We must briefly retrace our steps. We left Richard Coulter, in ambush, having so placed his little detachments as to cover most of the groups of dragoons—at least such as might be immediately troublesome. It was with the greatest difficulty that he could restrain himself during the interval which followed the entry of Elijah Fields into the house. Nothing but his great confidence in the courage and fidelity of the preacher could have reconciled him to forbearance, particularly as, at the point which he occupied, he could know nothing of what was going on within. Meanwhile, his eyes could not fail to see all the indignities to which the poor old Dutchman was subjected. He heard his groans and entreaties.
“I am a goot friend to King Tshorge! I was never wid de rebels. Why would you do me so? Where is de captaine? I have said dat my darter shall be his wife. Go bring him to me, and let him make me loose from de rope. I’m a goot friend of King Tshorge!”
“Good friend or not,” said the brutal lieutenant, “you have to hang for it, I reckon. We are better friends to King George than you. We fight for him, and we want grants of land as well as other people.”
“Oh, mine Gott!”
Just then, faint sounds of the scuffle within the house, reached the ears of those without. Clymes betrayed some uneasiness; and when the sound of the pistol-shot was heard, he rushed forward to the dwelling. But that signal of the strife was the signal for Coulter. He naturally feared that his comrade had been shot down, and, in the some instant his rifle gave the signal to his followers, wherever they had been placed in ambush. Almost simultaneously the sharp cracks of the fatal weapon were heard from four or five several quarters, followed by two or three scattered pistol-shots. Coulter’s rifle dropt Clymes, just as he was about to ascend the steps of the piazza. A second shot from one of his companions tumbled the provost, having in charge old Sabb. His remaining keeper let fall the rope and fled in terror, while the old Dutchman, sinking to his knees, crawled rapidly to the opposite side of the tree which had been chosen for his gallows, where he crouched closely, covering his ears with his hands, as if, by shutting out the sounds, he could shut out all danger from the shot. Here he was soon joined by Brough, the African. The faithful slave bounded toward his master the moment he was released, and hugging him first with a most rugged embrace, he proceeded to undo the degrading halter from about his neck. This done, he got the old man on his feet, placed him still further amongst the shelter of the trees, and then hurried away to partake in the struggle, for which he had provided himself with a grubbing hoe and pistol. It is no part of our object to follow and watch his exploits; nor do we need to report the several results of each ambush which had been set. In that where we left the four gamblers busy at Old Sledge, the proceeding had been most murderous. One of Coulter’s men had been an old scout. Job Fisher was notorious for his stern deliberation and method. He had not been content to pick his man, but continued to revolve around the gamblers until he could range a couple of them, both of whom fell under his first fire. Of the two others, one was shot down by the companion of Fisher. The fourth took to his heels, but was overtaken, and brained with the butt of the rifle. The scouts then hurried to other parts of the farmstead, agreeable to previous arrangement, where they gave assistance to their fellows. The history, in short, was one of complete surprise and route—the dragoons were not allowed to rally; nine of them were slain outright—not including the captain; and the rest dispersed, to be picked up at a time of greater leisure. At the moment when Coulter’s party were assembling at the dwelling, Brough had succeeded in bringing the old couple together. Very pitiful and touching was the spectacle of these two embracing with groans, tears, and ejaculations—scarcely yet assured of their escape from the hands of their hateful tyrant.
But our attention is required within the dwelling. Rapidly extricating himself from the body of the loyalist captain, Coulter naturally turned to look for Frederica. She was just recovering from her swoon. She had fortunately been spared the sight of the conflict, although she continued long afterward to assert that she had been conscious of it all, though she had not been able to move a limb, or give utterance to a single cry. Her eyes opened with a wild stare upon her husband, who stooped fondly to her embrace. She knew him instantly—called his name but once, but that with joyful accents, and again fainted. Her faculties had received a terrible shock. Coulter himself felt like fainting. The pain of his wounded arm was great, and he had lost a good deal of blood. He felt that he could not long be certain of himself, and putting the bugle to his lips, he sounded three times with all his vigor. As he did so, he became conscious of a movement in the corner of the room. Turning in this direction, he beheld, crouching into the smallest possible compass, the preacher, Veitch. The miserable wretch was in a state of complete stupor from his fright.
“Bring water!” said Coulter. But the fellow neither stirred nor spoke. He clearly did not comprehend. In the next moment, however, the faithful Brough made his appearance. His cries were those of joy and exultation, dampened, however, as he beheld the condition of his young mistress.
“Fear nothing, Brough, she is not hurt—she has only fainted. But run for your old mistress. Run, old boy, and bring water while you’re about it. Run!”
“But you’ arm, Mass Dick—he da bleed! You hu’t?”
“Yes, a little—away!”
Brough was gone; and with a strange sickness of fear, Coulter turned to the spot where Elijah Fields lay, to all appearance, dead. But he still lived. Coulter tore away his clothes, which were saturated and already stiff with blood, and discovered the bullet-wound in his left side, well-directed, and ranging clear through the body. It needed no second glance to see that the shot was mortal; and while Coulter was examining it, the good preacher opened his eyes. They were full of intelligence, and a pleasant smile was upon his lips.
“You have seen, Richard, the wound is fatal. I had a presentiment, when we parted this morning, that such was to be the case. But I complain not. Some victim perhaps was necessary, and I am not unwilling. But Frederica?”
