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would be best that I should still say no, were this greatest of all not in the way. I am different from you in ways that would give us both annoyance and pain, and I should love you too much, either for your good or mine; but all these might give way, the other cannot. And this reason also concerns others. I could not give occasion of offense to any tender conscience in the church, for the sake of my own feelings, nor do such wrong to all who would look to us for example, as to set an evil, and not a holy one, before their eyes. No man

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liveth to himself,' it says in the Bible, and we cannot do it if we would. Still this is not the main part of the reasonthat I have already given you, and it would still hold good, if we were living on a desert island. I must not marry you.

"I do not think you will suffer much from my refusal, at first, for you know you do not love me as you should love a person you ask to be your wife; and this would be reason enough, with most girls, for refusing you; but I am sure you would learn to love me better than all the world, if I were with you always; and I am so sure of it, that I have spoken the very thoughts of my heart in this letter.

*** Moreover, I am afraid you will love me now better than ever you did, and in thinking over what I say, you will at length suffer as I cannot bear to have you; yet it must be. For my own sake, and even more for yours, I ask you to please to go away from Cranberry for a time. I am every day growing weaker with the milder weather, and I shall have no peace, if I think you are close by and I cannot see you; for you must not come here again. Please go away! I do not think I shall die; for I know God never made any of his children to be the helpless prey of one affection. Time and patience will cure me : I shall be better when you are gone. I need not tell you that I shall never marry anybody else; you know I am not made that way. I shall always love you, even when I get well, and never, never, forget to pray for you. I think it would be better if you could forget me; but I know you cannot. I hope and believe that God will bring us both to heaven, and till that time, even if I never see you, I shall be, as I am now, Yours truly,

166

"ANNE HARRISON.'

"Oh dear!" said Parson Field, after a brief pause, in which he choked once or twice, through the effort to speak, and, at last, uttered only that pitiful and helpless exclamation. "My young friend, when I had finished that letter, I thought I had become blind, for everything seemed so dark. I sat in my chair, like a person stunned with a great blow, and all my thoughts were in such a maze, that when some blossom leaves from the cherry-tree blew in at my window, I stooped to pick them up, and lay them to iny parched lips, for I thought it was snow. I felt only wintry. What Anne had said was true, now, regarding what might have been. I came, for the first time, to the knowledge of myself. I began to know that I had held her image within me, and compared every other by that pure touch-stone, till there was no place found for another beside it. I did not love her with the wild and fitful passion of youth, but with such calmness and depth as we see in the quiet flowing of a strong river, that maketh not, in its out-going, one-tenth part of the turmoil wherewith a mountain brook pours itself headlong. My life was suddenly disappointed, my purposes were, indeed, broken off, and I could not even have the support of pride or anger; for the simplicity of her words was like the presence of a little innocent child, a divine candor, such as an angel might speak with, but utterly silencing to human wrath or rebellion. I was dumb. I opened not my mouth, though I knew not then that it was God who did the thing."

"Why didn't you try again, sir?" exclaimed I, utterly carried away by my sympathy and interest.

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"My young friend," said Mr. Field, as gravely and reprovingly as if I had been profane, you do not know Anne Harrison. I knew that what she had said was as final as a decree of Providence, indeed, it was one to her; and, although she was as gentle and tender in her affections as the most loving child, she was singularly framed in one respect, being as firm, upon a matter of duty, as if her whole nature were stone, and had a table of the law graven thereupon. No. I knew better than to attempt to shake her constancy, nor should I have held her in such respect and honor, had I believed it possible: believe me, there never was a man made who did not love the woman, to whom he

offered marriage, all the better for proving to him her faithful and unswerving love of right. She who is true to God, will be true to man; it is an unfailing verity. Well, I put my worldly possessions together, and having seen my father well settled with a trustworthy hired man and his wife to take care of the farm, and relieve my mother of some labor, I went off to Ohio, leaving a note for Anne in these words:

Good-by, dear, dear Anne; you were right about all of it.

