Henry Cabot Lodge's 4th of July Speech in Boston in 1879

Oration delivered before the City council and citizens of Boston, on the one hundred and third anniversary of the Declaration of American independence, July 4, 1879 by Henry Cabot Lodge at the Boston Theatre.

We meet to-day to commemorate, with customs honored in the observance, our national birthday. In this matter of birthdays, nations resemble individuals. The recurring anniversary is hailed in childhood with rejoicing and pleasure. It marks a period of rapid advance, and denotes another step towards manhood, and all its fancied independence. In due time the youth comes of age. Technically and legally, at least, the period of tutelage and immaturity is at an end. But with the acquisition of freedom a gradual change begins. Few persons go so far as Dean Swift, who passed his birthday in solitude, as a day of mourning, fasting, and prayer. Yet, to almost every one, I think, as he goes on in life, the birthday suggests more and more serious reflection. Gradually we turn our eyes, when the day arrives which closes each little cycle of our existence, from the future to the past. We strive more and more earnestly to draw from the departed years lessons which shall guide our footsteps upon the unknown pathway before us. If this be rightly done, it is at this period, when we have both a future and a past, that we achieve success.

So it is with nations. By the signatures of the Declaration of Independence we came into existence. By the signatures of the treaty of Paris, that existence was acknowledged in Europe. By the adoption of the Constitution, nationality, then only a possibility, became a probability, which, after many years, has ripened into certainty. Then came our boyhood, and the struggle to cast aside the colonial spirit, and shake ourselves free from the influence of older and stronger nations. This was a longer and more arduous process than we can readily realize now. If the world had been at peace, our task, wonderfully difficult under any circumstances, would have been somewhat simplified; but everything seemed to combine against us.

Civilized mankind was in the throes of the French revolution. Through the first period of that awful convulsion Washington and Hamilton and Adams steered us successfully into the haven offered by the peace of Amiens. There was a short lull, and then the tempest raged again more violently than before. The old pilots were gone, and there was no one who could fill their places in such stress and peril. We were the only important neutral nation in the world, and our rich and defenceless commerce was an inviting prey. We broke from our moorings, and drifted out upon the stormy seas of the Napoleonic wars, assailed by all, befriended by none. It was painfully evident then that we were still children, and still in tutelage, intellectually, if not physically. To our shame be it said, both political parties made it their principal business for ten years to accuse each other of foreign predilections. We displayed at every turn the violent anger and infirmity of purpose which characterize the headstrong and impetuous boy, whose powers are yet untried, and who lets " I dare not wait upon I would." It was a sorry time. . But the previous years of peace and union had not been useless. After sore humiliation and bitter insult had been tamely borne by the country a national party at last came into existence. They pushed aside the old leaders and the old provincial feelings, and resolved to fight. They acted blindly, hotly, and, in many ways, unwisely. They were not Washingtons, and could not imitate his policy. But they took the ' methods of the Federalists and the theories of the Democrats, and determined to assert their nationality by arms. In so doing they hurried the country into a desperate and losing war. They brought the Union to the verge of dissolution. They abandoned by treaty everything which they had sought to obtain by force. But they vindicated the national existence, they proved the fighting qualities of the race to be as fine as ever on sea, and at last on land, and they broke once for all the fetters of colonial thought and tradition. They did their work roughly and ignorantly, but they were right at, bottom, and by the treaty of Ghent we came of age.

Then followed a period of wild exuberance and exultant hope. By the almost magic growth of material prosperity, by the rapid spread of civilization, and by the new-born consciousness of nationality, men's minds were filled with visions of a political millennium. We became imbued with the belief that we had a great mission. All humanity was to come as to the promised land, and be relieved. The fertile imagination of Henry Clay devised the scheme of uniting all American States. This human freedom league, controlling the western hemisphere, was to resist the Holy Alliance of emperors and kings, and bring in the new world to redress the balance of the old. Doubts as to our system, or as to the perfection of humanity, when freed from oppressive government, were regarded as heresy. We were to reorganize society, and change the destiny of man. In our vanity, our self-confidence, our unwillingness to learn or to recognize and correct our faults, above all, in our morbid sensitiveness to ridicule, we showed only too clearly our youth and inexperience.

But, while we were rejoicing and looking forward to the beneficent and enchanted future, where our dreams were to become realities, a dark cloud was gathering over the prospect. Gradually it became evident that two distinct social systems had grown up within our borders, which were so wholly irreconcilable that even this broad land could not afford room for both. One must perish that the other might survive. With every advancing year the immutable laws of economy and industry widened and deepened the gulf between the opposing systems, and strengthened one side while they weakened the other. Free labor was stifled in an atmosphere where slaves breathed, and free labor held in its hands the destiny of the republic.

There might have been a time when this awful problem could have received a peaceable solution; but, when men were at last awakened to the facts, and prepared to deal with them, it was too late. Beneath the baneful influence of the slavery struggle, politics and public men degenerated, and the old statesmanship of the republic withered away. Great leaders, in Congress and elsewhere, cried, "Peace, peace;'' but there was no peace. Our social problem was a Gordian knot. We followed the example of Alexander, and untied it with the sword.

The greatest war of modern times, since Napoleon fled from the field at Waterloo, and all the far-reaching results of such a war, have made sad work with our illusions. They are gone, like our extreme youth, and we begin to turn our look backward for instruction as to the journey which once seemed so easy and so full of promise. We have reached the second stage in our national birthdays. The time for reflection has come. If we can profit by the teaching of the past, although the future no longer looks either so golden or so certain as of yore, we may still find in it a greater, better, and truer success even than that which once filled our youthful imaginings. On this day of the year it especially behooves us to make up our accounts and see how we stand. We may well pause for a moment in our hurried, nervous, busy life to contemplate the years which have gone, and see what we have done with them. We are growing old, old enough to have a history, old enough to study it carefully. Let us take, then.

That great, wise book, as beseemeth age,
While the shutters flap as the crosswind blows,
And we turn the page, and we turn the page,
Not verse, now, only prose.

We are in the very prime of life as a nation. We are still young, still growing, still plastic and able to learn. But we have also passed the period of immaturity; we are vigorous, powerful, rich, and masters of a continent. We have made for ourselves a history, and we have our heroes and our heroic age, — an age full of human passion and human error, but great by its struggles and its conquest of difficulties.

We are wont to revert to the war for independence as our most glorious time. So, in some respects, it was. But the Declaration of Independence is eclipsed by the adoption of the Constitution and the organization of the government. It is better to create than to destroy. If we had fought the Revolution merely to obtain the wretched Confederation, and then dissolve into petty and jarring States, it would have been more honorable to have remained an integral part of the great empire of England. But this was not to be. We proved ourselves worthy of our inheritance, and capable of the moderation, temperance, and foresight which resulted in the Constitution. With the inauguration of Washington our national existence became a fact, and to the history of-, our career from that time to this we must look for guidance and instruction.

Although history, as a science, is still in its infancy, we have gone far enough to perceive a few great laws of human development, and from these, as they are the greatest and simplest, we learn the most, our own history we can easily detect the governing forces which have shaped our destiny, and struggle for victory. Two great conflicts of opposing principles have gone on here side by side. Nationality and separatism, aristocracy and democracy, are the contending forces which have made the political history of the country, and been felt throughout society and all its manifold forms of activity. All these forces existed in the States of the Confederation. They were present at the debates on the Constitution, and, from the foundation of the government, they have battled for the great prize of its possession and administration.