“She lives! She is here; unhurt but suffering.”
“Ah! that monster!”
By this time the old couple made their appearance, and Frederica was at once removed to her own chamber. A few moments tendance sufficed to revive her, and then, as if fearing that she had not heard the truth in regard to Coulter, she insisted on going where he was. Meantime, Elijah Fields had been removed to an adjoining apartment. He did not seem to suffer. In the mortal nature of his hurt, his sensibilities seemed to be greatly lessened. But his mind was calm and firm. He knew all around him. His gaze was fondly shared between the young couple whom he had so lately united.
“Love each other,” he said to them; “love each other—and forget not me. I am leaving you—leaving you fast. It is presumption, perhaps, to say that one does not fear to die—but I am resigned. I have taken life—always in self-defense—still I have taken life! I would that I had never done so. That makes me doubt. I feel the blood upon my head. My hope is in the Lord Jesus. May his blood atone for that which I have shed!”
His eyes closed. His lips moved, as it were, in silent prayer. Again he looked out upon the two, who hung with streaming eyes above him. “Kiss me, Richard—and you, Frederica—dear children—I have loved you always. God be with you—and—me!” He was silent.
Our story here is ended. We need not follow Richard Coulter through the remaining vicissitudes of the war. Enough that he continued to distinguish himself, rising to the rank of major in the service of the state. With the return of peace, he removed to the farm-house of his wife’s parents. But for him, in all probability, the estate might have been forfeited; and the great love which the good old Dutchman professed for King George might have led to the transfer of his grant to some one less devoted to the house of Hanover. It happened, only a few months after the evacuation of Charleston by the British, that Felix Long, one of the commissioners, was again on a visit to Orangeburg. It was at the village, and a considerable number of persons had collected. Among them was old Frederick Sabb and Major Coulter. Long approached the old man, and, after the first salutation, said to him—“Well, Frederick, have we any late news from goot King Tshorge?” The old Dutchman started as if he had trodden upon an adder—gave a hasty glance of indignation to the interrogator, and turned away ex-claiming—“D—n King Tshorge! I don’t care dough I nebber more hears de name agen!”
AUDUBON’S BLINDNESS.
———
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
———
John James Audubon, the great American naturalist, has
entirely lost his sight. Newspaper Paragraph.
Blind—blind! yes, blind—those eyes that loved to look
On the bright pictures in great Nature’s book.
Quenched is that visual glory which arrayed
All the winged habitants of grove and glade,
And hill and prairie, in a garb as fair
As their own plumage stirred by golden air.
Alas! no more can he behold the beam
Of morning touch the meadow or the stream;
No more the noontide’s rays pervade the scene,
Nor evening’s shadows softly intervene,
But on his sense funereal Night lets fall
The moveless folds of her impervious pall.
But he shall wake! and in a grander clime,
With vales more lovely, mountains more sublime,
There shall he view, without a film to hide,
Delicious pastures, streams that softly glide,
Groves clothed in living greenness, filled with plumes
Bright as the dawn, and various as the blooms
With which the early Summer decks his bowers—
Gems all in motion, life-invested flowers.
Fairer than those, albeit surpassing fair,
His pencil painted with a skill so rare
That they, whose feet have never trod the far
And wondrous places where such creatures are,
Know all their beauty with familiar love—
From the stained oriole to the snow-white dove.
Blind—blind! Alas! he is bereft of light
Who gave such pleasure to the sense of sight.
His eyes, that, like the sun, had power to vest
All forms with color, are with darkness prest:
Sealed with a gloom chaotic like the deep;
Shut in by shadows like the realm of sleep.
Yet ’tis not meet to mourn a loss so brief—
A pain, to which time cannot yield relief—
But which Eternity must banish soon,
With beams more lustrous than the blaze of noon;
Yet softer than the evening is or morn,
When he to light immortal shall be born;
And with a vision purified behold
More than the prophets, priests and bards have told.
SONNETS.
———
BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.
———
LOVE’S SUNSET.
As shadows lengthen with the day’s declining,
Like troops of dusky spectres onward creeping,
Weaving swart stripes amid the golden shining
Where meadow, brook and moss-grown hill lie sleeping;
With murky fingers Nature’s sweet book closing—
Each bell and blossom and each three-leaved clover,
With stealthy march the sun’s glad sway deposing,
Till, widening, deepening, darkness shrouds earth over:
So, thy declining love casts o’er my spirit
Chill shadows, freezing all my soul’s warm giving,
Chill shadows, deadening all my soul’s best merit,
And making blackest night my brightest living:
A long, long, fearful night—that knows no morning,
Save in wild, glowing dreams, that speak thy love’s returning.
LOVE’S SUNRISE.
As shadows vanish with the dawn’s advancing,
Like things of evil fleeing from Truth’s whiteness,
The mem’ry of their dark spell but enhancing
The warmth and light of morning’s dewy brightness;
Their chill power over—with a glad awaking
Starts to new life each sleeping leaf and flower,
Each bird and insect into wild song breaking—
All Nature’s heart-pulse thrilleth to the hour:
Thus, my life’s sun—its glory all pervading—
Fuses my soul with daylight warm and tender;
Thus, all strange fears, my spirit darkly shading—
All doubtings flee from its excess of splendor:
Thus, through my inmost heart—like joy-bells ringing—
The birds and honey-bees of thy dear love come singing.