"Yours always,

C. P. F.'

"I remained in Ohio upwards of two years, striving to drive away, by bodily exercise, the pains within. I heard from home once in many months; for the land was not as it is now, but was newly-settled, not all civilized. However, I heard always that Anne was getting slowly better, and after eighteen months my mother wrote that she seemed almost well, and I was truly glad; for I knew then that time and my absence had given her control of herself again, and I felt assured, even as the king did concerning Daniel, that the God whom she worshiped would not forsake her. Now, about this time I had occasion to go across the Ohio country some sixty miles, on horseback, by unfrequented and new roads, so it was no strange thing that I should lose my way; indeed, I was busily thinking of Anne, for she was never out of my thoughts now when I was alone, and so my horse took his own way, and presently I found myself near the ford of a creek that was strange unto me; and having crossed it, I came presently unto a fair oak-opening, and a little prairie beyond, which was sprinkled with the white tents of a camp-meeting. I got off my horse and tied him to a tree, while I went forward to gather some instructions concerning the right way to my destination; but as I reached the camp I found the assembly all at prayer, and I could not interrupt them. There was a strange fervor and simplicity about the old Methodist preacher who conducted those services. More than once his direct and earnest speech made me to think of Anne; but soon I was too much absorbed in the discourse which followed upon the prayer to note any resemblances. And there, in the wilderness, I was visited of the Lord. I think, my young friend, there is a certain de

gree of sacrilege in the common talk of many truly Christian persons, concerning their religious experience. I believe it is necessary, at times, to recount it for the benefit of others; but no lesser motives should induce us to unveil the holy of holies within. Suffice it to say, I went on my journey after two days, a changed man, rejoicing, even as Simeon did, to have seen his salvation; and yet never once in that time did the thought of Anne Harrison come to me. I had been so absorbed in the new world of feeling, that I truly forgot her whose saintly prayers were now answered. And even when I returned to mine own hut upon the edge of the river, I dwelt there a month before I permitted myself to think that there was new hope in my life, that now I might obtain the great blessing I had lost. And now, indeed, my love for Anne strengthened daily; for I perceived, as if with another sight, the excellence of her character, and its faith and patience, even unto the martyr's spirit. And as I meditated there in the solitude of the forests, I became like an unfledged bird that pineth for wings. So, as the summer heats drew nigh, I even sold out to the next squatter my cabin and its furniture, and paid him to carry me as far as the nearest stage-town, that I might get on my way home. I rode after that three days and three nights, in my zeal to reach my own country and my father's house; and by an inscrutable Providence, as the last of these stage-rides was near to its end, the vehicle broke down some ten miles from Cranberry, about eleven o'clock in the evening, and after an hour or two of vain attempts to set the coach up, the passengers dispersed for the nearest shelter, but as it was a fair moonlight night, and I something impatient of delay, I shouldered my small knapsack and footed it over the hills toward Cranberry. Truly, never did a night seem so long or a way so endless unto me before. It was just dawn as I ascended the high hill which overlooks Cranberry from the west. I well remember how my heart failed me when I saw the village lying silent as the grave itself at my feet. It was ten weeks since I had heard from homewhat might not have happened in that time? I looked eastward over the rolling country that stretched away to the valley of the Connecticut, now clothed in the deepest green of summer, and

drinking of still waters and heavenly dew. There was no cloud in the deep, saffron-colored sky, but just where its prophecying gold melted into the blue ether, hung, lonely and calm, the faithful morning star. I gazed upon this day-spring, remembering who it was that had called Himself by that name, till I was also calm; and turning from my place of rest, I sought the wellknown path, and was soon once more at home beside my mother's chair. Well, time hath had its power over me, doubtless, but, old as I am, I cannot now recall that day with firmness, or speak of it with ease. Let it be enough for me to tell you that I had returned in vain. Anne, my Anne, had been with her sister saints in glory for many days! Yet I was spared one pain that would have been keener than all-the thought that she had died as I left her, striving to stifle her own heart, and so dying with it.

"No-she was in the right in all she had said. Time and patience and her simple faith had conquered. She was well and cheerful, doing good unto all as she had opportunity, when an epidemic fever that raged among the poor in a settlement called the Flats, a mile below Cranberry, had smitten her in her very labors of love among those poor, and she died after ten days of pain and delirium.