In the old system of the Confederation the separatist principle was supreme. Every State looked out for its own immediate interest with selfish and short-sighted ingenuity. The general government was despised and rejected. Anarchy seemed at hand. By a grand effort the wisest and most patriotic men framed and carried the Constitution. They succeeded, by means of judicious compromises, in "extorting from the grinding necessity of a reluctant people" a bare assent to the new scheme. Whatever glosses may now be put upon the Constitution, and upon the debates which preceded it, there can be no doubt that it was regarded at the time not only as an experiment, but as an agreement. Irrationality had but a feeble life in 1789, when the first Congress met in New York. There is no need to dwell upon the growth of the national principle embodied in the Constitution, or the phases of the conflict which ensued between that principle and the older one of State sovereignty. They, at last, contended for dominion sword in hand, and the events which led to four years of civil war are as familiar as a twice-told tale.

Everyone knows that, with each advance of the national power, the separatist spirit started up with fiercer menace and contested the ground. Sometimes the State prevailed, and sometimes the nation. Finally the rights of States were appropriated to the service of slavery, which gathered to itself every interest and every passion almost of which human nature is capable. At last slavery drew the sword of State rights and struck at the national existence. Then it was seen that the Constitution had silently done its work. The puny infant of 1789 had become a giant. When the bit of bunting which typified national existence was assailed the national spirit burst forth. Men were ready to bear with slavery and with all else, but there was one thing they would not part with, — their nation. The strong instinct of nationality started up and filled the hearts and minds of men. Like other instincts it found no exact expression; it gave rise to no formula, but the strength of the people was in it, and was resolved that the Empire of the West should remain intact. All else might perish — that should not. Whether for good or ill, the nation should remain united, the empire should not be shattered into jarring and discordant States. In this spirit the battle was fought and victory gained. Whatever else might come to pass, the Union under one flag was assured so far as human exertion and human sacrifice can assure anything.

So much of the long struggle is over. That we are a nation, and not a confederacy, has been decided by the dread arbitrament of the sword. We may again have civil war, — which God forbid! — but we shall not fight for our national existence. If we do fight, it will be for the possession of the national government, not for its overthrow. The national force, social- and political, is supreme.

The history of the great conflict is familiar, but it is well to call it to mind and dwell upon its results and lessons. We owe our existence as a nation to the Constitution, and to its silent work during three- quarters of a century. Our first feeling ought to be one of gratitude to that great instrument, and to the men who framed it. Such gratitude, however, can be expressed only by reverence for its provisions and scrupulous observance of its limitations. Herein lie the merit and value of a written constitution, if it has any, and who can doubt this when its work is considered? Formed by wisdom and patriotism, the Constitution rises up over the warring passions of party, to check and to control. There is the rule of action for the majority; there, and there alone, can the rights of the minority find shelter and protection.

The Constitution, if we heed its provisions, gives time for cool second thought, and, as nearly as possible, personifies reason and law, staying the action of excited force. The man or the party who violates it endangers our liberties. They are the enemies of the national charter. The greater the majority which overrides its provisions, the greater and the more unpardonable the sin, for the Constitution has within itself means to remedy legally and deliberately its own shortcomings.

Foreign critics have sometimes found fault with our excessive reverence for the Constitution. We do well to venerate that which has made us a nation. But let us beware of mere lip-service, and take care that in practice we submit to and observe it. We are too ready to infringe both the letter and the spirit of the constitution in the excitement of party contests. Nothing can be more fatal, for within its sacred limits lies the well-being of our political system.

Within those limits, too, lies the defeated principle in the great conflict between nationality and separatism. In the last decisive struggle the rights of States were sorely wounded. It could not have been otherwise, when their most zealous advocates used them as the sword and shield of slavery, and dashed them against the strong rock of national existence. The injury then suffered by the rights of States is one of the gravest results of the war, simply from its effects upon our minds and habits of thought. "We have been insensibly led to regard a violation of State rights with indifference, if not with approval. The principle of States' rights is as vital and essential as the national principle itself. If the former, carried to extremes, means anarchy, the latter, carried to like extremes, means centralization and despotism. So long as we have the strong barrier of the States, we are safe from usurpation and plebiscites. Here in the North, States' rights have naturally become words of evil significance, and are even used to revile political opponents. This is not only bad in itself, but it involves an amount of historical hypocrisy which is intolerable. The most meagre outline of our history suffices to show unmistakably that the separatist principle has existed everywhere, and has, at some time, burst forth everywhere into dangerous activity. If this teaches nothing else, it should at last enforce the wholesome doctrines of consistency and charity.

That separatism should have existed everywhere was not only natural but inevitable. The government of each State was old, familiar, and beloved when the Union was formed. The State represented "the past. With its existence were entwined all the memories and traditions which carried men back to tile toils and sufferings of their hardy ancestors, who bad made homes in the wilderness that their children might be free and receive a continent for their inheritance. The hearts of men were bound up in their States. The Federal government at first appealed only to their reason or their interest. To their States they turned as the objects of their first allegiance. This sentiment knew neither North nor South, East nor West. Nothing is more false than to associate the doctrine of States' rights with any particular part of the country, or exclusively with those States which last invoked its aid. Nothing is plainer than that the States and the party in power have always been strongly national, while the minority, call it by what party name you will, has as steadily gravitated toward States' rights.

There has never been a moment of peculiar stress and bitterness when the truth of this has not been brought home with sharp distinctness.

Washington and Adams and Hamilton were strong nationalists, and vigorously supported a liberal construction of the Constitution. The opposition, led by Jefferson, resisted the central government, advocated strict construction, and leaned upon States' rights. But the wheel revolved, and Jefferson became President. He retained in office all his old theories, but his practice was that of his predecessors. No one ever pushed the national power further, or strained the Constitution more boldly, than Thomas Jefferson. The famous alien and sedition laws of the Federalists paled before the stringency and oppression of the enforcement act, which almost drove Massachusetts into rebellion. Both measures were said to be demanded by national safety; both were the work of a national administration, and they were severally carried through by parties of diametrically opposite principles. On the other hand, the Federalists, once out of office and a hopeless minority, drifted into States' rights, and used them freely against the national government. The Union was never in greater peril than in 1814, when New England threatened secession unless the administration and ruling party yielded to her demands. With characteristic caution, she stayed her uplifted hand and waited a little longer. The wisest and most temperate leaders among the Federalists put aside the more violent, in order to guide and check the separatist movement, and thus maintain a control which open opposition would have destroyed. But no one then doubted either the meaning or the danger of New England's altitude. If the blow had fallen, the Union would have been dashed in pieces, without hope of recovery.