DOCTRINE OF FORM.
There is a connection natural and necessary between the forms and essences of things; some law which compels figure and faculty into correspondence; some tie which binds nature, function, and end to shape, volume, and intrinsic arrangement.
That a wheel must be circular, a lever inflexible, and a screw, wedge and inclined plane shall have a determinate form, is clearly a condition of adaptation to use; and because in machinery the arrangement of inert matter is thus essential to the action and aim of all contrivance and mutual adjustment of parts, we are apt to think configuration entirely a question of mechanical fitness, and indifferent to and independent of structures having no such office. But it is not so. Facts beyond number show that it has definite and fixed relation to substance universally, without limitation to a particular kind or sphere of use, or manner or purpose of being.
I. There are examples enough to prove that the fundamental law, connecting shape and arrangement with function, is stronger in the vital and spiritual than in the mechanical sphere, and even supercedes its settled order and method. An instance of this overruling force:—The elephant in general organization is a quadruped, eminently; but his sagacity rises so high above the ordinary level of brutes as to require the service of a proboscis, which is nearly equal in capabilities of use to the human hand. Furnished with a sort of finger at the extremity of this excellent instrument of prehension, he can draw a cork, lift a shilling piece from the ground, or separate one blade of grass from a number with dexterity and despatch. In this his eminence of intellect is indicated, for external instruments are in accurate relation to internal faculties, and considerable handicraft bespeaks a proportionately high range of mental power. Now observe how his organization differs from that of other quadrupeds, and approaches, against all the analogies of classification, toward the arrangements of the human form. He has the rudiments of five toes on each foot, shown externally by five toe-nails. This is one toe more than belongs to any beast below the monkey tribe. He has a kneepan on the hind leg, and the flexure of the limb is backward, like the human, and unlike other quadrupeds. The breast of the female is removed from its usual position upon the pelvis, to the chest or breast bone, as in the more elevated races; and all the organs of reproductive life correspond to those of the higher orders. All this is unexplained by any mechanical necessity or advantage, and is so far, in violation of the analogies of that lower constitution by which he is linked to the order of four footed animals. Of his internal organization I have no means of information within reach, but I am satisfied a priori that the human configuration and position of ports are approximated wherever the quadruped form and attitude leaves it possible. Comparative anatomists make great account of all instances of mechanical accommodations which they meet with, but they are in nothing so remarkable or so conspicuous as those which we are now noticing. They have the advantage of being understood, and are therefore much insisted upon; but the facts which we have given and hinted at are at once so striking and so conclusive, as to leave no doubt and no necessity for further proof of the preeminence of the law which they indicate.
II. In looking over the world of animal and vegetable forms there is nothing more remarkable than the continual sacrifice of strength to beauty, and of quantity or bulk to symmetry and shapeliness. Use seems postponed to appearance, and order, attitude and elegance take rank of quantity in the forms of things. I suppose that the law under consideration determines these conditions of structure; and that the beauty to which the sacrifice is credited, as an end and object, is only an incident; and, that the pleasure derived arises upon the felt correspondence of such forms with our faculties, innately adjusted to the harmonies of this universal law—in other words—that there is an intrinsic force of essence which compels organization, limits its dimensions, and determines its figure, and so, all substances take shape and volume from a law higher and more general than individual use and efficiency. Beauty, being but the name for harmony between faculty and object, may well serve as a rule of criticism, but the efficient cause which determines form lies deeper; it lies, doubtless, in the necessary relation of organization and essence—structure and use—appearance and office—making one the correspondent and exponent of the other in the innermost philosophy of signs.
The abrogation of a rule, and departure from an established method of conformation, belonging to a whole class of natural beings, in order to attain the forms and order of arrangement of another class into whose higher style of constitution the lower has been somewhat advanced, as in the case of the elephant; and, the clear evidence that mechanical perfection is everywhere in the human mechanism subordinated to a law of configuration, which has respect to another standard and a higher necessity—each, in its own way, demonstrates that form is not only a necessity of mechanics, but is still more eminently an essential condition of all substance. Facts from these sources hold a sort of raking position in the array of our argument, but the multitude and variety of examples which muster regularly under the rule are, of themselves, every way adequate to maintain it.
III. Our proposition (to vary the statement of it) is, that form, or figure, and, doubtless, dimension also, have a fixed relation to the special qualities and characters of beings and things, and that it is not indifferent in the grand economy of creation whether they be put into their present shapes or into some other; but, on the contrary, the whole matter of configuration and dimension is determined by laws which arise out of the nature of things.
In generals the evidence is clear, and it must, therefore, be true in the minutest particulars; for the law of aggregates is the law of individuals—the mass and the atom have like essential conditions. It is, indeed, difficult to trace facts into the inmost nature of things, and quite impossible to penetrate by observation as deep as principles lead by the process of mental investigation—so much more limited in the discovery of truth, even the truth of physics, are the senses than the reasoning faculties. We need, however, but open our eyes to see that the diversities of form among all created things are, at least, as great as their differences of character and use; and whether there be a determinate relation of appearance to constitution or not, there is at least an unlikeness of configuration or dimension, or of both, wherever there is unlikeness of quality; and that this difference of form thus commensurate with difference of constitution, is not merely a matter of arbitrary distinctiveness among the multifarious objects of creation, as names or marks are sometimes attached to things for certainty of reference and recognition, appears from such facts and considerations as follow—
1. All mineral substances in their fixed, that is, in their crystaline form, are angular with flat sides and straight edges. This is not only a general rule and an approximate statement, but exactly accurate and universal; for in the few instances of crystals occurring with convex or curvilinear faces, such as the diamond, it is known that their primary forms have plane or flat faces and a parallel cleavage—making the rule good against accidental influences and superficial appearances.
