CHAPTER VII.
What should she say to her?
She had decided in the brief period of reflection before entering the room.
Amputation, sudden and quick—then treatment, as a surgeon would express it.
'Emma, it is all over with us. Mr. Meeker has been here and has broken off his engagement with you. The reason is, because your father has lost his property. I shall never regret our misfortunes, since it has saved you from becoming the wife of a selfish, heartless wretch.'
Emma did not faint, or scream, or burst into tears; but she turned very pale indeed, and sat without speaking, as if expecting her mother to say something more.
Mrs. Tenant looked at her anxiously. She would have much preferred a demonstration of some sort to silence—silence and pallor. She continued:
'Emma, you are our only child, our all. We think of your happiness more than of anything else in this world. Your mother is with you now; she will help you and sustain you until you have recovered, as you soon will, from the effect of this sudden shock.'
'And he said it was because papa had failed?' inquired Emma, without appearing to notice what her mother was saying.
'Exactly.'
'Then it was because he thought I was rich that he wanted to marry me?'
'For nothing else in the world,' replied Mrs. Tenant, impatiently.
Emma was again silent, but she was no longer pale; on the contrary, the color was fast filling her cheeks, and she blushed as she said, in a low tone, 'I shall feel so mortified to go into church.'
Mrs. Tenant was delighted. A great point was gained. Emma was already brought back to ordinary considerations; her pride would rally now.
'Never mind, my darling, never mind; for once it may be a little awkward, but, after all, what do we care?'
Very commonplace, to be sure, but it was all she could say.
'Everybody knows that the wedding day was fixed. Then, you know, I had to explain why it was put off to Ellen Stanley and Julia Petit, for they were to be my bridesmaids. This morning I met Ellen, and she asked me when it was to be, and I told her Hi—Mr. Meeker had not yet returned. She declared she saw him on the corner of Bond street and Broadway day before yesterday morning. She said she could not be mistaken. I told her she was mistaken. Now I dare say she did see him. What shall I do? Everybody will have the story, and how they will laugh at me!'
'We will see about that, we will see,' said Mrs. Tenant.
The fact is, she did not know exactly what to reply.
'I shall be ashamed to show myself in the street.'
'Nonsense, my darling.'
Kissing her daughter cheerfully, Mrs. Tenant went down stairs to meet her husband, whom she heard at the door.
The moment her mother left, Emma's heart sank, and she began to cry.
Mrs. Tenant was not long in putting her husband in possession of the situation of things. He was astonished, of course. He asked a great many questions, and at last seemed to comprehend how matters stood. He appeared to be very deeply affected, though he said but little. He did not speak on the subject to Emma, but soon after dinner took his hat and walked out.
In a short time he was standing on the steps of Dr. Chellis's house, and had rung the bell. He was presently seated in the Doctor's 'study' (he declined to go into the drawing room), waiting for him to come in.
Now it so happened that Dr. Chellis and Mr. Tenant were schoolmates at Exeter Academy, and afterward classmates at Yale. More than this, for two years they roomed together. Young Tenant did not have much taste for study, but his father, a man of competence, desired his son to be 'educated,' even if it should afterward be decided to make a merchant of him. It was perhaps because the young men were so unlike that they took to each other from the first and became intimate. There was something in Tenant's honest, genuine, and amiable nature, which was exceedingly attractive to the hardy, earnest, uncompromising Chellis. Their intimacy was a matter of surprise and marvel to all, yet I think is easily accounted for on the hypothesis just mentioned. That Tenant maintained a respectable standing in his class he owed to Chellis, for it was their habit to go over their lessons together after Chellis had 'dug out' his, and thus fortified, Tenant's recitations were very fair.
The young men never lost sight of each other. With them it continued always to be 'Aleck' and 'Harry.' Whenever the young clergyman came to New York he was received at the house of the young merchant with open arms. After some years, opportunity was presented for 'Harry,' to wit, Mr. Henry Tenant, of the leading house of Allwise, Tenant & Co., to use his influence in his church, where the pulpit had become vacant, to have 'Aleck,' to wit, the Rev. Alexander Chellis, called to fill it. The latter received the invitation with pleasure, for it opened a field to him he longed to enter. There was one drawback. He had not sufficient means to properly furnish a city house, where matters are on a scale so much more expensive than in the country. But he came down to consult his friend. After a full discussion they retired, the clergyman still not persuaded he could accept, and really most unwilling to decline. The next morning the merchant was up very early, and bolting into his friend's room, he woke him from a sound slumber, exclaiming, 'Aleck, I have got to be absent to-day—shall not be in till evening; but I have thought your affair all over, and decided that you must come, and that forthwith. As to the little objection which troubles you, here is what will obviate it; and mind you, Aleck, if you ever allude to this circumstance, either to me or to any living being, I swear, by Jupiter Ammon, your favorite old heathen, that I will never again recognize you as friend.'
Thus delivering himself, he thrust a check for a thousand dollars into the hands of the astonished clergyman, who lay listening to his harangue, fully convinced his friend was actually out of his wits. The next instant the door was closed; and rubbing his eyes to satisfy himself he was not dreaming, he examined the piece of paper in his hand, and read it forward and backward, upside down, and right side up, until he actually began to comprehend what it meant. More than this, he fully appreciated the act, and accepted it; and further, he never did allude to the circumstance, not even so much as to thank his friend. It is true, when the latter came back that evening and the two shook hands, that Harry felt a peculiar pressure, and observed a peculiar expression in Aleck's eyes, which he fancied for the moment were moist.
