Chapter V (2)

Reader, did you ever listen to the sympathetic vibrations of a musical string? Place in the corner of your room a guitar--it matters not if it have but a single string, that alone is sufficient for the experiment--then, sitting at some distance from it, sing, shout, or play upon some loud-toned instrument, or, beginning at the foot of the chromatic scale, sound, round and full, each semitone in succession and at separate intervals. The instrument is mute to every note until you strike the one to which the guitar string is attuned; then indeed, the spirit of melody imprisoned within the musical string recognizes its kindred sound, and springs sweetly forth to meet it. You pause, and a low, sweet strain sighs softly through the room, as if a zephyr had swept the string, dying gently away like the faintest breathing of the evening breeze. Repeat the note, and louder than at first, and again its counterpart replies, swelling higher than before, as if in gentle remonstrance that you should deem it necessary to call again to that which has already replied.

Even so it is with these hidden faculties or susceptibilities of which I have been speaking. In the notes of witching music, in the numbers of poesy, in the sight of beauty, either of nature or of art, either æsthetic or moral, these silent powers recognize a faint approximation to that beauty with which they will have to do in that world where they shall be called into action: they too recognize the kindred spirit, and, springing forward to meet it, vibrate in unison with the chord. But yet, restrained by their prison of clay, bound down by the immutable law which bids them wait their time, their great deep is but troubled, and while, from their swaying and surging, a delicious emotion spreads over the soul, filling the whole being with indescribable joy, it is an emotion which we cannot fathom, vague and undefined, at which we wonder even while we enjoy. To each and all of us the doors of heaven are closed for the present; we never have heard the songs of the celestial spheres, and how should we recognize their echo here on earth, even though that echo is swelling through our own hearts? And the sadness and yearning which such emotions invariably produce, may they not be the yearning for heaven's supernal beauty, and sadness for the chains which bar us from its full realization? Or is it the reflex of the struggles and the disappointment of that portion of the spirit which I have assigned as the mover of the emotion itself?

Carry still further the parallel of the vibrating string, and we shall illustrate the different _degrees_ of emotion. It is only by sounding a note in exact unison with that to which the string is attuned that we get the full force of the sympathetic vibration, which is more or less distinct according as we approach or depart from the keynote, till we reach the semitone above or below, when it ceases altogether. Even so do our emotions increase in exact proportion as the exciting cause approaches perfection--according as the beauty heard or seen or felt approaches the heavenly keynote. A simple ballad awakens a quiet pleasure, while the magnificent symphonies of Beethoven or Mozart fill the soul with a rapture with which the former feeling is no more to be compared than the brooklet with the ocean; for the latter is inexpressibly nearer to its heavenly model.

Carry out the theory to its legitimate result, and we shall see that if it were possible to produce, here on earth, music equal to that which rings through the celestial arches--if it were possible here to create beauty in any form, which should fully equal that which shall greet the freed spirit on its entrance into that better world, then indeed would our emotions reach their highest possible climax; then indeed should we hear and see and feel, not with the bodily senses, but with the senses of the soul; then would there be no vagueness, no sadness in the feeling as now, but clear and well defined would be our knowledge, comprehending all spiritual things. Then would our heaven be here on earth, and we should desire no other. Wisely has a great and merciful God thrown an impenetrable veil between the soul and its future belongings, and clipped its wings lest it soar too soon.

So much for a simple strain of music. A trifling matter, perhaps you will say, to make so much talk about. Not quite so trifling as you may think, however; for a single musical chord is a more important and complex thing than to the careless ear it would seem. Who ever cares to _study_ a single chord of music? And yet how few are there who know that it is composed of not three or four but a myriad of separate and distinct sounds, appreciable in exact proportion to the cultivation of the ear? The uncultivated ear perceives but the three or four primitive or fundamental notes of the chord, while, to the nicer perception, the more delicate susceptibility of the ear trained by long study and practice to analyze all musical sounds, come harmonic above harmonic, sounds of melody above, beneath, and beyond the few prime motors which act as the nucleus to the gush of tiny harmony which fills the ear--sounds clear and distinct, yet blending in perfect order and symmetry with their fundamental notes, and partaking so much of their character and following with such unerring certainty their direction as to become voiceless to the ear unskilled.

And why should this not be so? Is it not reasonable to suppose that the current of undulations in the atmosphere producing these united sounds should communicate its agitation in some degree to the circumambient air, creating thousands of delicate ramifications branching off in all possible directions from the main channel, yet all partaking of its peculiar character, and becoming in themselves separate sounds, yet consonant and harmonious?

