VI.
VIRGINIA AND PENNSYLVANIA COMPARED.
Virginia was a considerable colony, when Pennsylvania was occupied only by Indian tribes. In 1790, Virginia was first in rank of all the States, her number of inhabitants being 748,308. (Census Rep., 120,121.) Pennsylvania then ranked the second, numbering 434,373 persons. (Ib.) In 1860 the population of Virginia was 1,596,318, ranking the fifth; Pennsylvania still remaining the second, and numbering 2,905,115. (Ib.) In 1790 the population of Virginia exceeded that of Pennsylvania 313,925; in 1860 the excess in favor of Pennsylvania was 1,308,797. The ratio of increase of population of Virginia from 1790 to 1860 was 113.32 per cent., and of Pennsylvania in the same period, 569.03. At the same relative ratio of increase for the next seventy years, Virginia would contain a population of 3,405,265 in 1930; and Pennsylvania 19,443,934, exceeding that of England. Such has been and would continue to be the effect of slavery in retarding the progress of Virginia, and such the influence of freedom in the rapid advance of Pennsylvania. Indeed, with the maintenance and perpetuity of the Union in all its integrity, the destiny of Pennsylvania will surpass the most sanguine expectations.
The population of Virginia per square mile in 1790 was 12.19, and in 1860, 26.02; whilst that of Pennsylvania in 1790 was 9.44, and in 1860, 63.18. (Ib.) The absolute increase of the population of Virginia per square mile, from 1790 to 1860, was 13.83, and from 1850 to 1860, 2.85; whilst that of Pennsylvania from 1790 to 1860, was 53.74, and from 1850 to 1860, 12.93. (Ib.)
Area.—The area of Virginia is 61,352 square miles, and of Pennsylvania, 46,000, the difference being 15,352 square miles, which is greater, by 758 square miles, than the aggregate area of Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Delaware, containing in 1860 a population of 1,803,429. (Ib.) Retaining their respective ratios of increase per square mile from 1790 to 1860, and reversing their areas, that of Virginia in 1860 would have been 1,196,920, and of Pennsylvania 3,876,119. Reversing the numbers of each State in 1790, the ratio of increase in each remaining the same, the population of Pennsylvania in 1860 would have been 5,408,424, and that of Virginia, 926,603. Reversing both the areas and numbers in 1790, and the population of Pennsylvania would have exceeded that of Virginia in 1860 more than six millions.
Shore Line.—By the Tables of the Coast Survey, the shore line of Virginia is 1,571 miles, and of Pennsylvania only 60 miles. This vastly superior coast line of Virginia, with better, deeper, more capacious, and much more numerous harbors, unobstructed by ice, and with easy access for so many hundred miles by navigable bays and tide-water rivers leading so far into the interior, give to Virginia great advantages over Pennsylvania in commerce and every branch of industry. Indeed, in this respect, Virginia stands unrivalled in the Union. The hydraulic power of Virginia greatly exceeds that of Pennsylvania.
Mines.—Pennsylvania excels every other State in mineral wealth, but Virginia comes next.
Soil.—In natural fertility of soil, the two States are about equal; but the seasons in Virginia are more favorable, both for crops and stock, than in Pennsylvania. Virginia has all the agricultural products of Pennsylvania, with cotton in addition. The area, however, of Virginia (39,265,280 acres) being greater by 9,825,280 acres than that of Pennsylvania (29,440,000 acres), gives to Virginia vast advantages.
In her greater area, her far superior coast line, harbors, rivers, and hydraulic power, her longer and better seasons for crops and stock, and greater variety of products, Virginia has vast natural advantages, and with nearly double the population of Pennsylvania in 1790. And yet, where has slavery placed Virginia? Pennsylvania exceeds her now in numbers 1,308,797, and increased in population, from 1790 to 1860, in a ratio more than five to one. Such is the terrible contrast between free and slave institutions!
Progress of Wealth.—By Census Tables (1860) 33 and 36, it appears (omitting commerce) that the products of industry, as given, viz., of agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries, were that year in Pennsylvania, of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in Virginia, $120,000,000 or $75 per capita. This shows a total value of product in Pennsylvania much more than three times that of Virginia, and, per capita, nearly two to one. That is, the average value of the product of the labor of each person in Pennsylvania, is nearly double that of each person, including slaves, in Virginia. Thus is proved the vast superiority of free over slave labor, and the immense national loss occasioned by the substitution of the latter for the former.
As to the rate of increase; the value of the products of Virginia in 1850 was $84,480,428 (Table 9), and in Pennsylvania, $229,567,131, showing an increase in Virginia, from 1850 to 1860, of $35,519,572, being 41 per cent.; and in Pennsylvania, $169,032,869, being 50 per cent.; exhibiting a difference of 9 per cent. in favor of Pennsylvania. By the Census Table of 1860, No. 35, p. 195, the true value then of the real and personal property was, in Pennsylvania, $1,416,501,818, and of Virginia, $793,249,681. Now, we have seen, the value of the products in Pennsylvania in 1860 was $398,600,000, and in Virginia, $120,000,000. Thus, as a question of the annual yield of capital, that of Pennsylvania was 28.13 per cent., and of Virginia, 15.13 per cent. By Census Table 35, the total value of the real and personal property of Pennsylvania was $722,486,120 in 1850, and $1,416,501,818 in 1860, showing an increase, in that decade, of $694,015,698, being 96.05 per cent.; and in Virginia, $430,701,082 in 1850, and $793,249,681 in 1860, showing an increase of $362,548,599, or 84.17 per cent.
