went off into such shouts of laughter, that the halls of the House shook again. The sergeant-at-arms was, however, sent to the gallery to ascertain who had had the audacity to propose such a thing; whereupon Supple winked at him and pointed out a meek, sober Quaker as the culprit. Broadbrim was immediately taken into custody; but Supple, being found out, was locked up in a solitary chamber to cool his heels for a while, and then having made a humble apology, to the effect that 'it was the dhrink that did it,' or something of the kind, was set at liberty. But the reporters at the period of this unjust and foolish exclusion—for it was successful for a time—were a very different class of men; and Sheridan told the House that 'of about twenty-three gentlemen who were now employed reporting parliamentary debates for the newspapers, no less than eighteen were men regularly educated at the universities of Oxford or Cambridge, Edinburgh or Dublin, most of them graduates at those universities, and several of them had gained prizes and other distinctions there by their literary attainments.' It was during this debate that Sheridan uttered that memorable and glowing eulogium upon the press which has been quoted in the first of the present series of articles.

It has been shown that at one time the church was the profession which most liberally supplied the press with writers; but now the bar appears to have furnished a very large share, and many young barristers had been and were reporters. The benchers of Lincoln's Inn endeavored to put a stop to this, and passed a by-law that no man who had ever been paid for writing in the newspapers should be eligible for a call to the bar. This by-law was appealed against in the House of Commons, and, after a debate, in which Sheridan spoke very warmly against the benchers, the petition was withdrawn upon the understanding that the by-law should be recalled. From that time to the present, writing in the newspapers and reporting the debates have been the means whereby many of the most distinguished of our lawyers have been enabled to struggle through the days of their studentship and the earlier years of their difficult career.

The last attempt of the House of Commons against the press culminated in Sir Francis Burdett's coming forward in its behalf, and, in an article in Cobbett's paper, among other things he asserted that the House of Commons had no legal right to imprison the People of England. In acting thus, Sir Francis amply atoned for the ridiculous attempt which, prompted by wounded vanity, he had made a few years before to engage the interference of the House of Commons in his behalf in what he called a breach of privilege—the said breach of privilege consisting merely in an advertisement in The True Briton of the resolutions passed at a public meeting to petition against his return to Parliament. The results of his bold attack upon the power of the House of Commons, his imprisonment, the riots, and lamentable loss of life which followed, are so well known as to render any particularizing of them here unnecessary. Originating with this affair was a Government prosecution of The Day, the upshot of which was that Eugenius Roche, the editor—who was also proprietor of another flourishing journal, The National Register—one of the most able, honorable, and gentlemanly men ever connected with the press, of whom it has been truly said that 'during the lapse of more than twenty years that he was connected with the journals of London, he never gained an enemy or lost a friend,' was most unjustly condemned to a year's imprisonment.

The next important event is the trial of the Hunts for a libel in The Examiner in 1811. Brougham was their counsel, and made a masterly defence; and, though Lord Ellenborough, the presiding judge, summed up dead against the defendants—the judges always appear to have done so—the jury acquitted them. Yet Brougham in the course of his address drew the following unfavorable picture of the then state of the press:

'The licentiousness of the press has reached to a height which it certainly never attained in any other country, nor even in this at any former period. That licentiousness has indeed of late years appeared to despise all the bounds which had once been prescribed to the attacks on private character, insomuch that there is not only no personage so important or exalted—for of that I do not complain—but no person so humble, harmless, and retired as to escape the defamation which is daily and hourly poured forth by the venal crew to gratify the idle curiosity or still less excusable malignity of the public. To mark out for the indulgence of that propensity individuals retiring into the privacy of domestic life—to hunt them down and drag them forth as a laughing stock to the vulgar, has become in our days with some men the road even to popularity, but with multitudes the means of earning a base subsistence.'

Soon after this trial and another provincial one connected with the same 'libel'—one gets quite sick of the word—in which the defendants were found guilty in spite of Brougham's exertions in their behalf and the previous verdict of the London jury in the case of the Hunts, a debate arose in the House of Commons on the subject of ex-officio informations generally, and especially with regard to their applicability to the case of newspapers. In the course of this debate Lord Folkestone charged the Government with partiality in their prosecutions, and said: 'It appears that the real rule which guides these prosecutions is this: that The Courier and the other papers which support the ministry of the day, may say whatever they please without the fear of prosecution, whereas The Examiner, The Independent Whig, The Statesman, and papers that take the contrary line, are sure to be prosecuted for any expression that may be offensive to the minister'—an accusation which was decidedly true.

In 1812 the Hunts were again prosecuted for a libel upon the Prince Regent, and sentenced to be imprisoned two years, and to pay a fine of £500. Bat the imprisonment was alleviated in every possible way, as we gather from Leigh Hunt's charming description of his prison in his Autobiography.

