The Continental Monthly, Vol 3 No 3, March 1863

'No. LXIV.—A seventh, tried and approved before the late king (of ever blessed memory), and an hundred lords and commons, in a cannon of eight inches and half a quarter, to shoot bullets of sixty-four pounds weight, and twenty-four pounds of powder, twenty times in six minutes; so clear from danger, that after all were discharged, a pound of butter did not melt, being laid upon the cannon britch, nor the green oil discoloured that was first anointed and used between the barrel thereof, and the engine having never in it, nor within six foot, but one charge at a time.'

Several improvements of this kind are suggested in the 'Century,' which evidently involve different principles from that of the modern revolver, in reference to which difference we are informed in a 'note by the author,' that 'when I first gave my thoughts to make guns shoot often, I thought there had been but one only exquisite way inventible; yet, by several trials, and much charge, I have perfectly tried all of these.'

I cannot venture in a single article to exhaust the suggestions in the Century, and must refer my reader to the volume himself, assuring him that he will there find many curious hints, several of which have, since its publication, been very practically realized. It is worth noting, however, that the author seems to have fully anticipated a very remarkable modern invention, in declaring that 'a woman even may with her delicate hand, vary the ways of coming to open a lock ten millions of times, beyond the knowledge of the smith that made it, or of me who invented it.' From this, as I have already suggested, it appears that he had, far in advance of his age, mastered a very great principle in mechanics; and as he appears to have understood, in theory at least, several others, it is no more than justice to rank him far above those mere charlatans of science, and hunters for marvels by means of isolated observation and experiment, with whom many would place him. That the 'Century' contains much which would be very discreditable to any man of science at the present day, is very true. Perpetual motion, perfect aerostation, devices for idle tricks and mere thaumaturgy, appear in company with schemes to take unfair advantages at card playing, and for the construction of false dice boxes—of which latter it is indignantly observed by honest Partington, that, there are few who profess the science of cheating at cards or dice, or to be encouragers of those who do; and it may fairly be conceded that there are not two periods in our regal annals, in which this detestable meanness had become fashionable enough to sanction a nobleman in inscribing to a king and his parliament a method by which it might be advantageously effected! We may, however, believe that a second period has at the present dawned over England, not much inferior as regards 'detestable meanness,' to that of Charles the Second. A recent transaction has shown that noblemen and their friends in the year 1862, are not above ascertaining from Johnson's Dictionary, the obsolete spelling of a word, such as rain-deer, betting a hundred pounds with an American as to its true orthography, and agreeing with him to abide by Johnson's authority; a piece of swindling quite as detestable in its meanness as the using of loaded dice. Neither can I see that the conduct of a majority of the British people, in fomenting Abolition for many years, and then giving her aid and countenance to our Southern rebels, on the flimsy, and, at best, brazenly selfish plea of the Morrill Tariff, is less detestable or less mean. We may regret to see a vice in individuals tolerated in high places; but when the blackest inconsistency, and the most contemptible avarice are elevated by a Christian nation into principles of conduct toward another nation struggling to free the oppressed, we may well doubt whether another period has not approached in England, over which the future historiographer may not sigh as deeply as over that of Charles the Second.

I attach no serious value to the efforts of the Marquis of Worcester, save as illustrating the principle with which I prefaced this article: that according to the mental peculiarities of the most vigorous of races—the Indo-Germanic above others—there is a tendency in certain active minds to generalize and draw practical conclusions, not unfrequently centuries in advance of the wants of their age. The partial and premature forcing of these principles into practice, is sometimes quoted in after years as derogatory to the merit due to modern inventors, and as illustrating to a degree never contemplated by him who uttered it, the maxim that there's 'nothing new under the sun.' Nothing? Why, everything is new under the sun when it first assumes fit time and place. Were this not true, we might as well return to 'Nature's Centenary of Inventions,' as set forth by a pleasant pen in Household Words:

'Before the first clumsy sail was hoisted by a savage hand, the little Portuguese man-of-war, that frailest and most graceful nautilus boat, had skimmed over the seas with all its feathery sails set in the pleasant breeze; and before the great British Admiralty marked its anchors with the Broad Arrow, mussels and pinna had been accustomed to anchor themselves by flukes to the full as effective as the iron one in the Government dockyards. The duck used oars before we did; and rudders were known by every fish with a tail, countless ages before human pilots handled tillers; the floats on the fishermen's nets were pre-figured in the bladders on the sea weed; the glowworm and firefly held up their light-houses before pharas or beacon-tower guided the wanderer among men; and, as long before Phipps brought over the diving bell to this country as the creation, spiders were making and using airpumps to descend into the deep. Our bones were moved by tendons and muscles long before chains and cords were made to pull heavy weights from place to place. Nay, until quite lately—leaving these discoveries to themselves—we took no heed of the pattern set us in the backbone, with the arching ribs springing from it, to construct the large cylinder which we often see now attaching all the rest of a set of works. This has been a very modern discovery; but, prior even to the first man, Nature had cast such a cylinder in every ribbed and vertebrate animal she had made. The cord of plaited iron, too, now used to drag machinery up inclined planes, was typified in the backbone of the eels and snakes in Eden; tubular bridges and hollow columns had been in use since the first bird with hollow bones flew through the wood, or the first reed waved in the wind. Strange that the principle of the Menai Straits' railway bridge, and of the iron pillars in the Crystal Palace, existed is the Arkite dove, and in the bulrushes that grew round the cradle of Moses! Our railway tunnels are wonderful works of science, but the mole tunnelled with its foot, and the pholas with one end of its shell, before our navvies handled pick or spade upon the heights of the iron roads: worms were prior to gimlets, ant-lions were the first funnel makers, a beaver showed men how to make the milldams, and the pendulous nests of certain birds swung gently in the air before the keen wit of even the most loving mother laid her nursling in a rocking cradle. The carpenter of olden time lost many useful hours in studying how to make the ball-and-socket joint which he bore about with him in his own hips and shoulders; the universal joint, which filled all men with wonder when first discovered, he had in his wrist; in the jaws of all flesh-eating animals his huge one-hinge joint; in the graminivora and herbivora the joint of free motion; for grinding millstones were set up in our molars and in the gizzards of birds before the Egyptian women ground their corn between two stones; and the crushing teeth of the hyena make the best models we know of for hammers to break stones on the road. The tongue of certain shell fish—of the limpet, for instance—is full of siliceous spines which serve as rasp and drill; and knives and scissors were carried about in the mandibles and beaks of primeval bees and parrots.

Yes, they were all there—and if the undeveloped germ may be taken for the great fruit-bearing tree, there is nothing new under the sun, labor and effort are of no avail, and it is not worth while for man to live threescore years and ten, since a much less time would suffice to show his utter worthlessness. But the bee and the wild bird, the pearly nautilus driving before the fresh breeze, and the reed waving in the wind, should teach us a higher lesson. They teach us that life is beautiful and to be enjoyed, that infinite laws and infinite ingenuity were not displayed to be called idle and vain, and that, as the insect works according to his instinct, man should labor, from the dictates of reason, with heart and soul to do his best to turn to higher advantage the innumerable advantages afforded him.

THE LADY AND HER SLAVE

A Tale.

LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MY SISTERS IN THE SOUTH

'Nor private grief nor malice holds my pen,I owe but kindness to my fellow men.And, South or North, wherever hearts of prayerTheir woes and weakness to our Father bear,Wherever fruits of Christian love are foundIn holy lives, to me is holy ground.'—Whittier.My young mistress! frown not on me! come! my heart is beating low!Softly raise the quilt—my babe! Ah, smile on her ere I go!Yes, the smile comes warm as sunshine, and it falls on my sick heartAs if Heaven were shining through it, and new hopes within me start.Your clear eyes shine blue upon me through the clouds of sunny curls,Sadder now, but still as kindly, as when we were little girls.Your poor slave and you, fair mistress, were born in the same hour,As if God himself had marked me from my birth to be your dower.Oft have I laid my dusky hand upon your neck of snow,To see it sparkle through the jet—how long that seems ago!So long! before young master came to woo Virginia's daughter,And tempt her to the cotton fields on Mississippi's water.I could not leave you, mistress, so I followed to the swamp,Where fevers fire the burning blood and the long moss hangs damp.I left poor Sam, he loved me well, but you were my heart's god;My mother's tears fell hot and fast—I followed where you trod.Sin and sorrow fell upon me! and soon you felt it shameTo have lost Amy near you, and you blushed to hear her name.Reared near virgin purity, you could not understandHow I could break from virtue's laws, and form a lawless band.Then you questioned kindly, sternly,—but you could not make me tell;I would not wring your trusting heart with tales scarce fit for hell!You deemed me hardened, sunk in vice; I choked down every moan,Turned from your breast the poisoned dart to bury in my own.Driven from your presence, mistress, in agony and shameI bore a wretched infant—she must never know her name!How I crawled around your windows when your joyous boy was born,To hear your voice, to catch a glimpse,—the sun rose fair that morn.Ah! not mine to hold your darling! not mine to soothe his criesWhen the stern death-angel seized him and bore him to the skies!Then judgment came—the fever fell—young master gasped for breath—God's hand was on him—vain were prayers,—how still he lay in death!I heard you shriek—I rushed within—I held you in my armsThat frenzied night when sudden woe had wrought its worst of harms.When reason dawned on you again, sweet pity stirred within,You heard my cough, my labored breath, and saw me ghastly, thin.Then you took my hand so kindly, gazing on my faded face:'Speak, and tell me truly, Amy, how you fell in such disgrace.'If he had lived, sweet mistress, I had borne it to the grave;I would not mar your happiness, child, self or race to save.Say! must I speak of one you loved now sleeping 'neath the sod?Your 'yes' is bitter; but we owe the naked truth to God!The truth to God, for guiltless you must stand before His face,Nor wrong my pallid baby, nor scorn my suffering race.Am I too bold? Death equals all—my heart beats faint and low;Turn not away, sweet mistress, hear the truth before I go!Gaze upon my shivering baby, scan the little pallid face,Mark the forehead, eyes of azure—Ha! you do the likeness trace!Nay, start not in horror from me! Oh, it was no fault of mine;I would have died a thousand deaths ere wronged a thought of thine.He came at midnight to my hut—abhorrent to my sense—Force—threats of shame—foul violence—a slave has no defence!Wronged—soiled—and outraged—sick at heart—what right had I to feel?He deemed his chattel honored,—God! how brain and senses reel!We're women, though our hair is crisped, and though our skin be black:Men, ask your virgin daughters what's the maiden's deadliest rack!I scorned myself! I hated him! but felt a living goadWrithe and crawl beneath my bosom—shameful burden! sinful load!Sick and faint, I loathed my master, loathed his inant, loathed my lifeTill its flame burned dim within me, choked by shame, rage, hate, and strife.Better feelings woke within me when the helpless girl was born;Mother's love poured wild upon her: how love conquers rage and scorn!But my tortured heart was broken, and a slave girl ought to dieWhen a tyrant master wrongs her, and she dreads her mistress' eye:Dreads one she loves may read in her, in spite of silence deep,That which would blight all happiness, and pale the rosy cheek:Dreads that a wife may shuddering read a husband's naked heart—Humbled and crushed by treachery, may into madness start.But Amy dies: she has forgiven—forgive with her the wrong!Smile on the helpless baby—make her truthful, pure, and strong.Let her wait upon you, mistress; twine your ringlets golden still;Take her back to old Virginia, to the homestead by the hill.My heart clings to you with wild love—wherefore I scarce dare whisper—Forgive—I am your father's child! pity your ruined sister!The hot white blood in my baby's veins, though mixed with duskier flow,Will make her wretched if a slave; let her in freedom go!Oh make her free, sweet mistress, that such a fate as mineBlanch not her cheek with agony, nor blast her ere her prime!You smile—I need no promise; angel-like to me you seem;Will you open heaven for me? bring the seraphs? how I dream!I go to God. He made me. All His children, black and white,Will meet in heaven if pure and true, clad in the eternal Light.I die—God bless you, mistress!'… Sigh, and gasp—then all is o'er!And the lady kneels beside a corpse upon the cabin floor.Her thoughts are busy with the past, with love in falsehood spoken,While her dusky sister's faithful heart had in silent anguish broken.She takes the cold hand in her own: 'Poor Amy, can it beThat thou wert of a race accursed, unworthy to be free?Man's falsehood! God! Thy right hand rests upon the dusky brow;Thou starr'st it round with virtues brighter than our boasted snow!I have learned a bitter lesson; to my slave I've been to school;God has humbled me, but chastened; I will keep His Golden Rule.Slaves and chattels! God forgive us! they are men and women—Thine!If Christ may dwell within them, shall I dare to call them mine?No woman must be outraged, nor owned by man, if weWould hold our sanctity intact—all women must be free.Sacred from every touch profane, yes, holy things and pure;A wrong to one is wrong to all; we must the weak secure.United we must strike the shame; if known aright our power,Slavery and crime would perish: Sisters, peal their final hour!Mothers, maidens, wives, no longer aid your dusky sisters' shame!Strike for our common womanhood, uphold our spotless fame!Its majesty is in your hands, trail it not in the dust,Nor keep your shrinking slaves as prey for lovers', husbands' lust!All womanhood is holy! it shall not be profaned!Our sanctity is threatened: Men! it shall not thus be stained!Break up your harems! free our slaves! we will not share your shame!O mothers of the living, chaste must be life's sacred flame!Fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands, their chains must be untwined!Touch not the ark where purity in woman's form is shrined!Poor Amy! love has conquered! the veil is raised, I seeSister spirits 'neath the dusky hue; thy people shall go free!'The lady rose with high resolve upon her pale sad face;And moved among the slave girls, the angel of their race.Angel of freedom, charity, she breathes, and fetters melt,And the holy might of Purity in Southern heart is felt.Ah! the stars upon our banner, driven apart and dimmed with blood,Might again in glory cluster through a perfect womanhood!