By Table 36, p. 196, Census of 1860, the cash value of the farms of Virginia was $371,092,211, being $11.91 per acre; and of Pennsylvania, $662,050,707, being $38.91 per acre. Now, by this table, the number of acres embraced in these farms of Pennsylvania was 17,012,153 acres, and in Virginia, 31,014,950; the difference of value per acre being $27, or largely more than three to one in favor of Pennsylvania, Now, if we multiply the farm lands of Virginia by the Pennsylvania value per acre, it would make the total value of the farm lands of Virginia $1,204,791,804; and the additional value, caused by emancipation, $835,699,593, which is more, by $688,440,093, than the value of all the slaves of Virginia. But the whole area of Virginia is 39,265,280 acres, deducting from which the farm lands, there remain unoccupied 8,250,330 acres. Now, if (as would be in the absence of slavery,) the population per square mile of Virginia equalled that of Pennsylvania, three fifths of these lands would have been occupied as farms, viz., 4,950,198, which, at the Pennsylvania value per acre, would have been worth $188,207,524. Deduct from this their present average value of $2 per acre, $9,800,396, and the remainder, $178,407,128, is the sum by which the unoccupied lands of Virginia, converted into farms, would have been increased in value by emancipation. Add this to the enhanced value of their present farms, and the result is $1,014,106,721 as the gain, on this basis, of Virginia in the value of her lands, by emancipation. To these we should add the increased value of town and city lots and improvements, and of personal property, and, with emancipation, Virginia would now have an augmented wealth of at least one billion and a half of dollars.
The earnings of commerce are not given in the Census Tables, which would vastly increase the difference in the value of their annual products in favor of Pennsylvania as compared with Virginia. These earnings include all not embraced under the heads of agriculture, manufactures, the mines, and fisheries. Let us examine some of these statistics.
Railroads.—The number of miles of railroads in operation in Pennsylvania in 1860, including city roads, was 2,690.49 miles, costing $147,283,410; and in Virginia, 1,771 miles, costing $64,958,807. (Census Table of 1860, No. 38, pp. 230, 232.) The annual value of the freight carried on these roads is estimated at $200,000,000 more in Pennsylvania than in Virginia, and the passenger account would still more increase the disparity.
Canals.—The number of miles of canals in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 1,259, and their cost, $42,015,000. In Virginia the number of miles was 178, and the cost, $7,817,000. (Census Table 39, p. 238.) The estimated value of the freight on the Pennsylvania canals is ten times that of the freight on the Virginia canals.
Tonnage.—The tonnage of vessels built in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 21,615 tons, and in Virginia, 4,372. (Census, p. 107.)
Banks.—The number of banks in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 90; capital, $25,565,582; loans, $50,327,127; specie, $8,378,474; circulation, 13,132,892; deposits, $26,167,143:—and in Virginia the number was 65; capital, $16,005,156; loans, $24,975,792; specie, $2,943,652; circulation, $9,812,197; deposits, $7,729,652. (Census Table 35, p. 193.)
Exports and Imports, etc.—Our exports abroad from Pennsylvania, for the fiscal year ending 30th June, 1860, and foreign imports, were of the value of $20,262,608. The clearances, same year, from Pennsylvania, and entries were 336,848 tons. In Virginia the exports the same year, and foreign imports were of the value of $7,184,273; clearances and entries, 178,143 tons, (Table 14, Register of U.S. Treasury.) Revenue from customs, same year, in Pennsylvania, $2,552,924, and in Virginia, $189,816; or more than twelve to one in favor of Pennsylvania. (Tables U.S. Commissioner of Customs.) No returns are given for the coastwise and internal trade of either State; but the railway and canal transportation of both States shows a difference of ten to one in favor of Pennsylvania. And yet, Virginia, as we have seen, had much greater natural advantages than Pennsylvania for commerce, foreign and internal, her shore line up to head of tide-water being 1,571 miles, and Pennsylvania only 60 miles.
We have seen that, exclusive of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania in 1860 were of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in Virginia, $120,000,000, or $75 per capita. But, if we add the earnings of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania must have exceeded those of Virginia much more than four to one, and have reached, per capita, nearly three to one. What but slavery could have produced such amazing results? Indeed, when we see the same effects in all the Free States as compared with all the Slave States, and in any of the Slave States, as compared with any of the Free States, the uniformity of results establishes the law beyond all controversy, that slavery retards immensely the progress of wealth and population.
That the Tariff has produced none of these results, is shown by the fact that the agriculture and commerce of Pennsylvania vastly exceed those of Virginia, and yet these are the interests supposed to be most injuriously affected by high tariffs. But there is still more conclusive proof. The year 1824 was the commencement of the era of high tariffs, and yet, from 1790 to 1820, as proved by the Census, the percentage of increase of Pennsylvania over Virginia was greater than from 1820 to 1860. Thus, by Table 1 of the Census, p. 124, the increase of population in Virginia was as follows:
| From | 1790 | to | 1800 | 7.63 | per cent. |
| " | 1800 | " | 1810 | 10.73 | " |
| " | 1810 | " | 1820 | 9.31 | " |
| " | 1820 | " | 1830 | 13.71 | " |
| " | 1830 | " | 1840 | 2.34 | " |
| " | 1840 | " | 1850 | 14.60 | " |
| " | 1850 | " | 1860 | 12.29 | " |
The increase of population in Pennsylvania was:
| From | 1790 | to | 1800 | 38.67 | per cent. |
| " | 1800 | " | 1810 | 4.49 | " |
| " | 1810 | " | 1820 | 29.55 | " |
| " | 1820 | " | 1830 | 28.47 | " |
| " | 1830 | " | 1840 | 27.87 | " |
| " | 1840 | " | 1850 | 34.09 | " |
| " | 1850 | " | 1860 | 25.71 | " |
In 1790 the population of Virginia was 748,318; in 1820, 1,065,129, and in 1860, 1,596,318. In 1790 the population of Pennsylvania was 434,373; in 1820, 1,348,233, and in 1860, 2,906,115. Thus, from 1790 to 1820, before the inauguration of the protective policy, the relative increase of the population of Pennsylvania, as compared with Virginia, was very far greater than from 1820 to 1860. It is quite clear, then, that the tariff had no influence in depressing the progress of Virginia as compared with Pennsylvania.
