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things, and no nations have been so valiant as those who unite the most possessions with the best spirit. Of course, if either estimate is to be preferred to the other, it is the higher to the lower, and for the supreme good a man should be willing to live and to die; and if it ever comes between him and his ease or possessions, he should be ready to sacrifice the less to the greater—his many goods to the one absolute good, instead of trying to gain the whole world by the loss of his own soul.

We see at once the reasonableness of our position by applying it to the most important interests which men are called to defend. Consider the heroism that is shown in defense of the household, and we invariably find that the two elements named combine in its composition; and the men who have fought most stoutly for their firesides have been they who have added to their due share of goods a large leaven of moral and spiritual principle. Mere wealth is not enough to bring out the best powers of man, and may have in its very fullness the seeds of decay and the air of stagnation. Nor is mere enthusiasm, without fixed attachments and household property, of itself enough; for its fanaticism is too wild, fitful, and aimless to give a firm and lasting motive, and tho leaders of fanatical hordes almost invariably aim to concentrate their mind upon some promised land, and so anchor their roving passion in some solid ground. Those have been the heroic nations in which there has been enough of plenty to give a fair degree of culture and comfort, so as to win the affections to the household and the native land, without the luxury that is so apt to enfeeble the frame and unsettle the faith. The most apt example that rises now to our mind is that of the Dutch, whose heroic struggles are presented to us with such life and power by our gifted and faithful countryman, Motley. Holland had nothing of the elegance and luxury of Spain; nothing of the richness of the Spanish soil, nor the splendor of Spanish arts; yet her people had a large measure of household comfort, and the industry that could make the measure larger year by year. The power of the Dutch, however, was in the union of indomitable faith with domestic thrift — the elevation and strengthening of domestic and national economy by personal religion. Compared with their adversaries, their means and forces seemed in number and cost contemptible. But take into consideration the quality as well as the quantity of their power—remember in how many heroic men and women that high sense of honor and responsibility lived which was the characteristic of the few commanding spirits of the Spanish empire—and the story of the Dutch Republic, without ceasing to be wonderful, ceases to be marvelous. The people thus moved are not to be estimated merely in the mass, whose soul may be found in one leading mind. Each man is a general because animated by the general motive; and the sum total of power is made up of the whole number of men and the whole force of moral and spiritual determination. The great energy that has always attached to Puritan communities may be accounted for in the same way. It is made up of two factors, ono material, the other spiritual—the one worldly goods, the other the invisible good; and while the Puritans, on the whole, have had as great an average amount of wealth as any other people, and often more, because they have so few who are absolutely poor, and they do not breed any such generations of beggars as are found among the old despotisms and aristocracies, they have had a higher average qual

ity of spiritual faith and zeal—every man of them reading the Bible for himself, praying in his own tongue, and taught to apply the law of Scripture and conscience to every duty and interest of life, whether in Church or State. Every true Puritan is bound to defend his home, not only as containing his goods, but as containing the infinite good; for there he is in his castle and church at once, and his creed bids him there exercise the lawgiving and the priestly power by judging between right and wrong, and asking God's blessing upon his family and his country day by day. If his goods are taken away the great good is not lost; and he maintains, with reduced fortunes and a scanty table, a dignity that princes might covet. Power still dwells with him, and goes forth from his home. It was from such households that the valor of our great War of Independence took its food and fire, and we have proof enough that the old stock has not yet died out.