Ah! could we but _see_ the vibrations of the atmosphere which a single musical chord produces--the rolling bass, the gliding alto, the sweeping soprano, and the soaring tenor, rolling onward in one broad channel of harmony, with its myriad tributary streams of thirds and fifths, and its curling, twinkling, shifting, blending, soaring mists of delicate-toned harmonics, how would our enjoyment of music be enhanced! how would both eye and ear be delighted, enraptured with the poetry of motion, the harmony of sound, the eternal and indestructible order and concord and consonance of both sight and sound! But this is reserved for the experience of pure spirit--this is reserved to enhance the beauty of the celestial realm. Some day we shall see and hear and know it all--some day in that heavenly future, when the soul of man shall converse and praise and adore in one blended strain of æsthetic beauty, which shall contain within itself the essence of all music and poesy and enraptured sight.

Thinking thus earnestly about the soul, one comes naturally to speculate upon the question of the spirit's return to earth after its final departure from the body. It is a beautiful belief that the souls of our departed friends are permitted to hover around us here on earth, watching all our outgoings and incomings, sympathizing in all our joys and sorrows, mourning over our transgressions, and rejoicing at our good deeds--in a word, acting the parts of guardian angels. And there are many, even in our day, who hold such a faith. Yet it is a belief founded in imagination and poetic ideas of beauty, rather than in sober truth either of reason or of revelation. The strongest argument I have ever heard against this belief is contained in the remark of a poor old English peasant. 'Sir,' said he, 'I doan't believe the speerits can come back to us; for if they go to the good place, they doan't want to come back 'ere again; and if they goes to the bad place, why God woan't let 'em.' There was more philosophy in the remark than he knew of, and I have not yet found the philosopher who did not stagger under it.

But there is another view of the subject. I hold that the bodily senses can only perceive material things; and the spirit spiritual things; and hence, that, admitting the actual presence of disembodied spirits, neither could we perceive them, nor they us, as material bodies. They might, indeed, perceive the souls within us, but could only be cognizant of our actions as those of pure spirit; while we, blinded by the impenetrable screen of the body, would be debarred of even this recognition.

For through only three of the bodily senses--sight, hearing, and feeling--have the boldest of so-called spiritualists dared to attempt the proof of their doctrine. To begin with the latter, the essential quality of the sense of feeling is _resistance_, without which there can be no perception. And what is resistance? In one class of cases it is simply the _vis inertiæ_ of matter: in the other and only remaining one, the opposition of some material matter to the force of gravity. Even the perception of the lightest zephyr depends upon the resistance of the atmosphere. Does spirit possess this quality of resistance? The argument on this head is closed the moment the distinction is made between material things and spiritual.

If the wave theory of light and sound be correct--and it is so generally accepted that few writers dare risk their reputations in the defence of any other--the senses of sight and hearing come, for the purposes of this argument, in the same category. Nothing can affect the ear which is not capable of producing vibration in the atmosphere, which may be considered, in comparison with pure spirit, a material substance. Here again the argument is clinched by the mere distinction between matter and spirit, the one being the very antipodes of and incapable of acting upon the other.

Natural science tells us that the white light of the sun is composed of the seven colors of the spectrum in combination, which colors may be readily separated by the refraction of the prism. All objects possess, in a greater or less degree, the power of decomposing light and absorbing colors. Now a ray of sunlight falling upon any given object is in a measure decomposed, a portion of its integral colors is absorbed, and the remainder or complementary colors thrown off--reflected upon the eye, producing by their combination what we call the color of the object. Thus, a ray thrown upon a pure white object is absorbed not at all, but wholly reflected as it came, and the consequence is the proper combination upon the retina of all the colors, producing--a white object. On the contrary, a ray falling upon what we call a _black_ object, is wholly absorbed, and the consequence is a total absence of light, or blackness. So a red object absorbs all the orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet of the sunlight, reflecting upon the eye only the red, which is perceived as the color of the object. And so on through all the combinations of the spectrum. Only material substances can either absorb or reflect: therefore is spirit again excluded; for how can it act upon the eye save through those agencies with reference to which the eye itself was constructed, and which, as we have shown, it cannot possibly affect? To sum up the whole argument in a single sentence, the physical senses are dependent, for their perceptions, entirely upon the action of matter, and hence spirit, which is not matter, can in no way affect them.

But here we are met by the record of Holy Writ, which declares that in those former times spirits did often appear to men. Aye! and so there were miracles in those days. But all these things are done away with. Moreover did not those spirits find it necessary in every case to clothe themselves with the image of some _living form_ in order to make themselves perceptible to human eyes? So that it was really the form within which the spirit was ensconced that was perceived, and not the spirit itself. And how shall we know what _gases_ of the physical world these spirits were permitted, through a special interposition of the Deity and for the furtherance of His divine ends, to assemble together into a concrete form for their temporary dwelling and as a medium through which to communicate with man? And who is so irreverent as to suppose that God would now, in these days, give spirits special permission to return to earth and take upon themselves such forms for the mere purpose of tipping tables and piano-fortes, rapping upon doors, windows, and empty skulls, misspelling their own names, and murdering Lindley Murray, and performing clownish tricks for the amusement of a gaping crowd?