Having shown how much the material progress of Virginia has been retarded by slavery, let us now consider its effect upon her moral and intellectual development.
Newspapers and Periodicals.—The number of newspapers and periodicals in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 367, of which 277 were political, 43 religious, 25 literary, 22 miscellaneous; and the total number of copies circulated in 1860 was 116,094,480. (Census Tables, Nos. 15, 37.) The number in Virginia was 139, of which 117 were political, 13 religious, 3 literary, 6 miscellaneous; and the number of copies circulated in 1860 was 26,772,568, being much less than one fourth that of Pennsylvania. The number of copies of monthly periodicals circulated in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 464,684; and in Virginia, 43,900; or much more than ten to one in favor of Pennsylvania.
As regards schools, colleges, academies, libraries, and churches, I must take the Census of 1850, those tables for 1860 not being yet arranged or printed. The number of public schools in Pennsylvania in 1850 was 9,061; teachers, 10,024; pupils, 413,706; colleges, academies, &c., pupils, 26,142; attending school during the year, as returned by families, 504,610; native adults of the State who cannot read or write, 51,283; public libraries, 393; volumes, 363,400; value of churches, $11,853,291; percentage of native free, population (adults) who cannot read or write, 4.56. (Comp. Census of 1850.)
The number of public schools in Virginia in 1850 was 2,937; teachers, 3,005; pupils, 67,438; colleges, academies, &c., pupils, 10,326; attending school, as returned by families, 109,775; native white adults of the State who cannot read or write, 75,868; public libraries, 54; volumes, 88,462; value of churches, $2,902,220; percentage of native free adults of Virginia who cannot read or write, 19.90. (Comp. Census of 1850.) Thus, the church and educational statistics of Pennsylvania, and especially of free adults who cannot read or write, is as five to one nearly in favor of Pennsylvania. When we recollect that nearly one third of the population of Pennsylvania are of the great German race, and speak the noble German language, to which they are greatly attached, and hence the difficulty of introducing common English public schools in the State, the advantage, in this respect, of Pennsylvania over Virginia is most extraordinary.
These official statistics enable me, then, again to say that slavery is hostile to the progress of wealth and education, to science and literature, to schools, colleges, and universities, to books and libraries, to churches and religion, to the PRESS, and therefore to FREE GOVERNMENT; hostile to the poor, keeping them in want and ignorance; hostile to LABOR, reducing it to servitude and decreasing two thirds the value of its products; hostile to morals, repudiating among slaves the marital and parental condition, classifying them by law as CHATTELS, darkening the immortal soul, and making it a crime to teach millions of human beings to read or write.
And yet, there are desperate leaders of the Peace party of Pennsylvania, desecrating the name of Democrats, but, in fact, Tories and traitors, who would separate that glorious old commonwealth from the North, and bid her sue in abject humiliation for admission as one of the Slave States of the rebel confederacy. Shades of Penn and Franklin, and of the thousands of martyred patriots of Pennsylvania who have fallen in defence of the Union from 1776 to 1863, forbid the terrible degradation.
DOWN IN TENNESSEE.
Sultry and wearisome the day had been in that Tennessee valley, and after drill, we had laid around under the trees—tall, noble trees they were—and the fresh grass was green and soft under them as on the old 'Campus,' and we had been smoking and talking over a wide, wide range of subjects, from deep Carlyleism—of which Carlyle doubtless never heard—to the significance of the day's orders. It was not an inharmonious picture—Camp Alabama, so we had named it—for it was with a 'here we rest' feeling that a dozen days before we had marched in at noon. The ground sloped to the eastward—a single winding road of yellow sand crept over the slope into the horizon, a mile or more away; north, a hill rose with some abruptness; south and west, a grove of wonderful beauty skirted the valley. A single building—an old but large log farmhouse—stood near the tent, whose fluttering banner indicated headquarters. This old house was well filled with commissary stores, and, following that incomprehensible Tennessee policy, four companies of our regiment, the twenty-third, had been detached to guard them under Major Fanning—'a noble soldier he, but all untried.' We had never yet seen active service, and our tents were still white and unstained. The ground had been once the lawn of the deserted house—in the long ago probably the home of a planter of some pretension; and, as we lay there under the trees watching the boys over the fires, kindled for their evening meal, the blue smoke curling up among the trees, it made, as I have said, a most harmonious picture.
That fair June evening! I can never forget it, and I wish I were an artist that I could show you the sloping valley, the white tents, flushing like a girl's cheek to the good-night kisses of the sun, the curling smoke wreaths, and far, far above the amethystine heaven, from which floated over all a dim purple tint. I was the youngest commissioned officer in the regiment, having been promoted to a vacancy a week or two before through Major Fanning's influence.
