clear and bright, domes over our whole Union, and a new and firmer earth echoes the joyous tread of undaunted and unfettered millions, waving high their starry banner, in pine-clad forest, over balmy orange-groves, under green maple and hardy oak! That banner, whose folds festooned our cradles, made peaceful our bridals, hallowed our loved-ones' graves, now so long torn and trampled, that some of its early stars, like lost pleiads, are seen no more! The constellation of our Union is in disorder, as when Phaeton, intrusted with the care of one of the temples of Venus, rash youth, took from the hands of the gods the bright chariot of the sun to guide for a day, disturbed by his rashness the harmony of spheres, and threatened heaven and earth with a universal conflagration; so he who, intrusted with the care of even a part of our national temple, would seize and dare to steer the chariot of State out of its honored and harmonious track, deserves, like Phaëton, to be hurled headlong from our political sky, by some fierce thunderbolt, into the blackness of darkness of oblivion forever!

"Shot from the chariot, like a falling star

That in a summer evening from the top

Of Heaven drops down, or seems at least to drop,
Till on the Po his blasted corpse was hurled,

Far from his country in the western world.'

"Treason, treachery and tomahawk, poison, plunder and prey, are these the imperious and urbane chivalry, with sardonic smile, challenging to barbaric combat our loyal and loftiest souls?

"These have waylaid our gallant living. These have martyred our gallant dead. He, the arch-traitor, reared beneath our friendly sky, has, like Lucifer, left the Heaven of right, he might have shone and sunned in, and like Lucifer he would drag the confederate hosts of Heaven after him,

"And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.'

"As for us, as we clasp our banner, we are all a part of one vast Legion of Honor. If we lie down to die with this armor on, we may pitch our white tents on the banks of the river of life, and enter the gates of pearl with no parole to break, no fealty to forswear, no flag to furl, and no wish to secede from that grander Union in the great republic of stars above."

CHAPTER XXV.

MARAH.

He that handleth a matter wisely shall find good. - PSALMS xvi. 20.
I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet, yet trouble came.
JOB iii. 26.

THE book is here, clear-typed, on soft, fine paper. There's not a mistake in it, not one choice word, which, like bits of thoughtmosaic, are set all through the eloquent pages, in every kind of unique, ornate, and elegant sentence; not one choice word is clipped, marred or maimed by careless type-setter: it is all here. It has a clear, plain, sensible type. As you turn over each leaf, you don't strain your eyes as through a dim veil to read the thoughts. Dull eyes and lame eyes, weak eyes and tired eyes, young eyes and old eyes can read them without effort, with ease and pleasure. The story does not look as if boiled-down all to nothing. It meets your eye and heart half-way, with a God-bless you Saxon greeting. The thoughts, bold and plain, like an imperial photograph, challenge your eye as you turn each leaf.

There is something in the look of a thought. The poet's saddest" In Memoriam," or sweetest "Psalm of Life," touch the heart quicker and haunt the memory longer if borne to us in a clear, open, unveiled face. In that little, fine, condensed, contracted type, thought is often half choked, or drowned, or starved. Thoughts doomed thus to struggle, often fall still-born in the thought-world, and golden-winged words too often never rise, or breathe, or soar, or sing.

One honest dandelion, or ingenuous rose, does more good in the world than a thousand tiny blossoms, dimly seen through a microscope. Let thoughts twinkle out on the page, like stars in the sky, or daisies in the grass, not struggle through dim, feeble letters, like half-worn inscriptions on a tomb.

But they were so long shaving off those plates! It takes ninetysix years to get a book stereotyped, and I suppose about a hundred to get it printed. They turned my vignettes into rosettes,

my centres into craters, my eternity into a turtle, my raise-up into chaw-up; they made French out of my German, and German out of my French, till I can't tell what new dialect is the typographical resumé. But it is all right at last, only one word in a line of poetry they've left out, the prettiest word in the line, that gave the expression no other word could, and leaving it out makes the whole verse nonsense. I should think "Josiah

January" would call it a "platitude."

Every line, shade, and expression of thought is perfectly daguerreotyped; and on the back of the cover is, not one of those geometrical figures, in which the title is so often set, like a bird in a cage of wire, but such a pretty little characteristic, artistic device, so like the title, so like the author. I like the outside, I like the inside; and how well it reads! Here is plot, power, pathos. Such a trinity, rich, rare, royal, shall win fame, fortune, friends; man will talk about it, age praise it, maiden will weave around it her chaplet of loves, and dreams, and tears. It shall be read once for its plot, twice for its power, and many times afterwards for its marvelous, moving, mighty pathos; and the reviews, (there are more than a hundred of them), they call it strange, startling, striking, wonderful, powerful, clear, vivid, natural, pleasing, entertaining, eloquent, exciting; they lavish, with impartial, irresistible hand, the whole world of admiring adjectives upon it. "This

There's one paper called the "American Autocrat." great National Paper," as their advertisement says, "is everywhere recognized as the leading journal of the land for literary and art news, and for free and impartial criticism." "It boasts always of something for the family, for the professional man, for the soldier, for the merchant, for the student, and for every good citizen." One of its reviewers says, "It is dignified, calm, and temperate." So I have bought every number of the "Autocrat" so far. Here comes the last number. I suppose there will be some notice in it of "Aureola." As most good critics praise the book, this paper, so celebrated for free and impartial criticism, will surely be candid. I turn over the paper to the literary notices. I know the publisher of "Aureola" does n't advertise in the "Autocrat; but of course that can't affect their "free, impartial criticism.”