We apply the same rule of judgment to national affairs, and measure the valor of a nation by the relation between its wealth and worth, its goods and its good. We do not say that a nation must necessarily be rich to be valiant; but it must be industrious and thriving enough to set a true value upon prosperity, and to strive for the products and the arts that secure it. The spur of anticipation is indeed more effective than the zest of enjoyment; and undoubtedly a nation is mightiest before its industry culminates in the highest luxury. The more vitally a true faith animates worldly thrift, the more secure are the people against the perils of luxury; and the greatest nations of Christendom teach us by their example that there is no fixed limit to the growth of material prosperity when material goods are interpreted and used humanely and religiouslv. Nations need humiliation at times, not because they are too rich, but because they use their wealth unworthily; and when their humiliation is wisely improved, the result generally is that larger prosperity flows in the chaunels that have been cut by the sharp tools of adversity. But fearful is the mistake that regards mere wealth as the measure of national welfare, and forgets the animating spirit in the pride of material fortune. What may be called by eminence the life of a nation—that supreme public good for which every patriot is bound to surrender his own ease, and time, and property, and, if need be, his blood—is by no means to be measured by any material standard, but it is a civil and moral organism which embodies the Providential history and experience of the people under a constitution and laws as vital as those that govern the human body. The property of a nation can be estimated by the census, and most of what are called its goods may be bought and sold; but the life of the nation can not be estimated in figures, and to undertake to appraise it in dollars and cents would be as absurd and impious as to appraise a human life. He is a traitor at the outset who begins to caleulate the value of the nation; and no change of principle, but merely a change of balances, is needed to move him to translate his treason into deeds. True patriotism rests upon this great conviction; and while it is well to encourage citizens to understand and prize their material wealth, and rejoice in the extent and fertility of the land, it is clear that valor does not come from any such estimate by the tables of addition or multiplication, but from love for the nation itself. It is our country whether rich or poor; and because ours its life is sacred to us. This is the true principle; and as it possesses us it will be sure to raise up an active courage in accordance with its own dignity. Hence we utterly condemn and deplore the base huckstering spirit that treats a great nationality merely as an investment of capital, and stands up for it as long as it pays well, and is swift to desert it so soon as it becomes a losing concern. Why, in fact, should the nation be held less sacred than other institutions growing out of our social nature, and calling for the action of our best powers and our most cheerful sacrifice? What would be thought of the father who valued his family merely for their paying qualities, and abandoned his wife and children the moment that sickness and misfortune made the support of them burdensome to him? Or what would be thought of the Christian who insisted upon always making money out of his religion, and deserting the gospel and the church the moment the cross began to throw its solemn shadow along the path before gay with the sunshine? The merest tyro in history and philosophy knows well that men love and strive strongly and nobly only when they strive and love on principle, and because the life is more than the goods and the body is more than the raiment. Man is strongest only for the best good, not merely for the most goods; and when he looks devoutly and bravely to the highest reality or the supreme worth, both the fountains of power are opened within him—both the trusting and the commanding capacities and faculties. He at once depends upon and serves the highest power. Loyal in his faith and his action, he is doubly armed; and his valor, taking its commission at the head-quarters of all force, acts with might answering to its commission, and can do all things in its strength. The same essential type of consciousness is found in all forms of valor, whether civil or religious: and every true man yearns to find his authority in the highest sanctions, and when he lifts his arm in defense of his country he shudders at the bare thought of following his own will instead of that supreme will which the providence of God has lodged in the laws and magistrates of the nation. Patriotic valor, when earnest, must needs then be religious, combining a sense of filial dependence upon the God of nations with the purpose of filial and fraternal service to the people. Our fathers were strong in this conviction, and the American type of valor has been of this character. The great leaders had a strong and living consciousness of divine law, and felt that they were doing a work not limited to their own interests, but destined to play a great part in the destinies of this continent and the human race. The Dutch Calvinists, the Massachusetts Puritans, and thePeun-sylvania Quakers gave most emphasis to this conviction, although it was not wanting to the Maryland Catholics, the Virginia Cavaliers, and the Carolina Huguenots. It has not died out of the people yet; and with all our refinements and liberality the old Puritan leaven is still working, and the heart of the nation is not willing to sacrifice the supreme good to any amount of goods. In peace and in war the old Confession of Westminster still holds good in substance, of spirit if not of doctrine; and in camps as well as churches thousands are still ready to say that the chief end of man is to know and love God and enjoy Him eternally. We have always been taught to acknowledge the divine hand in every blessing; and the moment we regard the country as His gift, and the national life as in a measure the work of His spirit, patriotism becomes a part of religion, and valor a part of righteousness.

Seasoning thus of the constituents of valor, and

tracing it to a true sense of a supreme good, above all material goods, and to a service according with this sense, we are in a better way to understand its working force. As it begins in true value, it proceeds in true validity, or in making good by deeds the worth that it accepts in idea. To put our doctrine in a single sentence, we call him valiant who makes value valid by his stout will and ready hand. What that force is that makes the Right mighty it is not easy to say; and all elementary powers, like primal truths, are the most difficult to define. It is safe to say, however, that valor, as an active power, comes from a peculiar vitality and exercise of the human will, and as such it is capable of a peculiar culture. A man may have a high degree of intelligence, and even of conscientiousness without valor, in part because he may never have been led to express his ideas in deeds, and may be feeble less from natural timidity than from merely meditative habits and an introversial spirit. Much of the culture of our time is of this stamp, and the strength of our age in comparison with former ages is by no means in proportion to our intelligence and refinement. Our mode of education has been defective in the especial training of the will, and we have coveted the Athenian taste far more eagerly than the Spartan hardihood. Sometimes we come short even j of the Athenian sharpness of intellect, and, failing to apply to practice the ideas that we learn, they soon become vague and dreamy, and the school fails to nurture true scholars because it so lacks the active vigor of the camp. We are becoming aware of our error, and correcting it before it is too late. It may be that another generation of feeble study and inaction, with continued self-indulgence and ease, might have made the infirmity past remedy. It is well that life is speaking to us now in a new tone, and calling not for dreamers but doers, not for ideas of value but power to make it valid in the world.