We were all invited that evening to supper with our commanding officer and his wife—who had been with him for a few days. A fresh breeze stirred the trees at sunset, and, after slight attention to our toilette, we dropped by twos and threes into the neighborhood of the major's tent. A little back from the rows of other tents, a few fine oaks made a temple in front, worthy even of its presiding genius, Grace Fanning—but I am not going to rhapsodize. She was a fair, modest, young thing, with the girl rose yet fresh on her wife's cheek. I had known her from childhood; very nearly of the same age, and the children of neighbors, we had been inseparable; of course in my first college vacation, finding her grown tall and womanly, I had entertained for her a devoted boyish passion, and had gone from her presence, one August night, mad with rejection, and wild with what I called despair. But that passed, and we had been good friends ever since—she the confidential one, to whom I related my varied college love affairs, listening ever with a tender, genial sympathy. I had no sister, and Grace Jones (I am sorry, but her name was Jones) was dear to me as one. Two years of professional study had kept me away from my village home, and a few words came once in a long while, in my mother's letters 'to assure me of Grace's remembrance and regard.' A little of the elder sister's advising tone amused my one and twenty years and my incipient moustache amazingly; and I resolved, when I saw her, to convince her of my dignity—to patronize her. But the notes that called me home were too clarion-like for a relapse into puppyism. My country spoke my name, and I arose a man, and 'put away childish things.' I came home to say farewell. A regiment was forming there, I enlisted, and a few days before our departure, I stood in the village church, looking and listening while Grace promised eternal fidelity to Harry Fanning. I was a stranger to him. He had come to Danville after my departure, winning from all golden opinions, and from Grace a woman's priceless heart. She gave him freely to his country, and denied not her hand to his parting prayer. I had had time only to say farewell to her, and the old footing had not been restored, but I think she spoke to the major of me, for he soon sought me, giving me genial friendship and sympathy, and procuring for me, as I have related, my commission. I had seen her but once since she came to Camp Alabama, and she gave me warm and kindly welcome as I came in, the last of the group, having found in my tent some unexpected employment. Being a soldier, I shall not shock my fair readers if I confess that it was—buttons. Ah! me, I am frivolous. But I linger in the spirit of that happy hour. Grace's chair was shaded by a gracefully draped flag; the major stood near her, his love for her as visible in his eye as his cordial kindness for us. To me, in honor of my 'juniority,' as Mrs. Fanning said, was assigned a place near her. The others had choice between campstools and blankets on the grass. And the oddest but most respectable of contrabands served us soon with our supper, so homelike that we suspected 'Mrs. Major's' fair hands of interference.
It was a happy evening. Merry laughter at our camp stories rang silverly from her fair lips. Or we listened eagerly to her as she told us of the homes we had left, and the bonny maidens there, sobered since our departure into patriotic industry. Stories of touching self-denial, with a wholesome pathos, and sometimes from her dainty musical talk she dropped, pebble-like, a name, as 'Fanny,' 'Carry,' 'Maggie,' and responsive blushes rippled up over sunburned, honest faces, and a soft mist brightened for a second resolute eyes. Presently the band—a part only of the regiment's—began to play soft, well-known tunes. Through a few marches and national airs, I looked and listened as a year before, in the village church at home. And as the 'Star-Spangled Banner' rose inspiringly, I felt the coincidence strangely, and could scarcely say which scene was real: the church aisle and the bridal party, in white robes and favors, with mellow organ-tones rising in patriotic strains concerning the 'dear old flag,' or the group under the oaks; the young wife in her gray travelling dress, and the uniformed figures gathered around her; the moon-rise over the hill, lighting softly the drooping flag, the major's dark hair, and Mrs. Fanning's sunny braids, the wild notes of the same beloved melody overswelling all. But voices near aroused me, and we joined in the chorus, and in the following tune, 'Sweet Home,' the usual finale of our evening programme. Then, as the tones died, Grace lifted her voice and sang with sweet, pure soprano tones, an old-time ballad of love and parting and reunion.
We had a wild little battle song in 'Our Mess,' written by Charlie Marsh, our fair-haired boy-poet soldier, speaking of home, and the country's need, and victory, and possible deaths in ringing notes. We sang it there in the light of the slowly rising moon. The chorus was like this:
'Our country's foe before us,
Our country's banner o'er us,
Our country to deplore us,
These are a soldier's needs.'
As we closed, Grace caught the strain, and with soft, birdlike notes sang:
'Your country's flag above you,
Your country's true hearts love you—
So let your country move you
To brave, undying deeds.'
More songs followed, and happy words of cheer in distress, of self-consecration, of past and future victory; but Major Fanning was unusually silent. Hardly sad, for he flung into our conversation occasional cheerful words; but gravely quiet, his dark eye following every motion of his fair young wife. Finally we called on Captain Carter, our 'oldest man,' a grave bachelor of forty-five, and to our surprise, who knew him harsh and sometimes profane, he sang, with a voice not faultless, but soft and expressive, that exquisite health of Campbell's:
'Drink ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame
That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.
'And far, far hence be jest or boast,
From hallowed thoughts so dear;
But drink to her that each loves most,
As she would love to hear.'
Then silence for a little space; and the moonlight full and fair in soldiers' faces, young and old, but all firm and true, and fair and full on Grace Fanning's fresh, young brow. Then 'good-nights,' mingled with expressions of enjoyment, and plans for the morrow. I left them last.
'I am glad you are here, Robert,' said the major; 'Grace would not be all alone, even if I'—
Her white hand flashed to his lips, where a kiss met it, and laughingly we parted. A few rods away, I paused and turned. They stood there under the flag. Her bright head on his bosom, his arms about her, and the silver moonlight over all. Fair Grace Fanning! Have I named my story wrongly, pretty reader? I called it 'Camp Sketch,' and it reads too like a love story. 'Ah! gentle girl, seeking adventure in fiction, but shrinking really from even a cut finger, there is enough of battle even in my little story, though you slept peacefully and happily that fair June night, or waltzed yourself weary to the sound of the sea at the 'Ocean House.'
A few 'good nights' commendatory of our hostess and our evening greeted me as I sought my tent and made ready for sleep. I was very happy, no memory of our talk was sullied by coarse or unlovely thought; pure as herself had been our enjoyment of Mrs. Fanning's society, and I slept sweetly.
The long roll! None but those who have heard it when it means instant danger and possible death, can conceive the thrill with which I sprang from deep slumber, and made hasty preparation for action. Quick as I was, others had been before me, and I found the half-dressed men drawn up in battle line before the encampment. I took my place.
Behind us lay the camp, a wide, street-like space, fringed with a double row of tents—at its foot the old log mansion; near that, a little in front, but at one side, the flag of headquarters—this behind. Before us the major—the western wood, and the flashing sabres of a band of hostile cavalry. They came on heedless of the fast-emptying saddles, on, on, and more following from the wood, the moon in the mid heaven, clear like day.
