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

Now, in the United States, the chart of this orderly and symmetrical network of political arrangements for the free movement among each other of the individuals in the township, of the townships in the county, of the counties in the State, and of the States in the Union—and within the protecting lines of which political arrangements, the people are enabled to pursue their industrial avocations without mutual interference and collision, and to attend in peace and security to all the employments that tend to elevate, refine, and freely develop the individual man (for government is only and solely a means to this great end)—the chart, we say, of all these orderly arrangements, is our immortal national Constitution, together with the State constitutions that cluster around it, as their centre, axis, and support.

Through each State constitution, the national and central one sends down an iron arm, clasping them all by a firm bond to itself and to each other. And in each, the grasp of this arm is riveted and double riveted, above and below, by these two comprehensive, unmistakable articles, without which the others had else been valueless; and for which the framers of this great instrument are entitled to our lasting gratitude and admiration.

The articles are these, viz.: Art. 6th, sec. 2d: 'This Constitution, and the laws of the United States which shall be made in pursuance thereof … shall be the supreme law of the land … anything in the constitution or laws of any State to the contrary notwithstanding.'

And art. 4th, sec. 4th: 'The United States shall guarantee to every State in the Union a republican form of government, and shall protect each of them against invasion....'

The first of these admits of no separation or secession. The second preserves everywhere that form of government under which alone the fullest political freedom can be enjoyed. In fighting, then, for the Constitution, we fight for an undivided Union on the one hand, and, on the other, for a Union that guarantees to each member of it that form of government which secures the greatest liberty to those who live under it. May we not, we say again, rest in an all but certain hope that the Divine Being will see fit to preserve His own work? For such, though accomplished through human agency, we feel constrained to believe, have been this Union and its remarkable constitution.

We have regarded the Union as the culmination of a long series of endeavors, so to call them, on the part of Providence, to bring men from a social condition characterized by the multiplicity, diversity, separation, antagonism, and hostility of independent, warring, petty states, into that larger, higher form of political and social life, that shall combine in itself the three conditions of unity—variety in unity, and of the utmost liberty with order—as the soul and life of the political body. And that it has also been the aim of Providence, in the formation of this Union, to accomplish the above object on as large a scale as possible, in the present moral and intellectual condition of the race.

Can we be far wrong in such a view? Think of our republic embracing in its wide extent, one, two, three, or more hundred millions of human beings, all in political union, enjoying the largest liberty possible in the present life, as well as the ever-increasing influence and light of religion, science, and education, giving augmented power to preserve and rightly use that liberty. Extent of territory in the present age, is no bar to the union of very distant regions. When the telegraph, that modern miracle, brings the shores of the Pacific within three hours' time of the Atlantic seaboard—when railroads contract States into counties, and counties into the dimensions of an average farm, as to the time taken to traverse them—when spaces are thus brought into the closest union, it is but the counterpart and prophecy of the close moral and industrial union of the people who inhabit the spaces. When slavery, that relic of barbarism, that demon of darkness and discord, is destroyed, we can conceive of nothing that shall possess like power to sunder one section of the Union from another—of nothing that shall not be within the power of the people to settle by rational discussion or amicable arbitration. No! Slavery once destroyed, an unimagined Future dawns upon the republic. The Southern rebellion, and the utterly unavoidable civil war thence arising—as these are the two instrumentalities by which slavery will be cut clean away from the vitals of the nation, and the Union left untrammelled, to follow its great destiny—these twin events, we say, will, in after ages, be looked back upon as blessings in disguise—as the knife of the surgeon, that gives the patient a new lease of a long, prosperous, and happy life.

We have contemplated the Union, and seen something of its matchless symmetry, beauty, and indefinite capabilities, ever unfolding, to promote human welfare, through its unity with variety, its liberty with order, its freedom of action of each part in its own sphere, coëxisting with the harmonious working of all together as one grand whole—all of which arises, as was said, from the unconscious modelling (on the part of its authors) of our political structure upon the Divine and universal plan of organization in mineral, in plant, in animal, in the planetary systems, and, above all, in man himself, body and mind.

