The Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No. V, May, 1863

And is it to be expected that these many republics, monarchies, aristocracies, or whatever form they may take, will long remain at peace with each other? Ask the muse who presides over the pages of history how often has her pen been called upon to record the circumstance of separate nations, of the same blood and antecedents, lying quietly and peaceably beside each other. Family quarrels are proverbially the most bitter of all on earth, and family hatreds the most unrelenting. It was but the ties of kin that lent such a character of ferocity to our wars with England and to the present contest with the South.

But what shall we say of that scheme which aims at a reconstruction of the Union by leaving New England out? Simply this: that, aside from any considerations of policy—without attempting to argue the question of a good or evil result from such a movement, the answer is plain enough: you cannot do it—and that which is impossible needs no argument for or against. The energy and activity of mind and body, the lofty independence, the firm self-reliance, the dogged determination and undaunted adherence to a great and high purpose, of the whole Saxon race, is concentrated in the people of that mountain land. Theirs have been the heads to plan and the hands to execute every great work we have accomplished since the foundation of our nationality. The railroads and canals and telegraphs of the North, the South, the East, and the West are their work; and their capital and their inventive, energetic minds still shape and control every great commercial enterprise of our land. Their sturdy emigrants have pushed civilization across the boundless prairies of the West, and opened the primeval forests of the Pacific States. Go where you will on the face of the earth, and you find them there before you, and ever the same busy, tireless apostles of progress, the leaders in every great work, and the rulers of commerce, everywhere looked up to as the type of the executive mind, and, by the tacit consent of Christendom, intrusted with the guidance of every enterprise requiring pluck, perseverance, and ceaseless activity. And theirs will still be the brains to control the destinies of our race, however isolated they may become, however they may be made the objects of distrust and contempt. Ay! shut them out if you will, and from that moment New England becomes the Switzerland of America, the home of great ideas and great men, the temple where Freedom shall take up her everlasting abode, and the altar fires of Liberty shall never die away. And her people will become the priests of that great religion which, taking its rise in a lofty appreciation of the true end of human existence, is already bursting out all over the Christian world, in fitful flames, which shall yet become the devouring element that shall wither and consume away oppression and kingcraft from the face of the earth. Shut her out, then, if you will, but you cannot shut out the flame which she shall kindle; you cannot shut out the tones of her trumpet voice, proclaiming to the world the doctrines of eternal truth. Self-reliant, possessing within themselves every element of success, her people can and will make their way, as heretofore, alone and unaided. Asking no favors of the world, they will pursue the even tenor of their way, undisturbed by the mutterings and growlings of their impotent foes, while their little republic, like a city set upon a hill, continues to reflect from her glittering pinnacles the sunlight of heaven to all quarters of the earth. The petty vengeance which the disunionists of to-day are attempting to wreak upon her will recoil upon their own heads, and they themselves may yet be forced some day to look to little New England as their redeemer from anarchy. A purely commercial people, her interests are not circumscribed by her narrow geographical limits, but are, as well as her tastes and sympathies, cosmopolitan. She stretches out her feelers to all parts of the earth, wherever her wandering sons may have betaken themselves, and fastens there a little vine or creeper whose roots are still in her own bosom. It is a part and a necessity of her very existence, to handle and direct catholic interests. This, as well as her position in other respects, has made her the arbiter of this nation and country, and you can no more shut her out from participation in the affairs of this continent than you can shut in the mighty river from its outlet to the ocean. And if you cut her off, see to it that she does not become the little Rome whose conquering arms shall reduce all the nations of the continent to her sway.

No! New England has planted herself too deeply in the hearts of the American people—she has sprinkled too many of her scions among the population of the West and South—to allow of a moment's serious thought of cutting her off from our communion. The cry is but the party cry of the designing and evil disposed, the traitors to our name and nation; and with the crushing out of the rebellion and the restoration of our nationality; it will pass away forever.