FOR AND AGAINST

When his father called Fred Fontevrault, then a boy of fifteen, into his sick chamber, and made him subscribe to the whimsical conditions of the will, the female gendarmerie, so well versed in my affairs, declared that my husband had wretchedly repented his early marriage, and resolving his son should walk into fate with eyes unbandaged, forbade his alliance before the age of twenty-six. Though Mr. Fontevrault was fifty and I sixteen when I married him, he was not unhappy. He occupied himself in looking after his money, and making a collection of mosaics. We never had any matrimonial disturbances. I think they are vulgar. Any woman can do as she pleases without a remonstrant word, provided she has mind enough. It is the brainless women who scold. But scolds do not rule.

Fred was unreasonably fond of his father, and assented to his wishes without demur, even when the great Fontevrault estates hung on his fidelity to a useless oath. Then he died, and I settled into the blank stupidity of my widowhood. I, who had known no master but my own sweet will, now found myself in a hundred ways restricted. I was ruled through Fred. He must graduate at Harvard; the great establishment, splendid but tedious, must be maintained. So our residence in Boston was necessitated. I shut myself up in the legitimate manner, and—mourned of course. If it had not been for novels, worsted work, and my beauty, I should have gaped myself out of existence the first year. What nonsense it is to say the prime of a woman's loveliness passes before the thirties! For, look at me, am I old or faded? Would you believe that Fred, so tall and splendidly developed, was my son? From me he took his wealth of nature, for Mr. Fontevrault was one of those dried, wrinkled old men, women like me often marry; not because of the settlements only, but because of the foil. My figure was moulded like the Venus they copied in the colder marble from Pauline. Shoulders and arms, delicious in their curves, shining with a rosy fairness. A creamy skin, with a faint coralline tinge in the cheeks. The forehead is too low, some say; and yet artists have praised its bend, and the Greek line of the nose; not intellectual, but womanly, you know. Hair of a bright brown, feeling like floss silk. Eyes, I believe, few people ever fairly saw. Men are bewitched by them, women cannot understand their charm. Perhaps you have seen Wilson's portrait of me, the one with the grayish green background; you notice that the eyes were turned from the spectator, and half shaded by white lid and gilded lash. He could not catch the flitting spark that made them mine, and refused to paint them at all. My son promises to be as perfect in his way as I in mine. Just now a student, he is too Raphael-angel-like to suit me; but the very fellow to bewilder girls and set the boarding schools crazy. Luckily he is bound against inthralment.

