DIARY OF FRANCES KRASINSKA;

'In the moral world, as in the physical world, nothing is anomalous; nothing is unnatural; nothing is strange.All is order, symmetry, and law. There are opposites, but there are no contradictions. In the character of a nation, inconsistency is impossible. Such, however, is still the backward condition of the human mind, and with so evil and jaundiced an eye do we approach the greatest problems, that not only common writers, but even men from whom better things might be hoped, are on this point involved in constant confusion. Perplexing themselves and their readers by speaking of inconsistency, as if it were a quality belonging to the subject which they investigate, instead of being, as it really is, a measure of their own ignorance. It is the business of the historian to remove this ignorance by showing that the movements of nations are perfectly regular, and that, like all other movements, they are solely determined by their antecedents. If he cannot do this, he is no historian. He may be an annalist, or a biographer, or a chronicler, but higher than that he cannot rise, unless he is imbued with that spirit of science which teaches, as an article of faith, the doctrine of uniform sequence; in other words, the doctrine that certain events having already happened, certain other events corresponding to them will also happen. To seize this idea with firmness, and to apply it on all occasions, without listening to any exceptions, is extremely difficult, but it must be done by whoever wishes to elevate the study of history from its present crude and informal state, and do what he may toward placing it in its proper rank, as the head and chief of all the sciences. Even then, he cannot perform his task unless his materials are ample, and derived from sources of unquestioned credibility. But if his facts are sufficiently numerous; if they are very diversified; if they have been collected from such various quarters that they can check and confront each other, so as to do away with all suspicion of their testimony being garbled; and if he who uses them possesses that faculty of generalization, without which nothing great can be achieved, he will hardly fail in bringing some part of his labors to a prosperous issue, provided he devotes all his strength to that one enterprise, postponing to it every other object of ambition, and sacrificing to it many interests which men hold dear. Some of the most pleasurable incentives to action, he must disregard. Not for him are those rewards which in other pursuits the same energy would have earned; not for him, the sweets of popular applause; not for him, the luxury of power; not for him, a share in the councils of his country; not for him a conspicuous and honored place before the public eye. Albeit, conscious of what he could do, he may not compete in the great contest; he cannot hope to win the prize; he cannot even enjoy the excitement of the struggle. To him the arena is closed. His recompense lies within himself, and he must learn to care little for the sympathy of his fellow creatures, or for such honors as they are able to bestow. So far from looking for these things, he should rather be prepared for that obloquy which always awaits those, who, by opening up new veins of thought, disturb the prejudices of their contemporaries. While ignorance, and worse than ignorance, is imputed to him, while his motives are misrepresented and his integrity impeached, while he is accused of denying the value of moral principles, and of attacking the foundation of all religion, as if he were some public enemy, who made it his business to corrupt society, and whose delight it was to see what evil he could do; while these charges are brought forward, and repeated from mouth to mouth, he must be capable of pursuing in silence the even tenor of his way, without swerving, without pausing, and without stepping from his path to notice the angry outcries which he cannot but hear, and which he is more than human if he does not long to rebuke. These are the qualities, and these the high resolves, indispensable to him who, on the most important of all subjects, believing that the old road is worn out and useless, seeks to strike out a new one for himself, and, in the effort, not only perhaps exhausts his strength, but is sure to incur the enmity of those who are bent on maintaining the ancient scheme unimpaired. To solve the great problem of affairs; to detect those hidden circumstances which determine the march and destiny of nations; and to find, in the events of the past, a key to the proceedings of the future, is nothing less than to unite into a single science all the laws of the moral and physical world. Whoever does this, will build up afresh the fabric of our knowledge, rearrange its various parts, and harmonize its apparent discrepancies. Perchance, the human mind is hardly ready for so vast an enterprise. At all events, he who undertakes it will meet with little sympathy, and will find few to help him. And let him toil as he may, the sun and noontide of his life shall pass by, the evening of his days shall overtake him, and he himself have to quit the scene, leaving that unfinished which he had vainly hoped to complete. He may lay the foundation; it will be for his successors to raise the edifice. Their hands will give the last touch; they will reap the glory; their names will be remembered when his is forgotten.'It is, indeed, too true, that such a work requires, not only several minds, but also the successive experience of several generations. Once, I own, I thought otherwise. Once, when I first caught sight of the whole field of knowledge, and seemed, however dimly, to discern its various parts, and the relation they bore to each other, I was so entranced with its surpassing beauty, that the judgment was beguiled, and I deemed myself able, not only to cover the surface, but also to master the details. Little did I know how the horizon enlarges as well as recedes, and how vainly we grasp at the fleeting forms, which melt away and elude us in the distance. Of all that I had hoped to do, I now find but too surely how small a part I shall accomplish. In those early aspirations, there was much that was fanciful; perhaps there was much that was foolish. Perhaps, too, they contained a moral defect, and savored of an arrogance which belongs to a strength that refuses to recognize its own weakness. Still, even now that they are defeated and brought to nought, I cannot repent having indulged in them, but, on the contrary, I would willingly recall them if I could. For, such hopes belong to that joyous and sanguine period of life, when alone we are really happy; when the emotions are more active than the judgment; when experience has not yet hardened our nature; when the affections are not yet blighted and nipped to the core; and when the bitterness of disappointment not having yet been felt, difficulties are unheeded, obstacles are unseen, ambition is a pleasure instead of a pang, and the blood coursing swiftly through the veins, the pulse beats high, while the heart throbs at the prospect of the future. Those are glorious days; but they go from us, and nothing can compensate their absence. To me, they now seem more like the visions of a disordered fancy than the sober realities of things that were, and are not. It is painful to make this confession; but I owe it to the reader, because I would not have him to suppose that either in this or in the future volumes of my History I shall be able to redeem my pledge, and to perform all that I promised. Something I hope to achieve which will interest the thinkers of this age; and, something, perhaps, on which posterity may build. It will, however, only be a fragment of my original design.'

'It is, indeed, too true, that such a work requires, not only several minds, but also the successive experience of several generations. Once, I own, I thought otherwise. Once, when I first caught sight of the whole field of knowledge, and seemed, however dimly, to discern its various parts, and the relation they bore to each other, I was so entranced with its surpassing beauty, that the judgment was beguiled, and I deemed myself able, not only to cover the surface, but also to master the details. Little did I know how the horizon enlarges as well as recedes, and how vainly we grasp at the fleeting forms, which melt away and elude us in the distance. Of all that I had hoped to do, I now find but too surely how small a part I shall accomplish. In those early aspirations, there was much that was fanciful; perhaps there was much that was foolish. Perhaps, too, they contained a moral defect, and savored of an arrogance which belongs to a strength that refuses to recognize its own weakness. Still, even now that they are defeated and brought to nought, I cannot repent having indulged in them, but, on the contrary, I would willingly recall them if I could. For, such hopes belong to that joyous and sanguine period of life, when alone we are really happy; when the emotions are more active than the judgment; when experience has not yet hardened our nature; when the affections are not yet blighted and nipped to the core; and when the bitterness of disappointment not having yet been felt, difficulties are unheeded, obstacles are unseen, ambition is a pleasure instead of a pang, and the blood coursing swiftly through the veins, the pulse beats high, while the heart throbs at the prospect of the future. Those are glorious days; but they go from us, and nothing can compensate their absence. To me, they now seem more like the visions of a disordered fancy than the sober realities of things that were, and are not. It is painful to make this confession; but I owe it to the reader, because I would not have him to suppose that either in this or in the future volumes of my History I shall be able to redeem my pledge, and to perform all that I promised. Something I hope to achieve which will interest the thinkers of this age; and, something, perhaps, on which posterity may build. It will, however, only be a fragment of my original design.'