A gallant charge—a firm repulse. Major Fanning's clear voice on the night air, rallying the men to attack the furious foe. They sweep their horses around to left, but calmly the major wheels his battalion, still unflanked; again those fierce steeds try the first point of attack; again we front them undaunted. In our turn, with lifted level bayonets we charge; the enemy falls back—a shout threads along our lines, changing suddenly into a wail, for, calling us on, our leader falls. Pitiless to his noble valor, a well-aimed carbine-shot lays him low. They lift him, some brave soldiers near; and, his young face bathed in blood, they bear him to his waiting bride; he opens his eyes, as he passes.
'Courage! victory! my boys!' he calls; then, seeing me: 'Go! tell her, Robert.'
I call my orderly to my place, and before they have pierced our lines with their beloved burden, I am at the tent door. She stands there waiting, a little pistol in her hand—a light wrapper about her, and her fair hair streaming over her shoulders. I look at her mutely; she knows there is something terrible for her, and while I seek words, her eye goes on, resting where down the moonlit trees they are bringing him. A moment, she is by his side, and tearless and white, her hand on his unanswering heart, she moves beside him. The soldiers lay their leader on the ground under his flag, and her imperious gesture sends them back to their places in the battle. And then she, sinking beside him, cries out:
'Oh, Robert! will he never speak to me again? Help him!'
My two years at lectures had not been passed in vain, and surgery had been my hobby. I knelt and strove to aid him. It was a cruel wound. I asked for bandages. She tore them from her garments wildly. I stilled the trickling crimson stream, and going into the tent, found some restoratives. I poured the wine down his throat, and, soon opening his eyes, he spoke:
'Grace!'
I stepped away—near enough for call, not near enough for intrusion. Looking at the lines of dark forms topped by the light glimmer of stray bayonets, I saw with dismay that our men were retreating before those heavy charges; in thick, dense masses they moved back, nearing us. I thought of our soldier chief, crushed under those wild hoofs; I thought of Grace, unprotected in her youth and widowed, desolate beauty, and sprang to her side, ready with my life for her.
The major saw it all, and, faint as he was, rose on his elbow, watching. Charge after charge, wild and impetuous, break the slowly retreating battalions. In vain I heard Carter's stern oaths (may the angel of tears forgive him!), and Charlie Marsh's boyish calls. The men are facing us. The enemy, cheering, and in the background huge torches flaming with pitch, are ready for incendiarism.
'Grace! Grace! I must rally them, let me go!' and I see Major Fanning straggling in her arms. I clasp him also.
'It is certain death,' I say to her, mad with fright and misery.
'And this is worse, worse, Grace; you might better kill me!' his voice was harsh—cruel even.
Suddenly she was gone, and I held him alone; catching his sword, she sprang like a flash of lightning into the open space before the log house, and, lifting the bare blade with naked, slender arm, its loose sleeve floating from her shoulder like a wing, she faced those panic-stricken men.
'For shame!' she cried; but her weak voice was lost; then, stern as the angel of death, she stepped forward.
'The first man that passes me shall die!' and she swung the flashing blade up, ready to fall. A moment's halt, and then, she spoke to them with wonderful strange words. I cannot recall them; with inspired eloquence she spoke, a slight, white-robed figure in the clear moonlight, and the rout was stayed, and they turned bravely to meet the foe. Then she came faint and weak to her husband's side again. He looked up with glad, eager eyes.
'Darling!'
Infinite love, soul-recognition, shone on both faces, and then blank unconsciousness crept over his. Firmly our boys met the charging steeds now. That moment had restored to them their courage. Emptied saddles were frequent, but still fresh forces dashed from the wood. Is there no hope for us? Must we be overpowered? Is all this valor vain? Grace from her husband's side looks mutely up to heaven. I find my place among the men. Little hope remains. Some one calls 'retreat.' 'Just once more,' cries Charlie, and falls before us. But listen; above the battle din comes a new, an approaching sound from the eastward.
Along the yellow road pours swiftly a force of cavalry, behind the rumble of cannon almost flying over the ground, and high in air, reeling from the swift motion of its bearer's steed, the banner of the free. We are saved! A wild shout rings along our lines. Among the enemy, frightened consultation followed by flight; another second, and our friends are with us and beyond us in hot pursuit.
Brief question and answer told us of the friendly warning in the distant camp, the hasty march to aid us. The rest we saw. Then, 'A surgeon for Major Fanning.' The man of the green sash had not grown callous. There were tears in his eyes as he rose from his vain endeavors, saying only:
'I can do nothing here; I am needed elsewhere.'
Our young hero was dead!
They composed his limbs, laying him on a blanket under the trees, and Grace sat down beside him, tearless still, but pale as her dress, or the white hand lying cold over the soldier's pulseless heart.
'Robert, send them away,' she said to me, as sympathizing strangers pressed round; and they left us alone with the dead. I spoke at last the commonplaces of consolation, suggested and modified by the hour and my soldier feelings.
'Yes, Robert,' she answered, 'I gave him long ago. God will comfort me for my hero—in time. Do not speak to me just yet. Do not let any one come.'
The tears came now, and she wept bitterly, silently, under the starry banner, beside the dead. I heard the hum of many voices, and now and then a cry of pain, and knew they were all helping the sufferers. Then I turned to her again. Her streaming hair swept the ground, golden in the light. Her fair face was hidden on the cold dead face. And I dared not speak to her. Oh, that picture! Poor Grace Fanning! and the silver, silver moonlight over all.
POETRY AND POETICAL SELECTIONS.
'Oh, deem not in this world of strife,
An idle art the Poet brings;
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm the stream of life;
'Tis he refines its fountain springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.'
In the annals of literature, Poetry antedates Prose. Creation precedes Providence, not merely in the order of sequence, but what is usually called intellectual and physical grandeur. So in genius and taste, Poetry transcends prose. In the work of Creation the Almighty broke the awful stillness of Eternity, by His first creative fiat, and angels were the first-born of God. They took their thrones in the galleries of the universe, and in silent contemplation sat. They spoke not; for words, as signs of thought or will or emotion, were not then conceived, and, consequently, then unborn. They gazed in rapture on one another, and in solemn silence thought. Their emotions bodied forth the Anthem of Creation.