But whence arises this great delusion? Simply from our total lack of knowledge of the glory of that heaven upon which we all hope to enter. 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the imagination of man to conceive' the glory of God, the splendor, the magnificence, the supernal beauty of the Celestial. We know indeed that we shall enter upon a world whose immensity, whose sublimity, whose awful beauty shall far surpass the experience of man; but not even the wildest imagination, fed by all the knowledge that astronomers have gained of world beyond world, and system beyond system, of spheres to which our world is but a speck, and of fiery meteors and whizzing comets sweeping their way with the speed of thought for thousands of years through planet-teeming space--not even such an imagination, in its farthest stretch, is able to conceive the glory of that dwelling place which shall be ours. If to-day we were permitted to peer but for a moment into that heavenly abode, then should we see how impossible, to the soul which has once entered upon that beatific state, would be a thought of return to this grovelling earth. There their aspirations are ever upward and onward toward the Great White Throne, with no thought for the things left behind, even were there not a 'great gulf fixed' between earth and heaven.

And how often do we hear the opinion expressed that the souls of the just do pass, 'in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,' from the things of earth to the full burst of heavenly beauty and sublimity, shooting like the lightning's flash from its prison house of clay to the presence of its God. Reasoning from analogy, which, in this connection, where both experience and revelation are dumb, is the only basis we can rest upon, such a passage would be to the soul instant annihilation; the shock would be too great for even its enlarged susceptibilities. It must become gradually accustomed to the new sights and sounds, and so pass slowly up from one stage of perception and knowledge to another in regular gradation, to the climax of its revelation.

Reader, did you ever come suddenly from a darkened room into the full blaze of noonday? In such a case the eye is dazzled, blinded for a moment, and must gradually accommodate itself to the unaccustomed light before its gaze can be clear and steady. So, too, the ear long shut up in profound silence is deafened by an ordinary sound. Even so the soul, suddenly entering upon the unaccustomed and stupendous sights and sounds of the spiritual world, would be blinded, dazzled, as I have said, to annihilation. It is necessary that its newly awakened faculties, which during its long earthly life have lain in a comatose state, should not be too suddenly called into action, lest they be overpowered by the awful revelation. Like the bodily senses, they require time and gentle though steadily increasing action to develop them, and assimilate them to their new surroundings in their new field of action.

And this is my theory. The soul, when freed from the body, floats gently upward, _deaf_, _dumb_, and _blind_--paralyzed, as it were, into a state of neutral existence. Splendid sights may spread around it, wave after wave of eternal sound may roll in upon it, but it sees not, hears not, feels not, not having yet acquired the new faculties of perception. After a certain space of time--which may be days or weeks or months in duration--through its secret chambers steals a thrill of sentient emotion; it recognizes its own existence, and the dawn of that eternal life for which it was created. Slowly one sight after another begins faintly to glimmer before it, as objects emerge from the gloom of some darkened cell to eyes that are becoming accustomed to the darkness. Anon, low, faint murmurs of sound steal in upon it, far distant at first, but gradually swelling as it approaches, till at last, around the freed spirit peals the full orchestral glory of eternity. And so it goes on, passing slowly from stage to stage, apprehending new sights, new sounds, and comprehending new truths. And so it shall go on, through all the cycles of eternity, constantly approaching nearer to the Godhead, yet never to become God.

Do you ask me how can these things be? Let us draw an illustration from nature. The science of acoustics tells us that an organ pipe of a certain length gives forth the deepest, or as musicians would say, the _lowest_ sound that art can produce; that all beyond this given length is nothingness, and gives out no sound. What shall we say then? that doubling the length of the tube destroys the vibration of the imprisoned air? Nay, verily, the air still vibrates, sound is still produced, but _the note is below the gamut of the natural ear_, which was created to comprehend only sounds within a certain compass: its capacity goes no farther, and any sound pitched either above or below that compass we cannot perceive. In proof of this is the simple fact that a cultivated ear--that is, an ear of enlarged capacity, can readily catch the faintest harmonics of a guitar, to which others are totally deaf.

Again: I have stood by the Falls of Niagara, and listened in vain for that deep, unearthly roar of which so much has been written and sung. The rush and the gurgle of the waters was there, the sweeping surge of the mighty river, but Niagara's hollow roar was absent. Again and again my ears were stretched to catch the awful sound, till the effort became almost painful, but in vain. And yet the sound was present, ay! eternally present, but the note was just beyond the gamut of my ear. Standing thus for some moments, gazing and listening with the most earnest attention, nature, through her hidden laws, wrought a miracle in my person. The long-continued strain enlarged the capacity of the ear, even as the muscles of the arm are strengthened by frequent and energetic action, or as a faculty of the mind itself is developed by exercise. Lower and lower sank the scale of my aural conceptions, till, as it approached the keynote of the cataract, a low murmur began to steal in upon me, deeper than the deepest thunder tones, and seemingly a thousand miles distant. Louder and louder it swelled, nearer and nearer it approached as the hearing faculty sank downward, till the keynote was reached, and then--the rush and gurgle of the waters was swept away, and in its place resounded the awful tones of earth's deepest _basso profundo_. Then for the first time I realized the terrible sublimity of Niagara--the voice of God speaking audibly through one of the mightiest works of His creation.