In estimating the extent to which Mr. Buckle succeeded in consummating the labor which he undertook, we are not, therefore, to measure his results by the standard of the first, but by that of the second volume. It is not, then, the Science of History which he is striving to write; but only something 'which will interest the thinkers of this age, and something, perhaps, on which posterity may build.' His task, as thus abridged, was confined to the endeavor to establish the 'four leading propositions, which, according to my [his] view, are to be deemed the basis of the history of civilization;' that is, the basis of a Science of History. These propositions, given in a previous article, may be here repeated:

'1st. That the progress of mankind depends on the success with which the laws of phenomena are investigated, and on the extent to which a knowledge of those laws is diffused. 2d. That before such investigation can begin, a spirit of scepticism must arise, which, at first aiding the investigation, is afterward aided by it. 3d. That the discoveries thus made, increase the influence of intellectual truths, and diminish, relatively, not absolutely, the influence of moral truths; moral truths being more stationary than intellectual truths, and receiving fewer additions. 4th. That the great enemy of this movement, and therefore the great enemy of civilization, is the protective spirit; by which I mean the notion thatsociety cannot prosper unless the affairs of life are watched over and protected at nearly every turn by the state and the church; the state teaching men what to do, and the church teaching them what they are to believe.'

In the first paper of this series, which was devoted to the examination of the third proposition as announced by Mr. Buckle and substantially affirmed by Professor Draper, together with the consideration of the fundamental Law of Human Progress, the error into which both of these distinguished writers had fallen in regard to the relative influence of moral and intellectual truths, was pointed out; as also the misconception under which they rested concerning the Law of Human Development. This misconception, it was then shown, arose from an incorrect understanding of the essential character of the Law itself, and could be traced, basically, to the same source whence sprang their mistake in reference to the comparative power of moral and mental forces. It is to a misapprehension, analogous to that which brought him into error concerning these two important points, that the radical defect of Mr. Buckle's first and fourth propositions is to be traced, as will be hereafter exhibited.

The complete and exhaustive consideration of the second proposition demands a range of Metaphysical examination which cannot be entered upon at this time. For our present purposes it may be dismissed with the following remarks:

That before men begin the investigation of any subjectdeliberately,reflectively, and with afixedandintelligentpurpose of ascertaining the truth concerning it, there must arise some feeling of doubt in their minds in relation to the given subject or to some details of it, is certainly true, and needed no array of evidence to prove it; but that prior to suchconsciousandintentionaleffort at exploration, there exists anunconsciousorautomaticaction in the mind, an instinctual and passive kind of thinking, a vague floating of ideasintothe mental faculties, rather than an apprehension of them by an active and deliberatetensionof the intellect, and that it is through this kind ofintuitive investigationthat the 'spirit of scepticism' primarily arises, is equally true; though not, perhaps, at the first blush, so apparent. In this sense, the statement of Mr. Buckle is simply one half of a truism, the other half of which, not enunciated by him, is equally correct.

Whether the spirit of scepticism—which then undoubtedly aids in the investigation—is afterward aided or fostered by it, depends upon the nature of the question investigated. If this be one which has hitherto been considered as established upon a basis that was in every respect right, and if errors are revealed in the process of the examination, then, indeed, the spirit of scepticism is strengthened. But if, on the contrary, the investigation be in reference to a range of thought which rests upon a basis that is, in all ways, sound—concerning Mathematical truths, for instance—then the sceptical spirit isnotaided by it, but is, contrariwise, weakened.

In respect to the field of inquiry covered by the author of 'Civilization in England,' it was seen that numerous statements had been accepted as true in early times, which closer scrutiny at a later period showed to be erroneous. Hence there came to be a want of confidence in the general basis upon which knowledge rested; and, as continued research served to confirm the doubts previously existing, investigation did aid, in this great department of thought, covering indeed the entire history of the past, the spirit of scepticism. As afact, therefore,in relation to this special sphere of inquiry, Mr. Buckle's statement is correct; as a universalGeneralizationderived from this Fact, it may or may not be true, according to the subject of examination to which it is applied.

This proposition is, therefore, like that in relation to the moral and intellectual elements—as previously shown—and like all Mr. Buckle's Generalizations—as will be hereafter shown—a half-truth, a correct statement of one side of a verity, good so far as it goes, but essentially false when put for the whole, as in the present instance, or when held so as to exclude the opposite half-truth.

It is this fact, that basic truth is everywhere made up of aunion of opposites, each of which seems, at first sight, to exclude the other, which the Historian himself so forcibly expresses when he exclaims: 'In the moral world, as in the physical world, nothing is anomalous; nothing is unnatural; nothing is strange. All is order, symmetry, and law.There are opposites, but there are no contradictions.'Had he understood the full meaning of this statement of theinherently paradoxical nature of truth, and been able to give the Principle which it establishes a universal application in unfolding the various domains of human intelligence and activity, he would have grasped the Knowledge for which he vainly strove, would have discovered the veritable Science of the Sciences, the long-sought Criterion of Truth. In the absence of a right understanding of this complex fact, that fundamental truth has always two sides affirming directly opposite half-truths, he fell into the error of mistaking the moiety for the whole, and has left us a world in which, with all the aid that he has afforded us, we still fail to discern the 'order, symmetry, and law' which undoubtedly pervade all its parts—a world in which there is still exhibited, so far at least as governmental, religious, and social affairs are concerned, an 'anomalous, strange, and unnatural' aspect.

Such consideration as it is feasible to give the first of these historical propositions in these columns, was, for the most part, included in that portion of the examination of the positions of our two authors, which was contained in the opening paper of the series; though no special application of Principles there elaborated was made to this formula. It was there pointed out, that intellectual forces constitute onlyoneof the factors in the sum of human progress, and thatmoralforces are equally as important, being the second—the opposite and complementary factor. In the light of that exposition, and of the brief consideration here given to the second Generalization, it is perceptible that the defect in this proposition consists, not in what it affirms, but in what it doesnotaffirm. 'That the progress of mankind depends on the success with which the laws of phenomena are investigated, and on the extent to which a knowledge of those laws is diffused,' is a statement which is undeniably true. It does not, however, contain thewhole truthin relation to the subject of investigation. It is just as correct to say that the progress of mankind depends on the success with which the moral or religious faculties—faculties which instigate devotion to our highest perception of right—are cultivated, and on the extent to which they are practically active. For it is not in the inculcation of intellectual truth alone, or preëminently, nor in the cultivation of moral strength alone, or predominantly, that the progress of mankind is secured; but in the developing vigor ofbothmental and moral forces, and in their mutual coöperation and assistance.