By and by the house grew so lonely that I was fain to send for Leonora to make durance less vile. It was positively refreshing to hear her voice sing through the solemn old hall. Very warm was the welcome she received from both Fred and me. He had often said she was the only woman he could talk to without suppressing a yawn. It was ungallant of him, but I could sympathize with the sentiment. Women usually weary me. I told Leonora she must make up her mind to stay with me, as long as she remained unmarried.

Fred, holding her hand, laughingly made her promise never to take a husband without his consent. While I passed on, he drew her back; the mirror above the door framed a picture prettier than I liked to see.

'There is but one man I will authorize you to marry,' said my son.

Then it suddenly flashed on my mind that Fred was of the age of Scott's heroes, and would be sure to fall in love with a woman older than himself. The love did not matter so much, but marriage would be an absurdity. I expected to have a daughter-in-law some day or other; but it was never to be Leonora. In a hundred ways she had resisted me, and overcome me. I was as resolutely opposed to her, as if she had been my enemy. She was a connection of the family, independent, yet in some sort alone in the world. If it had been conferring a favor on her, to ask her to stay with me, be sure I never would have uttered a persuasive word. But it was asking her to leave gay society, and the incense of admiration, to bury herself in a dull house. Then she was 'ornamental;' I liked to see her about; she was satirical, and pleased me by a little spicy abuse. They called her handsome. She was too small, I think, too slight, perhaps; and then her complexion was almost swarthy. But her hair was fine, her eyes large and brilliant, and her mouth mobile and sweet. The face was nothing to me; but her companionship was enlivening.

The young lady professed herself glad of a winter of exclusion, and when I saw how she set herself at work with books and embroidery, I confess I was astonished at her resignation. Then I saw her look at my son, and perceived she did not find it so very stupid after all. Slowly she snarled him in her meshes.

One time my husband had a friendless youth for his secretary, called Denis Christopher. His name attracted me before his person. Mr. Fontevrault became so deeply interested in his character and talents, that he used his extensive influence, and gave Mr. Christopher an enviable lift over the world's rough places. Fontevrault was like a grieved child when he left us. I was sorry, but concealed it. One of the young man's agreeable privileges had been to attend me in public, thus relieving Mr. Fontevrault. I assure you he was more knightly than his master, whose stiff protection I never missed while under Launcelot's tender care. I never fully admitted to myself the power I found in the hitherto unknown fascination of a young man's society; nor how much pleasure I took in touching those hidden chords that only respond to a woman's touch. That he adored me, I saw in his eyes. I liked it well, and the strange, unwonted feeling that shivered through me, now, when by chance my hand touched his.

Well—people began to talk, as people will, and Mr. Fontevrault sent him to Malaga. He came to bid me good-by; 'forever,' he thought; ah me! It was forever in one sense. Fred was a mere boy then, who heard and saw everything. I had hard work to get him out of the house that morning. I wanted Denis's last look all to myself. Before he left me, Christopher offered me a bracelet of cornelians, cut rarely as seals. Each gem bore an exquisite device. On one were a few words in Latin. When I was alone, I pressed the seal on a drop of hot wax, and read his dedication.

All that was years ago; he is here again, and I am free. I sat before the glass long the day I expected him, threading my brown hair, and longing to wear his color—blue. But then the widow's cap suited me divinely, and the folds of crape set off my peculiar tints as nothing else can. I came before him; he started forward to seize both hands, and gaze in my face, to find no change. Then he pressed his lips to my warm white fingers. A new boldness became his, a new timidity mine.

Fresh from lessons of my own, I could read a change in Leonora, and perceive mischief in the air. Her extreme quietness when my son entered the apartment, the faint shade of shyness in his manner of addressing her attracted me curiously. He began to linger in our haunts so long and on such frivolous pretexts, that I began seriously to think what was to be done with such a lovesick page. To oppose Fred would be worse than useless. Opposition determined him. If I could have sent her away, solitude would be my bane; for not one of the Fontevraults could I endure. Then as I pondered, I laughed at the absurdity of the whole thing. Not only was Leonora older than the student, a woman in society, but she had been engaged (with that fact I resolved to frighten Fred), nor would she wait five years for him to declare his passion. And his flickering fancy the slightest breath of doubt would change: a nature easily moulded by the inexorable. I resolved to let affairs take their own course, and trust her common sense, and my own gentle diplomacy.