To valor thus estimated as a working force we apply the same standard as that which we applied to its objects. We measure the power in which a hero strives as we do the good for which he strives. There is power that is estimated by its quantity, and one that is estimated by its quality. Thus in a certain sense we honor all effective power, and ascribe to it a kind of valor. He who can ford rivers, and climb mountains, and overcome wild beasts, is a valiant man, although his work may imply little more than physical force. The ancient heroes were usually giants, and it is an idea not wholly obsolete that a large man and a great man are pretty much synonymous terms. We would not disparage physical force in any way, and least of all when it is under such discipline as to do patiently and resolutely the great and constant work of industry. Honor to the vast hosts of working men who have subdued the wilderness and the wild beasts, and to whom we owe the marvelous results of our material civilization! No small amount of valor is needed to make a man labor every day in the week, year after year; and it would be a good thing for our sentimentalists, who are forever dreaming of great deeds, and doing nothing but eat the bread they never earned, if they would take the axe or the spade into their own hands, and learn from hard experience how much pluck and strength are needed to do a single day's work of ten hours. Yet we must not forget that there is a certain spirit whose worth is not to be measured by the number of days' works, and which is needed even to give the workman his motive. There is a valor that commands as well as

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one that serves, and certain master men have a fine and electric quality of spirit that gives force to all who come under its influence. We find it in the master's eye, and wherever its light falls the workshop or the store or the farm feels its magic; and although no word of caution or command may be spoken, a powerful presence is felt by all, and work speeds anew as if it wero play. It is found in the orator, whose valor is in his lips, and the action, which is the soul of eloquence, is measured not by volubility of words or vehemence of gesticulation, but by inward force of will. His voice is a battle, and puts life into thousands before drooping and benighted. We find it in the apostle who subdues souls to God, and He is its great exemplar who is by eminence the Master, and who taught as one having authority and not as a scribe.

We pronounce him to have the truest valor who can make the most and best good valid by his power, or who substantiates the highest truth by his works. He must be a worker and something more, for although life goes forward by days' works, and a history and a cathedral are to be finished in a number of days, a fino essence, an ethereal spirit, must plan and cheer the work. The master will must preside, and all the powers at command must be subject to tho one overruling pnerr. This power needs patient discipline, not to create but to regulate its force, and active, like literary, genius must go to school to learn to use, but not to originate its fire. He is likely to do best who regulates the most native force by the most thorough and persistent training, especially if he shuns the frequent mistake of regarding the school not as the nursery but as the womb of power. Training will do much to shape the man, but can not make him out of nothing; and we make sad mistakes if we forget that heroes, like poets, are not made but born, and active genius comes from a native force of will quite as marked as poetic genius. The great poet needs diligence not to give but to guide his inspiration, and so too the hero needs training to guide his power; and the great soldiers have been those who, like Napoleon, best combined careful science and diligent discipline with native fire. That is the best army which unites the most spirit with the most endurance, the maturest powers with the most commanding power. Hence the monstrous error of those who disparage the worth of patient labor and of working habits in military affairs, and who take it for granted that the pride of the gentleman must needs conquer the plodding hardihood of the workman. An army of mechanics and farmers under good officers is more than a match for an equal number of proud cavaliers who mistake pride for pluck, or the aspiration of valor for its inspiration. The whole history of the struggle between the aristocracy and the people is constantly teaching this truth, and showing in signal passages the superiority of stout wills and brawny arms when animated by a valiant spirit over dainty tastes and feeble sinews, however flushed with pride and maddened by contempt. Invariably the combination of well-trained labor with deep enthusiasm, and especially with religious zeal, triumphs over brute force, however officered by ambition, and, as the civilization of the future more effectually brings industry under moral and spiritual inspirations, we may expect new developments of heroism. All heroism, no matter in whatever sphere, rises in dignity as it partakes of the spirit of religious loyalty; and every work, however lowly, whether for the family, the nation, or

the race, when done with a loyal heart, as under the government of God, partakes of the nobleness of the motive, and shares in the glory which it aims to promote. This is the highest power known among men, and its fruits are as memorable for their perpetuity as for their number and excellence.