States' rights belong to no party and to no State. They are as universal as nationality; and that they are so is proof of their value. But they go much deeper than their name implies. They involve a principle as old as the race itself. This principle was born in the forests of Germany, is recorded in the pages of Tacitus, and came with the wild Teutonic tribes across the channel to Britain more than a thousand years ago. It is the great Anglo-Saxon principle of local self-government, and is the safe- guard of our liberties now, as it has ever been in the past. Without it there is no health in us. It should be more jealously watched than any other, because the tendency in large communities is always towards centralization. We see illustrations of this tendency every day, in the growing habit of both parties to judge every question according to its expediency, and not according to the constitutional principles, which they, as parties, are supposed to represent. There seems to be no desire anywhere to oppose a measure, simply and solely because it leans more toward centralization than is warranted by the Constitution. This tendency is full of peril. Our government is a system of checks and balances. Destroy one element, and the whole fabric falls. Nationality is strong and safe. Our most important duty is to protect our local rights, wherever they exist, and feel as the colonies did when the Boston Port Bill passed, that the cause of one is the cause of all.

Two lessons are clearly written on the pages which record the strife between the inborn love of local independence and the broader spirit of nationality created by the Constitution. One is reverence for the Constitution; the other, a careful maintenance of the principle of States' rights.

Let us turn for a moment to the other great conflict, which has gone on side by side with that between nationality and separatism. The opposing principles of aristocracy and democracy, of government by part, instead of government by all, of class- rule, in contradistinction to the rule of the whole people, have entered more deeply into our manners, habits, modes of thought, and daily lives than the purely political forces. The latter are better understood and appreciated, but the former, silently and almost unnoticed, have striven to possess and retain every nerve and fibre of the social and political body. Incidentally the conflict between aristocracy and democracy became involved in that between nationality and separatism, and met its fate upon the same field; but its history and origin are, nevertheless, wholly independent.

We are too apt to forget that an aristocracy of strong social and political influence existed in a greater or less degree in every one of the thirteen colonies when they threw off the yoke of the mother- country. In Virginia and the southern States there was a pure aristocracy in theory and in fact. It rested upon the firm foundation of great landed estates, a tenantry of slaves, and broad class distinctions. Government was wholly in the hands of this ruling class, and the Virginian system continued to sway the South until the day of Lee's surrender. In New England, on the other hand, the political system was democratic, and modeled upon the church system of the early Puritans. Here, too however, there was an aristocracy from which our early leaders were chiefly taken; but their power and influence rested only upon consent. They were permitted to guide and govern, deference was yielded to them, and official position freely given, but solely on account of ancestral service to the State, of ability, wealth, or learning. Such an aristocracy may be an ideal one, but its tenure of power is precarious, and its supports are frail. The middle States contained both Virginian and New England elements. Great families, owning vast estates, dominated New York, but mainly by dexterous management of the masses; while, in Pennsylvania, the democratic principle had the advantage, and the aristocracy, from its own supineness, seems to have had less power even than in New England.

This wide-spread, aristocratic element, which was so powerful a century ago, made itself deeply felt in all matters of government. We find in the early State constitutions ample provisions for the representation of the upper classes, and for the restraint of democracy, as well as many and various limitations upon the suffrage. The aristocratic principle came out strongly in the convention which framed the constitution of the United States. “We are too democratic, and means must be found to check the spread and the action of democracy," was the cry of many members in that convention, including some men who soon after followed the Jeffersonian standard. The great party which carried the Constitution, organized and set in motion the government, held possession of it for twelve years, and nearly overthrew it in their last struggle for power, was an aristocratic party, and wished to build up and consolidate a ruling class.

They aimed at the creation of an aristocratic republic, and a strong and energetic central government. They shrank with undisguised horror from the idea of universal suffrage, and, embittered by the spectacle of the French revolution, regarded pure democracy as equivalent to anarchy, and, as of necessity, a government by the worst elements of society. They fought manfully to maintain and carry out their theory, and they failed. They were contending with an irresistible social and political force, and the accession of Jefferson not only marked their defeat, but accomplished a complete revolution in our theory of government. From that time the democratic principle was supreme. But customs die hard. Even after the vital principle is gone habits live on. The theory was established, but more than a quarter of a century elapsed before the practice was changed. There was still a ruling class from which the men to fill high office were for the most part selected. Birth, education, social position, wealth, and training still continued to be most important requisites for a statesman. At last the second revolution came, and practice was made to conform to theory. With the election of Andrew Jackson, qualities, inherited or acquired, which raised a man above his fellows, and had been supposed to imply peculiar fitness for public life, were cast aside forever as tests for employment in the national service.

Ability, property, training, reputation, were not only no longer required, they became positive disadvantages. A “self-made" man, who had started with nothing, and worked his way up, despite ignorance and poverty, from the log-cabin in the backwoods, was considered to have better claims, solely on account of his antecedents, than one who had been bred to the profession of state-craft, and had every opportunity for improvement which wealth and care could give. The new practice, carried by the impulse of victory to extremes, was every whit as false as the old. It simply reversed the ancient order, and declared that favor should be extended to those who had formerly stood at a disadvantage. Class discrimination was as strong as ever, in a new form. But all class distinctions are foreign to the spirit of our political system, no matter what portion of society is the favored one. They are utterly alien to the theory of administration which was accepted and laid down at the outset as the guiding principle of our government, and in accordance with which the best men, and the best men only, were to administer public affairs and be properly remunerated for their labor. This was a business theory, upon which our system was founded, and it worked capitally until, as was said by Mr. Evarts, I believe, the corollary was added, that one man was just as good as another. It was this corollary which was swept into power with Andrew Jackson, and it was anything but a business theory. It never obtained for a moment, in any walk of private life, where fitness has always continued to be the test of selection for places of trust and profit. In public affairs alone it was forced into practical operation. We are still reaping the results of this distortion of democratic principles.

It would, however, be a mistake, to suppose that, because the national government had at last become purely democratic, class rule and aristocracy were therefore at an end. The Virginian system still prevailed in the South, and still held sway at Washington. The aristocracy of Virginia had perceived at an early day that they could not gain supremacy without northern allies. These they obtained with great sagacity and perfect success. They could form no alliance with the northern leaders in the days of the Federalists, so they turned to the masses. The people of the Northern States were altogether democratic, and had no real sympathy with slave-holders and great landlords. But the Virginian system was impregnable at home, and the Virginian leaders stepped boldly forward as the friends of humanity and equality, and as the advocates of doctrines which, if applied to their own State, meant total destruction to the very system that gave them power. Under the cloak of democratic principles, Virginia divided the North, and the curious spectacle was presented of the aristocratic portion of the country ranged on the side of democracy, while aristocracy made its stand and fought its last desperate fight under its true colors in the most thoroughly democratic States.

The Virginian policy worked admirably. For twenty-four years Virginia retained the presidency. For thirty-five years more the South controlled the national government. Under the withering and debasing influence of slavery the Virginian aristocracy rapidly degenerated. They ceased to be the class which had produced Washington and Marshall. Virginian aristocracy broadened into a southern aristocracy, and lost the qualities which had once made them so much more than mere slave-drivers and plantation lords. The aristocratic force remained, but its graces and virtues had departed, blighted by slavery and by the constant defence of what men in their hearts knew to be a great and crying iniquity. Still they held on, while violence and truculence usurped the place of courtesy and good-breeding, and drove out those other attributes which had once given the southern leaders a high and acknowledged position.