The proposition, as announced by Mr. Buckle, is, therefore, either a half-truth, which does not sufficiently explain the cause of 'the progress of mankind,' which the Historian avers that it unfolds, or it is actually false, accordingly as it is understood to state a verity which does not exclude theaffirmativestatement of an opposite and apparently antagonistic truth, or as it is interpreted to be the explanation of the whole or main cause upon whichthe advancement of society has depended. That the author of 'Civilization in England' regarded it in this latter light, is plainly apparent. His whole work is an elaborate attempt to establish the invalid theory, that human progress is duealmost exclusivelyto the enlightenment of the intellect, and in a very minor degree only to the cultivation of the moral or religious nature. In a certain sense it is indeed true thatallsocial elevation is the result of intellectual growth; but it is only in thatabsolutesense in which the Intellect is used for the totality of human faculties, and of course includes the moral faculty itself. In this sense, it is just as true to say that all progress is through the Moral Powers, using this term to include the whole of the human Mind, and consequently the intellectual forces. In either case, the question still remains, of the relative effect of the Intellectual and Moral powers upon the career of humanity, when considered as not including each other. It was in thisrelativepoint of view that Mr. Buckle entertained it.

With this cursory examination of the first and second propositions, their distinctive consideration will close. Some things, however, that will have to be enunciated in the investigation of the English Historian's Generalizations as a whole, are also necessary to a clear understanding of the merits and defects of each one taken singly. Additional light will also be thrown upon them in the course of our analysis of the fourth proposition, which practically touches more vital and important questions than are involved in the others. Contrary to previous announcement, want of space will prevent the examination of this Generalization and of Dr. Draper's work in the present paper.

After this article was put in type, the writer received a letter from a friend, a distinguished member of the Positive School, in which occurs the following sentence:

'I notice in your ... article on 'Buckle, Draper, and a Science of History,' one inaccuracy. You say: 'History, while it is the source whence the proof of his (Comte's) fundamental positions is drawn, finds no place in his scientific schedule.' In the positive Hierarchy of Science Historyisincluded: it constitutes the Dynamic Branch of Sociology. As in the Science of Life, Anatomy constitutes Biological Statics and Physiology Biological Dynamics, in Sociology we have Social Statics—the Theory of Order, Social Dynamics—the Theory of Progress = the Philosophy (Science) of History.'

The kindly criticism of the writer arises from that fruitful source of misunderstanding—a wrong apprehension of terms.

History, as it has been hitherto written, has been—First, a narration of the supposed facts of the past, without any especial attempt to investigate the proximate causes of national characteristics or mundane progression.Secondly, an account of the life and vicissitudes of states and communities, accompanied with an inquiry into the proximate causes of national peculiarities. These two Branches of Investigation have been included under the common appellation ofHistory, when they related to a special portion of the globe; and ofGeneralorUniversal Historywhen, theoretically at least, the whole earth was under consideration.Thirdly, the examination of the past progress of the Race, with a view to the discovery of the fundamental Cause or Causes which control or direct the Evolutions of Time, or the Principles in accordance with which nations and civilizations have developed. This Department is denominatedThe Philosophy of History. From it are excluded all those investigations of an individual or national character which compriseHistoryin the ordinary acceptation of the word.

Such a complete and exhaustive consideration of the Facts and Causes of Human Progress as would suffice for the construction of aScience of History,would necessarily includeallthe Branches of Inquiry above mentioned. While, therefore,History, as it has been used in these papers, and as it is especially exhibited in the present one, has had this comprehensive signification, the term is not applied by Comte to any of the Departments of which he treated; and a very different meaning, and one much more circumscribed, attaches to the qualified expression which he uses in its stead. The Dynamic Branch of Sociology does not appertain, even in his own estimation, toHistoryproper, but toThe Philosophy of History, which is the title by which he designates it. Strictly speaking, it does not appertain to that, in any broad sense. It is mainly an inquiry into the Theological, Political, and Social Principles of the Past and Future, and leaves unnoticed many questions of equal importance with those discussed, and which, in the constitution of a comprehensivePhilosophy of History, would occupy an equally important place.

But leaving this point aside, it is sufficient to indicate the fact that Comte, in conformity with the plan upon which he proceeded in the investigation of other Departments of the Universe, eliminated from his Historical examination allconcretequestions, everything relating primarily to individuals or nations, or to the causes of their peculiar development; on the same ground on which he set aside Botany, Zoology, Mineralogy, etc. In the beginning of his treatise on Social Dynamics, he says:

'We must avoid confounding theabstractresearch into the laws of social existence with theconcretehistory of human societies, the explanation of which can result only from a very advanced knowledge of the whole of these laws.Our employment of history in this inquiry, then, must be essentially abstract.It would, in fact, be history without the names of men, or even of nations, if it were not necessary to avoid all such puerile affectation as there would be in depriving ourselves of the use of names which may elucidate our exposition or consolidate our thought.... Geological considerations must enter into suchconcreteinquiry, and we have but little positive knowledge of geology; and the same is true of questions of climate, race, etc.'

And again he says, the inquiry is to be conducted 'stripped of all circumstances of climate, locality, etc.'

It will be sufficiently evident from this brief statement, thatThe Philosophy of History(notHistory, as the letter says) which constitutes the Dynamic Branch of Sociology in the Positive System is, in Comte's own intention and showing, a series of bald abstractions from which thesubstantialorconcreteelements of individual and national activity, the proximate causes of Human Progress, are dropped out; and thatHistoryin the ordinary sense of that term, or in the broader sense in which it has been used in these papers, as referring to a possible Science, finds no place in his Scientific Schedule.

The error into which our critic has fallen, in this case, undoubtedly resulted in part from the unfortunate confounding of the wordsPhilosophyandScience, which pervades the Positive System. Philosophy and Science are not, in any proper use of the terms, synonymes. They relate—as it is designed at some future time to show—to equally true and important, thoughoppositeaspects of the Universe, considered either as a whole or in relation to its parts. Comte, as has been heretofore exhibited, degraded Science from itsExactandCertainposition, in order to include Domains of Inquiry which did not have and to which he could not furnish a truly scientific basis. In like manner, after discarding a false Philosophy, unable to institute a true, or at least a sufficiently comprehensive one, on the foundation which he had reared, he gave the name ofPositive Philosophyto his incongruous coordination of Scientific and Unscientific Departments of Thought. The termsScienceandPhilosophy, thus wrenched from their legitimate uses, are therefore looselyunderstood and indiscriminately applied by the students of his System and the followers of his social theories, in ways which are productive of numerous misunderstandings, though not perhaps of unprofitable criticisms.

In a subsequent letter, the same gentleman calls attention to another supposed error—the omission ofLa Moralefrom the Positive Hierarchy of Sciences—and adds:

'Although this final Science was in a manner involved in Sociology as treated in thePhilosophy, its normal separation was yet a step of Capital Importance; sufficiently so to make the enumeration of Comte's Theoretical Hierarchy without it equivalent to a misrepresentation.'

For the purposes of the article in question—the exhibition of the incongruous, and hence really unscientific character of the Hierarchy—the Positive Scale was given in the paper alluded to, as stated by Comte himself in the 'Positive Philosophy'—a work which is accepted as valid,bothby the followers of his theories in regard to Science, and the adopters of his Social Scheme—there being no occasion, at that time, to indicate the subsequent elevation into a separate Science, of what there formed a subdivision of Sociology. The after enumeration ofLa Moraleas a separate Science, in a work which isnotregarded as valid by many of the disciples of thePositive Philosophy, is, however, exhibited in the present writing, where a more minute enumeration of the Branches of Inquiry included in the Positive Hierarchy rendered it desirable.

Sunday,December 30th, 1760.

I have finally decided upon going to Maleszow; I may perhaps feel more at ease there than here. Barbara would accompany me, but the state of her health will prevent her; her husband says it would be very imprudent for her to travel. I have finally received a letter from the prince royal; he is in despair at my departure. He is exceedingly irritated against the princess, and fears lest Brühl should disclose all he knows to the king.