The fruits of valor present a most important view of the subject, for this virtue is as marked in its results as in its objects and spirit. If its object be true value, and if its spirit makes value valid, we may say that its result appears mainly in the prevalence of its work in lasting institutions, especially in social organisms. Valor wins many victories, conquering nature, and covering deserts and wilds with the trophies of its mighty arts. Its great conquest, however, is over men—and not only in overthrowing enemies, but in building up its own people into civilized states, and making a nation of scattered multitudes. All great nations have been begotten, under God, by the spirit of valiant leaders. Valor is tho virility that impregnates the womb of humanity from which states and empires are born. No mere diplomacy, no mere moralizing, nor philosophy can produce a nation. The hero is the founder of empires, tho true king, or the man who can—as the name denotes; and his power is felt for centuries. They who succeed to his place, although without his original fire, inherit its flame, for it burns on the hearths and the altars which he has set up and kindled. Republics and kingdoms follow the same great law; and a Washington as well as a Frederick perpetuates his valor in the institutions that he founds and the incentives that he bequeaths. To appreciate the work of the valiant man we must consider his enduring power in raising up a succession of men like himself, who, either on the throne or at its side, defend the government that is established, for by a law of God every noble life seems destined to perpetuate itself; and sometimes, when the virtues of the heroic fathers seem to have died out, we are startled at the marvelous resurrection of them, as at the rise of forests from old fields that have long ago been burned down and given over to desolation. But valor perpetuates itself in another, and perhaps more signal and effective way; that is, by the power of permanent institutions. It perpetuates not only the spirit of a personal character, but the vitality of a great civil organism. Every great man embodies himself in some permanent institutions that contain and impart his ideas and powers. Tho customs and laws which he founds gather his followers into permanent relations with each other, and the office or offices which he establishes continue to govern with his authority, when sacred precedent takes the place of living force—or rather, continues the action of the old heroism. Thus it is in this country that our Washington still lives, not only as an immortal name and quickening example, but as an organized life, a constitutional power; and we all feel his presence and honor his work whenever the heart of the people is deeply moved, and we rally at the call of our country and our laws.

The head of a family may by his energy do something of the same work, whether he proves his valor by arms, or industry, or statesmanship, or letters. Ho establishes a certain habit, or order of habits, that lives with him and after him. When he is absent or weary, he rules in the standing order of the household; and when he is dead, he lives not only upon the tombstone or the family record, but in the whole system of ideas, discipline, and powers that he has organized. If he is a wise and devout man, he organizes divine as well as human powers, and his children are assured that in his house as well as in his garden he calls on God to work with him; and, in cheerful and sacred habits, the seeds that he has sown bear fruit for years after his death, long after the trees that he has planted in the orchard have gone to decay.

We, as a people, have every motive for gratitude that we have the example and institutions of valiant men for our heritage, and their work is perpetuated in the constitutional life of the nation. The life is there although we may sometimes forget it, and it has gone into our very blood. Our men and our women feel it, and we have ample proof that whenever the hour comes the needed valor will be fortheoming—forthcoming not only in instances of individual heroism, but in the organic life of a great people, disciplined under sound laws and true to the great instincts and habits of national liberty and order. Nothing human—surely nothing that is divinely human—can ever die; and of all the seed sown upon this earth blood is the most enduring and yields the noblest harvest, even the life eternal. The blood of the valiant lives forever, in the truth and virtues which they teach and in the institutions which they founded. It lives in the heart of the nation, and the body of this great constitutional republic, in its sacred and predestined vitality, bears the noblest blood of nearly three centuries of American heroes, and can die only when God annuls the law of creation according to which every seed must bear fruit after its own kind.