But other forces were at work, and the opposing systems met at last in battle. On the field of Gettysburg the democracy of Plymouth and the aristocracy of Jamestown came together in arms, and the principles of the Puritan triumphed once more over those of the Cavalier. As in the days of Charles I., aristocratic principles had allied themselves with a bad cause, and met with the defeat which that cause merited. The last class government was utterly swept away. We are finally democratic throughout the length and breadth of the land.

With the civil war the first era of our history closed. It is settled that we are to be one nation, and we have established a pure representative democracy. These results have been accomplished by tremendous sacrifices and exertions, and they bring with them a mighty responsibility. We have undertaken a gigantic task. We are making the greatest experiment in government ever attempted. We have built up an empire so great that, whether for evil or good, it is a chief factor in the affairs of civilized mankind and of the world. We have gradually evolved a political and social system which has, on the whole, produced a greater amount of human happiness and well-being than any other. We have done more to raise the condition of the average man than any other nation. To us belongs the solemn duty of maintaining this system, and of making this experiment of a great representative democracy succeed.

It is a momentous and difficult task. We cannot escape it. We cannot retrace our steps. We must either maintain our system as it is, or plunge blindly forward. We have reached the last point of safe progress in government. We have conferred sovereignty upon every man in the community, and, unless we include women and children, there is no possibility of further expansion in this direction. The step from democracy is to socialism, and although socialism is not an immediate danger in the United States, it here and there rears its ugly head and breathes its false spirit into our laws and party resolutions. It must be crushed out before it gathers strength; for socialism means anarchy, and anarchy can have but one result, the order of military despotism. Our position is difficult, and fraught with peril, but we have proved ourselves capable of great things, and we have no reason to falter. Yet, if we wish and mean to succeed, we must lay aside careless indifference as well as fear, and take seriously to heart some of the pregnant lessons of history.

The great secret of the political success of our race lies in its conservatism, in its ability to reform and not destroy in order to create anew. "We have adapted our forms of government to the changing necessities of the times, by clinging to the past until sure of the future, by holding fast the good and rejecting only the bad, and by sturdy contempt for inconsistencies, provided the system practically worked well.

But, in this country, by our youth, by our success, and by the marvelous changes we have wrought, we have been led to forget these principles. We have become too apt to concede that a change is worth trying, simply because it is a change. We are too ready to admit that everything is open to argument, instead of adhering, in some measure, at least, to the practice of our ancestors, who believed that there were certain laws and institutions upon which all civilized society rested, that were not susceptible of discussion. Let us revert to the traditions of our race, and practise a little more wholesome conservatism. No change should be made in our political system until it has been well considered and conclusively demonstrated that it is not a change for the worse. Progress is a fine word, but it is not necessarily a good thing. It may be progress in evil as well as in good. It may be as bad as reaction, and much worse than standing still.

In another respect, which nearly affects the success of our great democratic experiment, we have departed from the maxims of our ancestors and of the founders of the republic. No men were ever more skilled than they in the difficult art of free government, and they knew well that the sphere of legislation was not boundless. They believed that legislation could assist human effort by giving security to all, and thereby extending the best opportunities for great achievements. But they taught the doctrine that the individual man should rely upon himself, and not upon his government, for well-being and success. They were firmly convinced that legislation could not be a panacea for every ill that flesh is heir to; that it could not prevent human passion and error, and their legitimate results, or free men from misfortune and from the consequences of their own folly and mistakes. The fathers of our system had learned by bitter experience that legislation should be restricted to the very well defined field where effective action is possible, should leave room for every man to exert his talents, and, above all things, should not be meddling and paternal. This was sound, wise doctrine. But there is now a growing tendency to invoke legislation to cure the results of our own blunders; to regard it as a universal remedy for every mishap, and to carry it out of its proper sphere and force it to do work which belongs to the individual man. Such helpless leaning upon legislation is false in theory, dangerous in practice, thoroughly unmanly, and as peculiarly un-American as anything can possibly be. It is diametrically opposed to the independent, self-reliant spirit which has made America what she is. Strong,' masculine races have no need of paternal legislation. It is their worst enemy.

But there is one danger to our democracy which far surpasses all others in gravity and importance. When the government was founded, although there was a well-defined aristocracy, the social and economical conditions were much more favorable than at present to the successful establishment and working of a pure democracy. Great fortunes were rare, and extreme poverty was almost unknown. Men stood, as a rule, pretty nearly upon an equality in the matter of property and physical well-being. Agriculture and trade were the only pursuits of the community. There were no great centres of population. The largest cities were hardly more than small towns. Huge masses of capital were not collected for the prosecution of vast enterprises. Life was simple, and class distinctions rankled in no man's breast, despite the power and position of the aristocracy.

As the years have rolled on we have become a pure democracy, and, meantime, all the social and economical conditions have radically changed. Immense fortunes are no longer rare, and desperate poverty is only too common. Great corporations, controlling vast amounts of capital, have come into existence. Great cities have grown up, and complicated industries have spread, or are spreading, over the whole country. From a small society, where material equality reigned, simple in its tastes, habits and pursuits, we have become a great nation, with all the intricate and delicate machinery of a high and luxurious civilization, filled with glaring inequalities of condition.

In this state of affairs there is one thing absolutely fatal to the continuance of democratic government, and that is, strife between classes. Under the old and equal conditions this was not to be feared. Nearly everybody had a stake in the peaceable existence of the country and in the continued stability of the government. All men knew, with the keen instinct of those who have something to lose, the ruin which lurked in social disorder and in any invasion of the rights of property. The population then was also largely rural and widely scattered, and such inequalities as there were did not come home to men by daily and unavoidable contact. Now, enormous and defenceless wealth dwells side by side with hopeless poverty. In the progress of our wonderful development we have brought together a great deal of very inflammable material. Let us see to it that it is not ignited, as it might easily be if one class is aroused against another.

Here is the terrible foe of our system. Here is the enemy which, once let loose, will bring our fair experiment crashing in ruins about our heads. Scrupulous protection of private rights and private property has been the great secret of our success and the chief glory of our popular government. This essential principle can be destroyed not only by force, which is little to be feared, but quite as effectually, although more insidiously, under forms of law. In either case the meaning is the same. It is one part of society attacking the other, and if this war between classes comes the present scheme is ruined. It begins with statutes and constitutions, and ends with the bayonet and the barricade. While political divisions run up and down, we are safe; but, when they begin to run across society, the end is not far distant.

To the diminution, and, if possible, to the removal, of this danger, which can now be easily dealt with, our best efforts should be directed. A brand should be set upon the man who strives to stir up war.

THE FRENCH IN ALGIERS IN 1836.

Excerpts from: THE PRISONERS OF ABD-EL-KADER, FIVE MONTHS' CAPTIVITY AMONG THE ARABS.By M. A. DE PRANCE, LIEUTENANT IN THE FRENCH ARMY. Translated From The German And French By Lady Duff Gordon, Translator Of The Amber-Witch. NEW-YORK: WILEY AND PUTNAM, 161 BROADWAY. 1845. (Note: Believed to have actually been written in French by Ernest Alby and translated into English by the Arabist Lucie Duff Gordon.)