And as, musing, I moved away from the appalling scene, the thought rushed into my mind that perhaps my experience of a few moments might be that of the soul when entering upon the sublimities of the future state. Hence my theory, which may go for what it is worth, or, as the Yankees would say, is 'good for what it will bring.'

Reader, do you never feel an intense longing to live over again the scenes of your youth? to begin at some certain period long gone by, and taste again the sweets that have passed away forever? It is one of the bitterest feelings of the heart that years are slipping away from us one by one; that the delights of our youth have gone, never to return, and that we 'shall not look upon their like again;' that the days are fast coming on when we shall say we have no pleasure in them, and that we are rapidly verging upon the 'lean and slippered pantaloon.' Were there any future rejuvenation, when we might stand again upon the threshold of life and look over its fair fields with all the joy and hope of anticipation, old age would lose all its dreariness, and become but a brief though painful pilgrimage through which we were to pass to joy beyond. But since this can never be, old age is the rust which dims the brightness of every earthly joy, and is looked forward to by youth only with a shudder.

Hundreds of bold and daring navigators have left their bones to whiten amid the snows and ice of the arctic regions, lured thither by the thirst of fame or of knowledge, in the pursuit of science, and in search of the Northwest Passage. But suppose some more fortunate adventurer should discover there, even at the very pole itself, a veritable 'fountain of youth and beauty,' whose rejuvenating waters could restore the elasticity of youth to the frame of age, smoothing away its wrinkles, and imprinting the bloom of childhood upon its cheeks, bringing back the long-lost freshness and buoyancy to the soul; would not the navigators of those dangerous seas be multiplied in the ratio of a million to one? Should we not all become Ponce de Leons, braving every danger, submitting to every privation, sacrificing wealth, fame, everything, in quest of the precious boon? What a hecatomb of mouldering bones would bestrew those fields of ice! For though not one in ten thousand might reach the promised goal, the hegira would still go on till the end of time, each deluded mortal hoping that he might be that happy, fortunate one. As the dying millionnaire would give all that he possesses for one moment of time, so would all mankind throw every present blessing into the scale, in the hope of drawing the prize in that great lottery.

There is a fountain of youth and beauty open to every soul beneath the sun: there is a rejuvenation both to soul and body, which shall not only restore all the freshness of the bygone days, but also the joys of the past, a thousandfold brighter and dearer, and that by a process which will not need repeating, for that youth will be eternal. I am using no metaphor now, but speaking of that which is actual and tangible. There is such a fount, but not here: it gushes in the courts of that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For the soul, at the moment of its separation from the body, enters upon a new life, whose course shall be exactly the reverse of that of earth, for it shall constantly increase in all the attributes of youth. There will be no dimming of the faculties, but a continual brightening; no grieving over an irrecoverable past, but a constant rejoicing over joys present and to come. There will be no past there, but a present more tangible than this, which is ever slipping from us, and a future far brighter and more certain than any that earth can afford. Strange that men should fail to look at heaven in this light! For thoughtless youth, to whom the world is new and bright, and pleasure sparkles with a luring gleam, there is some little palliation for neglect of the things of heaven; but what shall we say of him who has passed the golden bound, for whom all giddy pleasures have lost their glow, and nought remains but the cares and anxieties of life? Of what worth is earthly pleasure to him who has already drained its cup to the dregs? Of what worth is wealth and honor to the frame that has already begun to descend the slope of time? All these baubles would be gladly sacrificed for the return of that youth which has passed away; and shall they not be given up for that eternal youth which shall not pass away? We mourn for departed loved ones, but what would be our grief and despair if death were annihilation--if we knew that we should never meet them again in all eternity? But we feel that in heaven the olden love shall be renewed; that the forms that now are mouldering in the dust shall be recognized and greeted there, and that the friendships created here shall ripen there in close companionship through never-ending cycles; and thus is death robbed of half its terrors.

But the way to this fount is through a straight and narrow gate, and 'few there be who find it.'

Alas! how unsatisfactory are even the choicest blessings of life! Wealth brings only care, and the millionnaire toils all his life for--his food and clothes and lodging; dies unregretted, and is soon forgotten. Honor brings not content, and does but increase the thirst it seeks to assuage. The poor and the unknown are generally happier than the wealthy and famous. 'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity and vexation of spirit;' and what was true of human nature when 'the preacher' wrote, is true to-day. Admit that life is but a succession of pleasures that can never pall, and the world one vast Elysian field, and that the care of the soul requires the abnegation of every delight, and spreads a gloomy pall over all the brightness of earth; yet even in that case, a life wholly devoted to spiritual interests were but a weary, temporary pilgrimage, which we should gladly endure for a season, in the hope of the golden crown and never-ending bliss in the world beyond, could we but look upon the future life in the light of _reality_. Ah! there is the difficulty, for we are 'of the earth earthy,' and, although we may fervently _believe_, cannot comprehend, cannot _realize_ eternity. To too many Christians of the present day eternity, heaven, God, are not a tangible reality, but rather a poetic dream, floating in the atmosphere of faith, but which their minds cannot grasp. Hence they worship an idea rather than a reality.