I must leave here as soon as possible. The happiness surrounding me is a real torment. This sweet and quiet joy of a husband and wife who love each other so tenderly, pierces my heart. This well-arranged household, this family union, and all the delicate attentions of the Starost Swidzinski, who adores my sister—all these blessings, which I must covet, and yet of which I am not jealous, increase the bitterness of my suffering.

My sister is predestined to every possible felicity. Her little girl is the most charming child anywhere to be found; her father fondles and caresses her, and my parents are always writing to my sister, because they feel so much solicitude for her and her little one. Happy Barbara! Life is one long festival for her. Ah! may God take her happiness into his own keeping, and may this reflection console me under my own weight of sorrow!

I shall perhaps feel more tranquil when I have seen my dear parents; their pardon will be as a Christian absolution for me. I will again live and hope when protected by their tenderness. I will begin the new year with them; it may perhaps be the dawn of my happiness! I was formerly so happy at Maleszow....

Castle of Maleszow,January 5th, 1761.

I have been here several days, but I think I will soon return to Sulgostow. I suffer everywhere, and it always seems to me that I will be most happy in whatever place I am not. My lot is brilliant in imagination, but miserable in reality. And yet, my parents have received me well, and have treated me with the greatest kindness. But a matter of comparatively slight importance is one of the causes of my uneasiness here: I have no money; I cannot make the slightest present to my sisters, and can give nothing to the people of the castle.

When I was with the princess, she provided for all my wants, and gave me besides a small sum every month; I could save nothing, nor indeed could I anticipate any cause for doing so. I now find myself in the most complete state of destitution, and would rather die than ask for money from my husband or my parents, who of course think that I am abundantly provided for. When Barbara returned from the school of the Holy Sacrament, she doubtless had much less money than I spent during my sojourn in Warsaw, and yet she made a small gift to every one. She was not, as I, bowed down beneath the weight of melancholy thoughts; her spirit was free and her heart was joyous. She could think of others, and offer the labor of her own hands when more costly presents were wanting.... But I, unquiet, agitated, passing alternately from the most actual and positive grief to fears still more terrible, cannot apply myself a single moment.

Formerly, when I was happy through hope, and when all life seemed to me one brilliant illusion, I fancied that when I should return to Maleszow after my marriage, I would be followed by as long a train as a queen; I forgot no one in my dreams; all had their share in my royal favors.... Ah! what a fearful contrast between my desires and the reality!

I have not passed a single day since I came here without shedding tears. When I first saw my parents I wished to throw myself at their feet; but my father prevented me, and, treating me as if I were a stranger, made me a profound bow. Whenever I enter the saloon, he rises and will not sit near me; the homage he considers due to my dignity as princess royal overpowers his paternal tenderness.

This formal etiquette causes me inconceivable torment! Ah! if honors are to cost me so dear, I would a thousand times prefer to be only a simple noble.

The first dinner I ate with the family was ceremonious and cold. My mother was uneasy and ready to apologize for offering me the ordinary fare of the castle, and my father whispered in my ear:

'I might have offered you a bottle of wine, drawn from the tun of Miss Frances; it would have been very pleasant for me to have drunk it at our first dinner, but custom requires that the father should drink the first glass, and the husband the second; otherwise it would be a bad omen.... Will that day ever come?' he added, sighing.

I could not restrain my tears, and could neither speak nor eat; my mother looked at me with the most tender compassion. Every moment here brings me some new sorrow, and the bonmots of our little Matthias have lost all power to divert me. My father makes signs to him with his eyes that he may invent something witty, but it is all lost upon me. Music to a suffering body is but an importunate noise; and sallies of wit to a despairing soul have lost their savor.

Our little Matthias is inconceivablyacute; he divines all. He knows my position, I am quite sure. He took advantage yesterday of a moment when I was quite alone to come into my room, and with an air half sad, half jesting, he knelt down before me and drew from his pocket a little bouquet of dried flowers tied with a white ribbon and fastened by a gold pin.... I could not at first tell what he meant, but soon the bouquet I had worn at Barbara's wedding flashed across my memory. He gave me the flowers, saying: 'I am sometimes a prophet,' and, still on his knees, went toward the door. I ran after him; I remembered all, and with the remembrance came a crowd of feelings, at once sweet and bitter. This bouquet was the same I had given Matthias on Barbara's wedding day....

I took a rich diamond pin from my dress, and fastened it at the buttonhole of Matthias's coat. Neither he nor I spoke a single word, but I am sure that while each wondered inwardly at the strange fulfilment of the prophecy, each was still more surprised that it had realized none of our hopes.

Just as I was writing these lines, my mother entered my room. Her kindness is incomparable; she brought me such a quantity of stuffs, of jewels and blondes, that she could scarcely carry them. She laid them on my bed, and said:

'I give you a portion of the trousseau destined to my daughters; I should have added many other articles, but I was afraid they were not handsome enough, and yet I have given you the best I had. I have spoken to my husband, and he has determined to sell two villages to make a trousseau worthy of so illustrious a union. That will come when the secret is unveiled.'

I burst into tears, and would have thrown myself at her feet, but she prevented me, and asked me a thousand pardons for presenting me with things of so little value.

Oh, yes! I must certainly leave here day after to-morrow. I suffer beyond expression. My younger sisters, madame, the courtiers, and even the old servants exclaim over the change which has come upon me, and ask one another why I am not yet married, and why no one seems to think of having me married.

The three girls whom I was to take into my service came to see me; doubtless, to remind me of my promise. Our old Hyacinth himself brought his daughter to me. Every one I see causes me some new sorrow or vexation. Ah! how astonished they would be if they knew of my marriage! And these poor people who relied upon my protection, I cannot take them into my service, because I have married a prince, the son of a king!

Sulgostow, Wednesday,January 9th.

I am again with my sister. On my arrival, I found no letter from the prince royal. He may be ill! Or, perhaps, the king has been informed of our marriage, and has placed him under strict surveillance. If the prince palatine were in Warsaw, he would surely have written to me; I can rely upon his devotion. As for Prince Martin, I thank him for his light-headedness, and am very glad that he forgets me.

My parents' parting farewell did me much more good than their reception; at that moment, I again found all their former tenderness.

Before I left, I went to Lissow, and visited the curate in his presbytery. When I came, he was planting cypress trees in his garden, and he promised me to plant one in memory of me in the cemetery. I will leave behind me this melancholy remembrancer. His words to me were very kind and consoling. As I left him, I experienced a moment of real calm and resignation.

Tuesday,January 15th.

During the last few days I have been forced to struggle against new persecutions. Just as we were about sitting down to table, the sound of the trumpet announced the arrival of a stranger,and soon after, the double door of the dining hall was thrown open, and M. Borch, the king's minister, was announced.

I at once divined the motive of this visit, and my heart throbbed as if it would burst. M. Borch, like a real diplomatist, tried to give his visit the appearance of a simple courtesy. Remembering the gracious reception offered him at Barbara's wedding, he came, he said, to offer his homage to her ladyship the Starostine Swidzinska, and renew his acquaintance with the starost. During dinner, many compliments were exchanged; but as soon as the dessert was over and the court had retired, he invited me to go with him into the starost's private cabinet, and said to me:

'Brühl and I know your secret, madame, and I can assure you we have been exceedingly diverted; for you may well believe that we regard this marriage as a mere jest, a real child's play: the benediction given by a priest not belonging to the parish, and without the knowledge of the parents, can never be valid. This marriage then will soon be broken, and with very little trouble, I can assure you.'