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THE flags flying every where are still the symbol of the only topic of talk and interest. The soldiers come and go. The sons of many States, East and West, resident in New York, receive their brothers and friends who arrive, with military pomp, salute them, feast them, bless them, and send them on their way. The green islands near the city whiten with the increasing camps. The children play in the streets dressed like Zouaves, with little muskets for toys. The beat of the drum, the bugle-call, the shrill, passionate shock of martial music fill the air by night and day. The bookshops have only placards of books of tactics and the drill. The windows glow with portraits of the heroes. The photograph galleries are crowded with living soldiers looking at pictured soldiers upon the walls. The piles of brick and rubbish in the streets are covered with posters bearing a charging Zouave for illustration, and with General Orders, and calls for recruits, and notices of warlike meetings. The theatres revive old battle melodramas and invent new. The passengers in the streets wear badges, rosettes, and cockades of the trinity of patriotic colors. In shawls, in cravats, in ribbons, the same tricolor appears. Shops are suddenly opened on every hand for the sale of camp stores and military equipage. The newspapers are crowded with various details of the same general subject. Reports, speculations, guesses, indignation, criticism; and in the midst of the cloud the sharp dart of the truth flashing home into a hundred hearts. The crowds assemble daily before the bulletins of the newspaper offices, and the excitement of important news flutters along Broadway or Nassau Street like the widening ripples in water. You feel something in men's motions; you see something in the general manner of the throng in the street before you read

it recorded upon the board or in the paper. There is but one thought and one question. The people are soldiers. The country is a camp. It is war.

To most of us war has been a tradition or a foreign romance. All our lives we have been reading of wars in Europe; and at school and afterward we read the tale of our own Revolution. Very few of us practically knew what war was, or how its aspect differed from the familiar peace. I have a venerable neighbor who remembers when the news of the Declaration of Independence came, and how she was told to read and ponder it. But such neighbors—honored and loved both for themselves and for their experience—are not in every street or town.

It is natural to think of every one in a time of war as being constantly and actively engaged in it. You fancy the ordinary pursuits of life suspended, the fields uuplowed, the grass unmown, the crops neglected or trampled down. Instinctively you believe in the visible sympathy of nature with the discord and blight that have suddenly befallen men. From this feeling comes the curious surprise with which we read the memoirs of some recluse, some country curate, or retired gentleman in England during the fierce wars there. Some of these amiable diarists prattle of plants, and muse upon fish, as if there were no black cloud skirting the horizon or muttering thunder shaking the distant hills, dreaming so soft and green and quiet in the sun.

It is only when the cloud no longer skirts the horizon, but overhangs in terrible gloom the field and home of the citizen, that the aspect of war becomes what we heedlessly fancy it always to be. If the course of the campaign leads an army or a regiment in action through your fields, it is as if you dwelt upon the slope of Vesuvius, and the river of lava poured through your orchard. No wild summer gust so devastating ever blew, no swollen stream so desolating ever flowed, as the pitiless pelting of bloody battle upon a peaceful homestead. Forever after the ground seems red with blood; the air is sad with spectres. If the battle be wanton, its memory is a wound that will not stop bleeding. If the cause be holy, it is felt only as the pang of purification.

Thus, at this distance, while the hum of war is heard far away, we see only the romantic aspect, and feel only the stirring excitement. The ghastly spectacle of actual battle, the horror of wholesale human slaughter, we read of in the papers as we read history.

But because it is ghastly and horrible let no man suppose that it may not be necessary, nor that war is the worst of evils. Fear not those that kill the body, and can do no more. There aro enemies that kill the souls both of individuals and natious. The day at Bunker Hill was terrible. Far away in tho morning light of history the pass of Thermopylce ran with blood. The provinces of the Netherlands stood to the death against Philip Second and political and religious slavery. But do not wish to wipe them from history because they were bloody. Do not suppose that the suffering of the few heroes who fall in maintaining principles which shall make all mankind happier, and finally spare their blood, is a worse thing than the canker of a false peace, which corrodes caution into cowardice, and for patriotism gives us pusillanimity.

A Tkar ago the Prince of Wales made a triumphal tour through the Northern part of this country. We are republicaus, but we gave him a royal welcome, for he was the representative of our great lineal and natural ally, England. Jenkins was in ecstasies. He did all that Jenkins could do. Every morning he spread, as it were, the Prince's linen and his dress for the day and evening before our enamored eyes. We knew what his Royal Highness had for breakfast; and if we did not know when, where, and how he tripped and tore his inexpressible unmentionables, it was because we did not read the papers.

The younger brother Alfred has been in Canada, but Jenkins was dumb. Four or five lines of ordinary telegram, and no more, disposed of his movements. What he had for breakfast, how often he changed his shoes, and whether he did or did not tear his trowsers, Jenkius forbore to disclose.

The "sensation" of royalty was exhausted last year. But the interest of this country in the royal family is not so dulled by any circumstances that wo can hear of the possible grave illness of the Queen of England without concern. The rumor that she had shown symptoms of the sad malady of her family is not new. Ever since she has been upon the throne we have heard the same story. The incessant summer excursions, the trips to the Continent, were explained by the necessity of change of scene and excitement. And this summer there are more pointed reports, and it is openly stated that the Queen is partially insane.