We saw that the method of this organization was the grouping of individual parts into wholes around a centre; of many such compound units around a yet higher centre, and so on, indefinitely, onward and upward. That by such an organization, individual freedom was secured to each part, within a certain limit, wide enough for all its wants, and yet perfectly subordinated to the freedom and order of all the parts collectively, revolving or acting freely around the common centre and head. We saw that in the Divine creations—in all the objects of the three kingdoms of nature, the two great principles of liberty and order were thus perfectly reconciled and harmonized (true order being only the form under which true liberty appears, or can appear); and, further, that in proportion as human affairs and institutions obey the same law, or, rather, in proportion as men individually and collectively advance in virtue and intelligence, do they unconsciously, and more or less spontaneously, come into this Divine order, both in the regulation of personal motive and conduct, and in outward political and social matters.

Hence, as has already been stated, the near approach to this method in the political organization of the United States was the result of an amount of moral and intellectual culture, first in the colonies, and afterward in the contrivers and adopters of our political framework, without which it could never have been formed; and in the degree that this mental condition is maintained and advanced yet more and more, will the citizens of the Union apply the same method of organization to the less general affairs of industrial and social life. Now, all this is not fancy; human progress in the direction indicated, can be scientifically demonstrated.

WAR SONG:—EARTH'S LAST BATTLE

Dedicated To

THE SOLDIERS OF THE UNION

Up with the Flag of Hope!    Let the winds waft herOn through the depths of space    Faster and faster!Up, brave and sturdy men!    Down with the craven!He who but falters now,    Fling to the raven!Chorus: On while the blood is hot—on to the battle!              Flash blade and trumpet sound! let the shot rattle!Come from your homes of love    Wilder and faster!Hail balls and sabres flash!    Wrong shall not master!Strike to the throbbing heart    Brother or stranger!Traitors would murder hope!    Freedom's in danger!Chorus: On for the rights of man—just is the battle!              Flesh deep the naked blade! let the shot rattle!Men of the rugged North,    Dastards they deem you!Wash out the lie in blood,    As it beseems you!Glare in the Southern eye    Freedom, defiance!Traitors with death and hell    Seal their alliance!Chorus: On—shed your heart's best blood! glorious the battle!              Freedom is born while death peals his shrill rattle!Down with, the rattlesnake!    Armed heel upon it!Rive the palmetto tree—    Cursed fruit grows on it!Up with the Flag of Light!    Let the old gloryFlash down the newer stars    Rising in story!Chorus: On—manhood's hot blood burns! God calls to battle!              Flash, blades, o'er crimson pools! let the shot rattle!Death shadows happy homes;    Faster and fasterWoe, sorrow, anguish throng;    Blood dyes disaster!Men doubt their fellow men:    Hate and distractionCurse many a council hall;    Traitors lead faction!Chorus: Cease this infernal strife! rush into battle!              Blast not all human hope with your cursed prattle!God! the poor slave yet cowers!    Call off the bloodhounds!Men, can ye rest in peace    While the cursed lash sounds?Woman's shrill shrieks and wails    Quick conquest urges;Bleeding and scourged and wronged,    Wild her heart surges!Chorus: Wives, mothers, maidens call! God forces battle!              Stay the oppressor's hand though the shot rattle!Hark! it is Mercy calls!    Will ye surrenderFreedom's last hope on earth?    No,—rather tenderHeart's blood and life's life    'Neath our Flag's glory:Scattered its heaven stars,    Dark human story!Chorus: Strike, for the blow is love! Despots force battle!              'Good will to men,' our cry, wings the shot's rattle!Up from the cotton fields,    Swamps and plantations,Drinking new life from you,    Swarms the dusk nation.Send them not back to pain!    Strike and release them!Hate not, but succor men;    Sorrow would cease then!Chorus: On—let God's people go! Mercy is battle!              Freedom is love and peace,—let the shot rattle!Oh, that ye knew your might,    Knew your high station!God has appointed you    Guardian of nations!Teach tyrants o'er the world,    Bondage is over;Bid them lay down the lash,    Welcome their brothers!Chorus: Pour oil in every wound, when done the battle!              Man now must stand redeemed though the shot rattle!On—till our clustering stars    No slave float over,Man joins in harmony,    Helper and lover!Ransom the chained and pained,    Nations and stations!On—till our Flag of Love    Floats o'er creation!Chorus: Strike, till mankind is free, mute the chains rattle!              Fight till love conquers strife—Freedom's last battle!Yes, we shall stand again    Brother with brother,Strong to quell wrong and crime,    All the world over!Heart pressed to heart once more,    Nought could resist us,Earth cease to writhe in pain,    Millions assist us!Chorus: On till the world is free through the shot's rattle!              When love shall conquer hate, fought earth's last battle!