I had gone only a few steps, when a troop of Arabs suddenly poured out of a ravine, came down upon us at full gallop, and surrounded us on all sides. They advanced towards me, crying, "Semi! Semi!" (Friends! Friends!) Deceived by these exclamations, I turned to explain them to the Doctor, when one of the Arabs snatched at the musket which I held in my hand; this showed me their real intentions, and I instantly fired at the Arab who had tried to seize the musket, and broke his shoulder. He dropped his gun, which was loaded, and was forced to throw his arm round the neck of his horse to prevent falling off. I darted at the gun, but two Arabs took aim at my head, and as I turned away to avoid their fire, one ball gave me a slight wound on the head, and the other passed through my shirt and grazed my breast.
I had not lost sight of the wounded Arab's gun, and stooped again to pick it up, when something rough slipped over my face; I raised my hands to it, and felt a rope round my neck; at the same moment, a violent jerk brought me to the ground, and an Arab, who had the other end of the rope fastened to his saddle- bow, set off at full gallop.
My cries and entreaties were all in vain; the Arab spurred on his horse, and I was dragged half-strangled through rocks and briars. This horrible torture lasted some minutes, until the horse was forced by steep and stony ground to slacken his pace, when I got on my feet again. In spite of the wounds with which my face, hands, and legs were covered, and the stunning effects of such a shock, I still had strength to seize the cord so as to keep myself from being strangled, and to run forward and catch hold of the horse's tail.
But as soon as the other Arabs, who had been dispersed by the sailors sent to our assistance, rejoined their companions, I was loaded with abuse and stripped nearly naked. Our misfortune had been seen from the brig, which immediately fired upon the Arabs: but every shot cost me a fresh shower of blows, and the horse to which I was tied took fright at the noise and started forward, and I again fell to the ground; the Arabs ran after me, beating me all the time; and if by chance I succeeded in getting on my feet, my pitiless persecutor set off again at a gallop, casting looks of contempt upon me.
The incessant galloping of the horse, and the violent jerks of the cord which dragged and rolled me among the rocks and briars, leaving a track of blood behind me—the abuse and the blows of the Arabs, lasted a quarter of an hour: this sounds but a short time, but it seemed very long to me.
As soon as the Arabs thought themselves out of reach of pursuit, they halted in order to cut off my head. The rope was taken off my neck, my hands bound behind my back, and I was tied to a dwarf palm-tree. I was so tired, that I lay down upon the ground perfectly indifferent to the fate which I knew awaited all prisoners taken by the Arabs. I had but one sad thought, of my family and my poor sister; but this was soon driven away by the near approach of death, and the animated scene in which I, though chained and silent, was the principal person.
A violent discussion had arisen among the Arabs: they brandished their sabres over my head, and each claimed the pleasure of cutting it off, all crying at once, "I took him, I have a right to cut off his head;" and each, to prove the truth of his assertion, showed a fragment of my shirt or of my coat. The Arabs were already taking aim at one another, and exclaiming, "I ought to cut off his head, and I will kill you if you don't let me enjoy my rights," when a horseman galloped up and threw into my lap the head of Jonquie, one of the sailors; as I turned away in disgust at this horrible spectacle, I saw the Arab whom I had wounded lying on the ground about fifty paces off. He could scarcely support himself, and was endeavoring to aim at me with a pistol which he held in his left hand. But horsemen were every instant passing to and fro before him, and he dropped his hand, patiently awaiting the favorable moment to fire.
I was expecting the end of this horrible discussion with some impatience, when the arrival of another horseman changed the determination of the Arabs. This was Adda, a spy of Abd-el-Kader, who had often visited us at Arzew, where he feigned an intention of establishing himself, and allayed any suspicion we might entertain of him, by assuring us that his frequent visits were for the purpose of selecting some favorable spot for the settlement of his tribe. Delighted at the good-will he manifested towards us, we had frequently invited him to dinner. But the traitor had far different designs. He made use of his visits to mark the exact spot to which our cattle were driven: he had determined to seize them, and it was with that object that he had hidden himself in the ravine with the troop which had taken me prisoner.
When Adda saw them furiously disputing who should kill me, he exclaimed that I was an officer, and that Abd-el-Kader would give them much more for my head if it was left upon my shoulders, and would willingly replace the three horses they had lost if I were taken to him alive. But the Arabs still continued to brandish their yataghans over my head, with the most horrible imprecations against the dog of a Christian.
Adda used still stronger arguments; and when the dying Arab had been removed, it was decided that I should be presented alive to Abd-el-Kader, who was to choose the manner of my death, after paying my ransom and replacing the horses which our men had shot.
I was then released from the tree, and a rope was passed through the cord which bound my arms. An Arab took hold of either end, and we started for Old Arzew. After a march of two hours we reached Old Arzew. I was worn out with fatigue and suffering—naked, wounded, covered with dust and sweat, and dying of thirst: and I expected that my body would be left without burial at Arzew, while my head would serve to adorn Abd-el-Kader's tent.
As I was with the advanced guard of the Arabs, I was one of the first to arrive at Old Arzew. I threw myself upon the ground beside a fountain, and counted the troop which had attacked us as it defiled past me: there were about two hundred men. We halted for a quarter of an hour to rest the horses and to let the men eat a little. I was unable to swallow anything but a few figs and a little water, and had just dropped asleep when the chief gave the signal for departure, and I started under a guard of twenty-seven horsemen. Just as we were setting off, an Arab brought me a straw hat with poor Jonquie's head in it, and bade me carry it. I refused, and was instantly assailed on all sides by blows and abuse, and cries of "Carry the head, dog of a Christian." "I will die first," said I, throwing myself on the ground; and the Arabs were about to dispatch me with the butt-ends of their rifles, when Adda, who was very anxious to deliver me alive to Abd-el-Kader, interposed. The head was hung to the saddle-bow of one of the Arabs, and after venting their ill-humor on me by more blows, we started.
+ + +
At length I fell, exhausted with fatigue. It was three o'clock, and I had walked since five in the morning, and my feet were torn and bleeding. The Arabs mounted me on one of their horses, but in a quarter of an hour the owner of it dragged me off its back by my leg. I walked for two hours more, and then rode again. At length we arrived about nightfall at the camp of the Borgia tribe.
Here I was exposed to the blows, insults, and spittings of men, women, and children. A tent was pitched for my guards into which I was but half admitted, and I lay on the earth beyond the carpet.
Our party had chickens boiled with kuskussu for supper, which they ate voraciously; I should have been very glad of a bit, but they considered me unworthy of such a dainty, and flung me a handful of kuskussu, which I could not swallow, as it was dry and bad, and my throat was so sore. After supper the Arabs returned my shirt to me and sent a negro to put irons on my feet. My legs were so swollen that the pain of forcing the irons to shut brought tears into my eyes: this treatment was as useless as it was cruel, for I was not able to stand, much less to run away. I stretched myself on the bare ground and slept soundly till the next morning, when the brutal negro woke me by giving a violent shake to the irons on my feet, which hurt me dreadfully.
I endeavored to rise, but instantly fell again; my feet were lacerated and swollen, and all my wounds ached with cold and fatigue. The Arabs, seeing that if they compelled me to walk I should soon expire by the road side, at length gave me a horse to ride, and we continued our journey towards Abd-el-Kader's camp, which was not above ten leagues off. But for fear I should be too comfortable they hung poor Jonquie's head at my saddle-bow: it was already in a state of putrefaction, and the Arabs, seeing the horror and loathing with which it inspired me, amused themselves by piercing it with their swords and yataghans to increase the smell by exposing the brains to the action of the sun and air.
+ + +
Abd-el-Kader's camp stood in a grove of fig trees, on the road from Mascara to Mostaganem, and the tracks of the wheels of the French artillery were still visible in the very midst of it. On arriving at the first tent my guards forced me to dismount, and in a moment I was surrounded by a host of Arabs of every age and both sexes, shouting and screaming—"Son of dog," “Dog of a Christian," “Cut off his head," &c, with the usual accompaniment of blows and spitting.
Presently the chaous came to my rescue, and by dint of vigorous blows they at last succeeded in delivering me from the hands of these savages, and conducted me to Abd-el-Kader's tent. My first reception in the camp had not been of a kind fitted to dispel the fears with which I went into his presence.
But as soon as Abd-el-Kader saw the pallor of my face he smiled and motioned me to sit, saying, "As long as thou art with me fear neither insult nor ill usage."