'I papered the walls with a trellis of roses; I had the ceiling colored with clouds and sky; the barred windows were screened with venetian blinds; and when my book cases were set up with their busts and flowers, and a pianoforte made its appearance, perhaps there was not a handsomer room on that side of the water.... There was a little yard outside, railed off from another belonging to a neighboring ward. This yard I shut in with green palings, adorned it with a trellis, bordered it with a thick bed of earth from a nursery, and even contrived to have a grass plot. The earth I filled with flowers and young trees. There was an apple tree from which we managed to get a pudding the second year. As to my flowers, they were allowed to be perfect.'

We have now arrived at a period which may almost be called that of the present, inasmuch as many well-known names which still continue to adorn our current literature first begin to appear, together with many others, the bearers of which have but recently departed from among us. Cyrus Redding, John Payne Collier, and Samuel Carter Hall still survive, and, it is to be hoped, are far off yet from the end of their honorable career; and William Hazlitt, Theodore Hook, Lord Campbell, Dr. Maginn, Dr. Croly, Thomas Barnes, William Jordan, and many others, belong as much to the present generation as to the past. Among other distinguished writers must be mentioned Jeremy Bentham and David Ricardo, who contributed articles of sterling merit upon political economy and finance to the newspapers, and especially to The Morning Chronicle, in which journal William Hazlitt succeeded Lord Campbell, then 'plain John Campbell,' as theatrical critic. Cyrus Redding was at one time editor of Galignani's Messenger, and was afterward connected with The Pilot, which was considered the best authority on Indian matters, and in some way or another, at different times, with most of the newspapers of the day. John P. Collier wrote in The Times and Morning Chronicle, Thomas Barnes in The Morning Chronicle and Champion, Croly and S. C. Hall in The New Times—a newspaper started by Stoddart, the editor of The Times, after his quarrel with Walter—Maginn in The New Times, Standard, John Bull, and many others, William Hazlitt in The Morning Chronicle, Examiner, and Atlas, and Theodore Hook in John Bull, of which he was the editor.

In 1815, the advertisement duty, which had hitherto stood at three shillings, was raised to three shillings and sixpence, and an additional halfpenny was clapped on to the stamp duty. There were then fifty-five newspapers published in London, of which fifteen were daily, one hundred and twenty-two in the provinces of England and Wales, twenty-six in Scotland, and forty-nine in Ireland.

And here let us pause to consider the position which the press had reached. It had survived all the attempts made to crush it; nay, more, it had triumphed over all its foes. Grateful to Parliament, whenever that august assemblage befriended it, and standing manfully at bay whenever its liberties had been threatened in either House, it had overcome all resistance, and Lords and Commons recognized in it a safe and honorable tribunal, before which their acts would be impartially judged, as well as the truest and most legitimate medium between the rulers and the ruled. The greatest names of the day in politics and in literature were proud to range themselves under its banners and to aid in the glorious work of extending its influence, developing its usefulness, and elevating its tone and character; and the people at large had learned to look upon it as the firm friend of national enlightenment, and the most trustworthy guardian of their constitutional liberties.

LIFE ON A BLOCKADER.

Life in the camp and in the field has formed the staple of much writing since the commencement of the war, and all have now at least a tolerable idea of the soldier's ordinary life. Our sailors are a different matter, and while we study the daily papers for Army news, we are apt to ignore the Navy, and forget that, though brave men are in the field, a smaller proportion of equally brave serve on a more uncertain field, where not one alone but many forms of death are before them. Shot and shell it is the soldier's duty to face, and the sailor's as well, but one ball at sea may do the work of a thousand on shore: it may pass through a vessel, touching not a soul on board, and yet from the flying splinters left in its path cause the death of a score; its way may lie through the boilers, still touching no one, and yet the most horrible of all deaths, that by scalding steam, result. It may chance to hit the powder magazine, and sudden annihilation be the fate of both ship and crew; or, passing below the water line, bring a no less certain, though slower fate—that which met the brave little Keokuk at Charleston, not many months since.

Life at sea is a compound of dangers, and though the old tar may congratulate himself in a stormy night on being safe in the maintop, and sing after Dibdin—

'Lord help us! how I pitys
All unhappy folks on shore'—

to the majority of our present Navy, made up as it is, in part at least, of volunteer officers and men, it is essentially distasteful, and endured only as the soldier endures trench duty or forced marches—as a means of sooner ending the Rebellion, and bringing white-winged Peace in the stead of grim War.

The history of our ironclads, from their first placing on the stocks, to the present time, when Charleston engrosses them all, is read with avidity, but few know anything of life on our blockaders, or, thinking there is not the dignity of danger associated with them, take little or no interest in what they may chance to see concerning them. Those who have friends on blockade duty may be interested to know more of their daily life than can be crowded into the compass of home letters, and the writer, one of the squadron off Wilmington, would constitute himself historian of the doings of at least one ship of the fleet.

Wilmington, Charleston, and Mobile, alone remain of all the rebel ports, but it is with the first we have to do—where it is, how it looks, &c.