MIRIAM'S TESTIMONY

I do not know why it was that I studied the characters of Miriam and Annie so closely at Madame Orleans' school, for I had known them both from early childhood; we were of the same age, and had lived in the same village, and attended the same schools. I suppose it was partly owing to the fact of my having arrived at a more thoughtful age, or it may be that their peculiarities of disposition exhibited themselves more strongly among strangers. They were neither of them surface characters. Miriam was too reserved, and Annie too artful to be easily understood. But no one who had once known Miriam could, ever forget her. Her parents called her 'a peculiar child;' among her friends the old people called her 'queer,' and the young ones 'cracked,' She was not pretty, but everybody pronounced her a fine-looking girl. Her eyes were the only peculiarity in her face. They were of a rich, dark-gray color, small, and deeply set; but at times—her 'inspired times,' as Annie called them—they would dilate and expand, until they became large and luminous. At such times she would relate with distinctness, and often with minuteness, events which were transpiring in another house, and sometimes in another part of the world.

It was seldom that we had an opportunity of testing the truth of these 'visions,' but when we did we found them exact in every particular.

At other times her mind took a wider range, and she would see into the future. When we were children, I remember the awe with which we used to listen to 'Miriam the prophetess,' as we called her, and the wonder with which we remarked that her prophecies invariably were fulfilled. But, as I grew older, my awe and wonder diminished in proportion, and, being of a very practical turn of mind myself, and very skeptical of spiritual agencies, mesmerism, and clairvoyance, and indeed of anything out of the ordinary course of events, I put no faith whatever in any of Miriam's visions and prophecies; especially as I noticed they only occurred when she was sick, or suffering under depression of spirits. Annie either did believe, or professed to believe, every word she said. As Miriam grew into womanhood it was only to Annie and me that she confided her strange visions, although she well knew I did not believe in their reality. We were the only ones who never laughed at her, and she was very sensitive on the subject.

Annie was so beautiful that it was a delight to look at her lovely face, listen to her musical voice, and watch her graceful motions. She fully appreciated her own charms, and had a way of making others appreciate them also. She had many more friends than Miriam, for who could resist the charm of her face and manner?

She had become quite accomplished, for she possessed a good deal of talent, but was worldly minded, vain, and selfish. It may be matter of surprise that such a girl should have been my intimate friend, and still stranger that she should have been the friend of Miriam; but she was lively and agreeable, and when we were children together we did not care to analyze her character, and when we knew her thoroughly we still loved her—from habit, I suppose. At all events, whatever were the sympathies which bound us together, we continued firm friends until we were eighteen, when we left Madame Orleans' school, where we had resided for four years.