Emboldened by this gracious reception I asked him for something to drink, as, thanks to my guards, I had not drank since the day before. Abd-el-Kader immediately ordered me to be conducted to the tent which served as a store-house, and there I received a melon, some grapes, white bread, and water. The melon was so good, the water so cool, and Abd-el-Kader's manner had been so humane, that my hopes and my appetite revived. After devouring the melon and drinking a whole jar of water, I was again led into the Sultan's presence. His tent is the most magnificent in the camp: it is thirty feet long and eleven feet high; the inside is lined with hangings of various colors, covered with arabesques and crescents in red, blue, green, and yellow. A woollen curtain divides it into two unequal parts, in the furthermost and smaller of which is a mattress on which the Sultan sleeps. At the further end is a small entrance for the service of the tent and the slaves especially attached to the person of the Sultan: these are Ben Abu and Ben Faka, of whom I shall have to say more hereafter. During the day the tent remains open and accessible to all.
On the ground, in one corner, lie four silken flags rolled up: these are borne before Abd-el-Kader on every march by four horsemen; the first flag, belonging to the cavalry, is red; the second, that of the infantry, has a horizontal yellow stripe between two blue ones; the third, two horizontal stripes—one green and the other white; and the fourth is half red and half yellow. Every Friday these flags are unfurled in front of the Sultan's tent. There is also a small mattress covered with a carpet, on which lie two red silk cushions; at each end of the mattress is a chest, and behind it two other chests; the whole is then covered with a carpet, and forms Abd-el-Kader's sofa: the chests contain his clothes and money. A carpet is spread on the ground for strangers. These things, together with a high footstool, covered with red silk, which serves the Sultan as a horseblock, constitute all the furniture of the Sultan's tent.
The tent is always guarded by thirty negroes, who are never relieved, and have no other bed than the earth. A good many chaous are always in attendance, ready to obey the commands of their ruler.
I will now endeavor to describe a man, of whom at present very little is known. From all that I had heard, I expected to find a bloodthirsty barbarian, always ready to cut off heads: my expectations were false indeed.
Abd-el-Kader is twenty-eight years of age and very small, his face is long and deadly pale, his large black eyes are soft and languishing, his mouth small and delicate, and his nose rather aquiline; his beard is thin but jet black, and he wears a small mustachio, which gives a martial character to his soft and delicate face, and becomes him vastly. His hands are small and exquisitely formed, and his feet equally beautiful; the care he takes of them is quite coquettish: he is constantly washing them, and paring and filing his nails with a small knife with a beautifully-carved mother-of-pearl handle, which he holds all the while as he sits crouching on his cushions with his toes clasped between his fingers.
His dress is distinguished by the most studied simplicity; there is not a vestige of gold or embroidery on any part of it. He wears a shirt of very fine linen, the seams of which are covered with a silk braid terminating in a small silk tassel. Over the shirt is a haick, and over the haick two white bernouses; the uppermost garment is a black bernouse. A few silk tassels are the only ornaments about his dress; he wears no arms in his girdle, his head is shaved, and covered by three or four scull-caps, one within the other, over which he draws the hood of his bernouse.
Abd-el-Kader's father, who died about two years ago, was a marabout called Mahadin, who, by means of his fortune, his intelligence, and his character for sanctity, had acquired very great fame and influence among the Arabs. Twice in his life he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and prostrated himself before the tomb of the Prophet. In his second journey he was accompanied by his son, who was but eight years old. Young as he was, Abd-el-Kader acquired a great deal of useful experience, and learned Italian: he could already read and write Arabic. After returning from their pious journey, Mahadin instructed his son in the difficult study of the Koran, and at the same time taught him the conduct of affairs.
As soon as we had concluded a peace with the Arabs after the taking of Algiers, Abd-el-Kader employed himself in exciting the tribes to revolt, in feeding and exasperating their animosity towards us, in stirring up their religious fanaticism, and above all, in endeavoring to obtain the sovereign power over them. This, the talent, the energy, the bravery, and the cunning of the young marabout soon procured for him; he quickly became their chief, and is now their Sultan.
The second time that I went to the Sultan's tent, he was seated on some cushions with his Secretaries and some marabouts, crouching in a semicircle on either side of him: his smiling and graceful countenance contrasted charmingly with the stupid, savage faces around him. The Chief Secretary first attracted my attention by his Tartuffe expression, and the rogue has always persuaded Abd-el-Kader to ask a large sum for my ransom.
The Sultan, with a smile of the greatest kindness, bade me be seated, and asked me, in Arabic, my name and where I was taken, and on my answering his questions, told me to fear nothing so long as I was with him.
+ + +
We were awakened very early next morning by the roll of a drum very ill beaten; I instantly rose and spent the whole day in wandering about the camp, and observing the habits and the discipline of Abd-el-Kader's soldiery.
The tents of the infantry are pitched in a circle which encloses those of the cavalry; each tent contains fifteen or twenty men, whose horses are tethered outside with ropes, tied round their fore-feet.
The Sultan's tent stands in the very centre of the camp, with an open space before it for his horses and those of his attendants: he always has eight or ten horses ready for his own use. A straight avenue is left from the front of his tent to the very edge of the camp where a cannon is placed with its muzzle turned towards the plain. This is the Sultan's whole artillery, and in very bad order it is. When I was there it was mounted on a broken French carriage, and the touch-hole was so large that the powder flew out from it in a perfect stream of fire, and burned the hands of the Arabs who fired it. It was only used for salutes and rejoicings. Close to the cannon is the gunner's tent. Behind Abd-el-Kader's tent is that of the muleteers, and round it are picketed the mules which carry the baggage. Near the kitchen tent are a hundred camels which carry the barley and the biscuits for the soldiers, and a flock of sheep and goats, one of which is given to each tent every Friday. Each tent furnishes two men every night to guard the camp,—one watches from sunset till midnight, the other from midnight till daybreak. During the day there are no guards. As soon as it dawns the drum beats and the watch is relieved. A small quantity of detestable biscuit, full of dust and straw, is given to each soldier, and the horsemen give a measure of barley to their horses; they only let them drink once a day, at five o'clock, p.m. At four p.m. the soldiers have a meal of boiled barley, and the chiefs of kuskussu.
+ + +