So Mr. Chellis was ordained over the church in New York. Years ran away. He became a famous divine, justly celebrated through town and country. We know the position Mr. Tenant enjoyed. The two always maintained their old intimacy. When alone together, it was still 'Aleck' and 'Harry.' College jokes were repeated, college days lived over, and, while together, it would seem that neither was a day the older for the years that had rolled over them. It is not to be wondered at then that on receiving the unlooked-for intelligence of Hiram Meeker's conduct he should desire to consult his old friend and lay the case before him.
Apologizing for keeping the reader so long on the threshold of Dr. Chellis's study, we will now enter with him, and report the conference.
'Aleck, I am in trouble.' That was the first remark after the greeting.
Never before had Mr. Tenant made such an observation to his friend. The old merchant had borne his failure like a man, accepting it as a part of the 'fortune of war.' He neither whimpered nor made wry faces. So, when Dr. Chellis heard the words, 'Aleck, I am in trouble,' he knew they meant a great deal. He took his seat, not in his accustomed place, but on the sofa close to his friend, and turning on him an anxious, sympathizing look, he said, in a tone gentler than a woman's, 'What is it, Harry?'
'Harry' told him the whole. The burden of all his thoughts was his daughter, and his lip quivered when he spoke of her love for the man who had proved to be so base, and of the effect the disappointment might have on her.
When he had concluded, Dr. Chellis started to his feet and began to pace up and down the room with great energy, exclaiming, 'God be praised! God be praised! God be praised!'
'For what, Aleck, for what?' inquired Mr. Tenant, rising anxiously from his seat and attempting to place himself before his friend, and thus intercept a response; 'do tell me for what?'
This time they met in the middle of the room; the Doctor no longer avoided his companion, but responded, with emphasis, 'For the escape! I tell you, Harry, it should be the happiest day of your life! yes, the happiest day of your life! Do you hear me?'
For Mr. Tenant did not appear to comprehend what the other was saying.
'I tell you,' continued the Doctor, 'Emma's engagement has been a perpetual source of sorrow to me. Yet I had nothing definite to urge against it, nothing, in fact, but what might be called a prejudice, which it would have been unjust to speak of—and—but—the fact is, I knew,' burst forth the now fairly enraged Doctor, interrupting himself and marching off again at double quick, 'I knew the fellow was a scamp, ever since he came whimpering to me about his conviction and God's providence, wonderful conversion, and so on. Conversion! I'll convert him!'
The Doctor's right hand opened and shut as if enclosing in its grasp the collar of Hiram's coat.
Mr. Tenant meantime kept standing in the middle of the room, trying in vain to bring the Doctor again to a halt. Whether he would have succeeded will not be known, for a knock at the door served to effect the purpose, while his sharp, angry 'Come in' so terrified the servant girl that she opened it barely wide enough to enable her to announce, in a faint tone, Mr. Meeker.'
'Ask him into the parlor,' said the Doctor, in his natural voice, 'I will see him presently.'
Then he turned, and in his usual manner bade his friend sit. Both resumed their places on the sofa, and the Doctor proceeded:
'Harry, it is all settled. The whole thing is clear. It comes just in the right time. You know Maria is to sail for Europe next week. You know how fond she is of Emma. It was but yesterday she was saying how pleasant it would be if Emma could go with her. Then she supposed it impossible. Now it is all right. The young people are to be absent six or eight months. This will put Emma quite right. Now, then, we have decided this, you must let me have my session with that knave yonder.'
'But Aleck! Aleck!' exclaimed Mr. Tenant, making an effort to stop his friend, who was about to leave the room, 'you forget—you forget my altered circumstances. Much as I like the plan, the thing is impossible—really quite impossible.'
The Doctor turned on his companion impatiently.
'That's my affair,' he said. 'Mind that Emma is ready.'
'No, no, Aleck—no, no, that must not be. No, no.'
The Doctor looked as if about to make an assault on his friend, and then raising his finger in a menacing manner, 'Who was it,' he exclaimed fiercely, 'that with rude force burst into my room one morning, disturbing my slumbers, and committing various acts of violence, while I was in a defenceless state unable to resist—who was it?'
The Doctor's eyes actually glared with such a genuine expression of rage, that Mr. Tenant lost his self-possession, and, as if afraid to admit the charge, answered faintly:
'I don't know.'
'You lie, you dog—you know you do,' said the Doctor, relaxing his angry tone. 'Ah, Harry, I did not think it of you.'
This last remark was uttered in the old familiar, gentle tone, and was accompanied by a look—just such a look as he had given him on the evening of the memorable affair of the thousand-dollar check.
Tears came into Mr. Tenant's eyes.
'Come, come,' said the Doctor, 'don't be foolish; away with you, and let me attend to my business.'
They shook hands silently, and the Doctor, closing the door after his friend, went back to his study, rang the bell, and directed Hiram to be summoned.