Right down the coast, some 450 miles from New York, and a hundred or more from the stormy cape of Hatteras, you will see the river which floats the merchandise to and from the docks at Wilmington, emptying into the ocean at Cape Fear, from which it takes its name. The river has two mouths, or rather a mouth proper, which opens to the south of the cape, and an opening into the side of the river, north of the cape called New Inlet. Perhaps more seek entrance by this inlet than the mouth, which is guarded by Fort Caswell, a strong, regularly built fort, once in Union hands, mounting some long-range English Whitworth guns. One other fort has been built here since the commencement of the war. This inlet is guarded by a long line of earthworks, mounted by Whitworth and other guns of heavy caliber. Wilmington lies some twenty miles from the mouth, and fifteen north of New Inlet.

One great characteristic of this coast is the columns of smoke, which every few miles shoot up from its forests and lowlands. All along the coasts may be seen mounds where pitch, tar, and turpentine are being made. These primitive manufactories for the staple of North Carolina are in many places close down to the water's edge, whence their products may easily be shipped on schooners or light-draft vessels, with little danger of being caught by the blockaders, who draw too much water to make a very near approach to shore. So much for the coast we guard; now for ourselves.

Our vessel, of some thirteen hundred tons, and manned by a crew of about 200 all told, reached blockade ground the early part of March. Our voyage down the coast had been unmarked by any special incident, and when at dusk, one spring afternoon, we descried a faint blue line of land in the distance, and knew it as the enemy's territory, speculation was rife as to the prospect of prizes. About 11 P. M. a vessel hove in sight, which, as it neared, proved to be a steamer of about half our tonnage. Our guns were trained upon the craft, but, instead of running, she steamed up toward us. We struck a light, but it was as loth to show its brightness as the ancient bushel-hidden candle. A rope was turpentined, and touched with burning match, but the flame spread up and down the whole spiral length of the rope torch, to the infinite vexation of the lighter. Fierce stampings and fiercer execrations swiftly terrorized the trembling quartermaster, who, good fellow, did his best, and then, frightened into doing something desperate, made this blaze. We hailed them while waiting for fire to throw signals, letting them know who we were; but the wind carried away our shoutings, and the vessel actually seemed inclined to run us down. Worse yet—what could the little vixen mean?—a bright light, flashed across her decks, showed gathering round her guns a swift-moving band of men. Her crew were training their guns upon us for our swift capture or destruction: she could not see our heavy weight of metal, for our ports were closed. She might be a friend, for so her signal lights seemed to indicate; but if of our fleet, how should we let her know in time to save the loss of life and irreparable harm a single ball from her might do? She had waited long enough for friendly signals from us, and the wind, which swept our shouts from hearing, brought to us from them, first, questions as to who we were, then threats to fire if we did not quickly tell, and then orders passed to the men at the foremost gun: 'One point to the starboard train her!'—words which made their aim on us more sure and fatal. 'Bear a hand with that fire and torch! Be quick, for God's sake, or we'll have a shot through us, and that from a friend, unless we blaze away like lightning with our rockets.' The crew were stepping from the gun to get out of the way as it was fired; the captain of the gun held the lock string in his hand; but the instant had not been lost, and our rockets, springing high in air, told our story. Danger is past: we learn they are not only friends, but to be neighbors, and steam in together to our post rather nearer the shore than other vessels here.

Days pass on in watching, and as yet no foreign sail. We study the line of our western horizon, and find it well filled in with forts, embrazures, earthworks, black-nosed dogs of war, and busy traitors. As time goes on, a new thing opens to the view: a short week ago it seemed but a molehill: now it has risen to the height of a man, and hourly increases in size. Two weeks, and now its summit is far above the reach of spade or shovel throw, and crowned by a platform firmly knit and held together by well-spliced timbers. As to its object we are somewhat dubious, but think it the beginning of an earthwork fortress, built high in order that guns may be depressed and brought to bear on the turrets of any Monitors which might possibly come down upon this place or Wilmington.

At night we draw nearer to the shore, watching narrowly for blockade runners, which evade us occasionally, but oftener scud away disappointed. One night or early morning, 3 A. M. by the clock, we tried to heave up anchor; the pin slipped from the shackles, and the anchor, with forty fathoms of chain attached, slipped and sank to the bottom in some eight fathoms of water.

The next day we steamed into our moorings of the previous night and sought to drag for it. While arranging to do so, we saw a puff of smoke from the shore. Bang! and a massive cannon ball tore whizzing over our heads. The shore batteries had us in their range, and the firing from the far-reaching Whitworth guns grows more rapid. Puff after puff rolls up from the long line of battery-covered hillocks, under the bastard flag, and the rolling thunder peals on our ears with the whizzing of death-threatening balls. Oh! the excitement of watching and wondering where the next ball will strike, and whether it will crush a hole right through us, wasting rich human life, and scattering our decks with torn-off limbs and running pools of blood. Quickly as possible we up anchor and away, and soon are out of reach of balls, which splash the water not a ship's length from us. Even then we involuntarily dodge behind some pine board or other equally serviceable screen; and a newspaper, if that were nearest, would be used for the same purpose—so say those who have tasted many a naval fight. In fact, the dodge is as often after the ball has hit as before, as this story of one of our brave quartermasters will prove: Under fire from rebel batteries, he noted the cloud of smoke which burst from one of the fort's embrazures—watched sharply for the ball—heard the distant roar and its cutting whiz overhead—watched still further, saw it fall into the sea beyond, and then sang out to the captain, 'There it fell, sir!' and like lightning dodged behind a mast, as though the necessity had but just occurred to him.