Here then we have a mode of configuration appropriate to and distinctive of one whole kingdom of nature.
2. In vegetables we have a different figure and characteristic conformation. Their trunks, stems, roots and branches are nearly cylindrical, and uniformly so, in all individuals clearly and completely within the class.
Soon as we enter the precincts of life curvature of lines and convexity of surface begin to mark the higher styles of existence, the law being that nothing which lives and grows by the reception and assimilation of food is angular, rectilinear or included within plane surfaces. Inert bodies take straight, but life assumes curve lines.
3. In animal forms the curve or life line is present of necessity, but it undergoes such modification and departure from that which marks vegetable existence as our law demands. We no longer have almost cylindrical simplicity of shape as the sign of character and kind, but, retaining curvity, which is common to vitality of all modes, we find the cylinder shaped or tapered toward the conical, with continually increasing approach to a higher style of configuration as we ascend toward a higher character of function.
In the human body all that belongs to the whole inferior creation is represented and reproduced, for man is logically a microcosm, and in his body we find the various orders of natural beings marked by their appropriate modes of construction and configuration—from a hair to a heart, the multifarious parts bring with them the forms native to their respective varieties of being.
The bones have in them the material of the mineral kingdom, and they have conformity of figure. In the short, square bones of the wrist, in the teeth, and several other instances, the flatness, straightness and angularity proper to crystalized matter, marks its presence as an element of the structure.
The correspondence of the vascular system with the forms proper to vegetation, is most striking. A good drawing of the blood vessels is a complete picture of a tree. Now, animals and vegetables differ widely in their manner of taking in food, but they are alike in the method and end of the distribution of the nutritious fluids, and between them the resemblance of form obtains only in this, as our law requires. There is nothing in trees, shrubs or grasses, that has any outline likeness to the esophagus, stomach or intestinal tube; nothing in them has any resemblance of office, and nothing, therefore, is formed upon their pattern. The roots of trees, which are the avenues of their principal aliment, are merely absorbing and circulating instruments—a sort of counterpart branches in function—and they have, therefore, what scientific people call the arborescent arrangement wherever they find it.
If it is answered here that a hydraulic necessity determines the general form of circulating vessels, and that certain immediate mechanical advantages belong to the cylindrical over the square or polygonal shape of tube, our point is not affected. We are showing, now, that the expected conformity never fails. It is essential to our position that mechanical requirements shall not over-rule the general law. The instance given is in accordance, and a presumption rises that even mechanical conformation itself is covered and accommodated by the great principle which we are illustrating. It is enough for us, however, that no facts contradict, though it be doubted whether all the instances cited afford us the expected support.
But, leaving the functions and organs, which belong to all living and growing beings in common, and entering the province of animal life and animal law proper, we everywhere observe a significant departure from the angular and cylindrical forms of the mineral and vegetable kingdoms, and an approach, in proportion to the rank and value of the organ and its use, toward an ideal or model, which is neither conical nor heart-shaped, exactly, but such a modification of them as carries the standard figure farthest from that uniformity of curve which marks a globe, from the parallelism of fibre which belongs to the cylinder, and from the flatness of base and sharpness of apex which bound the cone.
The limbs that take their shape from the muscles of locomotion, and the internal parts concerned in those high vital offices, of which minerals and vegetables are wholly destitute, are examples and proof of the configuration proper to the animal kingdom. The thigh, leg, arm, fore-arm, finger, the neck and shoulders, the chest, and the abdomen meeting it and resting on the pelvic bones, are felt to be beautiful or true to the standard form as they taper or conform to this intuitive life-type.
The glands are all larger at one end than the other, and those that have the highest uses are most conspicuously so, and have the best defined and most elegant contour. The descending grade of figure and function is marked by tendency to roundness and flatness. In the uses, actions and positions of these organs, there is nothing mechanical to determine their figure. The human stomach is remarkable for an elegance of form and conformity to the ideal or pattern configuration, to a degree that seems to have no other cause, and, therefore, well supports the doctrine that the importance of its office confers such excellence of shape. The facts of comparative anatomy cannot be introduced with convenience, but they are believed to be in the happiest agreement and strongest corroboration.
The heart, lungs and brain, are eminent instances of the principle. They hold a very high rank in the organization, and, while their automatic relations, uses and actions are toto coelo dissimilar, their agreement with each other in general style of configuration, and their common tendency toward the standard intimated, is most remarkable.