But to return to the direct results of the war. Having shown the threatened evils of separation, our province leads us no farther, for this comprises all the evils within the scope of man's imagination. See, then, the issue involved: in our success lie all our hopes of future stability and prosperity; in our failure lies simply—inevitable ruin. With such a prospect before them—with existence itself hanging in the balance—why are the people of the North asleep? Why will they not see the true bearings of the war in this light, and arise in all their power and strength, determined to crush out this infamous rebellion, even at the cost of the last dollar and the last drop of blood! Shall we grumble at the cost of the war? Shall we growl over the paltry taxes which, even yet, are scarcely felt? Shall the father grieve for the loss of half his wealth which goes to redeem his only son from death—his 'darling from the power of the lions'? Shall the house-holder grumble over the reward he has offered for the rescue of his wife and little ones from the burning house? Shall the felon begrudge the last cent of his earthly possessions that purchases his relief from the gallows? Better that we should all be ruined—better that the land should be entirely depleted of its youth, and the country irretrievably in debt, with a prospect of a future and lasting peace, than a compromise now, with the inevitable certainty of everlasting war and tumult and bloodshed, worse, a thousand times worse than that of the South American States. Shall we make a peace now, only that we may again go to war among ourselves? Would this not be literally 'jumping out of the frying pan into the fire'? The war men of the North are the men of peace, and the so-called peace men are the men of eternal war; those are they who would prolong the miseries of our country, simply by turning them in a new direction—by turning all our hostilities into our own bosoms and against out own wives and children. Nay I there can be no pausing now. We have everything to gain by prosecuting the war to the bitter, even ruinous end; everything to lose by leaving the work half done. The South is said to be fighting for its very existence; yet not by a thousand degrees can this be as truly said of them as of us. Therefore should our earnestness, our enthusiasm, our determination, our desperation be a thousand times greater than theirs. Do you tell me that we cannot conquer so united, so brave, and so desperate a people? I answer, WE MUST. In the whole wide world of human destiny there is no other road left open for us; the path to defeat is blocked by our own dead bodies. Unless the people of the North arouse and take hold of the work with an energy, an earnestness of purpose, to which the past bears no parallel, too late will they repent the folly of their own supineness, their own blindness. As in the affairs of men, so in those of nations, there is a critical point when those who hope for success must seize the winged moment as it flies and work steadily on with singleness of aim and unchangeable, unfaltering devotion of purpose. That moment, once past, will never return. Now is our golden opportunity, and according as we improve or neglect it will our future be one of greatness and power or one of utter nothingness among the nations of the earth. No subsequent time can repair the errors or failures of to-day.

Since the greater part of this article was written, the prospect of our success has immeasurably brightened. But let us not by the fairness of the sky be lulled into a false sense of security; let us not be again deceived by the ignis fatuus glare which plays around our banners, and which has already so often lured us to forgetfulness and defeat. For the storm may again break forth in a moment when we think not of it, and from a quarter where we seemed the most secure. A single week may reverse every move upon the great chess board of strategy. There should be no relaxation of the sinews of war until the end is accomplished. So should we be safest in our watchfulness and strength, and, by the irresistible influence of overwhelming numbers and might, render that permanent which is now but evanescent.