These words fell upon me like a thunderbolt, and without a superhuman courage and the aid of Heaven, I should have been crushed at once; but I felt that the fate of my whole life might depend upon that moment. Borch's character was well known to me; I knew him to be as cowardly as base, and also that strength of will is all powerful with such men, who are only bold with the weak. I replied:

'Sir, your cunning lacks skill; your diplomacy and that of Minister Brühl, come to nought through the simple good sense of a woman. Your world, which judges me and deems me devoid of courage and reason, only excites my pity; I am ready for a struggle with you and with Brühl. My marriage is valid; it has been blessed by the consent of my parents; I hold my powers from God, and will be able to defend them. The bishop was aware of this marriage on which you are pleased to throw the anathema of your irony; the curate of my own parish gave us the benediction, and two witnesses assisted us during the holy ceremony. I know that divorce is possible, but only through the common consent of both parties, and the prince royal, my husband, and myself, will never consent to it.'

Borch's astonishment may easily be imagined, and even I could not have believed myself capable of so much energy. Borch expected to find a child whom he could dazzle with a few promises; he thought he could easily bring me to a renunciation of my rights, and that I would readily consent to sign the instrument of my own shame and sorrow: he found me most determined. He remained here two days, and again renewed his attempts, but, finding that I persisted in my refusal, he departed, having however previously asked me if I would consent to a divorce in case the prince royal should deem it necessary.

'Yes,' I replied, 'but you must first show me a writing to that effect, signed by the prince himself.'

I feared lest this occurrence should be the cause of a new sorrow: Barbara's situation requires so much care, and she feels my troubles so deeply! I was really alarmed lest her health should suffer, but, thank God! she feels quite well. Dear Barbara is another me; alas! all who love me must accept the chalice of misery! The starost was quite uneasy concerning his wife; they are so happy together, so tenderly united!... And I, what a sad destiny is mine! I have obtained neither repose, nor happiness, nor those objects of ambition which I would have consented to receive from the hand of love.

Here ends the Diary of Frances Krasinska. Her thoughts were too sad,her memories too bitter, to bear being transferred to paper. When sorrow in all its bitterness has seized upon the soul, we can no longer see or hear without a shudder certain words which formerly excited reveries more or less sweet and seductive within our souls. Frances lost all her illusions, one by one; she was strong enough to bear up against injustice, but she was powerless against her husband's indifference.

My readers may perhaps have accused her of ambition; and yet she loved him; but love is not always absolute devotion and self-abnegation; love is not always a virtue; it is often the result of egotism; it is, as Madame de Staël says, one personality in two persons, or a mere double personality. Frances loved the prince royal, but not the less had she been dazzled by his rank.

She remained a long time at Sulgostow after Borch's departure. Barbara Swidzinska, already the mother of one daughter, bore also a son, and another daughter, who was named Frances. The tenderness, care, and attention which Frances experienced in her own family could not console her for the prince royal's desertion. Her sister was the only being in the world to whom she confided her grief; women have a delicate sensibility which enables them to comprehend the minutest details; nothing escapes them, and, with the finest instruments in their possession, they can more readily deal with a crushed heart. If love had left Frances a single hope, she might still have found happiness in friendship.

Nowhere at rest, she sometimes left Sulgostow for the convent of the Holy Sacrament in Warsaw; but solitude could not restore her peace, and her prayers were one cry of despair sent up to God to implore death.

The genius of sorrow is the most prolific of all spirits, it seems as if human nature were infinite in nothing but in the power to suffer. There was still another grief in store for Frances, another wound for her afflicted soul; she lost her parents, lost them before they had bestowed the name of son upon their daughter's husband. At this time she went to the Franciscan convent in Cracow, whither Barbara sent her her young daughter Angelica, to endeavor to bind her to earth through the influence of this innocent and youthful affection.

She lived also at Cznestochowa or at Opole, and everywhere received orders not to disclose her marriage. At long intervals of time, the prince royal came to see her, and thus accomplished an external duty of conscience: total desertion and forgetfulness would perhaps have been preferable.

The prophecy made by the little Matthias was finally verified: the ducal crown and the throne of Poland both slipped from Prince Charles's grasp; Biren was named Duke of Courland, and, when Augustus III. died (at Dresden, October 5th, 1763), he was succeeded by Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski.

To quiet the uneasiness and the melancholy suspicions of Frances, the prince royal declared to her that through regard for his father's advanced age he must continue to conceal his marriage. But many years passed after the king's death without bringing any amelioration or change in the position of Frances; the prince and the royal family lived in Dresden, while the prince's wife was constrained to hide her real name in obscurity.

The Lubomirski family did all in their power to obtain a recognition of Frances's rights; they even appealed to the Empress Maria Theresa. Prince Charles finally yielded; he wrote a most tender letter to his wife, begging her to come to him in Dresden; this letter found her at Opole, and the Lubomirski advised her to await another advance from the prince before she consented to go to Dresden, which she did.

Prince Charles, like all men who areimpassioned through their fancies and cold at heart, was irritated at Frances's hesitation, and wrote her another letter still more pressing and affectionate; she resisted no longer, as one may well believe; but she found neither happiness nor the rank she was entitled to occupy, or rather, the honor due to her rank. Unprovided with a revenue suited to her position, she led a life of privation, almost of want. The Empress Maria Theresa, touched with compassion at her melancholy fate, conferred upon her the county of Lanckorona, near Cracow. This possession, coming from a strange hand, could not satisfy her ambition, and her heart must long before have renounced every hope of happiness.

She maintained a constant correspondence with her sister and the other members of her family in Poland.

We will here give the letter which she wrote to her sister before her departure for Dresden, translating it scrupulously from the Polish, and underlining [italicizing] the portions originally written in French:

I shall not see you again, as I can no longer delay, my husband having fixed the very day for my arrival in Dresden. In his second letter, he impresses on me not to be later than the fifth of January. I must then say farewell, and rest assured that I return with my whole soul the affection you feel for me; always, and in whatever place I may be,you will be the dearest to me, and the tokens of your remembrance, the most satisfactory to my heart.Write to me often, I beg you, and rely upon my punctuality in replying.I am going where I hope to find a little repose.... Alas! I no longer expect happiness, for the elector will not concede me my rank as princess royal, nor recognize me as the wife of the prince. He desires, that is to say, he commands me to preserve myincognito, while in his estates. The prince royal is truly grieved, and of all my sorrows the most bitter is that of my husband; his health is visibly failing.I will write you a faithful account of all that happens to me; you shall know how I am received and the progress of all my affairs. If they will be willing to decree us an augmented allowance, I will beg my husband to permit me to leave Dresden and settle in some foreign country contiguous to Saxony, that I may readily hold communication with him. Do not mention my project to any one, for if it were known in Saxony,my whole enterprise would be ruined. Adieu, most tenderly loved sister. Do not forget me. Farewell, the multiplicity of my occupations will not permit me to write at greater length.Apropos, I beg youto go now and see the princess palatiness; you will find her with the Bishop of Kamieniec, and Kulagowski;she will be very grateful for this attention from you; it must be agreeable to her; you will brighten a little the gravity of this trio.Adieu, I embrace you with all my heart, and am, as ever, your most affectionate and attached sister,Frances.A thousand tender and friendly messages to your husband; I conjure him always to retain a place for me in his memory.

