The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 100, February, 1866. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ citizen; and could start afresh afterwards, with a new situation, and a new chief figure in it to contemplate. President Johnson had taken the place of President Lincoln, and had, at the hands of many of Lincoln's vituperators, succeeded to an inheritance of the abuse lavished upon him. Neither caution nor moderation had been learned by some, suitable as were the circumstances of Lincoln's death for teaching the lesson. Of late, however, I have observed symptoms of a decided change in this respect: the policy of President Johnson being recognized as broad, generous, resolute, and auspicious of the best results. I think this feeling, and a general sentiment of respect and good-will for the United States, promise to grow rapidly and powerfully among my countrymen,—who, true once again to their conservative instincts, will look with a certain regard upon a nation which can show those elements of solidity and "respectability," a tremendous past war, and a heavy national debt, with augmented authority in the central government. John Bull's ill-humor against the "Yankees" has been in vigorous exercise these four years, and has assumed fair latitude for growling itself out: it has been palpably wrong in some of its inferences; for the bubble of Democracy has not burst, nor the Republic been split up into two or three federations, nor the abolition of slavery been a mere pretext and hypocrisy. Englishmen, with their practical turn, and candid frankness towards those to whom they have done less than right, may be expected in the future to look upon the States with a degree of confidence and cordiality long deplorably absent. The events of the war have, in the long run, compelled even the hostile party to respect the Unionists and their government: the plague of slavery is fast going, and, with its disappearance, will relieve Englishmen from either (as they used to do) reprobating the Americans as abettors of and trucklers to the barbaric institution, or else (as they have been doing of late) from inventing half-sincere excuses for that same institution, to subserve partisan feelings. As matters stand at present in the United States, there appears to be only one contingency which would again rouse into a fierce flame the glowing embers of pro-Southern sentiment among Englishmen, and restore Southerners to the position of angels of light, and Northerners to that of angels of darkness, in British imaginations. This contingency is harshness in the treatment and trial of ex-President Davis, and more especially his execution as a traitor. Southern sympathizers declare that such a proceeding would be an abominable crime: the steadiest, most thorough, and most confiding adherents of the North believe, that, whatever else it might be, it would, at any rate, be most deplorable,—an ugly blight-spot upon laurels won arduously and gloriously, and as yet nobly worn.

      I have now, in however cursory or limping a mode, gone over the ground I proposed to cover. The main conclusion of all may be summarized in the briefest terms thus. A slight majority of the whole British nation probably sided with the North, and that chiefly on anti-slavery grounds: a great majority of the more influential classes, certainly, sided with the South, and that chiefly on general grounds of antagonism to the United States. For anything I have said which may possibly sound egotistic or intrusive,—still more for anything erroneous or unfair in my statements or point of view,—I must commit myself to the candid construction of my reader, be he American or English, be he on the same side of the question as myself, or on the opposite one.

W. M. Rosetti.

      TWO PICTURES

      In sky and wave the white clouds swam,

      And the blue hills of Nottingham

      Through gaps of leafy green

      Across the lake were seen,—

      When, in the shadow of the ash

      That dreams its dream in Attitash,

      In the warm summer weather,

      Two maidens sat together.

      They sat and watched in idle mood

      The gleam and shade of lake and wood,—

      The beach the keen light smote,

      The white sail of a boat,—

      Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying,

      In sweetness, not in music, dying,—

      Hardhack and virgin's-bower,

      And white-spiked clethra-flower.

      With careless ears they heard the plash

      And breezy wash of Attitash,

      The wood-bird's plaintive cry,

      The locust's sharp reply.

      And teased the while, with playful hand,

      The shaggy dog of Newfoundland,

      Whose uncouth frolic spilled

      Their baskets berry-filled.

      Then one, the beauty of whose eyes

      Was evermore a great surprise,

      Tossed back her queenly head,

      And, lightly laughing, said,—

      "No bridegroom's hand be mine to hold

      That is not lined with yellow gold;

      I tread no cottage-floor;

      I own no lover poor.

      "My love must come on silken wings,

      With bridal lights of diamond rings,—

      Not foul with kitchen smirch,

      With tallow-dip for torch."

      The other, on whose modest head

      Was lesser dower of beauty shed,

      With look for home-hearths meet,

      And voice exceeding sweet,

      Answered,—"We will not rivals be;

      Take thou the gold, leave love to me;

      Mine be the cottage small,

      And thine the rich man's hall.

      "I know, indeed, that wealth is good;

      But lowly roof and simple food,

      With love that hath no doubt,

      Are more than gold without."

      Behind the wild grape's tangled screen,

      Beholding them, himself unseen,

      A young man, straying near,

      The maidens chanced to hear.

      He saw the pride of beauty born,

      He heard the red lips' words of scorn;

      And, like a silver bell,

      That sweet voice answering well.

      "Why trust," he said, "my foolish eyes?

      My ear has pierced the fair disguise;

      Who seeks my gold, not me,

      My bride shall never be."

      The supreme hours unnoted come;

      Unfelt the turning tides of doom;

      And so the maids laughed on,

      Nor dreamed what Fate had done:

      Nor knew the step was Destiny's

      That rustled in the birchen trees,

      As, with his life forecast

      Anew, the listener passed.

      Erelong by lake and rivulet side

      The summer roses paled and died,

      And Autumn's fingers shed

      The maple's leaves of red.

      Through the long gold-hazed afternoon,

      Alone, but for the diving loon,

      The partridge in the brake,

      The black duck on the lake,

      Beneath the shadow of the ash

      Sat СКАЧАТЬ