As our rebel friends see their shot falling short of us, the firing ceases, and thus harmlessly ends the action which for a few moments threatened so much, teaching us the folly of too near approaches to land, or attempts to batter down, to which we have often been tempted, the earthworks daily erecting. It is folly to attempt it, because the disabling of these few blockade steamers would open the port to all who choose to barter with our Southern foes; and, en passant, this will explain why here and elsewhere the rebels build their works under the very noses of our men-of-war. Thus a vessel runs the blockade, and takes into them English Whitworth guns, which send balls flying through the air a good five miles, and whose range is longer than our far-famed Parrott rifled cannon. These Whitworths they place concealed in hillsides, or in forests back of the places where they build the regular fort to protect them. If our vessels approach to batter down these germs of forts, fire is opened on us from these long rangers, and nine chances out of ten we are disabled before we can so much as touch them with our guns; so that for ourselves we accomplish nothing, thereby benefiting them.

Week days and Sundays pass on alike as far as outside incident is concerned, but new features in each other open to view as time goes on. Naval discipline develops the bump of reverence, or at any rate fosters it for a time, and to the volunteer in his first days or weeks passed on board a man-of-war, the dignified captain in the retirement of his cabin is an object of veneration, and the slight peculiarities of some other officers, merely ornamental additions to shining characters. On a Sunday, for instance, in the early part of the cruise, the said bump receives as it were a strengthening plaster, at the sight of officers and men in full dress—the first resplendent in gold-banded caps—multiplied buttons—shining sword hilts, et cetera, et cetera, and the men in white ducks, blue shirts, et cetera, scattered about the decks in picturesque groups. The captain, from the fact of his occupying a private cabin, and seeing the officers merely to give orders or receive reports in the line of their duty, comes but little in contact with them, and, as there is a certain idea of grandeur in isolation, obliges a degree of reverence not accorded to those with whom one is in constant intercourse. A slight feeling of superiority always exists in the minds of those of the regular navy over the volunteer officers, and though at first the ward-room mess all seemed 'hail fellow, well met,' familiarity develops various traits and tendencies, which, in a mess of eight or nine, will not be persuaded to form a harmonious whole. Our lieutenant, for instance, who, in the first days of the cruise, appeared a compound of all the Christian graces, and a 'pattern of a gentleman,' develops a pleasant little tendency to swear viciously on slight provocation, and, though, rather afraid to indulge his propensities to the full, lest the rules of naval service be violated, and disgrace follow, still recreates himself privately, by pinching the little messenger boys till they dance, and gritting his teeth, as if he longed to do more, but didn't dare. It is wonderful how salt water develops character. Our (on land) debonnaire, chivalrous executive, is merged in the swearing blackguard as far as he can be; and yet strange as it may seem, no man can be braver in time of danger, or apparently more forgetful of self. Our paymaster, too, has suffered a sea change: the gentleman is put away with his Sunday uniform, and taken out to air only when it is politic to do so: wine and cigars, owned by somebody else, occasion its instant appearance. No man on ship can show more deference for another's feelings where the captain is concerned; no man more thorough disregard where the sailors come into question. Yet this man has also his redeeming points or point, made perceptible by a solitary remark, remembered in his favor at times when the inclination has been to call him a hypocritical scoundrel. One of the mess, rather given to profanity, said to him one day: 'Paymaster, what's the reason you never swear?' 'Because,' was the answer, 'I never set an example at home which I would not wish my children to follow, and so I've got out of the way of it.'

Various criticisms might be made on officers and men: there are characters enough among them to furnish material for a volume. Some are moderately patriotic, but would have been as much so on the other side, had as strong inducements been held out in the way of 'loaves and fishes.' Others love the cause for itself, and hold life cheap if its sacrifice may in any way advance it. Blockade duty is perhaps a harder test of this love than actual field service; and as months pass on, it becomes almost unendurable. The first few days can be taken up in sight seeing on board, and the most novel of these said sights is the drill which follows the daily call to quarters. The rapid roll of the drum is the signal: here, there, everywhere, on berth deck, spar deck, quarter deck, men spring to their feet, jump from their hammocks, and every door and passage way is blocked up by the crowd, who rush to their respective quarters, and about the armory, each seeking to be the first, who, fully equipped with cutlass, gun, and sabre-bayonet affixed, shall be in his place. Another instant, and all stand about their several guns in rows, awaiting orders from their officers, who sing out in clear commanding tones, as though a real fight were impending: 'Pass 9-inch shell and load!' They drive it home. 'Now run out! train her two points off port quarter; elevate for five hundred yards! Fire! Run her in! Run out starboard gun! Run her home! Train her three points off starboard quarter! Fire!'