Mrs. Tenant received the account which her husband brought her of his visit to Dr. Chellis, and what had been decided on, with the liveliest satisfaction. She went at once to her daughter's apartment (she had thought best to leave her to herself for the evening), and exclaimed:
'Emma, my child, what do you think your papa has done? He has arranged for you to go with the Chaunceys to Europe next week. You know Maria was telling you Monday that if you were not going to be married, she should insist on your accompanying her. Now tell me, Emma, are you not delighted?'
Emma was delighted, or rather she was greatly relieved. She had more sensitiveness and more pride than one would suppose, judging from her amiable disposition. Her position had always been so well assured, her society so much sought for, and she so much courted, that never, until this occasion, had she experienced any important trial of her temper or emotions.
To appear in society, the daughter of a bankrupt, jilted, and jilted because she was no longer an heiress, exposed to the various remarks and busy gossip so rife on such occasions, was it not trying? And do you wonder that it was a great relief for her to know she was to be freed from this ordeal; that she was to experience not only a complete change of scene, but the change was to be every way agreeable, and what she would, under ordinary circumstances, have most desired?
To visit Europe! In those days the affair was not one of such common occurrence as at present, and of course the trip was the more valued.
Bravo, Emma! Next Thursday you will be on the ocean, away from every disagreeable association. Much as we shall miss you, we must bid you good-by for the present.
Emma did not close her eyes in sleep that night, and if her heart beat with excitement at the thought of the sudden change in her destinies, immediate as well as remote, there were moments when its pulses were deadened, and a thick, brooding, unhappy melancholy took possession of it, as she thought of what she had lost. A pang—it was that of disappointed love—from time to time made itself felt with keenness, and the morning found her restless and ill at ease. Could it be otherwise?
When Hiram received the summons to attend Dr. Chellis in his study, he was in the midst of a calculation as to the profit and loss of a certain operation, which I do not propose to explain to the reader. He had intended to call on the Doctor immediately on his return from Hampton, but was too much occupied. When, however, he came to a sudden break with Mrs. Tenant (he did not intend it should be sudden), he felt the necessity of fortifying himself in the church, for he was well aware of the deservedly high character Mr. Tenant enjoyed in it. He did not know the intimate relations which existed between him and the Doctor.
Although the weather was exceedingly warm, Hiram wore his complete suit of black cloth, and as he came with downcast eyes and mincing steps into the Doctor's room, the latter, who had taken his accustomed seat before his table, looked at him as he would at some strange, extraordinary apparition. He returned Hiram's salutation so gravely that it checked any further advance toward shaking hands. He proceeded, however, to take a seat without waiting to be asked.
'Something wrong,' he said to himself. 'It can't be he has heard of it so soon—only this very afternoon; impossible. Perhaps he is at work on his sermon. I must apologize.'
Thereupon Hiram took courage, and said, in a bland tone:
'I fear I am interrupting you in your valuable labors; shall I not call another time?'
'No; I am quite at liberty;' and the Doctor looked as if he would ask, 'What do you want?'
'You have without doubt heard of my affliction,' groaned Hiram, producing his pocket handkerchief.
'Your mother died lately, I understand.'
Hiram's answer was inaudible; his face was buried in his handkerchief.
The Doctor was becoming impatient.
'What is the object of your visit?' he asked.
The handkerchief was instantly removed from Hiram's face. He cast his eyes reproachfully on the Doctor, and exclaimed, quite in a natural tone:
'Object! are you not my pastor; am I not suffering? Have I not been watching for weeks at my mother's dying bed? And now she has gone, I feel unhappy, very unhappy. I want your advice and sympathy, and spiritual direction.'
The Doctor was staggered—I say staggered, not convinced, not persuaded, not in any sense inclined to change his opinion of the young man before him. But a blow had been well put in, and he felt it.
For Hiram, not imagining the Doctor could have heard of the affair with Miss Tenant, thought his treatment owing to some sort of caprice, and he seized the opportunity to act on the offensive, and dealt so genuine a retort that the former was taken by surprise. For a moment he seemed to be in a revery.
'You have lost your mother,' he said dreamily, while his large features worked with an involuntary movement, betraying strong inward emotion—'your mother; an irreparable loss. Tell me, Meeker,' he continued, after a pause, while he turned his large, searching gray eyes on the young man, 'tell me, did you really love your mother?'
It would have been, one would suppose, the easiest thing in the world for the glib-tongued Hiram to reply to such an interrogatory; but there was something awful in that gaze—not severe, nor stern, nor condemnatory, but awful in its earnest, truthful, not to be escaped penetration.
He hesitated, he stammered, he changed color. Still those eyes regarded him—still Hiram continued to hesitate, and stammer, till some sort of response came out, by piecemeal, incoherently.
Meantime the Doctor had recovered from his revery.
'You have been very unhappy?' he asked, in a dry tone.
'Oh yes, very.'
'What have you to say about your relations with Miss Tenant?'
'He has heard all about it,' thought Hiram, 'and I must do the best I can.' 'Why, sir, in my present afflicted state, how could I form so important a tie as that of matrimony? So it was thought best by Mrs. Tenant that the engagement should be considered at an end, at least for the present. This was her own suggestion, I assure you.'