The Arab cavalry now wear a red jacket and Turkish trowsers of the same color, with a haick and bernouse over them, and slippers on their feet; they have a rifle, a sabre, and a dozen cartridges in a box slung over the shoulder with a belt, which never leaves them. Their saddles are made of wood, with a loose cover of morocco leather, and so high before and behind that the rider sits as in a box; the stirrup leathers are very short and the stirrups very large, with sharp points which serve for spurs: they, however, wear spurs besides, which are here iron spikes about eight or ten inches long. Only the horses belonging to merchants, and destined for long journeys, are shod, but none of Abd-el-Kader's. The horsemen put six or eight coarse blankets on their horses' backs to keep the wooden saddle from wounding them. In spite of this precaution, however, nearly all the Arab horses are galled on the back: they are never groomed, but merely have some water dashed all over them when they are taken to drink; they are exposed by day and by night to rain, heat and cold; and accordingly an Arab horse seldom lasts more than six years.
The infantry wear a woollen vest, Turkish trowsers, a black jacket with a hood, and slippers: like the cavalry, they have a rifle, a cartridge box, and a knife at their girdle; the richest among them add to this a dagger, pistols, and a yataghan.
In the camp, as well as in all other places, the Arabs pray six times a day,—at three, six, and eight in the morning, at noon, and at four and eight in the evening: at the hours of devotion the marabouts turn to the four cardinal points and call the faithful to prayer with a slow and solemn voice, saying, “God is God, and Mahomed is his prophet; come and worship them." A marabout then recites the prayer in each tent. The faithful begin by rubbing their hands and faces with dust; they respond to every act of devotion of the marabout with an inclination at the words “God is great," and kiss the ground in token of humility; as soon as the prayer is ended they wash their faces. The band plays three times a day before Abd-el-Kader's tent: three musicians standing, play the hautboy, three others, also standing, beat the tambourine with a stick, and three seated on the ground, play with small sticks upon bowls covered with goat-skin. Their repertoire is very scanty. I never heard more than three tunes, which they perform till the Sultan is tired and dismisses them by a sign.
Each chief has a coffee-maker in his retinue. These coffee-makers erect a tent to which the Arabs go to drink coffee and smoke very bad green tobacco.
+ + +
I had already asked the Sultan's permission to write to Algiers and Oran, to acquaint the authorities with my captivity, and my arrival at Abd-el-Kader's camp. At eight o'clock that evening I was conducted to his tent, where he gave me his own pen, made of a reed, a bit of coarse paper about the size of my hand, and his inkstand, which was made of brass, of an oblong shape, with an inkbottle at one end and a drawer for the pens at the other. A slave brought a brass candlestick, such as stand on the altar of a village church in France. I lay on the ground, and with the Sultan's jewel-box for a table, I wrote one letter to Admiral Dufresne, and another to General Rapatel, describing the sufferings of Abd-el-Kader's captives, and entreating them to negotiate our exchange as quickly as possible. I then delivered the two letters to Abd-el-Kader, who promised to forward them next day.
We were awakened very early in the morning by the chief of our tent shouting, “Dogs of Christians, sons of dogs, get up! the tent is coming down, for the Sultan has ordered the camp to be raised." Scarce were the words out of his mouth than the whole tent came tumbling down upon Meurice and myself. This was one of the thousand pleasantries with which the Arabs continually entertained us. We were still struggling to disentangle ourselves from the tent, in which we lay caught like fish in net, when a drum beat the reveille, which was followed in a few minutes by the signal of march for the infantry, which accordingly started. The camels, mules, and pack horses were immediately loaded with all the camp equipage, stowed in panniers woven of the leaves of the dwarf palm. A third beat of the drum gave the signal of departure to the muleteers and camel drivers. Meurice and I were placed in the centre of this detachment, which was under the command of Ben Faka. In obedience to the Sultan's order, we were mounted on the two mules which carry Abd-el-Kader's own coffers; the Italian sailors were worse off,—they rode on camels. Among the baggage, I observed eight very ill-joined chests; these contained the reserve cartridges. Whenever the camp is raised Abd-el-Kader, who, like every other Arab, begins his prayers at three in the morning, does not cease from them until all the other tents are struck, and it is time for the slaves to strike his; he then quits it, and seats himself at a short distance on a silken cushion surrounded by the marabouts and chiefs. Meanwhile the horsemen assemble, and place themselves in a line on his right hand, with Muftar at their head, and the thirty negro slaves are drawn up in a line on his left. The chiefs and the marabouts next mount their horses, and as soon as the baggage has passed the limits of what was the camp, a slave comes forward leading the Sultan's horse, followed by another bearing the footstool which he uses as a horse-block. Abd-el-Kader's favorite horse is a magnificent black charger; he is the best rider I ever saw among the Arabs; and as his legs are disproportionately short for the length of his body, the Arab fashion of short stirrups, by concealing this defect, sets off his figure to great advantage, and his appearance on horseback is at once graceful and imposing. As soon as the Sultan is mounted, the chiefs give the signal of departure; the nine musicians ride at the head of the column, followed by eight Arabs bearing long rifles in red cloth cases; I have often asked leave to examine them, but the Arabs always answered, “They are the arms of the Sultan; a dog of a Christian like thee is not worthy to be hold them." Next came four more horsemen bearing the four flags which I have already described, and then Abd-el-Kader, in the centre of a line of horsemen: behind him are the thirty negroes, and they are followed by all the rest of the cavalry pell-mell. The Arabs never set out on an expedition until the sun has risen.
No order or discipline is kept on their marches; thus, if a soldier sees a fruit tree, or a solitary tent, he leaves the line to strip the one or pillage the other.
Two strangely-harnessed mules, more lean and broken-winded than hackney-coach horses, drag the solitary cannon. Not a day passes on which it is not overturned and half buried in the mud.
+ + +
Abd-el-Kader laid a double tax upon the surrounding tribes to punish them for having given a favorable reception to Ibrahim, Bey of Mostaganem. Every day the horsemen brought to the camp great booty in horses, sheep, and oxen; and in Abd-el-Kader's tent the whole day was passed in counting the money which had been seized: this does not imply that the sums were immense, but that the Arabs count over their money ten or fifteen times. The Chief Secretary, whom by virtue of his office I am bound to consider as the most enlightened man in the camp, used frequently to come into our tent, and crouching behind a bale of goods, entirely hidden under his haick, count and recount his money for hours together. In spite of the most stringent measures and of the zeal displayed by the Kaits in collecting the tribute, it was hard to make the Arabs pay it, and Abd-el-Kader sent a party of horsemen to their tents, who returned in the evening laden with every kind of booty, and driving before them herds of horses, cattle, sheep, women, children, and negroes.
At the news of the arrival of these prisoners a number of Arabs came to the camp, in order to see whether they might not be able to buy a few negroes, or a woman or so, at bargain. If, after casting a rapid glance over the slaves who were crouching on the ground, the buyer saw one whose appearance struck his fancy, he made him rise and examined all his limbs, as we examine a horse or a bull, made him open his mouth, and, if it was a woman, pressed her breasts to see whether there was milk in them. The unfortunate wretches bore it all with the most perfect indifference, and when the bargain was struck, they followed their new masters with an air of utter insensibility.