The noblest pleasures of life, in fact the only real, permanent, exalting, and, I might add, _developing_ pleasures, are divided into two classes, those of the heart, and those of the intellect. Yet both, though different in their action, spring from the same central truth.

The happiest man is he whose life is spent in doing good, seeking no other reward than the gratification of beholding the true happiness of his fellow beings. His pleasures are of the heart, and he only is the true Christian of our day and generation. For he who so ardently loves his fellow men cannot but love his God.

The pleasures of the intellect can never pall, but do constantly increase and brighten, because in them the soul enters its native province and acts in that sphere which is its own for all eternity. Yet how do they all lead the mind up to its great Creator! Not a single discovery in science, not an investigation of the simplest law of nature, not an examination of the most insignificant bud or flower or leaf; and, above and beyond all, not an inquiry in the great truths of morals, of ethics, of religion, or of the very constitution of the mind itself, but at once, and in the most natural consequence, reveals the power and the goodness of God--brings God himself as clearly before us as he _can_ be manifested to our fettered souls. Yet if these pleasures too were but temporary, if they were to pass from our sight with all our other earthly surroundings, the pursuit of them would but beget disgust and discontent, and they would be classed with the fragile things which awaken no feelings of awe, nor enhance the glory of the soul. But thank God! they will endure forever. Truth is eternal--its origin is coeval with the Creator, and, like Him, it shall have no end.

Hence all real pleasure is from God himself, and leads directly back to him again. And he who, appreciating the truest joy of existence here, makes such themes his study, should and will seek the only prolongation of those delights which shall carry them alone of all life's blessings with him across the dark river, in the worship and adoration of that omnipotent Being from whose hand these gifts descend, who alone can perpetuate them when time shall have passed away--that God who 'doeth all things well.'

LITERARY NOTICES.

CHAPLAIN FULLER: Being a Life Sketch of a New England
Clergyman and Army Chaplain. By Richard F. Fuller. Boston: Walker,
Wise & Co., 245 Washington street.

"I must do something for my country."

A remarkable record of a remarkable man. A distinguished member of a distinguished family, a gentleman, scholar, patriot, hero, and Christian, bravely dying for humanity and country--such was Arthur B. Fuller.

It would be impossible, in the few lines allotted to editorials, to give any just idea of the exceeding interest and merit of this sketch. A. B. Fuller, under peculiar circumstances of emergency and danger, _volunteered_ to cross the Rappahannock, December 11, 1862. It was of great importance then to prove that the Federal army was composed of strong and patriotic hearts, and he was revered and idolized by our brave soldiers. 'It was a duty which could not be required of him. And for one of his profession to consistently engage in this enterprise would prove his strong conviction that it was a work so holy, so acceptable to God, that even those set apart for sanctuary service might feel called to have a hand in it. His prowess, brave as he was, was nothing; it was not his unpractised right _arm_, but his _heart_ which he devoted to the service, and which would tell on the result, not merely of that special enterprise, nor of that battle only, but, by affording a powerful proof of love of country outweighing considerations of safety and life, would have the influence which a living example, and only a living example, can have.' He knew the full amount of the danger to be encountered, and, being of a race which numbers no cowards among them, he steadily looked it in the face. Captain Dunn says: 'We came over in boats, and were in advance of the others who had crossed. We had been here but a few minutes when Chaplain Fuller accosted me with his usual military salute. He had a musket in his hand, and said: 'Captain, I must do something for my country. What shall I do?' I replied that there never was a better time than the present, and he could take his place on my left. I thought he could render valuable aid, because he was perfectly cool and collected. Had he appeared at all excited, I should have rejected his services, for coolness is of the first importance with skirmishers, and one excited man has an unfavorable influence upon others. I have seldom seen a person on the field so calm and mild in his demeanor, evidently not acting from impulse or martial rage.

'His position was directly in front of a grocery store. He fell in five minutes after he took it, having fired once or twice. He was killed instantly, and did not move after he fell. I saw the flash of the rifle which did the deed.'

'He died, but to a noble cause
His precious life was given!
He died, but he has left behind
A shining path to heaven!'

His labors as a pastor were devout, humane, and full of self-abnegation. No single line of sectarianism blurs with its bitterness this fair record of a blameless life, devoted from its earliest days to God and country. 'Better still give up our heart's blood in brave battle than give up our principles in cowardly compromise! I must do something for my country!' Bold and brave words of Arthur B. Fuller's, which he sealed in his blood! This 'life sketch' is published in the hope that it may be of advantage to the family of the chaplain, to whose benefit its pecuniary avails are devoted. And shame would it be to the heart of this great nation if this record of a brave, true man were not thoroughly accepted by it. May the good seed of it be sown broadcast through our land, planting the germs of patriotism, self-sacrifice, virtue, and Christian faith in every heart.