Write to me often, I beg you, and rely upon my punctuality in replying.

I am going where I hope to find a little repose.... Alas! I no longer expect happiness, for the elector will not concede me my rank as princess royal, nor recognize me as the wife of the prince. He desires, that is to say, he commands me to preserve myincognito, while in his estates. The prince royal is truly grieved, and of all my sorrows the most bitter is that of my husband; his health is visibly failing.

I will write you a faithful account of all that happens to me; you shall know how I am received and the progress of all my affairs. If they will be willing to decree us an augmented allowance, I will beg my husband to permit me to leave Dresden and settle in some foreign country contiguous to Saxony, that I may readily hold communication with him. Do not mention my project to any one, for if it were known in Saxony,my whole enterprise would be ruined. Adieu, most tenderly loved sister. Do not forget me. Farewell, the multiplicity of my occupations will not permit me to write at greater length.Apropos, I beg youto go now and see the princess palatiness; you will find her with the Bishop of Kamieniec, and Kulagowski;she will be very grateful for this attention from you; it must be agreeable to her; you will brighten a little the gravity of this trio.Adieu, I embrace you with all my heart, and am, as ever, your most affectionate and attached sister,

Frances.

A thousand tender and friendly messages to your husband; I conjure him always to retain a place for me in his memory.

In 1776 the Polish diet assigned large pensions to all the heirs of Augustus III.; the half of that bestowed upon Prince Charles was revertible during her lifetime to his wife, the princess royal, Frances Krasinska.

During her sojourn in Dresden, she gave birth to a daughter, the Princess Mary; she educated her with the greatest care, but was soon forced to leave her; her many sorrows developed an insidious malady, which finally proved fatal. She died on the 30th of April, 1796, aged fifty-three.

Madame Moszynska, who had shown herself a friend to Frances in her prosperity, and, what is still more rare, also in adversity, was grievously afflicted byher death. It was she who announced it to Madame Angelica Szymanowska, born Swidzinska, whom Frances had held at the baptismal font with the prince royal in the cathedral church at Warsaw, in 1760.

Dresden,June 8th, 1796.

I comply with your request, madame, but with extreme grief; the loss you have sustained is a most cruel one to me; indeed it is the deepest affliction I have ever known. The princess royal's malady began about two years ago. She then felt pains in her breast; some physicians said her disease was cancer, while others assured her it was tumor.

An incision was then made, and she was better during some time. But the disease soon made the most fearful progress. The inflammation appeared upon the outside, and she felt the most acute pains in her breast and throughout the whole length of her arm. She patiently endured the most excruciating torments. Having tried various modes of treatment without experiencing any relief, she finally consented to make trial of a new cure. During twelve weeks she saw no one except the members of her own household and the physicians, who sometimes said she was better and sometimes that she was worse; finally, however, fever set in, accompanied by all the signs of consumption.

Perfectly aware of her condition, she prepared for death with resignation and devotion; she died during the night of the 30th of April. Her breast had burst open several weeks before. An examination was made after her death, and many causes for her last illness were discovered; but I cannot dwell upon these details.... In my opinion, and I followed the whole course of her malady, her chest was seriously affected in addition to the cancer.

We have experienced an irreparable loss; I can scarcely endure life since our misfortune, and will never be able to think of the princess royal without the most bitter regret. I have not yet seen her husband; some say that he is ill, and cannot long survive his wife, but others speak of him as quite well: I know not whom to believe.

I sometimes see their daughter, the Princess Mary, whom I love with all my heart, but whom I can only visit once during the week. She is charming, and already gives promise of a noble character. The princess royal, during her dying moments, left her under the protection of Elizabeth, the king's daughter and the prince royal's sister. Elizabeth is warmly interested in the young princess, and sincerely attached to her brother; she is a highly meritorious personage.

May I beg you, madame, to continue toward me your previous sentiments of kindness, and to accept the expression of my unbounded esteem.

L. Moszynska.

The prince royal, Charles, survived his wife several months, and their daughter, still very young, was confided to the guardianship of Prince Charles's sister. When she reached a marriageable age, she wedded Prince Carignan, of Savoy, and their descendants are now allied to the reigning family of Sardinia.

Lucian of Samosata is responsible for the strange story of Minerva—how Jupiter commanded Vulcan to split open his skull with a sharp axe, and how the warlike virgin leaped in full maturity from the cleft in the brain, thoroughly armed and ready for deeds of martial daring, brandishing her glittering weapons with fiery energy, and breaking at once into the wild Pyrrhic dance. We refer to this myth, bearing, as it doubtless does, an important moral in its bosom, as suggestive of the sudden and gigantic proportions of a traffic which has recently loomed up in the region of Western Pennsylvania. The petroleum trade has worn no swaddling bands, acknowledged no leading strings, but sprung at once into full maturity. In less than one year from the moment of its inception, it has fairly eclipsed the Whale Fishery, gray with time, and strong through the energy and vigor with which it has ever been prosecuted. And who can measure its extent in the future, since it can only be limited by the sources of the supply flowing in the depths of the laboratories of the Great Chemist?

Petroleum, in some form or other of its various developments, is no new substance in the world's history. More than two thousand years before the Christian era, we read of its existence in the days of the builders of Babel, when men sought to realize the dreams of the Titans, and would scale heaven itself in their insane folly. It may have been used in the building of the ark. Herodotus informs us it was largely used in the construction of the walls and towers of Babylon. Diodorus Siculus confirms this testimony. Great quantities of it were found on the banks of the river Issus, one of the tributaries of the Euphrates, in the form of asphaltum. By its aid were reared those mighty walls and hanging gardens which filled the heart of Nebuchadnezzar with such a dream of pride as he exclaimed: 'Is this not great Babylon that I have built?'

And from those days so ancient, when history would be dim and obscure, were it not for the light of inspiration on the sacred page, down to the present time, petroleum has occupied a place in the arrangements of man, either as an article of utility or luxury. It has been one of God's great gifts to his creatures, designed for their happiness, but kept treasured up in His secret laboratory, and developed only in accordance with their necessities. And now, in our own days, and in these ends of the earth, the great Treasure House has been unlocked, the seal broken, and the supply furnished most bountifully.

The oil region of Western Pennsylvania is the portion of oil-producing territory that now occupies the largest share of attention. It is confined principally to the valley of Oil Creek, a tributary of the Alleghany River, which it enters at a point about sixty miles south from Lake Erie. It is true that oil wells are successfully worked on the banks of the Alleghany for some distance above and below the mouth of Oil Creek: still the county of Venango has monopolized almost the whole number of oil-producing wells in this region.

There are some strange facts, that point to a history all unwritten save in some few brief sentences in pits and excavations, of oil operations along the Oil Valley. These detached fragments, like the remains of the Sibylline Oracles, but cause us to regret more earnestly the loss of the volumes which contained the whole. A grand and wonderful history has been that of this American continent, but it has never been graven in the archives of time. The actors inits bygone scenes have passed away in their shadowy grandeur, leaving but dim footprints here and there to tell us they have been, and cause us to wonder at the mystery which veils their record, and to muse upon the evanescent glory of man's earthly destiny.