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"Of course she had left no letter for me; but her reason returning for a few hours before death, she sent for my mother, and told her to say she had loved me to the last, and should look for me in heaven; adding: Do not be anxious for Cyrus, Mrs. Field, he will make you a happy mother yet-for I know that God has heard me. Tell him that I said so.' And then, having kissed my mother tenderly, she clasped her hands and closed her eyes with a

smile that faded no more, but shone even within the coffin-lid, where my mother next beheld the sweet and peaceful face I should never see again till the resurrection morning. Oh, my dear young friend, those were days not to be recalled. The arrows of the Almighty drank up my spirit, and I fainted at his reproof. Also, my flesh failed, and I lay some weeks in a fever of the brain, from which I recovered by divine help, a sobered and chastened

man.

"Now I perceived inwardly that I had a call to the ministry, and though I was somewhat past the usual age, I yet commenced my studies directly, and found a slight relief from present sorrow in preparing myself for the college course, as well as in its diligent pursuit. Forty and five years have I been a minister of the Lord, and many women have passed before mine eyes, fair to look upon, and adorned with the graces of the spirit, but none were like her, though for her sake I held them in honor. She had gifts and graces in equal measure, but her heart was greater than all. And I think of her whenever I think of heaven, as of one who hath found her native country, and will show me the streets thereof if I possess my soul in patience till the good time draweth nigh.”

The moonlight fell upon Parson Field's uplifted and fervent face, shining like a halo in his scanty silver hair, as he concluded this story of a life. I could not speak, nor did he break the silence. We sat together, embraced alike by the past and the future, dumb with excess of emotion and thought.

Suddenly Miss Martha's wiry voice rang through the entry-" Brother! it's time for prayers!"-and rising, we went in.

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THE

THE REAL QUESTION.

IE recent exciting and protracted contest, as to the organization of Congress, was significant, in more respects than one. It was a topical symptom of a general state, showing a large amount of derangement, and yet a tendency to recuperation.

We saw the representatives of the people brought to a complete deadlock by the antagonism of parties, each pull ing a different way, with no one strong enough to prevail, and no two seemingly ready to coalesce. For two months, nearly, the usual course of legislation was suspended on the settlement of a preliminary dispute as to the Speakership. Yet the House of Representatives was never more truly representative than in this temporary paralysis of its functions; for the whole nation is in pretty nearly the same predicament. Its politics are decussated, if we may use the expression, not by well-defined parties, but by numerous opposing factions. Their conflicts, but for the seriousness of the subjects involved, would exhibit as droll a spectacle as Marryatt describes in his triangular duel. The Republicans, taking a pistol in either hand, fire away at the Democrats and the Americans; the Americans, doing the same, fire at the Republicans and the Democrats; while the Democrats, again, discharge their pieces at the Americans and the Republicans. Everybody shoots at everybody else; and everybody, let him aim in whatever direction he will, is sure to aim at an enemy, who is also aiming at him, thus rendering the exposure equal, and the chances of sudden disaster somewhat even. It was evident, however, during the struggle in the House, in spite of the seeming and superficial differences of opinion among the several factions, that there was, radically, but a single issue. Each member felt, as he gave his vote for this or that candidate, though he was not always ready to avow it, that the turning-point of all was, the question of slavery. All the other questions, which may have operated in forming little knots of voters, were incidental, or aside, like the small eddies which whirl about in the very current of the principal vortex. Banks and Aiken were the leaders of the hosts

between which the real battle was fought, while they who shouted for Fuller, Zollikoffer, and what not, were only deserters from the main ranks, or camp-followers and marplots.

Nor were leaders ever chosen with more instinctive wisdom, considering the peculiarity of their relations to this predominant issue. Mr. Banks was a man of the people, who had risen by his own efforts from an humble mechanical occupation to a high political office; while Mr. Aiken was a slaveholder, one of the wealthiest of his class, endowed , with all the better qualities of that class, and as sincere as he was strong in his geographical convictions. Mr. Banks represented the state of Massachusettsitself the best example of a free condition of society to be found on the face of the earth; while Mr. Aiken represented South Carolina-long distinguished as the ablest exponent of both the opinions and the influences of the slave-civilization. In these, their champions, therefore, the two social systems of the North and South were pitted against each other, and, for the first time so openly and directly, in the history of our national existence.