As one looks closely at her photograph, the heavy mournfulness of the expression easily seems to portend a mental affection. It is a smileless face. And as you study it the look of old George Third peers spectrally out of it, and reminds you of his dismal story. It is forlorn fate enough to be a queen; but to be a mad queen, that is tragical. And she has been so decorous a ruler; not brilliant, nor beautiful, nor able, nor surrounded with great men, as Elizabeth was; but, on the other hand, so calm, so moderate, so sensible, so singularly fitted to the peculiarities of her place, that every heart is as loyal to her virtues as her Laureate, and sings in spirit with him as he sang in dedicating his poems to her:

"Revered, beloved—O you that hold
A nobler office upon earth
Than arms, or power of brain, or birth
Could give the warrior kings of old,

"Victoria—since your Royal grace
To one of less desert allows
This laurel greener from the brows
Of him that utter'd nothing base;

"And should your greatness, and the care
That yokes with empire, yield you time
To make demand of modern rhyme
If aught of ancient worth be there;

"Then—whilo a sweeter music wakes,

And through wild March the throstle calls,
Where all about your palace walls
The sunlit almond-blossom shakes—

"Take, Madam, this poor book of song:
For, though the faults were thick as dust
In vacant chambers, I could trust
Your kindness. May you rule as loug,

11 And leave us rulers of your blood
As noble till the latest day!
May children of our children say,
'She wrought her people lasting good:

u 'Her court was pure, her life serene;
God gave her peace; her land reposed;
A thousand claims to reverence closed
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen;

"'And statesmen at her council met
Who knew the seasons when to take
Occasion by the hand, and make
The bounds of freedom wider yet

1' ' By shaping some august decree,

Which kept her throne unshaken still,
Broad-based upon her people's will,
And compass'd by the inviolate sea.'"

Do Chaillu, the African traveler, has been one of the celebrities of the London season. London demands its annual lion as voraciously as the anaconda its occasional ox. In the present case it found a very well-mannered and pleasant prey.

But while the Royal Society saluted and complimented the traveler by the appreciative welcome of Professor Owen and Sir Roderick Murchison—while the Gorilla became the pet of the drawing-rooms, so that Punch instantly made his acquaintance and introduced him to all his friends—while the traveler himself lectured, and officiated as a steward at the Literary Fund Dinner, Mr. Gray, a scientific gentleman of repute, began to throw hot shot at the traveler and his travels. According to Mr. Gray, Mr. Du Chaillu may have been upon the coast of Africa, but clearly he had not penetrated far. As for discoveries— why, perhaps not. Stuffed specimens bought where any man might have bought them —at least, said Mr. Gray, doesn't it look so? Because, he added, here is a discrepancy of dates; how could a man have been here to-day if he had been there yesterday? And what, continued the terrible Gray, what shall we say of a scientific traveler whe announces that he has contributed novelties to the museum of natural history, yet who copies his illustrations from French works upon the subject? I am very sorry, says Mr. Gray, but I must really make a point of interrogation upon the excellent Mr. Du Chaillu.

It is always very easy to make out a case, as Dr. Whately knows. It will go hard with Napoleon or Julius Caesar, if you insist upon disproving their existence. And while the case of Gray is heard, and that of Du Chaillu is not, the case of Gray is quite strong.

The simple statement of the truth is, that Mr. Du Chaillu is not a scientific traveler in the technical sense, and does not pretend to be. He is not an artist, and he has made two trips into inner Africa. Those facts explain so much that seems suspicious to Mr. Gray. Mr. Du Chaillu's book speaks for itself. He is an enterprising, persistent traveler. In his story he wants to combine the results of more than one trip, and has been, perhaps, careless of some dates, which makes confusion. And if he finds a good representation of some specimen resembling his own, he readily adapts the likeness to his own purpose. The object is to tell the story in the most intelligible way. The adaptation is not a theft. The gorilla, for instance, has been drawn in works of natural history before this book; and in giving the artist a stuffed gorilla skin, and a tolerable picture of a gorilla, corrected by his own knowledge, to draw from, the traveler is in no way to be aceused of tampering with the publie.

As to the question whether Mr. Du Chaillu does or does not suppose the monkey to be a lesser man, that is a matter which can be important only in the degree of his scientific skill. If Professor Owen said that he believed so, we might all wonder whether the eager young lady in Tancred did not speak the truth: 1' We have been fish—we may be birds."

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