'Look you, Meeker,' said Dr. Chellis, endeavoring to restrain his anger, 'I have heard the other side of this story, and had you not called on me, I should have sent for you. I cannot permit such a course as you are charged with to go without the action of the church.'
'By what right does the church undertake to supervise my domestic affairs?' retorted Hiram, now fully roused, and at bay.
'The church will always take official notice of misconduct on the part of any of its members.'
'With what am I charged?' demanded Hiram, defiantly.
'With violation of the most sacred of promises, with prevarication, dissimulation, and moral fraud.'
'Since it is determined to prejudge me, I shall ask for a letter of dismission, and worship elsewhere.'
'I cannot grant you a letter while you are under charges.'
'And do you call it fair to persecute, in this way, at the instigation of a proud aristocrat (he had already learned this slang sophistry), a young man, who is almost a stranger among you?'
'Meeker,' said the Doctor, once more relaxing into a meditative tone, 'Meeker, you have asked for my advice and spiritual direction: Answer me, answer me truly; have you really no idea, at least to some extent, what sort of person you are?'
'Dr. Chellis, I will no longer sit here to be insulted by you, sir. I have borne quite too much already. I will endure it no longer. Good evening, sir.'
Hiram flung himself out of the room. He was not at all angry, though he affected to be. Things were working heavily against him, and he saw no way to retreat except to fly in a passion or appear to do so. Once out of the house, he breathed more freely, and hastening home, he without delay set about the labor of reconstruction. He had uphill work, but difficulties brought out his resources.
His first step was to make a written request for a letter of dismissal, on the ground that he was about to remove to the church of the Rev. Dr.——.
The request for a letter was refused, and Hiram's course thereon is of a character so important that it deserves to be treated of in a separate chapter.
Meanwhile Emma Tenant is safely across the Atlantic, and, amid new and interesting and romantic scenes, which she is already beginning to enjoy, she tries to forget her heart's first grief.
She will succeed. To aid her, she has her woman's pride against her woman's weakness; a constant succession of fresh and novel incidents, agreeable society, absence from old associations, the natural buoyancy of youth, and a hopeful nature.
Over this host of fortunate circumstances presides that unconquered and always successful leader—Time.
JEFFERSON DAVIS AND REPUDIATION.
This article, published in our August issue, has awakened so wide an interest in the community, that the Editor of The Continental deems it expedient to place before its readers the additional matter contained in a later edition published in England, where it has circulated by thousands. We regret that this edition did not arrive in time to appear at large in our August number; but as it did not, we herewith offer the additional matter so arranged that our readers will have but little difficulty in fitting it in its appropriate place.
Addition 1st.—August Continental, page 219, after line 23 from the top, viz.: 'and the countrywomen of the Mother of the Lord,' read:
Mississippi was the first repudiating State; A.G. McNutt, the first repudiating Governor; and Jefferson Davis, the first repudiating Senator. As another evidence of the incredible extent to which the public sentiment of that day was debased, I quote the following passage from Governor McNutt's message of 1840, proposing to repeal the bank charters, and to legalize the forgery of their notes—'The issuing of paper money, in contravention of the repealing act, could be effectually checked by the abrogation of all laws making it penal to forge such paper.' (Sen. Jour. p. 53.) Surely, nothing, but the fell spirit of slavery, could have dictated such a sentiment.
Proceed as before.
Page 220 Continental, after line 45 from the top, viz.: 'is a constitutional act,' insert:
The supplemental act, we have seen, was not, in the language of the Constitution, a law 'to raise a loan of money on the credit of the State;' that act had already passed two successive Legislatures, and was unchanged by the supplemental, which merely modified some of the details of the bank charter; such was the fact, and such the decree of the inferior court, such was the unanimous decision of the highest judicial tribunal of the State, to which the final adjudication had been assigned, by a mandatory provision of the Constitution.
Surely this decision should have settled the question. But it did not. Jefferson Davis, notwithstanding his professed desire to submit this question to the final decree of the courts of the State, persisted, as we have seen, in 1849, in repudiating these bonds, at a period more than seven years after this decision of 1842, and still persevered, after the second similar adjudication of 1853.
Omitting 'Surely this decision should have settled the question. But it did not,' proceed as before.
Page 23. On last line of the page, 'after this wide domain,' insert:
Who conspired to assassinate the American President on his way to Washington? Who murdered in Baltimore the men of Massachusetts on their way to the defence of the capitol of the Union? Who commenced the conflict by firing upon the starving garrison of Sumter, and striking down the banner of the Union which floated over its walls? Who, immediately thereafter, announced their resolution to capture Washington, seized the national arms, and forts, and dockyards, and vessels, and arsenals, and mints, and treasure, and opened the war upon the Federal Government?
Returning to last line, page 27, proceed as before.
Page 224, fifth line from the bottom find: 'broad basis of the will of the people.' After which insert:
But, let me resume the debate. When the ministry had closed, the earnest opponents of slavery, and true friends of England and America, discussed the question. Seldom have such great speeches been heard on any occasion, and the impression was most profound.