Human words being created breath, and breath being air in motion, prior to these language was impossible. And as the deaf are always dumb, language, like faith, comes by hearing. But hearing itself is a pensioner, waiting upon a speaker; consequently, it must ever be contingent on a cause alike antecedent and extrinsic of itself. It is, therefore, equally an oracle of reason and of faith that, however God may have communicated to angels, to man He spoke in articulate sounds, before man articulated a thought, a feeling, or an emotion of his soul. And as an emotional soul is but a harp of many strings, a hand there must have been to play upon its chords, before melody and harmony, twins-born of Heaven, had either a local habitation or a name.
But, it may be asked—Is there not in the regions of Poetry an æolian harp, found in the cave of Æolus, on which the winds of heaven played many a celestial symphony, without the skill or touch of human hand? Grant all that the Poetic Muse assumes, and then we ask—Who made the harp? And whence directed came the musing sylvan Zephyrus and his choir? Came they not from a land of images and dreams?
But we are inquiring for originals. Images and originals are the poles apart. An original without an image is possible; but an image without an original is alike impossible and inconceivable. Hence, alike philosophically and logically, we conclude that neither man nor angel addressed each other until they themselves had been addressed by their Creator. Then they intercommunicated thought, sentiment, and emotion with one another as God had communicated to them.
The mystery of language and Poetry is insoluble but on the admission of a revelation or communication of some sort, unconceived by the human mind, unexecuted by the human hand. If invention and creation be the grand characteristics of the Poet, Moses, if uninspired, was a greater Poet than Homer, or Milton, or Shakspeare, on the hypothesis that he invented the drama which he wrote. The first chapter of Genesis is the greatest and most splendid Poem ever conceived by human imagination, or written by human hand.
All Poets, ancient and modern, are mere plagiarists, if Moses was uninspired. We prove his Divine Legation by the intrinsic and transcendent merits of the Poem which he wrote. Imagination originates nothing absolutely new. It merely imitates and combines. It is regarded as the creative faculty of man; but its material is already furnished. The portrait of an unreal Adam is as conceivable as a child without a father, or an effect without a cause.
Thus we are obliged, by an inseparable necessity, to admit the credibility of the Poem which he wrote. And what does Moses say? Nothing more than that God spoke, and the universe was! This is the sublime of true Poetry. This is more than the logic of the proposition, God was, therefore we are! It is more than the philosophy, ex nihilo, nihil fit! or than, that nothing cannot be the parent of something.
But we must place our foot on a higher round of the ladder, before we can stand on such an eminence as to see, in all its fair proportions, the column on which the Muses perch themselves.
Job, and not Moses, shall be our guide, and the oracle alike of our reason and our imagination. But who is Job? There is not much poetry in the name, Job. But Rome and its vulgate vulgarized this hallowed name, and Britain followed Rome. His name in Chaldee, Syriac, and Arabic, is Jobab. There is more poetry in this. There is no metre, no poetry in a monotone or monosyllable. Born among rocks and mountains, the proper theatre of a heaven-inspired Muse—not in Arabia the Happy, but in Arabia the Rocky—he was a heart-touching, a soul-stirring, emotional Bard. In such a case the clouds that overshadow the era of the man only enhance the genius and inspiration of the Poet.
In internal and external evidence, according to our calendar of the Muses, he is the first-born of the Poets that yet survive the wasteful ravages of hoary Time. He sings not, indeed, of Chaos and Eternal Night. But as one inspired by a heaven-born Muse, he echoes the chorus of the Angelic Song, when on the utterance of the first fiat the Morning Stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy. Hence we argue, that Poetry is not only prior to prose, but that language, its intellectual and emotional embodiment, is heaven-conceived, and heaven-born.
But in a short essay it would be out of place and in bad taste to attempt a discourse upon the broad field of ancient or modern Poetry. We merely attempt to suggest one idea on this rich and lofty theme. Our radical conception of the essential and differential attribute of Poetry, as contradistinguished from prose, however chaste, pure, beautiful, and philosophic, is not mere art, nor science, but creation.
The universe itself is a grand Heroic Poem. Hence its instrument is that power usually called Imagination. But human imagination is not first, second, or third in rank on the scale of the universe. God Himself imagined the universe before He created it. His imagination is infinite. The Cherubim and Seraphim have wings that elevate them above our zenith. And angels, too, excel us in this creative faculty, and therefore veil their faces before the Majesty of heaven and earth. Still, man has an humble portion of it, and can turn it to a good account.
But there is another idea essential to the character of Poetry, as good or evil in its spirit and adornings. We need scarcely say, for we are anticipated by every reflecting mind, that this is the spirit of the Poem. Poetry, in the abstract, is not necessarily good or evil. It may be Christian, Jewish, Pagan, or Infidel in its spirit and tendencies. It may corrupt or purify the heart. It may save or ruin the reader in fortune or in fame. Hence, as Poetry is powerful to elevate or degrade, to purify or to corrupt a people, much depends on the spirit of the Poetry which they may put into the hands of the youth of a country; as well observed by an eminent moralist: 'Let me write the poems or ballads of a people, and I care but little who enacts their laws.'
The genius of a Poet is a rare genius. And most happily it is so; for elevated taste and high-toned morality are not, by any means, the common heritage of man. Anacreon and Burns were genuine Poets. They uttered, in fine style, many truths; and were not merely fluent in their respective languages, but affluent. But, perhaps, like some other men of mighty parts and grand proportions, better for mankind they had never been born. A Cowper and a Byron, in their whole career of song, will exert a very different influence, not only on earth, but in eternity, on the destiny of their amateurs. We need not argue this position as though, among a Christian people, it were a doubtful or debatable position. If the evil spirit, or the melancholy demon, that fitfully possessed the first king of Israel, was expelled by the skilful hand of his successor, even when his youthful fingers awoke the melodies of the lyre, how much more puissant the exquisite Odes of the sweet Psalmist, inspired as they were with sentiments and views alike honorable to God and man, to elevate the conceptions, purify the heart, ennoble the aspirations, and adorn the life of man!