In the same way, the nation, in the midst of the parties and agitations by which it is distracted, recognizes the fundamental and vital question to be that of slavery. Wink it out of sight as we may, or complicate it as we may, it can not be disguised, that slavery is the single real element of party divisions. Openly or secretly, it controls the action of all parties. They come together, as in the case of the Americans, for other ostensible purposes; but before they separate, are fiercely at loggerheads about this matter. Every ancient partyorganization has been sundered by it, and their members, in forming new par ty ties, are almost exclusively controlled by it. The first condition they enact before joining any body is, that it should think thus and so of the slavery question.

But what is the slavery question? What is the real issue at the bottom of the excitement which gathers about this word slavery, as a nucleus? Let us answer, in the first place, that it is not a question as to the merits of slavery in

itself, or rather in its adaptation to those communities in which it already exists. With the exception of a certain class of philanthropists, who conceive it their duty to wage war against every form of what they deem injustice everywhere, we know of no class in this country who wish to interfere with those communities. At any rate, there is no distinct or formidable political party professing such an object. A great many individuals at the North, as freemen, not indifferent to the cause of humanity, claim the right to consider and criticize Southern society, just as they do the various societies of Europe and Asia. But the great body of the people have never evinced any aggressive disposition beyond that, and are willing to leave the practical treatment of slavery, in the states, to those who know its evils, and are to be presumed best able to devise a remedy. What concerns them solely and exclusively is, the relation of slavery to their own interests and responsibilities. It might be conceded that the peculiar socialism of the South is the best for it, under the circumstances, that human wisdom can conceive; or, that it has the divine sanction-being equally beneficial to the white and black races, without touching the marrow of our public dispute.

For the real question, let us remark, in the second place, arises out of the struggle of two incompatible orders of civilization for the mastery of a common field. It has fallen to the lot of this country to make the attempt to confederate a series of states, separated by two distinct social systems; and, though the attempt is not impracticable in itself, nor was it impracticable under the original conditions, nor is yet impracticable, could these conditions be adhered to the actual working of the experiment has developed a broad and serious antagonism. The evidences of a latent difference have appeared, from time to time, from the beginning; but they were adjusted by our wise statesmen of the past, as they appeared, on the principle of peaceful compromise. In a late fatal and perfidious hour, however, that principle was flung to the winds, and the elements of discord left to the chance of a hand-to-hand encounter. As the first result of the abandonment, the western breezes brought to our ears, from the plains of Kansas,

murmurs of warlike preparations; even as we write,

"From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,

The hum of either army stilly sounds;" and long before our article shall be read, perhaps, the din of civil war will have broken the distant solitudes.

The controversy, between what may be termed our Northern and Southern civilizations, presents two aspects: first, whether the influences of the one or the other shall predominate in the federal government; and, secondly, whether the one or the other of these influences shall prevail in the organization of new territories. Virtually, these questions are one; for whichever side succeeds in regard to the first point, will be sure to succeed in regard to the second, and vice versa.

As to the first aspect of it, we are all aware what the facts of the case have been hitherto; we are all aware, that for many years the interests of slavery have carried the day completely, in nearly every department of the national government. The executive has always inclined to that side, and so has the judiciary, and, with occasional exceptions, both branches of the legislature. It came to such a pass, indeed, at last, that no man, whatever his capacities or claims, who was in the least adverse to that interest, was allowed to hold the lowest office of profit or honor under the general government, and much less to achieve any of its higher places. It is true, at this hour, that the most illustrious poet of his country, that its most illustrious historian, that its most illustrious philosopher, that its most illustrious novelist (were she a man) could not be made a gate-keeper of the public grounds at Washington, if he desired to be; and that for the simple reason, that having formed a different theory of social life from the one which obtains at the South, he has been honest enough to express it. Even the most eminent statesmen of former days, our Jeffersons, our Franklins, our Jays, and our Adamses, could they arise from their graves, and write what they once wrote, would be excluded forever from political employment. Thus, the men of the North, who are born to freedom, who are cradled to rest by the songs of its surges as they roll in from the lakes and oceans, who inhale it with every breath blown from their eternal hills, and who,

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