Their near equality of rank and use, as measured by the significance of form, over-rides all mechanical difference in their mode of working. The heart is, in office, a forcing pump or engine of the circulation. The lungs have no motion of their own, and the porosity or cellular formation of the sponge seems to be the only quality of texture that they require for their duty, which is classed as a process of vital chemistry. The brain differs, again, into a distinct category of function, which accepts no classification, but bears some resemblance to electrical action. Yet, differing thus by all the unlikeness that there is between mechanical, chemical and electro-vital modes of action, they evidently derive their very considerable resemblance of figure from their nearly equal elevation and dignity of service in the frame. This near neighborhood of use and rank allows, however, room enough for their individual differences and its marks. The heart is lowest of the three in rank, and nearest the regularly conical form. The lungs, as their shape is indicated by the cavity which they occupy, are more delicately tapered at their apex, and more oblique and variously incurvated at their base. And the brain, whether viewed in four compartments, or two, or entire, (it admits naturally of such division,) answers still nearer to the highest style and form of the life pattern; and with the due degree of resemblance, or allusion to it, in its several parts, according to their probable value; for the hemispheres are shaped much more conformably to the ideal than the cerebellum or the cerebral apparatus at the base of the brain, where the office begins to change from that of generating the nervous power to the lower service of merely conducting it out to the dependencies.
IV. Hitherto we have looked for proof and illustration only to well marked and clearly defined examples of the orders and kinds of things examined. But the borders of kingdoms and classes, the individuals which make the transitions, and the elements and qualities common to several provinces which link kind to kind and rank to rank, confess the same law, and even more nicely illustrate where, to superficial view, they seem to contradict it.
Every species of beings in the creation is a reproduction, with modifications and additions, but a real reproduction, in effect, of all that is below it in the scale; so that the simplest and the lowest continues and reappears in all, through all variety of advancement, up to the most complex and the highest; in some sense, as decimals include the constituent units, and hundreds include the tens, and other multiples of these embrace them again, until the perfect number is reached, if there be any such bound to either numerals or natures.
1. The rectilinear and parallel arrangement of parts proper to crystalization, which is the lowest plastic power of nature known to us, continues, proximately, in the stems and branches of vegetables. This will accord with our theory, if ascribed to the abundant mineral elements present in the woody fibre, and to its insensibility and enduring nature, as shown by its integral preservation for ages after death, to a degree that rivals the rocks themselves. But the stems of trees are not exactly cylindrical and their fibres are not quite parallel; for there is something of life in them that refuses the arrangement of dead matter. From root to top they taper, but so gradually that it is only decidedly seen at considerable distances or in the whole length.
2. A section of a timber tree shows a regular concentric arrangement of rings—the successive deposits of sequent years—and its cleavage proves that it has also a radiated disposition of fibres. In the flat bones of the head this same arrangement of parts obtains. The cartilaginous base of bone has a life of perhaps equal rank with that of the vegetable structure; it has its insensibility, elasticity, and durability at least, with scarcely any higher qualities; and the osseous deposit is thrown into figure and order similar to the ligneous.
3. The fruits, kernels, and seeds of plants, being the highest results of the vegetable grade of living action, and so bordering upon the sphere of animal existence, and even intruding into it, begin to take its proper forms, and they are spheroidal, oblate spheroids, conical exactly, ovoid, and even closely touch upon the heart-shaped; yet without danger of confusion with the forms distinctive of the higher style of life. This comparison, it must be remarked also, is between the fruits of one kind and the organic structures of the other, and not of organ with organ, which in different kinds shows the greatest diversity, but of spheres of existence immediately contiguous, and therefore closely resembling each other.
V. Of these forms the globular is probably the very lowest; and, accordingly, of it we have no perfect instance in the animal body, and no near approach to it, except the eye-ball, where mechanical law compels a rotundity, that muscle, fat, and skin seem employed to hide as well as move and guard, and, in the round heads of bones, where the ball and socket-joint is required for rotatory motion. But in both these cases the offices which the roundness serves are mechanical, and so, not exceptions to our rule. The perfectly spherical must rank as a low order of form, because it results from the simplest kind of force, mere physical attraction being adequate to its production, without any inherent modifying power or tendency in the subject. It is, accordingly, very repugnant to taste in the human structure; as, for instance, rotundity of body, or a bullet-head. Nothing of that regularity of curve which returns into itself, and might be produced upon a turning lathe, and no continuity of straight lines within the capacity of square and jack-plane, are tolerable in a human feature. Lips, slit with the straightness of a button-hole, or conical precision, or roly-poly globularity, would be equally offensive in the configuration of any feature of the face or general form. Cheek, chin, nose, brow, or bosom, put up into such rotundity and uniformity of line and surface, have that mean and insignificant ugliness that nothing can relieve. In raggedest irregularity there is place and space for the light and shade of thought and feeling, but there is no trace or hint of this nobler life in the booby cushiony style of face and figure. Nose and brows, with almost any breadth of angle; and chin, with any variety of line and surface, are better, just as crystalization, flat and straight and sharp as it is, nevertheless, seems to have some share in its own make and meaning, which rolls and balls cannot lay any claim to.
VI. But the law under consideration cannot be restrained to shape only. Dimension is also a result of intrinsic qualities, and must in some way and to some extent, indicate the character to which it corresponds. Druggists are so well aware of, and so much concerned with the difference in the size of the drops of different fluids, that they have constructed a table of equivalents, made necessary by the fact. Thus a fluid drachm of distilled water contains forty-five drops, of sulphuric ether one hundred and fifty, of sulphuric acid ninety, and of Teneriffe wine seventy-eight. So that the law is absolutely universal, however varied in expression, and a specific character in fluids and other parts of the inanimate world declares itself as decidedly in bulk or volume, as difference of constitution is shown by variety of figure in the living and sentient creation.