We earnestly commend the book to our readers. May the high estimation in which this Christian hero is held by the country of his love soothe in some degree the anguish of his bereaved family!

A FIRST LATIN COURSE. By William Smith, LL.D. Edited by H.
Drisler, A.M. 12mo, pp. 186. Harper & Brothers.

This is an elementary class-book, and the name of the profound scholar standing upon its title-page will at once commend it to all intelligent teachers. It is the first of a series intended to simplify the study of the Latin language, in which will be combined the advantages of the older and modern methods of instruction. The experienced author has labored, by a philosophical series of repetitions, to enable the beginner to fix declensions and conjugations thoroughly in his memory, to learn their usage by the constructing of simple sentences as soon as he commences the study of the language, and to accumulate gradually a stock of useful words. This is, surely, the only method to make a dead language live in the mind of a pupil.

A TEXT-BOOK OF PENMANSHIP, containing all the established
rules and principles of the art, with rules for Punctuation,
Direction, and Forms for Letter Writing: to which are added a brief
History of Writing, and Hints on Writing Materials, &c., &c., for
Teachers and Pupils. By H. W. Ellsworth, teacher of Penmanship in
the public schools of New York city, and for several years teacher
of Bookkeeping, Penmanship, and Commercial Correspondence in
Bryant, Stratton & Co.'s Chain of Mercantile Colleges. D. Appleton
& Co., New York.

Those accustomed to the wearisome labor of deciphering illegible handwriting will welcome the appearance of any 'standard text-book enabling all to become tolerable writers.' What a desideratum! Let the disappointment over manuscripts frequently rejected, simply because illegible, and the despair of printers, tell. The book before us seems well adapted to attain the end it proposes. The writer says: 'This work is no creation of a leisure hour, but a careful elaboration of _practical_ notes, taken in the midst of active duties. The materials of which it is made are facts, not embodied in our school books, which it appeared important for all to know, together with conclusions drawn from them, and answers to questions of practical interest, which have arisen in the course of my school and after experience, to which no books within ordinary reach could afford satisfactory explanation. These facts and observations have gradually accumulated till it has occurred to me that a compilation of them, properly arranged, might prove as acceptable to other inquirers as such a work would have been to myself.'

This book is full of valuable information in all that relates to the abused and neglected art of penmanship, and we cordially recommend it to schools, teachers, and pupils.

ANNETTE; OR, THE LADY OF THE PEARLS. By Alexander Dumas
(the younger), author of 'La Dame aux Camelias; or, Camille, the
Camellia Lady.' Translated by Mrs. W. R. A. Johnson. Frederick A.
Brady, publisher and bookseller, 24 Ann street, New York.

A novel in the Eugene Sue, Dumas, father and son, style. The plot is complicated, and the translation flowing and spirited. The novels of this school are peculiar. No sense of right and wrong ever seems to dawn upon their heroes or heroines; no intimations of an outraged Decalogue ever add the least embarrassment to the difficulties of their position. The events grow entirely out of human incidents, passions, and interests--conscience has no part to play in the involved drama. After passing through seas of _naïve_ intrigue and _innocent_ vice, we are quite astonished at the close of 'The Lady of the Pearls' to be landed upon a short moral.

POLITICAL FALLACIES: An Examination of the False
Assumptions, and Refutation of the Sophistical Reasonings, which
have brought on this Civil War. By George Junkin, D.D., LL.D. New
York: Chas. Scribner, 124 Grand street. 1863.

Dr. Junkin is one of the noble band of patriots who have preferred leaving friends, comfortable homes, and honorable positions, to ceding self-respect, and polluting conscience by yielding to the tyrannical requisitions of local prejudice or usurped authority. He is the father-in-law of 'Stonewall' Jackson, and, during twelve years, was President of Washington College, Lexington, Va. In May, 1861, he left that institution and came North. Rebellion had entered the fair precincts of learning, misleading alike young and old, and prompting to acts incompatible with the president's high sense of duty and loyalty. No course was left him but to resign. His book is a clear and upright examination into the so-called 'right of secession, and, while there are some minor points one might feel inclined to discuss, the main arguments are so ably, truthfully, and yet kindly advanced, that we heartily recommend the book to the perusal of all desirous of obtaining sound views on the much-mooted questions of the authority of legitimate government, and the proper understanding of State and National rights. The eighteenth chapter contains some home truths for those who think that religion, consequently Christian morality, has nothing to do with the rulers or the ruling of a great nation. Slavery has had its share in the production of the 'great rebellion,' but the slavery question would have been powerless to disrupt the Union had not erroneous and mischievous ideas been generally current, both South and North, regarding the source and meaning of government, its legitimate purposes, powers, and rights. While individual men have been striving to persuade themselves that, because they formed a certain minute portion of the governing power, they were hence at liberty to resist the lawful exercise of that power, the people--the real people--have gradually been losing their proper weight and authority, have been surrendering themselves, bound hand and foot, to noisy demagogues, petty cliques, or corrupt party organizations. How many examine facts, consider principles, and vote accordingly? How few are willing to step out of the narrow circle of prejudice or mediocrity surrounding them, and bestow responsible places on those whose integrity and ability seem best fitted to attain the nobler ends proposed by all human government? It may be that corruption, loose notions on the duties of citizenship, love of luxury, and grovelling materialism are even now sources of greater danger to the republic than civil war and threatened dissolution. Such works as that of Dr. Junkin are valuable as assisting to open the eyes of the community to certain popular fallacies, and teach the broad distinction ever subsisting between right and wrong.