Along the valley of Oil Creek are clear traces of ancient oil operations. Over sections embracing hundreds of acres in extent, the entire surface of the land has, at some remote period of time, been excavated in the form of oblong pits, from four by six to six by eight feet in size. These pits are oftentimes from four to five feet still in depth, notwithstanding the action of rain and frost during the lapse of so many years. They are found in the oil region, and over the oil deposits, and in no other locality, affording unmistakable evidence of their design and use. The deeper pits appear to have been cribbed up at the sides with rough timber, in order to preserve their form and render them more available for the design in view. Upon the septa that divide them, and even in the pits themselves, trees have grown up more than one and a half feet in diameter, indicating an antiquity antedating the earliest records of civilized life in this region. For centuries has this treasure been affording intimations of its presence. Before Columbus had touched these western shores was it gathered here, in this valley, as an article of utility or luxury, by the processes of design and labor, and with the idea of traffic and emolument.

By whom were these excavations planned and these pits fashioned, that tell of the pursuit of wealth so many centuries ago? Let the mighty dead, that are slumbering in our valleys, and the remains of whose fortifications and cities are spread out all over the great West, in magnificence as vast and gorgeous as the ruins of Nineveh and Babylon, arise and speak, for they alone of mortals can tell!

From the fact that some of these pits have been cribbed with timber bearing marks of the axe in its adjustment, many have supposed that their construction was due to the French, who at one time occupied, to a certain extent, the Venango oil region. But this theory is scarcely plausible. Fort Venango was completed by the French at Franklin, seven miles below the mouth of Oil Creek, in the spring of 1754, and this was probably about the beginning of their active operations in this region. But the construction of these pits no doubt antedates the French operations very many years. Timber placed in these oil pits, and thoroughly impregnated by its preserving properties, would be almost proof against the ravages of time. As evidence of this, petroleum in some of its forms entered largely into the ingredients used in embalming by the ancient Egyptians. These embalmed bodies remain perfect to this day. Even the cerements remain with every thread distinct and perfect as when they came from the loom, in days when Joseph was prime minister in Egypt.

There is evidence, too, from the growth of timber in the very beds of these excavations, that they claim an antiquity greater far than the occupation of their valleys by the French. Year after year, a silent, solemn record was made by the concentric circles, first in the shrub, next in the sapling, and then in the fully developed tree, that tells of the lapse of time since these mysterious works were in operation.

Besides all this, where was the market for the immense quantity of petroleum that must have been produced from these excavations, on the supposition that they were constructed by the French? Surely not at home, for neither in the misty traditions nor early records of that time do we find reference to any large quantity of this product, nor even their facilities for conveying it to the seaboard, had there been a demand for it at home.

The sole object of the French at thattime was to gain military possession of the country. This is seen in the line of forts that was thrown across the country, extending from Erie, Pennsylvania, to a point on the Ohio River below Pittsburg. There is no evidence that they made any attempt either to cultivate the soil or develop the mineral resources of the country. There were white inhabitants, too, who were settled here quite as early as the temporary occupancy of the French. Their descendants remain unto this day. These early settlers knew nothing of French operations in petroleum. They were ignorant of its production, save in minute quantities, as it issued spontaneously from the earth; nor could they throw any light on the origin of the excavations that were found in their midst.

Another theory, that has been somewhat popular is, that these pits are due to the labors of the American Indians. But the very term labor seems absurd when used in reference to these lords of the forest. They never employed themselves in manual labor of any kind. The female portion of the community planted a little corn, and constructed rude lodges to shelter them from the wintry blast; but they never even dreamed of trade or commerce. The Indian loved to roam through the wilderness and follow the war path—to seek for game to supply present wants, or to bring home the scalp of his enemy as a trophy of his prowess, but would scorn to bend his strength to rude toil in excavating multitudinous pits for the reception of oil, or in bearing it from place to place after it had been secured.

Beyond all doubt the Indians were well acquainted with the existence and many of the properties of petroleum. That they valued it is beyond question. They used it, both for medicinal and toilette purposes. But they knew of its existence and production, just as did the early white settlers: they found it bubbling up from the bed of the stream and from low marshy places along its banks. They, no doubt, collected it in small quantities, without labor and without much forethought, and with this small supply were content. But even if a much larger supply had been desirable, and if the modern idea of traffic had found a place in their hearts, they had no facilities for conveying it from place to place. Even at the present time, with all our improvement in the arts, the great desideratum is an appropriate vessel for carrying petroleum from place to place, or retaining it safely in any locality; but the Indians were utterly destitute of any appliances suitable for the purpose. If they were acquainted with a rude kind of pottery, it was without glazing, and so incapable of retaining fluids, particularly petroleum; and we have no knowledge of their ability to construct vessels of any other material that would answer the desired purpose. The inference is therefore fair, that for purposes of trade the production of oil was not desirable in so large quantities as indicated by these excavations. The same reasons would hold good in relation to its use in the religious ceremonies of the Indians. It could be used only in limited quantities, from the want of convenient receptacles for its retention. Besides, we doubt whether the Indians were sufficiently devout to resort to such labor and pains in religious worship.

Reference is sometimes made to a letter said to have been written by the commander of Fort Duquesne (Pittsburg) to General Montcalm, describing a grand scene of fire worship on the banks of Oil Creek, where the whole surface of the creek, being coated with oil, was set on fire, producing in the night season a wonderful conflagration. But there is room for the suspicion that this account is apocryphal. Such scenes as are there described have been witnessed on Oil Creek since the beginning of the modern oil trade. During the continuance of several accidental conflagrations, the scene has been awfully grand and impressive. It has been strongly suggestive of the conflagration of the last day, when

'The lightnings, barbed, red with wrath,Sent from the quiver of Omnipotence,Cross and recross the fiery gloom, and burnInto the centre!—burn without, within,And help the native fires which God awoke,And kindled with the fury of His wrath.'

But this was when thousands of barrels of petroleum had been stored up in vats, and when the combustible fluid was spouting from the wells at the rate of many hundred barrels per day. Before the present deep wells were bored, oil was not produced in sufficient quantities to cause such a conflagration, and there was never seen upon the creek a stratum of the fluid of such consistency as to be inflammable.

The remains of the once powerful confederacy of Indians known as the Six Nations still linger in Western Pennsylvania, in a region not very remote from Oil Creek, but they can throw no light upon the origin of these pits. In regard to their history, they can give no more information than they can concerning the mounds and fortifications, ruined castles, and dismantled cities, that tell us of a once glorious past, of a mysterious decadence, and of the utter vanity of all earthly glory.

There are men still living in the oil valley, who were on terms of familiar intimacy with Cornplanter, a celebrated chief of the Seneca tribe of Indians—the last of a noble and heroic line of chieftains that had borne sway from the Canadas to the Ohio River, and who was living at the time of the French occupation. But in reciting his own deeds and memories, and those of his fathers, who had gone to the silent hunting grounds of the spirit land, he could say nothing of early oil operations, any further than the collection of it in small quantities for medical or ornamental purposes.

The only rational conclusion, therefore, at which we can arrive in regard to these early oil operations is, that they are due, not to the Indians or French or early white settlers, but to some primitive dwellers on the soil, who have long since passed away, leaving no written records to tell of their origin or history, but stamping the impress of their existence on our mountains and in our valleys, assuring us of their power and the magnificence of their operations, yet leaving us to wonder that such strength could fail, that such magnificence could perish, and that such darkness could settle over the memory of a great people.