Among the crystals termed isomorphous by chemists, the dominant ingredient which is common to them all, controls the form, but difference of size answers sufficiently to the partial unlikeness of the other less active elements; and so in the instances of cubes and octahedrons formed of dissimilar minerals where difference of constitution is indicated by varied dimensions only.
VII. Crystal and crystal, and, drop and drop, are alike within the limits of the species, or their unlikeness, if there be any, is not appreciable to our senses, and scarcely conceivable though not absolutely impossible to thought; but we know certainly that clear individuality of character is everywhere pursued and marked by peculiarity of form and size throughout the entire universe.
While among minerals and fluids dissimilarity occurs obviously only between species, among plants it begins to be conspicuous between individuals, growing more and more so as observation ascends in the vegetable kingdom. Two stalks of grass may resemble each other as much as two crystals of the same salt, but timber trees grow more unlike, and fruit trees differ enough to make their identification comparatively easy. But it is in the animal kingdom, eminently, and with increasing distinctness as the rank rises, that individuals become distinguishable from each other; for it is here that diversity of character gets opportunity, from complexity of nature, freedom of generating laws, and varied influence of circumstances, to impress dissimilarity deepest and clearest. Crystals undergo no modification of state but instant formation and the sudden violence which destroys them. Vegetables pass through the changes of germination and growth, and feel the difference of soil, and winds, and temperature, and to the limits of these influences, confess them in color, size, and shape; but animals, endowed with acuteness of sense, enjoying locomotion, and related to all the world around them—living in all surrounding nature, and susceptible of all its influences—their individual differences know no limits, and they are universally unlike in appearance as in circumstances, training and character.
Even in the lower orders there is ample proof of this. The mother bird and beast know their own young; the shepherd and the shepherd’s dog know every one of their own flock from every other on all the hills and plains; and among the millions of men that people the earth, a quick eye detects a perfectly defined difference as broad as the peculiarity of character which underlies it.
Narrowness of relations and Simplicity of function are as narrowly restrained in range of conformation; Complexity makes proportionate room for difference; and Variety is the result, the sign, and the measure of Liberty.
Detailed illustrations of the law would interest in proportion to the range of the investigation; and gratification and delight would keep pace with the deepening conviction of its universality; but the limits of an essay restrain the discussion to mere hints and suggestions, and general statements of principles which reflection must unfold into formal demonstration for every one in his own department of observation.
Some inaccuracies of statement have been indulged to avoid the complexity which greater precision would have induced. Broad, frank thinking will easily bring up this looseness of language to the required closeness of thought as the advancing and deepening inquiry demands. Moreover, it may be difficult or impossible to meet every fact that presents itself with an instant correspondence in the alleged law; but such things cannot be avoided until people learn how to learn, and cease to meet novel propositions with a piddling criticism, or a wrangling spirit of controversy. Looking largely and deeply into facts in a hundred departments of observation will show the rule clear in the focal light of their concurrent proofs, or, looking out from the central position of a priori reasoning, it will be seen in every direction to be a necessary truth.
It would be curious, and more than curious, to trace ascent of form up through ascertained gradation of quality in minerals, plants, fruits, and animal structures; and it would be as curious to apply a criticism derived from this doctrine to the purpose of fixing the rank and relations of all natural beings—in other words, to construct a science of taste and beauty, and, striking still deeper, a science of universal physiognomy, useful at once as a law of classification, and as an instrument of discovery. The scale would range most probably from the globular, as the sign of the lowest character, through the regularly graded movement of departure which in nature fills up all the stages of ascending function from a drop of fluid to the model configuration of, perhaps, that cerebral organ which manifests the highest faculty of the soul.
The signs that substance and its states give of intrinsic nature and use, or the connection of configuration and function, are not understood as we understand the symbols of arithmetic, and the words of artificial language; that is, the symbols of our own creation answer to the ideas they are intended for, but the signs of the universal physiognomy of nature are neither comprehended fully, nor translated even to the extent that they are understood, into the formulÆ of science and the words of oral language. Many of them are telegraphed in dumb show to our instincts, to the great enlargement of our converse with nature, both sentient and inanimate; but still a vast territory of knowledge lies beyond the rendering of our intuitions, and remains yet unexplored by our understanding; a dark domain that has not been brought under any rule of science, nor yielded its due tribute to the monarch mind. We have no dictionary that shows the inherent signification of a cube, a hexagon, an octagon, circle, ellipse, or cylinder; no tables of multiplication, addition, subtraction, and division, which, dealing in forms and their equivalents, might afford the products, quotients, and remainders of their various differences and interminglings with each other. States, qualities, and attitudes of structure, contribute much of that natural language by which we converse with the animal world beneath us, and with the angel world within us, but it remains as yet instinctual, except so far only as the fine arts have brought it out of the intuitive and oracular into rule and calculation, nor have we any methodic calculus, universally available, by which these revelations of nature may be rendered into demonstrative truth ruled by scientific method.