Among the prisoners for sale who were in our tent, was a beautiful black girl of about fourteen; she had large soft black eyes, lips like coral, and teeth like the pearls set in the handle of a yataghan; her legs were like those of a race horse, and her feet and hands smaller than those of a Spanish woman; her shape was perfect, and the slenderness of her waist contrasted beautifully with the fulness of her hips; for the poor girl, contrary to the custom of the women of' this country, had confined her white haick round her middle with a red worsted cord. Her beauty, and the fineness and cleanness of her dress, clearly showed that she had been the property of wealthy people. The poor girl laid herself on the ground beside me, weeping and lamenting, and refused the food that was offered to her.
Seeing her so beautiful and so unhappy, I tried to comfort her; but she said, “I was so happy in the tent from which they robbed me, and now I shall be made to sleep outside with the horses: I shall have no kuskussu to eat, and I shall wear a torn and dirty haick;" and she wept again.
Before long, a chief of the Garrabas came into the tent: he had brought the head of a French soldier whom he had surprised that morning in a field near Mostaganem, so that he was welcome in the camp. He was rich and wanted to buy slaves. At the sight of the young negress his eyes brightened with pleasure, and he ordered her to rise. The slave obeyed, she was subjected to the most minute examination and found faultless. The Garraba turned to Ben Faka, and said, “Fifty boutjous!"
"I must have eighty boutjous (JS10) for her," said Ben Faka. “She is not worth them."
“Did'st thou ever see so beautiful a negress?—Open thy mouth." The slave obeyed.
“Look,what teeth! there is not one missing!—Walk." The slave walked.
“What hips! what a firm and graceful step! She is a virgin too. Open thy haick and thy shift." The slave did as she was commanded.
“Press her breasts; she has no more milk than a new-born lamb. Don't weep, slave, or the chaous shall dry thyt ears with his stick." The girl wiped her eyes.
“Eighty boutjous."
“Sixty. She is not strong; she will not be able to carry the dung out of the stable."
“In two years she will carry the dung of all the horses belonging to thy tent. Eighty boutjous."
“Seventy."
“Her hands are delicate; she has never worked. Eighty boutjous. Yea or nay? the Sultan waits for me."
The Garraba paid them and bade his slave follow him; the poor girl left the tent, fixing on me her eyes bathed in tears. I saw the Garraba stop at the Sultan's tent to receive the price of the Frenchman's head, and in a few minutes they left the camp, and I lost sight of the poor black girl.
+ + +
On the morning of the l0th of September Abd-el-Kader started, with all his forces and the solitary cannon, to attack the Flitas and Houledscherifs, leaving one man to each tent to guard the camp. The insurgent tribes, who were prepared for an attack, had already sent their women, children and cattle, up into the mountains, and the Sultan found them drawn up in order of battle on the high mountain which skirts the plain of Milianah, at the marabout nearest to the Ouet Mina and the Schellif. The fight lasted the whole day, and the cannon was fired seven or eight times, loaded with stones in default of balls. In the evening Abd-el-Kader returned to the camp, bringing back twelve dead and eight wounded. I never could obtain any precise account of the result of the battle, but the dejection of the Sultan and his troops plainly showed that they had not been victorious. The horsemen brought back five heads, and drove before them a troop of women and children who had not been able to reach the mountains: the unfortunate creatures were all thrown into the prisons of Mascara. One man had been taken alive: he was brought before the Sultan as soon as the latter had dismounted.
“Thou wert taken among the rebels?”
"I was."
“What hast thou to say in thy defence?"
“I was compelled to fight against thee."
“Thou shouldst then have fled to my camp."
“But"—
“Enough."
Abd-el-Kader raised his hand, and the unhappy man was dragged away by the chaous. One of the chaous had lost his son in the battle, and had seen his head hanging to the saddle-bow of a Beni-Flita; with tears and lamentations he now implored the other chaous to grant him the favor of putting the prisoner to death with his own unaided hand. He at last obtained it, and immediately rushed upon the Beni-Flita, and cut off his hands and feet with his yataghan. The children shouted for joy at this horrid sight, and the revengeful father watched with delight the hideous contortions of the victim who rolled in the dust at his feet, shrieking with rage and pain, and imploring his tormentor to cut off his head. When the Beni-Flita at length fainted from loss of blood, the chaous passed a rope round his middle, and dragged him by it outside the enclosure of the camp; the children brought together a quantity of brushwood and dry branches, and set fire to them, and on this pile the chaous threw the still living Beni-Flita.
It was night, and the flames threw a lurid glare upon the dark tents: the piercing shrieks of the Beni-Flita long sounded through the camp. I covered my head with my haick, and groaned when I thought that only a few leagues from this savage camp were the outposts of a noble and generous nation.
Within a few days of my arrival at Abd-el-Kader's camp, I was covered with the lice with which the Arabs are infested. The Sultan himself in the midst of the most serious discussion picks them off his haick, rolls them gravely between his finger and thumb, and throws them upon the carpet. These vermin are of a monstrous size, white with a black stripe along the back, which swells with the blood they suck from their unhappy victims. Fortunately for us, they did not much frequent our hair and beards, but they laid their eggs in the seams of our clothes, and were hatched upon us in myriads. The Arabs are so used to them that they treated us with the greatest scorn when they saw our efforts to rid ourselves of these tormentors. One day we asked Abd-el-Kader to allow us to bathe in the Ouet Mina, in order to wash off the vermin and the dust with which our bodies were covered. The Sultan granted our request, and sent one of his negroes to protect us against the Arabs. I cannot describe the pleasure of stretching our weary and heated limbs in the clear cool water; but in two days the dust and the lice were as bad as ever. We slept on the bare ground, and as the nights were intensely cold we crept close to each other, but as soon as the blood began to circulate at all in our benumbed bodies, the lice resumed their attacks, and we again sought the cold to escape from their intolerable pricking.
+ + +
I will not attempt to describe the reception I met with from my brother officers, nor my subsequent illness, nor how delightful it was to be nursed by my countrymen. Francesco, Madame Laurent, the German, and Crescenso were sent to the hospital at Algiers, where they lay ill for some time. The other prisoners were soon released, except the wife and daughter of M. Lanternies and the two German women, who are still in the possession of the Emperor of Morocco. I obtained Mardulin's pardon, and contrived to communicate it to him: he escaped from Mascara with some orange merchants of Blidah, and is now enrolled among the Spahis.
As I was on the point of embarking for France I heard myself greeted on the quay, and on turning round I saw Benedicto dressed in a new suit of clothes. “Where are you going, Benedicto?” said I. "To my mother Maria, who has sent me these fine clothes; I am going on board with Francesco and Crescenso, to sail to Genoa, where she is waiting for me."
On arriving at Marseilles, I hastened to visit the Arab prisoners, with the full intention of repaying them some of the cruelty I had endured from their countrymen. I however confined my revenge to inviting two of them to dinner: one, who was a marabout, would not eat, because of the Rhamadan; but the other ate and drank wine and brandy like any Christian. He pressed me to return to his country, where he promised to give me quantities of horses and sheep, to receive me into his tent as his guest, and to watch over me while I slept. After dinner I took him to the theatre, and ended by conducting him to his barracks and helping him to bed, for he had transgressed the law of the Prophet, and was drunk.