As the cask long retains the odor of the wine put into it, so the moral and religious fragrance of many a fine poetic effusion, securely lodged in the recesses of memory, may yield, and often does yield, a rich repast of pleasurable associations and emotions which, beside their opportune recurrence in some trying or tempting hour or season of adversity, do often energize our souls with a moral heroism to deeds of nobler daring, which result in enterprises full of blessings to ourselves, and not unfrequently to our associates in the walks of life, and radiate through them salutary light for generations to come.
Imagination, like every other faculty, is to be cultivated. But here we are interrogated—'What is Imagination?'
No distinction has given critics more trouble, in the way of definition, than that between Imagination and Fancy. Fancy, it is held, is given to beguile and quicken the temporal part of our nature; Imagination to incite and support the eternal.
It would be vain to enumerate the various definitions of this term, or to attempt to give even an abstract of the diversity of views entertained by philosophers respecting the nature and extent of its operations. It is regarded by some writers as that power or faculty of the mind by which it conceives and forms ideas of things communicated to it by the organs of sense. So defines our encyclopædias. Bacon defined it to be the 'representation of an individual thought.' But Dugald Stewart more philosophically defines it as the 'power of modifying our conceptions, by combining the parts of different ones so as to form new wholes of our own creation.' The Edinburgh Encyclopædia, not satisfied with this, says Webster defines it to be the will working on the materials of memory, selecting parts of different conceptions, or objects of memory, to form some new whole.
This has long been our cherished view of Imagination. It creates only as a mechanic creates a chest of drawers, a sideboard, a clock, or a watch. It originates not a single material of thought, volition, or action. But, mechanic-like, it works by plumb and rule on all the materials found in the warehouse of memory; and manufactures, out of the same plank of pine, or bar of iron, or wedge of gold, or precious stone, some new utensil, ornament, or adornment never found in Nature. In its present form it is the offspring of the art and contrivance of man. Hence our invulnerable position against Atheism or Deism. No one could have created the idea of a God or of a Christ, without a special inspiration, any more than he could create a gold watch without the metal called gold.
The deaf are necessarily dumb. The blind cannot conceive of color. A Poet cannot work without language, any more than the nightingale could sing without air. Language and prototypes precede and necessarily antedate writing and prose. Hence the idea of Poetry is preceded by the idea of Prose, as speaking by the idea of hearing. There was reason, and an age of reason, without, and antecedent to, rhyme; and therefore we sometimes find rhyme without reason, as well as reason without rhyme.
Rhyme, however, facilitates memory and recollection. Memory, indeed, is but a printed tablet, and recollection the art and mystery of reading it. Poetry, therefore, is both useful and pleasing. It aids recollection, and soothes and excites and animates the soul of man. It makes deeper, more pungent, more stimulating, more exciting, and more enduring impressions on the mind than prose; and, therefore, greatly facilitates both the acquisition and retention of ideas and impressions. Of it Horace says ('Ars Poetica'):
'Ut pictura, poesis; erit, quæ, si propius stes,
Te capiet magis, et quædam, si longius abstes.
Hæc amat obscurum; volet hæc sub luce videri,
Judicis argutum quæ non formidat acumen:
Hæc placuit semel, hæc decies repetita placebit.'
No one ever attained to what is usually called good taste who has not devoted a portion of his time and study to the whole science and art of Poetry. We do not mean good taste in relation to any one manifestation of it.
There is a general as well as a special good taste, but they are distinguishable only as genus and species. There is, it may be alleged, a native as well as an acquired taste. This may also be conceded. There is in some persons a greater innate susceptibility of deriving pleasure from the works of Nature and of Art than is discoverable in others. Still we cannot imagine any one gifted with reason and sensibility to be entirely destitute of it. It is an element of reason and of sense peculiar to man. As a fabulist once represented a cock in quest of barleycorns, scraping for his breakfast, saying to himself, on discovering a precious and brilliant gem: 'If a lapidary were in my place he would now have made his fortune; but as for myself, I prefer one grain of barley to all the precious stones in the world.'
But what man, so feeling and thinking, would not 'blush and hang his head to think himself a man'? Apart from the value of the gem, every man of reason or of thought has pleasure in the contemplation of the beautiful diamond, whether on his own person or on that of another. Taste seems to be as inseparable from reason as Poetry is from imagination. It is not wholly the gift of Nature, nor wholly the gift of Art. It is an innate element of the human constitution, designed to beautify and beatify man. To cultivate and improve it is an essential part of education. The highest civilization known in Christendom is but the result or product of good taste. Even religion and morality, in their highest excellence, are but, so far as society is concerned, developments and demonstrations of cultivated taste. There may, indeed, be a fictitious or chimerical taste without Poetry or Religion; but a genuine good taste, in our judgment, without these handmaids, is unattainable.
But as no interesting landscape—no mountain, hill, or valley, no river, lake or sea—affords us all that charms, excites or elevates our imagination viewed from any one point of vision, so the poetic faculty itself can neither be conceived of nor appreciated, contemplated out of its own family register.
There is in all the 'Fine Arts' a common paternity, and hence a family lineage and a family likeness. To appreciate any one of them we must form an acquaintance with the whole sisterhood—Poetry, Music, Painting, and Sculpture.
And are not all these the genuine offspring of Imagination? Hence they are of one paternity, though not of one maternity. The eye, the ear, and the hand, has each its own peculiar sympathetic nerve. For, as all God's works are perfect, when and where He gives an eye to see or an ear to hear, He gives a hand to execute. This is the law; and as all God's laws are universal as perfect, there is no exception save from accident, or from something poetically styled a lusus naturæ—a mere caprice or sport of Nature.
