The first beatific vision that was to greet my gaze would be, of course, that one which I was to behold most frequently throughout the æons without end—even the face of that radiant being who had gone before, to await me in the angelhood; where, beaming seraphic upon me forever, it was to be to me the embodiment of all ideals of loveliness, grace, refinement, love. In its every lineament I was to read and decipher an endless series of ever fresh and most celestial arcana—was continually to find new proof of love and wisdom, and of the divine ability to adapt human to human. Since the love of the mate is next to the love of the Maker, it is no profanity to say that,
'When I'd been there ten thousand years,
Bright, happy as the sun,
I'd have no less days to sing its praise
Than when I first begun.'
Instead of through a fast-waning honeymoon of love, that face was to entrance me while the sun of heaven stood in the zenith of heaven—and we read that there is no night there, forevermore. Was not this promised sight a sufficient cause for excitement? What prospect—save that of a vision of Deity—could be better adapted to arouse the loftiest and most exquisite emotions? What better fitted to gather into one all long-cherished feelings of admiration and reverence for the noble of the other sex—to aggregate and revive all those chivalrous, gallant, elevating, purifying, tender thoughts which we have ever had, with regard to them, in our highest moments?
Some reader may say: 'Why will you thus attempt to dignify ideas that you acknowledge were excited in a confused brain, by apparently mischievous or irresponsible spirits?' I answer, that even if the immediate exciting cause of this current of ideas was some ill-designing being, the ideas themselves were not, necessarily, either evil or undignified; and that only such portion of the brain was addled as would be likely to rebel against the obsession.
Waiting the appointed hour, I sat imagining the scene. I saw myself suddenly rising ('sudden Ianthe rose') from the prone body and all circumjacent grossness—rising, through clouds and darkness, to some delightsome plane of the inner world. A dozen yards in front of me, beside a graceful tree, would stand 'the only.' We would gaze at each other, with intense scrutiny, for some moments. Each would think, 'There is plenty of time; it is to last forever.' We would even look about us, still saying nothing. Being eternally modelled, fitted, fore-ordained, and predestined for each other, love arrows would, of course, have pierced our centres of palpitation at the first mutual glance. Still, though quivering with emotion, neither would be disposed to lessen the distance. Methought we would even seat ourselves on the mossy banks—the dozen yards still intervening—and, each leaning back against a tree, would 'face the enemy'—the eternal joy-sharer, sorrow-sharer, worship, wisdom, love, pity, wonder, use, sport, hope-sharer; while, occasionally, a premonitory, prophetic pang of rapture out of the coming eternities of bliss would thrill through us. I had even a fancy that there would be no interchange of words, no lessening of the coy distance of space and manner, during this first interview. 'It is to last so long! so long!' Again, I fancied that we might sit there only weeping, as we looked and loved. 'So long! so long!' Tender, dewy eyes wandering naively, innocently, over each feature of face and form—inquiry, wonder, joy in them—pleased surprise, that such and such points of the vision should be as they are. Indefinite longings becoming definite, as all things longed for appear embodied, as faith is lost in sight. Again, I imagined laconic speech might ensue—like the single-line dialogue of Greek tragedies. But here the wings of imagination drooped, and I could only see the separation. She would glide toward me. Her warm finger-tips would touch my palm, her tender azure eyes would beam once fully and closely upon me. One moment I would see the inner heaven opened; and the next—the familiar furniture of my room would be before me. Thus I imagined. The curious may learn what actually befell, on a future occasion.
AMERICAN FINANCES AND RESOURCES.
LETTER NO. IV. OF HON. ROBERT J. WALKER.
London, 10 Half Moon Street, Piccadilly,
January 1st, 1864.
In my third and last letter on American Finances and Resources, the effect of the substitution of free for slave labor in the United States by the abolition of slavery was discussed. In that letter it was shown by the official American Census of 1860, that the product that year, per capita, of Massachusetts was $235; per capita, Maryland $96; and of South Carolina $56. Massachusetts had no slaves; Maryland, 87,189; and South Carolina, 402,406. Thus we see the annual value of the products of labor decreased in proportion to the number of slaves. In further proof of the position assumed in that letter, that the progress of wealth, of population, and education in the United States, was most injuriously affected by slavery, I now present other official facts from our Census of 1860. My first comparison will be that of the Free State of New York with slaveholding Virginia.