What is it England is asked to recognize? It is a confederacy, claiming to be a league of sovereign and independent States, like the old American Confederacy of 1778, abandoned when we formed a nation in 1787. When England, in 1783, recognized the old Confederacy, the recognition was of each of the several States by name, as sovereign and independent. Now, applying those principles on the present occasion, to the several seceded States by name, Is Virginia independent? Why, all her coasts and seaports are held by us, so is Norfolk, her commercial capital, more than half her area and white population, and nearly half her territory has been organized as a new State of the Union, and, by the almost unanimous vote of her people, has abolished slavery. Are North and South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, and Texas independent? Why, their whole coast and large portions of the interior are held by our army and navy. Is Tennessee independent? Two thirds of her territory, as well as her political and commercial capitals, Nashville and Memphis, are held by us. The same thing is true, to a great extent, as to Arkansas. As to Mississippi—her whole sea coast, and her whole river coast, for 500 miles, with the exception of a single point, are held by us, and more than half her territory. As to Louisiana, we hold three fourths of her territory, all her sea coast, all her river front on both banks of the Mississippi, except one point, and her great city, New Orleans, the commercial capital of the State and of the South, with four times the population of any other Southern city, and with nearly half the free population of the State. More than three fourths of the population as well as area of Louisiana is held by us, with her political and commercial capital, and yet it is proposed to acknowledge Louisiana as one of these sovereign and independent States. How can the so-called Confederacy, claiming to be a league of sovereign and independent States, be recognized as independent, when the States composing that league are not independent? How is Richmond to be reached by an English envoy, or is the blockade to be broken, which is war? How as to slavery! The 331,000 slaves of Louisiana, the three millions of slaves of the seceded States, are emancipated by the proclamation of the President, under the war power uniformly recognized as constitutional by the Supreme Court of the United States. If these are States of our Union, or are retained by us, slavery has ceased, and the three millions of slaves are free. But, if you acknowledge the confederate independence, then, these three millions of slaves, so far as England is concerned, are slaves still, and will remain so forever. To refuse recognition, is to admit the freedom of these slaves—to recognize, is to remand them to bondage, so far as England can accomplish that purpose. Nor is this all—it is to spread slavery over an almost boundless territory, claimed by the South. It is impossible then to escape the conclusion, that, in recognizing this confederacy, England ranges herself on the side of slavery, and does all she can to maintain and perpetuate it in America. Nor is this all. She violates a great moral rule, and a well settled principle of international law, to maintain and perpetuate slavery in the South. By the law of nations, the recognition of national independence is the acknowledgment of the fact of independence. But, we have seen, that the States composing this so-called league, are not independent, but are held, to a vast extent, by our army and navy, including two thirds of their area. Never was independence acknowledged under such circumstances, except as an act of war. The acknowledgment then of the confederate independence, in the present posture of affairs, is, in fact, a declaration of war by England against the United States, without cause or justification. It would be so universally regarded in the United States, and would instantly close all dissensions in the North. If any suppose that England, without any just cause, should thus strike us with the iron-gauntleted hand, and that we will not resist, let the history of the past answer the question. Nor would the union of France, in such an act, change the result, except that nearly all the loss and sacrifice would fall upon England. Including the slaves and free blacks, there is not a single seceded State, in which an overwhelming majority of the people are not for the Union. Now, by the Federal Constitution, slaves are mentioned only three times, and then not as slaves, but as 'persons,' and the Supreme Court of the United States have expressly decided that slaves, so far as regards the United States, are persons, and not property. (Groves vs. Slaughter, 15 Peters, 392.) All persons, in every State, owe a paramount allegiance to the United States, the rebel masters, as well as their slaves—the Government has a right to their services to suppress the rebellion; and to acknowledge the independence of the South, is to ignore the existence of the slaves, or to treat them, as the South do, as chattels, and not persons. In acknowledging, then, Southern independence, the independence of the masters, England expressly recognizes the doctrine of property in man. Such a war, proclaimed by England and France against the United States on such grounds, would be a war of their Governments—not of their peoples, and could have but one termination. As to our recognition of the independence of Texas, it was long after the decisive battle of San Jacinto,—when the Mexican army was destroyed or captured, together with the President, when he acknowledged their independence, the Mexican Government, by accepting the advantages stipulated by him, in fact, and in law, ratified the recognition. It was after all this, when the contest was over, not a Mexican vessel on the coast of Texas, nor a Mexican soldier upon her soil, that we recognized the independence of Texas. The case, therefore, is widely different from the present. Let it be remembered, that we hold, not only the mouth of the Mississippi, its great city, the whole of the west bank of that imperial river, but all the east bank, except two points, thus dissevering Texas, Louisiana, and Arkansas from the rest of the South. Now the area of these three States is 373,000 square miles, and that of all the remaining seceded States, 396,000 square miles. In holding then the west bank of the Mississippi, we have severed the great artery of the South, which is death.
With these additions, easily supplied, our readers have before them the whole of [Governor] Walker's letter,—Ed. Continental.
EDITOR'S TABLE
Readers: It were much to be wished, for your benefit, that the stalwart form which has so long presided at our Table, should take the accustomed place at our Banquet, again to serve you with the invigorating fare fit for men; the dainties of delicious flavor suited to the taste of the young and lovely; or once more to pour the accustomed draughts of old Falernian, sunned by a warm heart and matured by a vigorous intellect, into the goblets you are now holding for our September festival. For aught we know, he may even now be treading the old fields of former glory in far Kansas—but his voice will soon again greet you from this social spot, and again spread before you the ripe fruits of a manly experience.