But the philosophy of Poetry is not necessary to its existence any more than the astronomy of the heavens is to the brilliancy of the sun or to the splendors of a comet. A Poet is a creator, and his most perfect creature is a portraiture of any work of God or man; of any attribute of God or man in perfect keeping with Nature or with the original prototype, be it in fact or in fiction, in repose or in operation.
Imitation is sometimes regarded as the test of poetic excellence. But what is imitation but the creation of an image! Alexander Pope so well imitates Homer, that, as an English critic once said, in speaking of his translation of that Prince of Grecian Poets—'a time might come, should the annals of Greece and England be confounded in some convulsion of Nature, when it might be a grave question of debate whether Pope translated Homer, or Homer Pope.'
For our own part, we have never been able to decide to our own entire satisfaction, which excels in the true Heroic style. Pope, in his translation of the exordium of Homer, we think more than equals Homer himself:
'Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing!
That wrath which hurled to Pluto's dark domain
The souls of mighty chiefs in battle slain;
Whose limbs, unburied on the fatal shore,
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore;
Since great Achilles and Atrides strove,
Such was the sovereign doom and such the will of Jove.'[18]
We opine that Pope, being trammelled with a copy, and consequently his imagination cramped, displays every attribute of poetic genius fully equal, if not superior, to that of the beau ideal of the Grecian Muse.
But Alexander Pope, of England, is not the Pope of English Poetry, a brother Poet being judge, for Dryden says:
'Three Poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn;
The first in majesty of thought surpassed,
The next in melody—in both the last:
The force of Nature could no further go,
To make the third she joined the other two.'
And who awards not to Milton the richest medal in the Temple of the Muses! Not, perhaps, for the elegant diction and sublime imagery of his Paradise Lost, but for his grand conceptions of Divinity in all its attributes, and of humanity in all its conditions, past, present, and future.
We Americans have a peculiar respect for Lyric Poetry. We have not time for the Epic. If anything with us is good, it is superlatively good for being brief. Short sermons, short prayers, short hymns, and short metre are peculiarly interesting. We are, too, a miscellaneous people, and we are peculiarly fond of miscellanies. The age of folios and quartos is forever past with Young America. Octavos are waning, and more in need of brushing than of burnishing. But still we must have Poetry—good Poetry; for we Americans prefer to live rather in the style of good lyric than in that of grave, elongated hexameter. Variety, too, is with us the spice of life. We are not satisfied with grand prairies, rivers, and cataracts, and even cascades and jet d'eaus!
Collections of miscellaneous Poetry seem alike due to the Poetic Muse and to the American people. We love variety. It is, as we have remarked, the spice of American life; and our country will ever cherish it as being most in harmony with itself. It is, moreover, more in unison with the conditions of human nature and human existence. There is, too, as the wisest of men and the greatest of kings has said, 'a time for every purpose and for every work.' No volume of Poetry or of Prose can, therefore, be popular or interesting to such a nation as we are, that does not adapt itself to the versatile genius of our people, and to the ever-varying conditions of their lives and fortunes.
There is, therefore, a propriety in getting up good selections, because a greater advantage is to be derived from well selected specimens of the Poetic Muse than from the labors of any one of the great masters of the Lyre! Who would not rather visit a rich and extensive museum of the products and arts of civilized life—some well assorted repository of its scientific or artistic developments, than to traverse a whole state or kingdom in pursuit of such knowledge of the wisdom, talents, and contrivances of its population?
Of all kinds of composition, Poetry is that which gives to the lovers of it the greatest and most enduring pleasure. Almost every one of them can heartily respond to the beautiful words of one who was not only a great Poet, but a profound philosopher—Coleridge—who, speaking of the delight he had experienced in writing his Poems, says: 'Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward. It has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.'
In no way can the imagination be more effectually or safely exercised and improved than by the constant perusal and study of our best Poets. Poetry appeals to the universal sympathies of mankind. With the contemplative writers, we can indulge our pensive and thoughtful tastes. With the describers of natural scenery, we can delight in the beauties and glories of the external universe. With the great dramatists, we are able to study all the phases of the human mind, and to take their fictitious personages as models or beacons for ourselves. With the great creative Poets, we can go outside of all these, and find ourselves in a region of pure Imagination, which may be as true to our higher instincts—perhaps more so—than the shows which surround us.
If it be as truthfully as it has been happily expressed by the prince of dramatic Poets, that
'He who has no music in his soul
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,'
it should be a paramount duty with every one who loves his species, and cultivates a generous philanthropy, to patronize every effort to diffuse widely through society, Poetry of genuine character, and to cultivate a taste for it as an element of a literary, religious, and moral education. We commend, as a standard of appreciation of the true character of the gifts of the Poetic Muse, the following critique from Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham:
''Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,
Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes,
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True wit is everlasting, like the sun,
Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retired,
Breaks out again, and is by all admired.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound
Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in rain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole,
Without a genius too—for that's the soul;
A spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of Nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit;
E'en something of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown,
Describing all men, but described by none.'
We neither intend nor desire to institute any invidious comparisons between Old Britain and Young America. We are one people—one in blood, one literature, one faith, one religion, in fact or in profession. Our language girdles the whole earth. Our science and our religion more or less enlighten every land, as our sails whiten every sea, and our commerce, in some degree, enriches every people. There is a magnanimity, a benevolence, a philanthropy, in English Poetry, whether the Muse be English, Scotch, Irish, or American, that thrills the social nerve and warms the kindred hearts of all who think, or speak, or dream in our vernacular. The pen of the gifted Bard is more puissant than the cannon's thundering roar or the warrior's glittering sword; and the soft, sweet melodies of English Poetry, gushing from a Christian Muse, are Heaven's sovereign specifics for a wounded spirit and an aching heart!