But, it will be asked, if there is between North and South an antipathy so deep seated and of such long standing, how shall we ever succeed in conquering a lasting peace? how shall we ever persuade the people of the South to live in amity with a race so cordially hated and despised? The question has often been asked, but always by those faint-hearted ones whose clamors for a disgraceful peace have added strength to the cause of our opponents. The answer is so plain that it requires no demonstration. There is but one remedy for so sore a disease, and however severe it may be, however revolting to the tender sensibilities of peace-loving men, the inevitable and inexorable must urges it on to execution, and stands like a giant, blocking up every other path. It is like those dangerous remedies which the physician applies when the patient's recovery is otherwise utterly hopeless, and which must result either in recovery or in death by its own agency rather than that of the disease. Concession has been tried in vain, 'moral suasion' has been proved to be of no avail. The South must be shown how entirely hopeless must be every effort, in all time, to overturn such a government as ours. They must be made to feel our immense superiority in power and resources; they must be shown in unmistakable colors the unconquerable might of nationality in strong contrast with the weakness of sectionalism, as well as their own dependence upon the North; in a word, every atom of resistance must be utterly and forever crushed out by brute force. To no other argument will they listen, as experience has proved; and this 'last resort of kings' must be exerted in all its strength and proclaimed in thunder tones, even though its reverberations should shake the earth to its very core. This done, and peace once more established, the South must be, not abolitionized, not colonized, not Puritanized, nor yet oppressed, but Americanized. They must be familiarized with those immortal principles of justice and freedom, to which they have hitherto been strangers, which lie at the heart of all national success among an enlightened and Christian people. They must be made acquainted with the all-important fact that we are a nation of one blood, one common ancestry; that we can never live at peace as separate nationalities, and that only in unity and mutual concession and forbearance can a glorious destiny be wrought out for our common country. Then, not now, will be the time for conciliation on our part, but yet conciliation never divided from the utmost vigilance and a firm support of the doctrine of national supremacy, as opposed to, and paramount to the iniquitous dogma of State rights. The people of the North must first divest themselves of all prejudices, all hereditary antipathies, and wipe away old scores in the dawn of a golden future. Then will our brethren of the South not be slow to respond to the proffered peace and good will and brotherly kindness, and again we shall become a prosperous, united, and happy people.

And what a future lies before our country! What a wealth of uncultivated fields lies waiting for the plough of the adventurous emigrant! What unmeasured wilds wait but for the touch of enlightened and educated labor, to blossom like the rose, to become the site of great cities and smiling villages, the resting place of the wanderer from all quarters of the globe, the residence of a great people, the component parts of a mighty nation whose parallel earth has not seen since the days of the creation! It needs but ordinary human foresight to see that here is to be the fountain head, the permanent abiding place, of four great interests, with which we shall rule the world: manufactures, grain, cotton, and wine. The Great West is to feed all Europe with her harvests of yellow grain; the South, with her cotton interest, is to clothe, not Europe only, but the world; the Pacific States will be the 'vineland' of America, furnishing the wherewithal to 'gladden the heart of man,' while the manufactures of New England and the Middle States shall furnish the implements of labor to the brethren all over the continent, and turn the raw material both of the South and of their own sheep-feeding hills into garments for the toiling millions of America. Here, then, we shall produce, as no other country can, the great staples of life; and when we add to them those considerable minor interests which we share more equally with the rest of the world, namely, wool-growing and mining, as well of the precious ores as of coal and the baser metals, how stupendous seem our resources, how tremendous the influence we are to wield among the great human family! And is it a necessity of social life that these great interests should jar? that political and commercial antagonisms should spring up between these cumulators of the world's great stock of wealth, for no better reason than that their hands are engaged upon a different work, or, rather, upon different branches of the same great work of production? Nay, verily! So long as we are bound together by a common tie of country, living and working under the same laws and institutions, such antagonisms can only exist in the trains of designing demagogues. So far from conflicting, these great interests will, from the very nature of the law of exchange, work harmoniously together, blending the one into the other as perfectly fitting parts of one concordant whole. One section will play into the hands of another, sustaining each other from the very necessity of self-preservation; and each will find in his brother the readiest consumer of the products of his labor. Only in the event of separation can jealousies, antipathies, and narrow-minded prejudices spring up between the different sections, and healthy competition be degraded into low and mercenary jobbing; only by separation can the onward march of the American race be retarded and the arm of American industry paralyzed. Accursed, then, be the hand that aims a blow at the foundations of our fair fabric of Liberty; thrice accursed he whose voice is raised in the promulgation of those pernicious doctrines whose end is to lead a great people astray.