High up on the bridge of the hurricane deck, stands the first lieutenant, overlooking the men as they work the guns, train, load, run out, and mimic fire. Suddenly he shouts through the trumpet: 'Boarders and pikemen at port quarter! First boarders advance! Second boarders advance! Repel boarders! Retreat boarders! Pikemen cover cutlass division! Fire! Repel boarders!' The second hand scarcely sweeps over a quarter of its dial before the men have crowded around the port bulwarks, and are slashing the air with a most Quixotic fury—then crouch on bent knee, to make ready their pistols, while in their rear, marines and pikemen, musket and rifle armed, snap their pieces, and pour into an imaginary foe a vast volley of imaginary balls; then pierce the air with savage bayonet thrusts. The farce, and yet a most useful farce, is gone through with. The retreat is ordered to be beat, and all retire; refill the armory with their deadly rifles and side arms, and then return to their respective watches, work, or recreation—some gathering round a canvas checker board; some polishing up bright work; others making pants, shirts, or coats, or braiding light straw hats. Some are aloft, and watching with eager eyes to catch the first glimpse of a sail on the distant horizon; and this he must do from his loftly outlook before the officer of the deck or quartermaster espies one, as they sweep the sky with their long-reaching glasses—else he may suffer reprimand and prison fare.

These and our meals are epochs which measure out the time, between which the minutes and hours pass most wearily, and are filled with longings for home or some welcome words from there, the next meal, or the drum beat to quarters. Said one to me whose time is not used up as is that of the watch officers, by four-hour watches twice in the twenty-four hours: 'When breakfast's done, the next thing I look forward to is dinner, and when that's done, I look for supper time, and then wait in patience till the clock strikes ten, and the 'master at arms' knocks at our several doors, saying: 'Four bells, gentlemen; lights out, sirs.'' So time drags often for weeks together. No new excitement fills the head with thought, and more or less of ennui takes hold on all. In fact, some consider life on shipboard not many removes from prison life; and a man overflowing with the sap of life, whose muscles from head to foot tingle for a good mile run across some open field, a tramp through a grand forest, or climb of some mountain crag, and who loves the freedom of good solid terra firma—he, I say, feels like a close-caged lion.

After every calm comes a storm, and so, after weeks of listless waiting, doing nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, a very gale of bustle comes on. 'Sail ho!' comes from the lookout aloft. 'One point off our starboard bow!' 'Man the windlass and up anchor!' shouts the officer of the deck, as the strange sail bears down steadily toward us, finally showing signals which tell us she's a friend and brings a mail. The Iroquois steams out to meet her; their anchors drop, and they hold friendly confab. We, too, soon come up, and hear that letters, papers, fresh meat, and ice await us, on the good old Bay State steamer Massachusetts. We prepare to lower boats and get our goodies, when we are told from the Iroquois that a sail lies far off to the N. N. E., and are ordered off on chase. 'It never rains but it pours,' think we. Letters, goodies, and now a chance at a prize! 'Begone dull care!' 'Ay, ay, sir!' responds swift-vanishing ennui, as our eyes are strained in the direction we were told the vessel was seen. No sign of one yet; but as we enter on our second mile, our lookout cries for the first time: 'A sail! dead ahead, sir!' After a five miles' run, we near the vessel sufficiently to make out that she is the brig Perry, one of Uncle Sam's swiftest sailing vessels, and so we quit chasing, and return to get our letters and provisions ere the Massachusetts starts again. An hour from our first meeting we are back, and find her heaving anchor to be off, for she runs on time, and may not delay here; so haste away with the boats, or we lose mails, provisions, and all. The boat returns well laden with barrels of potatoes, quarter of beef, and chunks of ice, but no mail. 'Letters and papers all sent on board the Iroquois,' says the Massachusetts; so if we have any, there they are, but no word of any for us is sent; so with hearts disappointed, but stomachs rejoicing in the prospect of ice water and fresh meat, we settle down.

Our tongues, under red-tape discipline, keep mum, but inwardly we protest against this deprivation, brought about by the wild-goose chase on which we were ordered. Well, to-morrow the State of Georgia is expected down from Beaufort, and she will bring us a mail, we hope. The morrow comes, and at daydawn she heaves in sight, just halting as she nears the flagship, to report herself returned all right, and then down toward us—with a mail, we trust. She is hardly ten ship's lengths away, when she spies a sail to southward, notifies us, and we both make chase. She is deeply laden, we but lightly, so we soon outstrip her, and overtake the sail, which is a schooner, and looks suspicious, very. We order her to 'heave to,' which order is wilfully or unwittingly misunderstood. At any rate she does not slacken her speed, till she finds our guns brought to bear, and we nearly running her down. Then she stops: we send a boat with officers and men to board her and see if we have really a prize, and all is excitement. One officer offers his share for ten dollars—another for twenty—a third for a V, and one for fifty cents; but would-be salesmen of their shares are far more numerous than buyers. And soon the boat returns, reporting the vessel as bound for Port Royal, with coffee, sugar, and sutlers' stores. Her papers are all right, and she may go on without further hinderance. Now back to the State of Georgia for our mails. 'Our mails! our mails!' is the hungry cry of our almost home-sick hearts. As we get within hailing distance, we sing out for our letters, and are answered: 'While you were chasing the schooner, we left your mail on board the Iroquois.' 'The devil you did!' say some in bitter disappointment, but red tape demands that we wait till the flagship sees fit to signal us to come for letters. The hours pass wearily. We have waited weeks for home news, and, now that it is here, we must wait again—a day, two days—a week even, if it suits the flagship's convenience. At last the signals float and read: 'Letters for the ——; come and get them.'