* * * * *

THE DEMOCRATIC LEAGUE.--Amongst all the papers and pamphlets issued from the press during our present war, none, perhaps, have exercised a more salutary influence than those emanating from this association. The article entitled SLAVERY AND NOBILITY vs. DEMOCRACY was originally published in this periodical for July, 1862. Pronounced by critics to be among the best magazine articles ever appearing in print, it commanded a very marked attention as an exposition of the atrocious motives that underlaid the great Southern rebellion. The public mind was startled at the developed evidence of a great conspiracy to subvert the fundamental principles of free government in the South. The coalition between the conspirators of the South and their allies amongst the aristocracy of England was laid bare, whilst a great portion of the English press and reviews was shown to be suborned into the service of the most atrocious objects and purposes that ever disgraced the annals of civilization. This article, whilst it elucidated to our own countrymen the secret motives of the rebellion, assisted powerfully to bring a new phase over a perverted English public opinion. The result has been that the vitiated disposition of the English aristocracy to assist the rebels, through intervention, has slunk away before British morality, and is now seen only in aid of piracy on our commerce.

Following this masterly production, the speech of Mr. Sherwood at Champlain was a renewed onslaught upon the anti-democratic coalition. In this speech the most irrefragable evidence, drawn from the recitals in the records of treason, is produced against the conspirators. The perusal of this speech leaves the mind in no doubt as to the purpose of the traitors to overthrow democratic government in the South, and to establish a new form of government, based on exclusion of the democratic principle, and resting on a cemented slave aristocracy. These, amongst other papers of the Democratic League, are so replete with the evidence by which their positions are fortified, and so comprehensive in the scope and magnitude of subjects of which they treat, that they must take a high position in the political literature of the day. The manifold opinions of the press demonstrate how highly they are appreciated. They are now being reproduced in THE IRON PLATFORM, published by Wm. Oland Bourne, 112 William street, New York, and intended for extensive circulation in the cheapest form.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER for May, 1863. Boston: By the
proprietors, Thomas B. Fox, Jos. Henry Allen, at Walker, Wise &
Co.'s, 245 Washington street.

Articles: Benedict Spinoza; The New Homeric Question; State Reform in Austria; Courage in Belief; Jane Austen's Novels; New Books of Piety; The Thirty-seventh Congress; Review of Current Literature.

THE ILLINOIS TEACHER: Devoted to Education, Science, and
Free Schools. May. Peoria, Illinois: Published by N. C. Mason.
Editors, Alexander W. Gow, Rock Island; Samuel A. Briggs, Chicago.

THE MASSACHUSETTS TEACHER: A Journal of Home and School
Education. Resident editors, Chas. Ansorge, Dorchester; Wm. T.
Adams, Boston; W. E. Sheldon, West Newton. May number. Published by
the Massachusetts Teachers' Association, No. 119 Washington street,
Boston.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

THE REVIVAL OF CONFIDENCE.

Perhaps it is an error to assume that confidence has ever been wanting to sustain the loyal people of the land in their determination to conquer the rebellion. Yet there have been times when despondency seemed to take possession of the public mind, and when the failure of our plans or temporary disaster to our arms revealed the sad divisions which exist among ourselves, and apparently postponed the success of our cause to a period so indefinite as to make the heart of the patriot sick with hope deferred. But ever and anon, through all the changeful incidents of the momentous contest, there have been gleams of light, in which the national strength and greatness have made themselves manifest, and have been so vividly felt as to place the public confidence on a sure and impregnable basis. The present is one of those periods. Americans feel that their Government cannot be overthrown: in spite of the sinister predictions of enemies at home and abroad, they have an instinctive assurance that our noble institutions are not destined to perish in this lamentable conflict, stricken down by ungrateful and traitorous hands in the very outset of a great career. The clouds which have gathered around us are thick and dark; sometimes they have seemed impenetrable; but again they separate, we see the blue sky, the stars come out in all their glory, and even the sun pours his intense rays through the intervals of the storm. We say to ourselves, Courage! this cannot last always; there are the firmament, the stars, and the glorious sun still behind the clouds, and, though long hidden from us, we know they are there, and will reveal themselves again in all their unclouded splendor. It is with a confidence as strong as this in the very depths of their souls that American citizens still look for the reappearance of the stars of our destiny, the resurrection of the Union in still greater beauty and strength, and the uninterrupted pursuit of its glorious career through the coming ages. Such, heretofore, have been the cherished hopes which have hung around them like a firmament, and they are not yet prepared to believe that their political universe has been, or ever can be, annihilated.