Our other Honorable Editor is also afar, striving in other climes to serve our country, yet constantly giving us reason to know, from his frequent and loyal contributions, that he is gathering honey for THE CONTINENTAL, and has not deserted his arduous post in spending and being spent for the land he loves. May our two Honorables soon return to dispense, as they alone can, the hospitalities of our Editor's Table!
But we should not complain, when we can offer you, in this month of hot suns and motionless airs, such invigorating breaths of fresh, salty wind, directly from the bosom of the surging sea, as we are about to do in the following essay from the pen of A. J. S. He is the author of the vigorous sketch of 'The Southern Colonel' given in our July issue. He has now dipped his pen in the tints of the rainbow and the freshness of the salty wave, and given us:
'FROM THE SEA SHORE.'
Where the land enchants, the sea intoxicates—its sparkle, its mobility, its translucence excite the fancy, as wine does the blood—it combines those elements which produce at once awe and ecstasy in the soul—the unknown, the resistless, the beautiful. One may be melancholy by the sea, but never morbid or supine. Between it and the land there are no gradations; you do not come imperceptibly under its influence, as, in ascending a mountain, you come into the cooler atmosphere; as you approach, you are suddenly enveloped and animated by a crystalline, vivifying element: this is the sea air; those saline qualities, so harsh to the taste, prove a delicious stimulant in the lungs. The sea is incommunicable—neither words, or canvas prepare you for it, as they may often for landscapes; like Livingston's untutored savage, you are always startled and overwhelmed at first sight of it; you feel, like him, an impulse to leap into its waves. If you want to surrender yourself wholly to the sea influence—to study it and assimilate your mind to all its phases—you should choose, as was my fortune, a little fishing town, on the shore, with a sheltered bay to the south and west and the ocean eastward. Here you will find life stripped of care and conventionality; idealized, seductive, and illusive, the days swinging from charm to charm, like bubbles in the sunlight. On such a coast, Nature never confuses her effects—no lively verdure or picturesque landscape intrudes upon the majesty of the sea—only damp mosses and stout creepers veil the harsh outlines of the rocks, and, in the distance, masses of pine trees relieve the gray monotony of the shore—for the rest, everything is left to the sun and the sea. There are a dozen beaches, each distinct in its charm. Some firm, smooth, and white, as a marble walk—others mere waves of sand, which the lightest breeze whirls—and, others, where nature seems to have exhausted her wildest caprice, piled with rocks, black, perilous, defiant, overlooking waters whose solitude is never broken by a sail. It is these deep waters which have that green tint so lustrous and subtle, and as unlike the heavy green seen in most sea pictures as it is unlike grass; it is in more sheltered nooks that the sea assumes that sapphire sheen more ineffable than the sky which imparts it. As the color of the sea depends greatly upon the disposition of the surrounding lands and the prevailing condition of the atmosphere, each little inlet has some tint or effect of light peculiar to itself. I have seen coloring as remarkable—I had almost said as unnatural—as that indigo blue which we connect with the Ægean sea. Indeed, one comes to believe anything possible in the way of sea coloring, however brilliant, or however blank, after intimate and close observation of even a small part of the ocean. I have often fancied that these local features may have given rise to the idea of nymphs and mermaids, especially at night, when, in the setting sun, the colors fade in vapory exhalations, and the waters seem haunted by the spirits of their own beauty—pale, tremulous, waiting the vitalizing ray of the morning light. But it is in winter that the effects of the sun on the sea are most marvellous; this arises, in part, from the clearness of the air, and the dazzling setting of snow, which expresses more vividly the glow of the sea; then, too, that part of the water not exposed to the sun has an ashen, gray tint, which intensifies, by contrast, the more gorgeous hues. I remember many who saw Church's 'Icebergs' thought the coloring too brilliant, while, to those familiar with the sea, it seemed entirely natural. Thus, critics will find that it is by the study of nature we are educated up to high art; and artists, that their great danger is not in being more brilliant, but less delicate than nature. It is on the sea shore that we find the purest democracy—any man who is respectable and desirous of enjoying life may fraternize with the whole population. He who lives in the struggle to acquire or maintain a position can appreciate this social luxury. The sea exercises a delightful influence over the character—its perils induce self-reliance and fearlessness, which are redeemed from conceit by a child-like simplicity arising naturally from the contemplation of an element menacing, invincible, and symbolical of eternity. Then, too, the legends of the sea invest the mind with a sensitive, poetic passion as delightful as it is unworldly, as reverent as it is credulous. No one would deride these superstitions who has watched, as I have, the various phases of the sea—its motions, its intonations—its mists, its foam, its vapors—its sunlit splendors—its phosphorescent marvels—its moonlit and starlit mysteries; but would feel, with something of the awe of the ancients, that the sea is the place of magic, and that only a film separates between the material and the spirit land.