At last! The seals are broken and we read the news. One tells of a sick mother, dying, and longing to see her son. Another is from M——'s lady love: we know by the way he blushes, the fine hand and closely written pages, and various other symptoms. And our fleet of ironclads are busy at Charleston. Heaven help the cause they work for! Now we must hasten with our answers, to have them ready for sending at a moment's notice, when it is signalled: 'A vessel bound North, and will carry your mails, if ready.'

As the sun goes down, the horizon is lit up with bonfires stretching along the coast for miles. 'These fires mean something,' we say knowingly; 'depend upon it, the rebs expect some vessel in to-night.' Nothing came of it, however, though the following afternoon we saw a steamer with two smoke stacks come down the river and take a look, perhaps to see as to her chances of getting out that night. The twilight darkened into night, and night wore on into the small hours, and now we gazed into the gloom anxiously, for at this time, if any, she would seek to run out. With straining eyes and the most intense quiet, we listen for the sound of paddle wheels. A stranger passing along our decks, seeing in the darkness the shadowy forms of men crouched in listening attitudes, would have fancied himself among a body of Indians watching stealthily some savage prey. The night passes on; gray dawn tells of the sun's approach, and soon his streaming splendor lights up sea and land. We look to see if our hoped for prize still waits in the river, but no—she is not there. The day wears on and still no signs of her. If she has slipped by us, it is through the mouth and not the inlet, we feel sure, but still are chagrined, and, doubting the possibility of ever catching one, go to bed with the blues.

The next day we brighten up a little, to be saddened the more, for the Massachusetts on her return trip tells us that, so far from there being good news from Charleston, we have only the worst to hear. The brave little Keokuk is riddled with balls and sunk, and the fleet of ironclads have retired from before the city. It is a costly experience, though it may yet bear precious fruit, for they tell us it has revealed what was necessary to make our next attack successful. What it is, we cannot learn, the authorities meaning in the future, doubtless, to wait till deeds have won them praise, before they make promises of great work.

Night draws on again, and we move in toward shore. Signal lights are burning, and huge bonfires, built behind the forests, that their glare may not light up the water, but their reflection against the background of the sky shows blockade runners the lay and bearings of the land. Something will surely be done to-night, and we keep vigilant watch. Two o'clock A. M., and a sound is heard, whether of paddle wheels, surf on the beach, or blowing off of steam, we cannot tell. 'It's paddle wheels,' says our ensign, and reports quickly to the captain. The first lieutenant springs on deck, a steam whistle is heard, so faint that only steam-taught ears know the sound, and word is passed to slip our chain and anchor, and make chase in the direction of the sound. They spring to the chain and work with a will to unshackle it quickly, but things are not as they should be; the hammer is not at hand, and the pins not fixed for speedy slipping out, even when struck a sharp, heavy blow. 'I think I see a dark object off the direction of the sound we heard, sir,' says some one. 'Confound the chain! will it never unshackle?' they exclaim, as they seek to unloose it. At last it slips, we steam up, and are off in pursuit, but which way shall we turn, and where shall we chase? There is no guiding sound now, and we paddle cautiously on, spending the balance of the night in this blind work, feeling for the prize which has slipped from our fingers, for, as day dawns, we see a large steamer, safe under the walls of the fort. If disappointments make philosophers, we ought to rank with Diogenes.

The next day is filled with growl and 'ifs' and 'ands,' and 'if this had been so and so,' and 'but for that neglect, which we shall know how to avoid next time,' etc., etc. The afternoon of another day comes on, and then a sail is descried, and off we go after it. Seven or eight miles' run brings us close to it; still it pays no attention, but keeps straight on. The captain orders a ball to be fired across her bows, which explodes so near as to splash great jets of water over them. Her crew and captain strike sail, and let go halliards, while they fly behind masts, down cockpit, or wherever they can get for safety. Finding no further harm is meant than to bring them to, they answer back our hail—say they are going to Beaufort, quite a different direction from the one they are heading—and seem generally confused. As an excuse they say their compass is out of order, and as they appear to be wreckers, we allow them to go on without further molestation, and steam back to our moorings, consoling ourselves by the fact that these bootless chases are using up coal, and thereby hastening the time of our going to Beaufort to coal up, where we shall have a chance to step once more on terra firma.