At that time Annie returned to our native village, while Miriam and I went to a Southern city, intending to spend the winter with her uncle's family; but we liked our new home so much that we prolonged our visit two years. After we had been there a few months, by some chance, which I have now forgotten, Henry Ackermann came to the city where we resided. He was a few years older than we, but had been one of our playmates in childhood. His parents had removed from our native village, and gone to California some years before, when the gold fever was at its height, since which time we had heard little about them, and Henry had nearly faded out of our recollections, until now he suddenly appeared, destined to be the controlling fate in the life of one of us, for Miriam and he soon grew to love one another; though what affinity there was between their natures I never could imagine. But he told me that he loved her, and she told me that she was very happy, and I was bound to believe them both, and thought that on the whole they would be a better-matched couple than most of those I saw about me.

It is needless to say much of their courtship. Their engagement was not made public, therefore it was not necessary to make a parade of their affection before indifferent acquaintance, Miriam's love, like that of all proud, reserved natures, was intense. Ackermann's attentions to her were graceful and delicate, and he ever manifested toward her in his whole manner that silent devotion, unobtrusive and indescribable, which is so gratifying to woman. It was evident that he understood her thoroughly: whether he appreciated her as thoroughly was another matter, about which I had my doubts.

It was true that strange rumors had floated from California to our distant little city in regard to Ackermann. Evil rumors they were—they could scarcely be called rumors—nobody repeated them, nobody believed them—and yet they were whispered into the ear so stealthily that it seemed as if they were breathed by the very air which surrounded Ackermann. I paid no heed to them. Miriam heard them, did not care for them—why should I?

Months passed away—happily to the lovers—pleasantly to me. Circumstances then compelled Ackermann to return to our village, while Miriam felt it to be her duty to remain where she was; but she expected to follow him in a few months at latest. He carried with him a letter of introduction to Annie, in which Miriam told her of her engagement to the bearer, and requested Annie to be his friend for her sake. This was soon answered by a characteristic letter from Annie congratulating Miriam on her choice, pronouncing Ackermann the most delightful of men, etc.

During the winter which followed, Miriam seemed quietly happy and always pleasant and cheerful. Henry's letters were frequent, and so were Annie's. I did not see the former, but they appeared to afford a great deal of satisfaction to Miriam. Annie's letters were as lively and merry as herself, and contained frequent hints that the devoted attentions of a certain Mr. Etheridge—a wealthy, middle-aged suitor—were not entirely disagreeable to her; that she thought she should like right well to be mistress of his fine mansion; with much more nonsense of the same kind.

I should have mentioned that Miriam had never told her lover of the peculiar gifts of prophecy and second sight which she had, or fancied that she had. She was too happy at the time he was with her to be visited by her 'visions.' I thought they had ceased altogether, and I think Miriam believed they had, and was happy to be done with them forever.

I was quite surprised then to see her walk into my room one day in a hurried manner, with a face ghastly pale, and eyes unusually distended, and gazing at me with a wild, fixed stare. She trembled exceedingly, and tried to speak, but the words refused to come at her bidding. I was much alarmed, and, remembering there was a glass of wine in the closet, I brought it to her, but she motioned it away. I opened the window, and the rush of cold air revived her. She sat down by it, and after a little time, she said:

'Hester, do you remember the little sitting room of Annie's, at the foot of the back stairs, with windows opening into the garden?'

'Yes, I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask?'

'She has had it newly furnished, and very elegantly.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I was there this afternoon; spent some time in it.'

'You! in Annie's room!'

I was there, in Annie's room—that is, the only part of me that is worth anything; my body remained here, in my own room, I suppose.'

I saw at once that the old spell was on her again, and, as I made it a point to fall in with her humor on such occasions, I said:

'Well, what did you see there?'

'I saw an open piano, and books and music scattered around. There were a great many flowers in the room. A bright fire was in the grate, and Pompey—the house dog—was stretched on a rug before it. A large easy-chair, covered with blue damask, stood near the fireplace. Henry Ackermann was seated in it. Annie was kneeling before him. He talked to her while he stroked her hair. I heard every word that he said.'

Here she paused. I was getting quite excited with her narrative, but I spoke as calmly as I could:

'You have only fancied these things, Miriam. You are ill.'