A. J. S.
Readers: You with ourselves have looked upon a very ugly thing since we last met in the pages of The Continental. A Briareus-handed, multiple-formed, Proteus-faced monster, of huge dimensions, wickedly scheming brain, myriad fanged, and every fang imbued with virulent copperhead poison, stormed through our streets in the light of day and in the gloom of night, during many ghastly hours, knowing no law save its own wicked will, while Treason, Cruelty, House-breaking and House-burning, Robbery, Assassination, Torture, Hanging, Murder, stalked on in its wild train of horror. But we know its face now, and it will be our own fault if anything so foul shall e'er be seen again in our midst. We must be on the alert to act when called upon—not to suspect the innocent, but to guard against the guilty.
'Thus do all traitors:
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.'
'There is no fear of God in a riot.' We must confess ourselves to have been strangely startled when we found of what nation the rioters were mainly composed. The race whom we had received with the most generous hospitality, rescuing them from starvation and oppression at home—men whom we were hourly teaching to be freemen; women whom we were patiently and painfully instructing in the domestic arts of civilized life, took up arms against our Government, our laws, and ruthlessly pursued the innocent with fire and sword! The race of the old faith of the true St. Patrick, fresh from the 'Isle of Saints,' from which he had himself exiled all copperheads and venomous reptiles, blessed with good and true Priests of the old Religion, with the sweet face of the Blessed Virgin Mary to smile down upon them in their chapels, teaching them reverence for womanhood, and feeding as they firmly believe upon the glorified Body which is hourly broken to exalt and purify humanity, fell in fierce assault upon us. Men from the land of Burke, Curran, Emmet, Moore, Meagher, rose to pillage, burn, and assassinate! Irishmen, afraid to fight for the country which had adopted them as sons! massacring their benefactors! trailing Old Erin's loyal harp for the first time in the dust! bringing shame on the glorious Emerald Isle, and sorrow to the struggling country which had given them a home! Irishmen, taking the laws in their own hands, trampling our Stars beneath their feet—that flag which had first assured them they were men, citizens, with a right to home and happiness! What wonder that we fail to recognize the strong, sturdy, brave, heady, helpful, generous, and impulsive children of the 'Gem of the Sea?' And what shall we say of the venerated Archbishop?
'By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with traitorous, murderous rumors.'
Alas! the worst is not yet told. Irishmen and Irishwomen, with the sad face of the Mother of the Lord for ever teaching them pity from their altars, fell like fiends from hell upon the unfortunate negro, driving him, a child of Christ, from the poor home he had won with so much toil; robbing him of all he possessed; burning his miserable refuge; frightening into madness his patient wife; braining his children; hounding the panic-stricken unfortunate from street to street, and torturing, mutilating, drowning, and assassinating him! For what, in the name of Heaven? Because he breathed the air of his native land, and dared to pray to the God that made him; because he wanted work for his black and brawny arm, to support his cheerful black wife, and his jolly, woolly-headed children!
'Go back; the virtue of your name
Is not here passable!' 'A thousand knees
Six thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
In storm perpetual, could not move the gods
To look that way thou wouldst.'
It has been said the negro was lazy, and would not work without the lash; that he was incompetent, and could not work; that he was a coward, and would not fight: when it is found that he will work, he is to be deprived of labor; found that he can work, deprived of employment; that he is loyal, and will fight for the country, although she has often been but a stepmother to him; he is driven from his home; his goods plundered and fired; himself mutilated and hung. Alas! alas! 'mine eyes are a fountain of tears for the iniquities of my people!'
'Ireland knows no martyrs,' nobly says the Archbishop. Alas! that she should have martyred the negro upon our own holy soil—the soil of his nativity!
God curses no race, for Christ died for all who will accept him. Even were this plea of cursing true, it is our simple duty to try to lift the curse. To do unto others as we would be done by, is the sublime but simple law of Christianity.
Readers and fellow citizens, let us resolve that all this must cease; we must be ready to put down rebellion North as well as South; to resist all violence and aggression; to support the Government; to fill with enthusiasm the glorious ranks of our brave army, because it is the army of freedom and human progress; we must all aid in carrying our flag without a star undimmed through this fierce crisis, and unfurl it in that fair field of universal liberty and happiness which we must win for the sweet sake of humanity. All hell is armed against us; but God and His angels are on our side! This is the manifest destiny of our country, and to this unveiled glory are we marching on. We proudly offer a home and freedom to men of all climes and regions; in which hospitable offer itself we declare that no dictation, no oppression, no cruelty shall legally exist throughout the length and breadth of this our Holy Land. We have aims before us, and we must accomplish them. The Irishman must be civilized, his better feelings must be cultivated; he must be taught to respect law and order; the American copperhead must be robbed of his power to harm; he has shown his deadly venom, and his fangs must be extracted; to do this effectively, the rebellion, already crushed, must be utterly subdued; the negro must be protected, educated, and elevated; slavery in every form must be driven from the earth; the law of love, which is the law of God, must rule; that so our Heaven-Stars may again cluster in ever-growing brilliancy and lustre over a land of equality, progress, law, order, unity, and happiness. Men and brethren, this is our allotted task, and we must all work in our allotted spheres. Men, women, and children, there is enough to do, and that which will task us all to our utmost strength and capacity. We must be brave, strong, helpful, and unselfish; we must shirk no duty on the score of sex or weakness; we must find excuse for no idleness on the ground of incapacity. We are all capable! We must feel and make others feel that there is no true hope for ourselves or them save in the triumph of our sacred cause. Our stars alone form canopy wide enough to shelter the ever-accumulating ranks of humanity. We must, every one of us, learn the lesson of self-abnegation—it is the sublime lesson of the cross, learned by St. Paul, lived by St. John, worshipped by the Magdalene, and incarnated through the Virgin Mary—thus proving it is for all classes, characters, and sexes. He who will not learn it, is neither hero nor Christian, be he general or bishop.