GREAT HEART

 
Great Heart is sitting beneath a tree:
Never a horse upon earth has he;
But he sings to the wind a hearty song,
Leaves of the oak trees rustling along:
'Over the mountain and over the tide,
Over the valley and on let us ride!'
 
 
There's many a messenger riding past,
And many a skipper whose ship sails fast;
But none of them all, though he rides or rows,
Flies as free as the heart of Great Heart goes,
Free as the eagle and full as the tide:
'And over the valley and on let us ride!'
 
 
Many a sorrow might Great Heart know,
Thick as the oak leaves which over him grow
Many a trouble might Great Heart feel,
Close as the grass blades under his heel;
But sorrow will never by Great Heart bide,
Singing 'Over the valley and on let us ride!'
 
 
'But tell me, good fellow, where Great Heart dwells?'
In the wood, by the sea, in the city's cells;
Where the Honest, the Beautiful, and True
Are free to him as they are to you;
Where the wild birds whistle and waters glide,
Singing 'Over the valley and on let us ride!'
 
 
Few of his fellows doth Great Heart see;
Seldom he knows where their homes may be;
But the fays of the greenwood are still on earth—
To many a Great Heart they'll yet give birth;
And thousands of voices will sing in pride,
'All over the wide world and on let us ride!'
 

LITERARY NOTICES

Life of Chopin. By F. Liszt. Published by F. Leypoldt: Philadelphia.

Liszt's Life of Chopin! What a combination of names to wing the imagination upward into the ethereal regions of beauty, pure art, and lofty emotion! The imperial pianist discourses upon the genius and peculiar gifts of his brother musician. Before us arises a vision of the strong and fiery Hungarian, with clanger of steel, flash of spur, and ring of hoof, compelling his audiences to attention and enthusiastic admiration; and also of the gentle-mannered and suffering, but no less fiery Pole, shrinking from all rude contact, and weaving enchanted melodies and harmonies, teeming with ever-varying pictures of tender love, hopeless despair, chivalric daring, religious resignation, passionate pleading, eloquent disdain, the ardor of battle with the thunder of artillery, the hut of the peasant with its pastoral pleasures, and the assemblage of the noble, the distinguished, the beautiful, with the nameless fascinations of feminine loveliness, the witching caprices of conscious power,—while through all and above all glows the memory of the glorious past and mournful present of his beloved country. The book, in fact, opens a vista into modes of life, manners of being, and trains of thought little known among us, and hence is most deeply interesting. The style is eminently suited to the subject, and the translation of Liszt's French is equal to the original. This is saying much, but not too much; for when a cognate mind becomes thoroughly imbued with the spirit of an author, the transmutation of his ideas into another form of speech becomes a simple and natural process. To those who already know Chopin and are striving to play his music, this book will be invaluable, as giving a deep insight into the meaning and proper mode of rendering his compositions. To those who know nothing of him, and who are still floundering amid the fade and flimsy productions that would fain hide their emptiness and vulgarity under the noble name of music, this life of a true musician will reveal a new world, a new purpose for the drudgery of daily practice, and the expenditure of time, patience, and money.

The work, however, is not alone useful for those especially interested in music, but, being free from all repulsive technicalities, will be found highly attractive to the general reader. It contains a subtle dissection of a deeply interesting character, sketches of Heine, George Sand, Eugene de la Croix, Mickiewicz, and other celebrities in the world of literature and art, together with a most vivid portraiture of social life in Poland, a land which has ever excited so much admiration for its heroism, and compassion for its misfortunes.

Mr. Leypoldt, the enterprising publisher of this work, merits the encouragement of the American people, inasmuch as he has not feared to risk the publication of a work deemed by many too excellent to be generally appreciated by our reading community. He however has faith in the good sense of that community, and so have we.

Fragmentary portions of Liszt's 'Chopin,' about 60 pages out of 202, were translated by Mr. Dwight of Boston, and appeared in the 'Journal of Music.' Those portions were favorably received, and all who thus formed a partial acquaintance with the work will doubtless desire now to complete their knowledge, especially as some of the most vivid and characteristic chapters were omitted.