'The material part of my nature may be ill. I do not know. But the immaterial is sound and healthy. It sometimes leaves its grosser companion, and makes discoveries for itself. This is not the first time it has happened, as you well know. I have been particular in my description, in order that I might convince you that I have actually been there. You know that the description I have given is entirely different from the appearance of Annie's room in former times. I have never heard that she had newly furnished it. Write to her, and ask her to describe her room to you, and you will find that I have seen all that I have told you.'

Finding her so calm, and so willing to reason on what she had seen, I ventured to ask:

'And what did Ackermann say to her?'

'Only a very little thing,' said she, with bitter emphasis. 'That he loved her—and admired me; she stirred the depths of his heart—I excited his intellect; she was his darling—I, his sphinx.'

'Are you sure it is not all a dream?'

'I have not closed my eyes to-day.'

I did not know what to say to her. I still thought what she had related was but a delusion, but to her it was a reality, and I knew her outward calmness was but the expression of intense excitement of mind. Thinking I might divert her mind, I read to her a letter I had received but a few minutes before. It was from my sister, who had just returned from Europe, with her husband and children; and had taken a house in our native village. She wished me to come to her at once. At any other time Miriam would have manifested the greatest interest in this communication. It had been a source of regret to her that I was separated from this sister, who was the only near relative I had. Now she sat, perfectly unmoved, gazing out into the sunshine as if it bewildered her. I did not know whether she had heard a word I said. I laid down the letter, and took up a book, glancing at her occasionally. I continued reading for about two hours, while she sat there as if turned to stone. Then she turned to me and said:

'Hester, would you not like to see your sister very much?'

'Very much.'

'Then let us return home at once.'

'I am very willing.'

'Mr. Sydenham leaves here to-morrow night for New York. Let us go with him.'

I hesitated. It seemed such a hasty departure from the friends who had been so kind to us, but a glance at the pale, eager face of Miriam decided me. I consented.

The nest day brought a letter from Ackermann. Miriam showed it to me. It was the only letter of his I was ever permitted to read. It was a good letter—very lover-like, but earnest and manly. It seemed to me the truth of the writer was palpable in every line.

'Of course this has removed all your doubts,' I said, as I returned the letter to Miriam.

'It has not shaken my faith in the evidence of the finest of my senses,' was her only reply.

Since we had left our pretty little village, a railroad track had been laid through, it. The depot was near Annie's house. As we had apprised no one of our arrival, we found ourselves alone on the platform when we stepped out of the cars.

'Let us call and see Annie,' said Miriam.

'Before you visit your father and mother?' said I, surprised.

'This is the hour Ackermann usually visits her.'

'I will go with you.'

It was but a few minutes' walk. We felt perfectly at home there. We opened the front door, and walked in without ceremony. No one was in the front rooms. We passed quickly through them into the little room at the foot of the back stairs. I noticed the furniture as soon as I entered. It was new, and was arranged pretty much as Miriam had described it. Ackermann and Annie stood by the window looking into the garden. I am not sure, but I think he was holding her hand. They turned as we entered, and, for a few minutes, were speechless with amazement. Annie was the first to recover herself.

'What a delightful surprise!' she exclaimed, running toward us; but she stopped before she was half across the room. Something in Miriam's manner arrested her. Ackermann's perceptions were quicker. He saw at one glance that Miriam knew all, and, though very much agitated, he stood, looking defiantly at her. She took no notice of Annie, but said to Ackermann:

'I trusted you. You have deceived me. I believed in your love so fully that I would have been yours faithfully until death. You lightly threw mine away. I thought your words of love so sacred that I kept them hid in my heart from the sight of the most faithful friends. You have made mine the subjects of jest. But I do not come here to reproach you. Henceforth you are nothing to me. I came to demand my ring.'

'I have no ring of yours,' said he, with calm decision. 'This ring that I wear you put upon my finger, and told me not to part with it under any circumstances. You charged me to wear it until death. It is mine. I will not part with it, even to you.'