We shall first (because it is necessary for the progress of the race) conquer our enemies; and then, true to ourselves and our principles, forgive, aid, and love them. Many of them have learned, many more are learning, the misery and shame of slavery. That truth once acknowledged and digested, their hearts will grow glad in the peace of the just, and their desolated land blossom like the rose.
We will all learn to bear with the negro, because he has qualities necessary to fill up the harmony of life. As a general thing, the Irish servants are perhaps more honest, and dull as they seem, have more head; but the negro has more heart. His nature is irrepressible and joyous; he is full of comicality and drollery, of fun, jeers, jokes, yah-yas, and merriment; and this element will be needed in our midst to temper our puritan and national seriousness. He loves music whether sad, burlesque, or gay; is devoted to those who treat him worthily, his affections being easily won; and there is something touching, soothing, and delightful in his inherent respect for gentleman and lady. His aptitude for domestic service; his love for and his power of amusing children and winning their fickle heart, their attachment to him being one of the most delightful traits of Southern life; his impressible, religious and devout nature, mark him as a wonderful element of variety in the domestic texture of our life such as it shall be when he is free, educated in accordance with his nature, and happy. He is not ambitious, he likes to serve those who treat him kindly, and seeks no social equality, as do the Irish, whatever position they may hold. I do not deny that this is a good strong trait in a race, but it does not make an agreeable servant. Our Biddys and Pollys flaunt and flounce to convince us they are as good as we; the negro acknowledges superior deportment, and is ever submissive and respectful to those who know how to treat him. I think when this 'tyranny is overpast' that it will be hard to induce us to part with the negro. He is embodied humor; fun and naive pathos alternate with the most startling rapidity in his wild but loving soul, in which the feminine element of passion generally predominates over sustained virile strength; he is spontaneity itself—and the reflective Anglo-Saxon race will learn to appreciate such promptings of our basic nature. He is happy in serving, and as a servant, is invaluable.
Stern duties are then before us in this world of the mighty West; let us accept them with a willing heart. Our women can do much, for men are widely severed in opinion; and the social element, woman's true and noble sphere, must be made available to bring about a better feeling. Let her so arrange that we shall see more of each other socially, not in grand fêtes, tiresome dinners, idle pomposities, but in simple and hospitable greetings, in frequent, unrestrained, and easy commune. She must learn to take a conversational part in the great questions of the day, soothing asperities, and bringing hearts together as she alone can; for women possess naturally the secret of society. Let us not ask in what rank men and women move, but rather what they are, and if noble, let us take them to our hearts. Let us struggle individually to the height of our aspirations, assured that if we so do, this glorious Union is destined to be perpetuated in ever-increasing glory.
AMOR PATRIÆ VINCIT.
Red: White: Blue.
Love: Peace: Heaven.
God of justice, smile upon us!
Justice yet will rule our land;
Equal rights bless native, alien,
High or low, from every strand;
Pledged within our Constitution,
They will bless a woe-worn world:
God, 'tis Justice makes it holy—
Freedom's Charter wide unfurled!
Chorus:
Float, O Flag, reflecting Heaven! where God plants the clustering stars,
In the blue depths of thy infinite—so vast that nothing jars!
God of mercy, smile upon us!
Mercy yet shall rule our land;
Thought be free, all creeds untrammelled,
Honor follow labor's hand;
All be equal; men be brothers;
They must work who fain would soar,
Work in earnest for the Human,—
Pride and scorn be known no more.
Chorus:
Float, O Flag of mystic colors; red with love; star-gemmed thy Blue;
Peace blends in white thy Rainbow light, and waves her snow-wings through!
God of love, O smile upon us!
Love shall shine through all our laws;
Love shall link each State in Union;
Love which knows nor rest, nor pause.
Love is central Heart of nations;
Love will draw all wandering stars
To our field of boundless azure,
Held by God from all that mars!
Chorus:
Wildly pours our hearts' blood on thee—crimson current warm and true,
Each dead hero links us closer—float on Flag, Red, White, and Blue!
God of Union, smile upon us!
Flag of Union, greet the skies!
On thy stars and chording colors
Every hope for mortals lies!
Blasted be the hand would strike thee!
Blighted heart and palsied brain!
Float till earth knows no oppression,
Falsehood, bondage, slavery, pain!
Chorus:
Float, Flag of love; fused States and lives! shine stars on God's own Blue!
Love's crimson current gird them close! white-winged Peace wind through!
M. W. C.
THE GOOD GODDESS OF POVERTY.
[A Prose Ballad, translated from the French.]
We think the following beautiful Chant, in honor of the good goddess whose favors we are too apt to scorn, and whom we persist in treating with dire ingratitude, cannot fail to prove acceptable to the readers of the Editor's Table.
M. W. C.