My Diary North and South. By William Howard Russell. T. O. H. P. Burnham. New York: O. S. Felt, 36 Walker Street. 1863. (Cloth, one dollar; paper covers, fifty cents.)

It is amusing to read over, at this stage of the war, these letters, in which the Thunderer, as represented by Mr. Russell, dwindled down to a very small squib indeed. Few men ever prophesied more brazenly as to the war,—very few ever had their prophecies so pitiably falsified. Other men have guessed right now and then, by chance; but poor Russell contrived, by dint of conceit and natural obtuseness, to make himself as thoroughly ridiculous to those who should review him in the future as was well possible. It is, however, to be hoped that these letters will be extensively read, that the public may now see who and what the correspondent really was, through whom England was to be specially instructed as to the merits of this country and its war. When we remember the advantages which poor Russell enjoyed for acquiring information, his neglect of matters of importance seems amazing—until we find, in scores of petty personal matters and silly egotisms, a key to the whole. He is a small-souled man, utterly incapable of mastering the great principles involved in this war,—a man petrified in English conceit, and at the end of his art when, like a twopenny reporter, he has made a smart little sneer at something or somebody. He writes on America as Sala wrote on Russia, in the same petty, frivolous vein, with the same cockney smartness; but fails to be funny, whereas Sala frequently succeeds. He came here to write for England, not the truth, but something which his readers expected. His object was to supply a demand, and he did it. He learned nothing, and returned as ignorant, so far as really understanding the problems he purposed to study, as he came. Those who can penetrate the depths of such pitiful characters cannot fail to feel true sorrow that men should exist to whom all life, all duty, every opportunity to tell great truths and to do good, should simply appear as opportunities to turn out a pièce de manufacture, and earn salaries. Mr. Russell could have done a great work in these letters—he leaves the impression on our minds that in his opinion his boots and his breakfast were to him matters of much more importance than the future of all North America.

Wanderings of a Beauty: A Tale of the Real and Ideal. By Mrs. Edwin James. New York: Carleton. 1863.

An entertaining little romance, which will be specially acceptable to the 'regular English novel' devourers—a by no means inconsiderable proportion of the public. Its heroine—a beauty—moves in English society, is presented to the Queen, is victimized by a rascally husband or two, and visits America, where she ends her adventures—à la Marble Faun—rather more obscurely than we could have wished, by 'enduring and suffering,' but on the whole happily, so far as sentiment is concerned. As the story contains to perfection every element of the most popular English novels of the day, yet in a more highly concentrated form than they usually present, we have no doubt that its sale will be very great. The volume contains a very beautifully engraved portrait-vignette, 'after a miniature by Thorburn,' which is worth the price of the book, and is neatly bound. Gentlemen wishing to make an acceptable gift to novel-reading friends will find the 'Wanderings of a Beauty' well suited to the purpose.

The Prisoner of State. By D. H. Mahoney. New York: Carleton. 1863.

We may well ask 'what sustains the hopes of the rebels?' when such a mass of treason as this wretched volume contains is suffered to be freely published and circulated. That the Administration can find the force to oppose open foes in the field, and yet make no exertion to suppress traitors at home who are doing far more than any armed rebels to reduce our country to ruin, is a paradox for whose solution we have for some time waited, not by any means in patience.