Nor is this confidence a mere sentiment, born of the imagination, and nurtured by vainglorious hope. It has for its support far more substantial grounds than any merely precarious military successes, or any of the favorable incidents which, from time to time, may be cast ashore as waifs by the surging tide of civil war. Let the temporary fortunes of the war be what they will, yet the general bearing of the old Government, its evident consciousness of strength, its unshaken solidity in the midst of the storm which assails it, the confidence that, even with all its errors and blunders, it is still powerful enough to prevail--all these appeal irresistibly to the hearts and judgments of Americans, and make them love and confide in their country, and believe in her destiny, in spite of her misfortunes. The tenacity and stubborn purpose of the rebels are, indeed, remarkable. Their position gives them great advantages for such a conflict; and it must be admitted that they have shown the eminently bad genius to make the most of their fatal opportunities. Yet is the contest most unequal, and the ultimate result of discomfiture to them inevitable. The Federal Government, like a sluggish but powerful man scarcely yet aroused to the exertion of his full strength, moves slowly and awkwardly, and lays about him with careless and inefficient blows; while his active adversary, inferior in strength and in the moral power of his cause, but more fully aroused and more energetic, strikes with better effect, and makes every blow tell. Nevertheless, the strength of the one remains unexhausted, and even increases as he becomes awakened to the demands of the struggle; while that of the other slowly and gradually, but inevitably and irretrievably declines, with every hour of intense strain of faculty which the dreadful work imposes. Partial observers, imbued with sympathy in bad designs, and blinded by false hopes through that fatal error, may still think the South is certain to prevail and to establish the empire of slavery; but cooler heads, with vision made clear by love of humanity, cannot fail to see a different result as the necessary end of the contest. The South herself, under the shadow of a dread responsibility, begins to understand the nature of the case, and the exact position in which she stands; but she is playing a bold and desperate game for the active support of foreign powers. She knows well that the sympathies of the ruling classes abroad are naturally on her side, and she will maintain the struggle to the last extremity, so long as a gleam of hope shines in that quarter. That hope finally extinguished, she knows perfectly well her cause is lost.

The contrast in the financial condition of the contending sections is of itself enough to settle the question of ultimate success. The Federal Government stands this day stronger than ever in the plenitude of her boundless resources, and proudly contemptuous of all the false prophecies of failure and bankruptcy. She is fully prepared for new campaigns, and cannot be dismayed by any possible disaster. She has men and money in abundance sufficient for any emergency. She can stretch forth one hand to relieve the suffering people of England and Ireland, while with the other she fights the great battle of liberty against slavery, of humanity against wrong and oppression. Secure in the sympathies of the masses of men everywhere, she stands on the solid ground, which can never be withdrawn from under her feet. She occupies the central position of freedom and progress, around which cluster and gravitate the hopes and aspirations of all mankind. The conflicting elements may rage and storm; the solid ground may tremble, and even be torn with earthquake convulsions and superficial ruin; but the grand central structure, with its organizing forces, and its inward heat of humanity, with the great life-giving sun of liberty yet shining undimmed upon it, will still remain the refuge of all nations, and the chosen home of all the lovers and champions of human freedom.

* * * * *

Oh! why, sweet poet, is thy strain so sad?
Couldst thou not stamp thy joy on human life?
Yea, even the saddest life has many joys.
Couldst thou not stamp thy joy upon the page,
That they who should come after thee might feel
Their spirits gladdened by it, and their hearts
Made lighter with thy lightsomeness? For thou,
They say, wert joyous as a summer bird,
The very light and life of those who knew thee--
Oh! why, then, is thy song so sad? 'Tis wrong,
'Tis surely wrong, to spend in fond complainings
The talents given for nobler purposes;
And he who goes about this world of ours
Diffusing cheerfulness where'er he goes,
Like one who scatters fresh and fragrant flowers,
Fulfils, I can but think, a better part
Than he who mourns and murmurs life away.

....The poet
Is the revealer of the heart's deep secrets;
The poet is the interpreter of nature;
And shall those light and joyous spirits, they
Who make bright sunshine wheresoe'er they go,
Shall they have no interpreter?

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Hon. R. J. WALKER'S invaluable papers on 'The Union,' in CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

[2] Razeed from a line-of-battle ship.

[3] Lost at sea

[4] Destroyed by her officers opposite the rebel batteries at Port Hudson, Mississippi.

[5] Taken by the rebels at Galveston.

[6] Foundered at sea.

[7] Taken by the rebels.

[8] Destroyed by the rebel gunboats below Vicksburg.

* * * * *

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