As before intimated, petroleum was found in Venango County by the earliest white settlers, and was esteemed for its medical properties. But it was obtained only in minute quantities. It was found in particular localities along the banks of the Alleghany, issuing with the water from springs, and sometimes bubbling up from the bottom of the river in small globules, that rising to the surface, disperse themselves upon the water, and glide away in silent beauty.

The principal oil spring, or that from which the largest quantity of petroleum was collected, was located on Oil Creek, about two miles from its mouth. From this the main supply was drawn for the wants of the earlier inhabitants. And as the demand was limited, no great amount of enterprise was called forth in its production. Themodus operandiwas most primitive, and yet withal the results were satisfactory.

A point was selected where the oil appeared to bubble up most freely, a slight excavation was made, and the oil suffered to collect. When a tolerable stratum of petroleum had collected on the top of the water, a coarse blanket was thrown upon the surface, that soon became saturated with the oil, but rejected the water. The blanket was then taken out, wrung into a tub or barrel, and the operation repeated.

But the demand was limited. Most families kept a supply for their ownuse. Yet, for ordinary purposes, a pint bottle was sufficient for a year's consumption. Indeed, half a dozen barrels were all that could be disposed of throughout the entire oil region of Western Pennsylvania up to a period when the researches of science were brought to bear upon its purification as an illuminator. Almost every good housewife was supposed to have a small store of Seneca oil, as it was popularly termed, laid by in case of accident, for the medication of cuts and bruises; and not even the most popular of the nostrums of the present day is so much relied on as was this—nature's own medicine—by the early settlers in these valleys.

In the mean time a well was bored on the bank of the Alleghany, within two miles of the mouth of Oil Creek, in quest of salt water, with a view to the manufacture of salt. This was some forty years ago. After sinking the well through the solid rock to the depth of seventy or eighty feet, oil presented itself in such quantities, mingled with the salt water, as to fill the miners with the utmost disgust, and induce them to abandon the well altogether. They were boring for salt, not for petroleum. Salt was an article of utility and large demand; oil was of comparatively small importance, and already a drug in the market, through the spontaneous yield of nature. Again, a well was dug in the town of Franklin, about thirty years ago, for the supply of a household with water. At the depth of thirty feet there were evident signs of petroleum, that were annoying to the workmen; and although the water of the well was used for culinary purposes, it always bore a trace of oil, and was absolutely offensive to those unaccustomed to it. A hole has since been sunk in this well through the rock, but the yield of oil has not been as great as in some other wells in the immediate neighborhood. In the cases cited above were strong hints of the existence of the treasure concealed in the rocks beneath, and even of the manner of obtaining it. It was in fact the treasure knocking at the door, and asking to be released, in order to contribute to human wealth and enjoyment.

But the time had not then arrived for the grant of this great boon. The earth was at the first made the repository of all the gifts that man should need until the end of time. But they were not all revealed at the first, nor to succeeding generations, until the fitting time arrived, and man's necessities induced the great Giver to unlock the treasure house and dispense his rich bounty.

Before man was created, the great treasure house in the earth's bosom was filled with its minerals, and as the centuries rolled by in their slow and solemn march, such treasures were gradually brought to light. Not at once did the earth disclose her mighty resources, but just as man needed them, and as they should tend to his own best interests. Even on the banks of the river that watered the terrestrial paradise, gold was found, but although 'the gold of that land was good,' it was brought to light in limited quantities. In the same sacred locality, and at the same early day in the history of time, 'the bdellium and the onyx stone' were found in their beauty; yet were they few and rare, until God would consecrate the treasures of the earth to His own service in the construction and adornment of the tabernacle and the temple. The great treasure house of earth was then opened, until gold became common as brass, and precious stones numerous almost as the pebbles of the brook, and the riches of the earth were eternally consecrated to the service of God.

And in the present century, and within our own recollection, when the world's business seemed to be stagnated—when the sails of commerce flapped idly at the masts—when the great highways of trade and traffic were in danger of being deserted, and the coffers of thenation were almost exhausted, the hand of Providence unlocked the treasures of California and Australia, and every department of business has become prosperous, and every branch of industry has received a new impetus. A new lesson has been taught the world: that God's treasures are inexhaustible, and that his hand can never be shortened.

And now here, in this remote county of Western Pennsylvania, God's treasure has been concealed for ages—locked up in the very heart of the eternal rock, awaiting the time of need, and accomplishment of the eternal purposes of Omnipotence. It has oozed forth in limited quantities during the lapse of centuries, as though to show us now that man cannot lay his hand upon the houses of God's treasure until his own appointed time.

We know not where the great Chemist has his laboratory, or where he formed the mighty retorts that are distilling for us the oily treasure: most probably they were fashioned when the earth assumed its present form; and since 'the morning stars' sang creation's hymn together, deep down amid earth's rocky caverns, through the revolving centuries, the stores have been accumulating that are destined to bless the world and become elements of national wealth. And now from that great laboratory, through innumerable channels, cut through the living rock by the hand of the Creator, and by 'paths which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's eye hath not seen,' is that treasure brought near to the earth's surface, just in our time of need. When other supplies are failing and other resources giving way, we see God's wisdom in opening up new channels. The great Benefactor would teach us that his resources are unlimited, and that our time of need is but the beginning of his overflowing bounty.

It is really strange how slow men were to discover the abundance of this supply, and to trace it to its luxuriant deposits amid the rocks. While it was literally forcing itself upon their observation, it was only by a roundabout process that they discovered its richness and importance. As early as the year 1835 its presence amid the rocks was made known on the Alleghany River, a short distance above Pittsburg, by its interference with the salt wells; but no dream of its future importance seems to have forced itself upon either the miner or the capitalist until within the last few years.

Perhaps the first real conception of the petroleum trade was in the mind of a young physician in the Venango region. Yet it was but a dream, and, like many another dream of the past, it was in advance of the age, and resulted in nothing but speculation. In looking at the numerous slight veins of oil that oozed up along the bed of Oil Creek, the thought occurred to him that, by tracing these little veins to their source, the main artery might be reached. And as this tracing must be through the rock, the proper plan would be to bore down through it, until a large vein was reached. This was certainly professional, and, now that it has been tested, seems a very plain and simple idea. But it was like the theory of Columbus in regard to a new continent, entirely too bold for the times, and was rejected. There was in this physician's theory but one link lacking in order to have anticipated the entire scheme of oil production as it was afterward generally carried on. The thought did not occur to him of leasing the lands along Oil Creek, and thus securing an interest in the entire territory: he thought only of purchasing, and as he could not command the capital for this purpose, the scheme was lost, as far as he was concerned. The idea was however a brilliant one, and entitled its originator to be classed among the long line of those who have dreamed without realizing the vision, and who have sown precious seedwithout being permitted to reap the harvest.

In the mean time, artificial oil had begun to be produced in large quantities from different minerals, principally, however, from cannel coal, by the process of destructive distillation. This oil was refined and deodorized, and found to be a valuable illuminator. A spirit of inquiry and investigation was excited. It was ascertained that this artificial oil, the product of distillation, was almost identical in its properties with the natural oil of the valleys—that the latter might be purified and deodorized, and if found in sufficient quantities, prove a source of wealth to the country. The enterprise of bygone ages in the excavation of oil pits was considered by many, but the process seemed tedious, and, in addition, the finest portions of the oil were in danger of passing off by evaporation.

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