That a Copperhead, who from his own account richly deserves the halter, should have the impudence to publish a complaint of being simply imprisoned, is indeed amusing. But could the mass of vindictiveness, sophistry, and vulgarity which these pages contain be simply submitted to impartial and intelligent men, we should have little dread of any great harm resulting from them. Unfortunately this Copperhead poison, with its subtle falsehoods and detestable special pleading, its habeas corpus side-issues and Golden-Circle slanders, is industriously circulated among many who are still frightened by the old bugbear of 'Abolition,' and who, like the majority in all wars whatever, have accustomed themselves to grumble at those who conduct hostilities. Such persons do not reflect that a great crisis requires great measures, and that in a war involving such a tremendous issue as the preservation of the Federal Union and the development of the grandest phase which human progress has ever assumed, we are not to give up everything to our foes because Mr. Mahoney and a few congenial traitors have, justly or unjustly, been kept on crackers and tough beef. When a city burns and it is necessary to blow up houses with gunpowder, it is no time to be talking of actions for trespass.

If we had ever had a doubt of the rightfulness of the course which Government has taken in imprisoning Copperheads, it would have been removed on reading this miserable book. A man who holds on one page that every private soldier is to be guided by his own will as regards obeying orders, and on another sneers at our army as demoralized,—who calls himself a friend of the Union, and is yet a sympathizer with the enemies of the Union,—who abuses in the vilest manner our Government and its officers in a crisis like the present, is one who, according to all precedents of justice, should be richly punished under military law, if the civil arm be too weak to grasp him. It was such Democrats as Mahoney, who yelled out indignantly in the beginning at every measure which was taken to protect us against the enemy, who, when they had nearly ruined our cause by their efforts, attributed the results of their treason to the Administration, and who now, changing their cry, instead of clamoring for more vigor against the rebels, boldly hurrah for the rebellion itself. It is strange that they cannot see that they are now bringing themselves out distinctly as tories, and men to be branded in history. Do they suppose that such a revolution as this—a revolution of human rights and free labor against the last great form of tyranny—is going backward? Do the events of the last thirty years indicate that Southern aristocracy and Copperhead ignorance and evil are to achieve a final victory over republicanism? Yet it is in this faith, that demagoguism will be stronger than a great principle, that such men as Mahoney write and live.

Wild Scenes in South America; or, Life in the Llanos of Venezuela. By Don Ramon Paez. New York: Charles Scribner, 124 Grand Street.

The work before us takes the reader not only through all the adventures and chances of the desperate life of the llaneros or herdsmen of South America, but also gives many startling scenes from the revolutions of Colombia, embracing an excellent biography of the truly great general Paez, the friend and colleague of Bolivar. But when we remember that it contains such a mass of valuable historical material, from the pen of a son of General Paez, aide-de-camp to his father, and an eyewitness of, or actor in, some of the bloody scenes of a civil war, and that even the description of herdsman's life is filled with deeply interesting scientific records of the natural history and botany of our southern continent, it seems strange that such a volume could appear under a title smacking of the veriest book-making for the cheap Western market.

The writer, Don Ramon Paez, who was born among the people whom he describes, and was afterward well educated in England, was probably the best qualified man in South America to depict the life of the llaneros, of whom his father was long the literal chief. Half of his pages are occupied with the account of a grand cattle-hunt, involving sufferings and adventures of a very varied and remarkable description, giving the world, we believe, the best account of wild herdsman American-Spanish life ever written. A very curious study of the character of the writer himself is one of the many interesting traits of this volume. A love of literature, of science, of much that is beautiful and refined, contrasts piquantly with occasional glimpses of true Creole character, and of a son of 'the best horseman in South America,' who is too much at home among the fierce people whom he describes to fully assume the tone of a foreigner and amateur. In this latter respect Don Ramon seems to have been influenced by regarding as models the works of European travellers, as well as by a very commendable spirit of modesty; for modest he certainly is when speaking of himself, when we consider the temptations to self-glorification which his adventures would have presented to any of the English adventurers of the present day!

The book cannot fail to be extensively read, since it is not only entertaining, but instructive. Its sketches of the causes of the continual civil wars in South America are not only explanatory, but may serve as a lesson to us in this country to give ourselves heart and soul to the Union, and to crush out treason and faction by every means in our power. If the rebels and Copperheads triumph, we shall soon see the United States reduced to the frightful anarchy of South America.