The review, from beginning to end, is personal, malicious, insulting. A part of it sounds as if written by some spunky schoolgirl, trying to pay back some secret grudge. The other part as if the poison of asps were in the writer's heart and pen. Í judge true criticism to be a candid exposure of faults, and a frank

allowance of merits. I wonder that a paper, of its lofty pretensions and aims, should allow such an article to deface and disgrace its columns.

Bird of ill-omen as I am, I prophesy that in a few short weeks, this "American Autocrat" shall fail and fade and die out of the literary sky, and its boasted elevation, independence, and intellectuality be forever forgotten.

I think I know who wrote the article, and why. I pity him for the contemptible motive that inspired him. May he be able to keep that corner in life's stage-coach, where, uneasy himself, he be still as able as he is willing to elbow his neighbor and make him uneasy.

may

The review is a stab at an Ernest Heart, who may yet, when he shall “stand on the top of his strength," rise far above this great "American Autocrat." Such blows may crush now, but they shall crown at last.

Ernest Heart wrote something, some time ago, which he called "Palimpsest," and on the title-page of "Aureola," under the title. is printed, "By the author of Palimpsest."" And one of the papers, I think it is the "Boston Transcript," says, "We never readPalimpsest,' and we don't think we shall ever read 'Aureola.' We presume it was written merely to complete the list of books for the season.'

This review is so overwhelmingly discriminating! Of course, if I had written the book myself, I never should dare touch pen again. I should seek hereafter my only consolation and occupation in the most secret corners of woman's proper, quiet sphere of domesticity.

Just think of it! the man only saw the cover of the book, and was so intimidated and repulsed by its stupidity and worthlessness, that he thought he never should read it! What a clairvoyant vision his! What a lucid transparency of judgment! Blessed and awed with such candid, comprehensive criticism, the young, aspiring authors in this country may yet " rise to heights true critics dare not mend."

One more review says: "The book is evidently written by a woman. It is a pity that every woman nowadays thinks it her duty to write a book before she dies." This is killing and unanswerable! When such men speak louder than Jupiter at Dodona, Apollo at Delphi, or Trophonius near Lebadera, at their voices, so unanswerable, unambiguous, incontrovertible, frightened woman should ever after hold her peace, and let no yet unborn dog, through future centuries, dare to bark!

But I have reviewed the book, and I believe it was written by an earnest heart, who prayed and starved and wept over it. I know God helped him to write it. There breathes all through its leaves the delicious aroma of sweetest soul-flowers, still wet with the dew of tears! I'm sure I've cried enough over it almost to drown it.

Here is a Philadelphia paper, which says, "The one who is imbued with a deep reverence for works of genius, and worships the beautiful in nature and art, will find this to be a tale after his own heart." It speaks also of its "jewels of thought," &c.

I am sure I never shall write a book myself. If one word or sentence or thought were incorrect, or even any little mistake in the print, I should worry over it all my life. And then I should always know there was an ever-so-much better book in my head than ever could come out of it. I shall wait till some one invents some daguerreotype to catch and copy thought, or some spiritual Claude Lorraine-glass, to mirror faithfully all the leaves and flowers of the soul, to catch the glow, without any pen to dull and deaden and drive back the free thought. And then I am so sensitive, the reviews would throw me into a spiritual fever one day, and a deadly chill the next. I believe I should die in a month, going through half the excitement of getting a book finished and out, waiting and watching to see if my thought-craft would sink or swim, and safely cross at last Fame's wide, turbulent Atlantic.

66

But if there is but one good thought in " Aureola," to make anybody wiser or happier, I am glad I had it published. I feel as if I had been cup-bearer for this prince of thought; for my hand brushed aside the dense eclipsing cloud, and let this star shine out. I have been an ambassador from the court of genius; the little forerunner of this great, glorious soul, the latchet of whose spiritual shoes I am unworthy to unloose. I am impatient to see the crown on the head of Fame's heir-apparent. I would rather have such a crown on my head, than to have piled up on my brow the coronet of Prince, Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, and Baron; for 't is the soul's crown; it lays it not down as it passes under Death's narrow gate, and joins the triumphant band of the immortals! You can see its pearls gleam out in the blue dome of the great eternity to come,- when crowns regal lie for. gotten on the pillow of dead royalty! Yes, that Ernest Heart is waiting for his crown! How long must the crown lie here for him? He has achieved a bloodless, glorious victory in the great