It is conceivable that the form of every natural being is a full report of its constitution and use, but as yet, tedious and dubious chemical analysis, observation, and experiment are our directory to the hidden truth. In some things it is otherwise. We know perfectly a passion or emotion, and the meaning of the attitudes, colors, and forms of limb, person and feature which denote them; and the interior qualities of texture, also, as they are intimated to the sight and touch, lead us without reasoning, to definitive judgments of human character. Of animals, in their degree, we receive similar impressions and with equal conviction, but we know so little more about these things, than that we know them, that we can make no advantage of such knowledge beyond its most immediate purpose in our commerce with the living beings which surround us.
It remains, therefore, for mind to explore the philosophy of form, that all which lies implied in it, waiting but still undiscovered, may come out into use, and all that we instinctively possess of it may take a scientific method, and so render the service of a law thoroughly understood.
The principle gives us familiar aid every day, yet without revealing its own secret, in physiognomy, painting, statuary, architecture, and elocution. It is obeyed in all the impersonations of metaphor, fable and myth; it is active every instant in the creations of fancy, and supplies, so to speak, the material for all the structures of thought—ruling universally in the earth, and fashioning and peopling the heavens. To the most delicate movements of the imagination it gives a corresponding embodiment of beauty; and it helps, as well, to realize the monstrous mixtures of man and beast occurring in human character by the answering monstrosity of centaur, syren, sphinx, and satyr. The old Greek theology held that the eternal Divinity made all things out of an eternal matter, after the forms of eternal, self-subsisting patterns; a statement, in its utmost depth beyond the discovery of human faculties, certainly, but not too strong to express the universal prevalence of this law in the creation. To the human intellect all things must exist in space, bounded and determined by figure appropriate to the subject; in fact, we can conceive of nothing except under such conditions; and our doctrine but refers this necessity of mind to a primordial necessity of being, ranking it among the harmonies of existence, as an adaptation of sense, thought, and feeling to the correspondent truth in the constitution of the universe.
E.
———
BY R. T. CONRAD.
———
Quid me mortuum miserum vocas, qui te sum multo felicior? aut quid acerbi mihi putas contigisse?
Weep not for him! The Thracians wisely gave
Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave.
’Tis misery to be born—to live—to die:
Ev’n he who noblest lives, lives but to sigh.
The right not shields from wrong, nor worth from wo,
Nor glory from reproach; he found it so.
Not strong life’s triumphs, not assured its truth;
Ev’n virtue’s garland hides an aspic tooth.
His glorious morn was past, and past his noon;—
Life’s duty done, death never comes too soon.
Then cast the dull grave’s gloomy trappings by!
The dead was wise, was just—nor feared to die.
Weep not for him. Go, mark his high career;
It knew no shame, no folly and no fear.
More blest than is man’s lot his blameless life,
Though tost by tempests and though torn by strife.
’Neath the primeval forest’s towery pride,
Virtue and Danger watched his couch beside;
This taught him purely, nobly to aspire,
That gave the nerve of steel and soul of fire.
No time his midnight lamps—the stars—could dim;
His matin music was the cataract’s hymn;
His Academe the forest’s high arcade—
(To Numa thus Egeria blessed the shade;)
With kindling soul, the solitude he trod—
The temple of high thoughts—and spake with God:
Thus towered the man—amid the wide and wild—
And Nature claimed him as her noblest child.
Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came,
To lead him on, from field to field, to fame.
’Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo:
To shield young Freedom’s wild-wood homes he flew;
And—fire within his fortress, foes without,
The rattling death-shot and th’ infuriate shout—
He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath,
And war’s red game raged madliest, toyed with death;
Till spent the storm, and Victory’s youngest son
Glory’s first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won.
Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known
No field of fame he has not made his own:
In many a fainting clime, in many a war,
Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot’s car.
Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe
By oceanic Mississippi’s flow;
Or where the southern swamps, with steamy breath,
Smite the worn warrior with no warrior’s death;
Or where, like surges on the rolling main,
Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain;
Dawn—and the field the haughty foe o’erspread,
Sunset—and Rio Grande’s waves run red;
Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey
Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray;
Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak
How frail the fortress where the heart is weak;
How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy,
Men sternly knit and firm to do or die;
Or where, on thousands thousands crowding, rush
(Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush,
The long day paused on Buena Vista’s height,
Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright;
Till angry Freedom, hovering o’er the fray,
Swooped down, and made a new ThermopylÆ;—
In every scene of peril and of pain,
His were the toils, his country’s was the gain.
From field to field, and all were nobly won,
He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on:
New stars rose there—but never star grew dim
While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him.
The heart is ne’er a castaway; its gift
Falls back, like dew to earth—the soul’s own thrift
Of gentlest thoughts by noblest promptings moved:
He loved his country, and by her was loved.
To him she gave herself, a sacred trust,
And bade him leave his sword to rest and rust;
And, awed but calm, nor timid nor elate,
He turned to tread the sandy stairs of state.
Modest, though firm; decided, cautious, clear;
Without a selfish hope, without a fear;
Reverent of right, no warrior now, he still
Cherished the nation’s chart, the people’s will;
Hated but Faction with her maniac brand,
And loved, with fiery love, his native land.
Rose there a foe dared wrong in her despite,
How eager leaped his soul to do her right!
Her flag his canopy, her tents his home—
The world in arms—why, let the armed world come!
Thus loved he, more than life, and next to Heaven,
The broad, bright land to which that life was given;
And, loving thus and loved, the nation’s pride,
Her hope, her strength, her stay—the patriot died!