Another night passes, and there are no indications of runners having tried to escape us; but at sunrise we see, far to the south, a schooner, and soon the flagship signals that a prize has been taken by one of our fleet. It looks very much like the schooner we let go yesterday, and our head officers swear, if it is that schooner, never to let another go so easily. One declares the vessel is loaded with cotton, and worth at least $100,000, but that, notwithstanding, he will sell his share for $500 in good gold. No one bids so high. Our ensign offers his for one dollar, and the paymaster sells his to the surgeon for fifty cents, the magnificence of which bargain the latter learns from the captain, who says his share will be about seven and a half cents! We steam alongside, and learn that our prize is the schooner St. George, bound for Wilmington, via the Bermudas, with a cargo of salt, saltpetre, etc., and worth perhaps four thousand dollars. We send our prize list on board the flagship, and have a nice chat over the capture. It puts us in good humor, and our vessels chassée around each other till afternoon, when we separate, to hear shortly that the schooner, on being searched, has disclosed rich merchandise, gold, Whitworth guns, &c., hidden under her nominal cargo of salt. So hurra again for our prize list! This almost makes up for the loss of the steamer.

As we are on the point of letting go our anchor, the distant boom of cannon is heard, and the flagship orders us to repair to the seat of danger with all speed. We haste away, and as we go, hear a third gun fired. It comes from the direction of the brig Perry, and we cut through the water toward it, at a twelve-knot rate, for a good half hour, but hearing no more firing, put in near the shore to watch for the rebel vessel, as we think those guns were intended to put us on our guard. It soon grows dark; lights are ordered out, and each man blinds his port. No talking above a whisper must be heard; we are to be still as an arctic night. Midnight passes, and lights still flicker along the shore. It is so dark we cannot see the land, though not more than a mile from it, and only know what it is by our compass and bearings, and the fires which lighten up the clouds in spots right over them. One, two, and three o'clock have passed; no sail or sound yet, and the night so dark we cannot see a ship's length away. Half past three, and we begin to heave anchor. The rattle of the chains is just enough to drown the sound of paddle wheels should a steamer approach, and the sound of her own wheels would in turn drown our noise; so if one does run in to land, it may be over us, for any warning we should have of its whereabout.

Suddenly the acting master jumps, looks for an instant across the bows into the thick darkness, and bids a boy report to the captain and lieutenant 'a vessel almost on us.' The man at the windlass is stopped, unshackles the chain, and lets the anchor go with a buoy attached. Captain and lieutenant come on deck, and order to blaze away with our fifty-pound Parrott. Crash! through the still air rings the sharp report, and the ball goes whizzing through the gloom, in the direction the vessel was seen. The bright flash of the gun, and the thick cloud of smoke make the darkness tenfold more impenetrable. For half an hour, we chase in every direction, then fire again toward the shore. It is just four; a gray light is working up through the mist, and we catch the faintest glimpse of the Daylight, one of our fleet. A few minutes later, and we see a speck near the shore, which the spyglass shows to be the steamer we chased and fired after in the night. The surf beats about her; in her frantic efforts to escape, she in the darkness has been run ashore by our close pursuit. We steam up, to get within range and destroy, if we cannot take her, when the Daylight, now discovering her, opens fire. Once, twice, three times she has banged away a broadside at the rebel sidewheel, and now the batteries on shore in turn open fire on her. The sea fog hangs like a shroud over and between us and the land, which looms up mysteriously, stretching its gray length along the western horizon. Spots of fire bursting from the midst of it, tear through the fog cloud right at us. It seems, in its vast, vague undefinedness, rather an old-time dragon, with mouth spouting fire and thunder, than harmless earth. The smoke of our own guns settles around us; our ears ring with our own firing: the excitement of the moment is intense. The jets of flame seem to spout right at one, and the inclination to dodge becomes very strong. The Daylight has stopped firing: what is the matter? The fog lifts slightly, and as the flagship advances to join in the fight, we see that the Daylight is moving back to reload and let her pass in, which she does, entering the circle of the rebel fire, between us and them. She finds it out quickly, for their guns are brought to bear on her, and the balls strike the water frightfully near. She turns, but, as she leaves the fiery circle, delivers, one after the other, a whole broadside of guns, followed by the Penobscot, who too gives them a few iron pills.

From six to eight A. M., the vessels gather in a cluster at safe distance from the land, and the commanders of the different vessels repair on board the flagship to consult what next shall be done. Meanwhile the spyglass shows crowds of rebels along the shore, and great efforts seem to be making to get the steamer off. Puffs of steam and clouds of black smoke from her chimneys show that she is blowing off steam, firing up, and pushing hard against the shore. Now her paddle wheels are working; her stern is afloat. Again and again it is reported, 'She's getting herself off the beach; she'll soon be off!' but it does not appear to hasten the powers that be, who apparently have decided that, as it will not be high tide till nearly one P. M., she is safely aground till then.