Weep not for him—though hurried from the scene:
’Twill be earth’s boast that such a life has been.
Taintless his truth as Heaven; his soul sincere
Sparkled to-day, as mountain brooklets clear.
O’er every thought high honour watchful hung,
As broods the eagle o’er her eyried young.
His courage, in its calmness, silent, deep,
But strong as fate—Niagara in its sleep;
But when, in rage, it burst upon the foe—
Niagara leaping to the gulf below.
His clemency the graceful bow that, thrown
O’er the wild wave, Heaven lights and makes its own.
His was a spirit simple, grand and pure,
Great to conceive, to do and to endure;
Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child,
Rich in love’s affluence, merciful and mild.
His sterner traits, majestic and antique,
Rivaled the stoic Roman or the Greek;
Excelling both, he adds the Christian name,
And Christian virtues make it more than fame.
To country, youth, age, love, life—all were given;
In death, she lingered between him and Heaven;
Thus spake the patriot in his latest sigh,
“My duty done—I do not fear to die.”
Weep not for him; but for his country, tost
On Faction’s surges: “think not of the lost,
But what ’tis ours to do.”[2] The hand that stayed,
The pillar that upheld, in dust are laid;
And Freedom’s tree of life, whose roots entwine
Thy fathers’ bones—will it e’er cover thine?
Root, rind and leaf a traitor tribe o’erspread;
Worms sap its trunk and tempests bow its head.
But the land lives not, dies not, in one man,
Were he the purest lived since life began.
Upon no single anchor rests our fate:
Millions of breasts engird and guard the state.
Yet, o’er each true heart, in the nation’s night,
Will Taylor’s memory rise, a pillared light;
His lofty soul will prop the patriot’s pride,
His virtues animate, his wisdom guide.
Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild,
Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child,
In sordid cunning or insensate wrath,
Scattering its quivering limbs along her path—
Ev’n Faction, at his name, will cower away,
And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day.
Then up to duty! true, as he was true;
As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do;
Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb,
And up to duty: but weep not for him!
“PSYCHE LOVES ME.”
———
BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
———
I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor,
No crowd of sycophants to siege my door;
But fortune in one thing at least is tender—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?
I have no fame, nor to the height of honor
Will my poor name on tireless pinions soar;
Yet Fate has never drawn my hate upon her—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?
I have no station, know no high position,
And never yet the robes of office wore;
Yet I can well afford to scorn ambition—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?
I have no beauty—beauty has forsworn me,
On others wasting all her charming store;
Yet I lack nothing now which could adorn me—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?
I have no learning—in nor school nor college
Could I abide o’er quaint old tomes to pore;
But this I know which passeth all your knowledge—
That Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?
Now come what may, or loss or shame or sorrow,
Sickness, ingratitude or treachery sore,
I laugh to-day and heed not for the morrow—
For Psyche loves me—and I ask no more.
TO THE LOST ONE.
———
BY DUNCAN MOORE.
———
Vale et Benedicite.
In joy we met; in anguish part;
Farewell, thou frail, misguided one!
Young Hope sings matins in thy heart,
While dirges ring in mine alone,
Solemn as monumental stone.
Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine;
Thy hope all flowers; mine bitter fruit,
For hope but blossoms to repine;
It seldom hath a second shoot;—
A shadow that evades pursuit.
Though poets are not prophets here,
Yet Time must pass and you will see,
While o’er dead joys you drop the tear,
This world is one Gethsemane
Where all weep—die—still dream to be.
Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart,
But Time spares not the flowers of Spring;
The birds that sang there soon depart,
And leave God’s altar withering—
Flowerless and no bird to sing.
God pronounced all things good in Eden;
Young Adam sang—not knowing evil,
Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden,
And made himself to Eve quite civil.—
Did he tempt her, or she the devil?
True, she made Eden Adam’s heaven;—
Also the green earth Adam’s hell;
Tore from his grasp all God had given;
Cast him from bliss in sin to dwell;
To make her food by his sweat and blood.
Then what should man from woman hope,
Who hurled from Paradise his sire?
Her frailty drew his horoscope,
And barred the gates of heaven with fire;
Changed God’s intent for her desire.
And what should she from man expect
Who slew his God her soul to save?
A dreary life of cold neglect;—
For Eden lost;—a welcome grave,
Where kings make ashes with the slave!
A welcome grave! man’s crowning hope!
All trust from dust we shall revive;
Despite our gloomy horoscope,
Incarnadined God will receive
His children who slew him to live.
A frail partition but divides
Your husband from insanity;
He stares as madness onward strides
To crush each spark of memory—
I gave you all—this you give me!
Vale et Benedicite.
COQUET versus COQUETTE.
———
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
———
Benedict. One woman is fair; yet I am well:
another is wise; yet I am well: another virtuous;
yet I am well: but till all graces be in one woman,
one woman shall not come in my grace.
Much Ado About Nothing.
Princess. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
Rosaline. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
That same Biron I’ll torture ere I go.
How will I make him fawn, and beg, and seek;
And wait the season, and observe the times,
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes;
And shape his service wholly to my behests;
And make him proud to make me proud that jests!
So portent-like would I o’ersway his state
That he should be my fool, and I his fate.
Love’s Labor Lost.