Finally, after long delay, it is decided that all hands shall be piped to breakfast, and we go in for a regular fight afterward. So the boatswain blows his whistle, and each man goes to his mess. Breakfast is leisurely gone through with, and then the drum beats all to quarters. And now it looks like serious work. Men gather round their guns eager for battle, and the surgeon stands ready, instruments before him, for whatever may come. But hardly are they ready for the fight, when the rebel steamer, with its traitor flag floating high in air, has extricated itself from the beach, and is steaming down the coast as fast as it can go. The golden opportunity is lost—was lost when the morning hour was spent in unnecessary discussion, eating, and drinking. Still they try to make up for lost time by rapid firing now, for she may be taking in a precious and comforting cargo of arms and other stores of war. The shots fall close about her, but a little short. Whitworth guns protect her as she goes, for our steamers dare not venture too near land, lest some long-range ball smash through their steam chests. The batteries from which the rebels fired were mostly erected after the steamer ran ashore, and seemed to consist principally of field pieces and guns hastily drawn to the spot, with no earthworks to protect them. This speedy work of theirs was in strong contrast to our slow motions. With a spyglass we could see telegraph poles stretched along the shore. The steamer had probably not been ashore one hour, when eight miles south to the fort, and eight or ten miles north to Wilmington, the news had spread of its arrival, and busy hands bestirred themselves, dragging up guns and ammunition to cover their stranded prize. As soon as sunlight lit up the beach, squads of men were seen pulling at ropes to work the vessel off the sandy beach. While they were thus engaged, breakfast was being quietly eaten on board our vessels! We kept up our fire till the steamer got under the guns of the fort and out of our reach, and then retired; and so ended our chase in nothing but noise and smoke.

We have given the reader a clue to a little of the inefficiency of the Wilmington blockade. In our next paper, we shall endeavor to picture some of the effects of naval life on character, and the strange experiences one can have on shipboard, even in the monotony of life on a blockader.

BUCKLE, DRAPER; CHURCH AND STATE.

FOURTH PAPER.

In the first paper of this series, reference was made to the Principles of Unity and Individuality as dominating over distinctive epochs of the world's progress; and certain characteristics of each epoch were pointed out which may be briefly recapitulated. Up to a period of time which is commonly said to commence with the publication of Lord Bacon's Novum Organum, the preponderating tendency in all the affairs of Society—in Government, in Religion, in Thought, in Practical Activities—was convergent and toward Consolidation, Centralization, Order, or, in one word, Unity; with a minor reference only to Freedom, Independence, or Individuality. A change then took place, and the Tendency to Unity began to yield, as the major or chief tendency in society, to the opposite or divergent drift toward Disunity or Individuality, which gradually came to be pre-eminently active. The Spirit of Disintegration which thus arose, has exhibited and is still exhibiting itself in Religious affairs, by the destruction of the integrality of the Church, and its division into numerous sects; and in the State, by the Democratic principle of popular rule, as opposed to the Monarchical theory of the supremacy of one.

We have now arrived, in the course of our development as a race, at the culminating point of the second Stage of Progress—the Era of Individuality. The predominant tendency of our time in things Religious, Governmental, Intellectual, and Practical, is toward the utter rejection of all clogs upon the personal freedom of Man or Woman. This is seen by the neglect into which institutions of all kinds tend to fall, and the disrespect in which they are held; in the movements for the abolition of Slavery and Serfdom; in the recognition of the people's right of rule, even in Monarchical countries; more radically in the Woman's Rights Crusade, and in the absolute rejection, by the School of Reformers known as Individualists, of all governmental authority other than that voluntarily accepted, as an infringement of the individual's inherent right of self-sovereignty.

This Spirit of Individuality, this desire to throw off all trammels, and to live in the atmosphere of one's own personality, exhibits itself in a marked degree in the literature of our day. It is the animating spirit of John Stuart Mill's work 'On Liberty'—a work which, as the writer has elsewhere shown, was substantially borrowed, although without any openly avowed acknowledgment of indebtedness, from an American publication. It is this spirit which has inspired some of the most remarkable of Herbert Spencer's Essays; and is distinctively apparent in the Fourth one of the Propositions which Mr. Buckle affirms to be 'the basis of the history of civilization;' and in the general tenor of Prof. Draper's Intellectual Development of Europe.

The gist of this doctrine of Individuality, as it is now largely prevalent in respect to the institutions of the Church and the State, and which is squarely affirmed in the proposition above mentioned, is this: Men and Women do not wish nor do they need a Spiritual Society to teach them what to believe, nor a Political Society to teach them what to do. If they are simply left alone, they will thrive well enough. An Ecclesiastical Organization is not only useless, but positively injurious; it is a decided hinderance to the progress of humanity; and the same is true of a Civil Organization, except in so far as it serves the purpose of protection to person and property.

It is intended to show in this article the erroneousness of this doctrine; to point out that Religious and Political Institutions have, in the past, been great aids to human advancement; that they are still so; and will be in the future. In this manner we shall meet the arguments of those who regard such institutions as having always been unnecessary and a hinderance; and of those who, while considering them as essential in the past, believe that they are now becoming obsolete, are detrimental to the cause of human progress, and in the future to be wholly dispensed with.

Mankind in its entirety resembles a pyramid. At the base are the ignorant and superstitious nations of the earth, comprising the great majority of its inhabitants. A step higher includes the next greatest number of nations, in which the people are less ignorant and less degraded, but still very low as respects organization and culture. So, as we rise in the scale of national development, the lines of inclusion continually narrow, until we reach the apex, occupied by the most advanced nation or nations.