The Andes, like a vast wall, extend along the western coast of South America. Woods cluster, like billows of foliage, around the feet of the mountains. A vast network of intersecting streams is woven by the gigantic warp and woof of these mountains. Many brooks, stealing along, scarcely heard, over the table-lands, and many fierce torrents, dashing wildly through rocky crevices, fill the great streams that roll, some into the Caribbean Sea, some into the near Pacific; while one, the mighty Amazon, stretches across the continent for more than three thousand miles, and swells the Atlantic with the torrents of the Andes. The keel of a vessel entering the Amazon from the Atlantic, may cut through waters that once fell as flakes of snow on the most western ridges of the Andes, and glistened with the last rays of the sun as he sank in the Pacific.
A spell of fascination hangs about the Amazon. Its wonders, known and unknown, have a marvellous attraction; and the perils encountered in its exploration give a throb of interest to its very name.
How terrible were the sufferings of Gonzalo Pizarro and his companions, who set forth in youth and vigor to explore the valley of the Amazon! How worn and haggard the survivors returned to Quito, leaving some of the daring cavaliers of Spain to bleach in death on the wild plain, or to moulder in the lonely glen! No river has sadder chronicles of suffering and danger than the Amazon. Still, the exploration, so hazardous, yet of such vast value, will go on. Many a hero in the great war with nature will follow the track of Herndon, the noble man as well as the brave explorer, who escaped the perils of the great river, only to sink, with his manly heart, into the great deep.
In science as in war, ranks after ranks may fall; but the living press on to fill the vacant places. The squadrons are ever full and eager for service. To search new lands through and through, or to drag old cities from the graves of centuries, men will advance as heroically as an army moves to the capture of Chapultepec. Not a flower can breathe forth its fragrance, though in marshes full of venomous serpents and of as deadly malaria, but science will count its leaves, and copy with unerring pencil the softest tints that stain them with varied bloom and beauty. Science will detect every kind of rock in the structure of the most defiant crag. Not a bird can chant or build its nest in the most leafy shade, but science will find the nest, describe every change of color on the feathers of the little singer, and set to music every tone that gushes from its tiny throat. Not a gem can repose safe from seizure, in the rocks, in the sand, or in the torrent. Not a star can twinkle in the abyss of night, but science will tell its rate of light, and describe its silent and mysterious orbit. Torrid heat, the earthquake, the tornado, the pestilence, mountains of ice, craters of flame—science will dare them all, to know one more law of nature. God speed the daring of science, if only her votaries will not place the law in the place of Him who made both it and the works which it was commissioned to guide. Science, when she has found the highest and the most comprehensive law of nature, has not touched Deity itself; she has but touched the hem of the garment of the Great Lawgiver.
One veteran of science, Alexander von Humboldt, has yielded to the great law of humanity, as inexorable as any that he found in nature. His researches in South America, though mainly confined to the valley of the Oronoco, were most thorough, and his array of facts and observations are of inestimable value. Yet, Humboldt searched into nature with the coldness of the anatomist, content with examining its material structure, rather than with the zeal of one who seeks images of Divine power impressed alike on solid rocks and gliding streams. Science, however rigid, would not have restrained the ardor of homage to the Author of creative energy and grandeur, bursting forth irrepressibly in scenes where angels would have adored the Great First Cause, and where man can do no less.
Humboldt's fame as an observer is founded on a rock which no mortal power can shake. He lacked the reverential insight into the higher and deeper powers of nature, but, so far as his mental eyes saw, he described surely and vividly the manifestations of those powers. He was an observer of wonderful skill in the outer courts of nature, though he seemed either not to seek or to be bewildered in seeking her interior shrine. He exemplified rather the talent than the genius of discovery, the patient sagacity which accumulates materials, rather than the fervid enthusiasm which traces the stream of nature's action to its spring, the great Creative Will. Yet, the very title of Humboldt's great work, the concentrated fruit of a life of toil, 'Cosmos,' meaning beauty and order, and, then, the visible world, as illustrating both, seems to show a gleam of feeling above the spirit of material research. His warmest admirer could have respecting him no worthier hope than that he, who has left the scene of earthly beauty which he so long and diligently studied, may have had the joy to discern, in the sphere of celestial order, the Cosmos of the skies, higher and deeper truths than external nature can teach.
An American artist, Church, has portrayed with great force and beauty some portions of the inspiring scenery of the Andes. Church's pictures are avowedly compositions, and not transcripts of actual views; yet, they are not more remarkable for ideal beauty than for truthfulness to nature. Although no real scenes among the Andes correspond to his painting, yet the glorious characteristics of the Andes are seen in every line, in every color, in all the strange lights and shadows of his paintings. Imagination, which sees at once the powers and proportions of things, is, when joined to a feeling heart, the surest guide to him who would describe natural truth, whether of the souls of men or of material forms. The realists of art may not be so well satisfied with a composition, as with the delineation, line by line, and point by point, of a scene in nature; yet the more comprehensive critic will own that universality will gain by the composition far more than local identity can lose. By his imaginative skill, Church has portrayed in two or three pictures those characteristics of scenery which, to be faithfully delineated in copies from actual views, would require a hundred paintings. This is alike his best defence and his highest praise.
In recalling my own observations among these noble mountains, and in striving to express them in language, I feel how much higher is the vantage ground of the painter. One may examine for hours the canvas, until every scene is fixed on the memory as on the canvas itself. Yet I will endeavor to give a general view of the scenery of the stupendous Andes—stupendous truly, yet among those mountains are scenes of such quiet beauty as to touch the heart as tenderly as softest music.
Scarcely a hundred miles from the Pacific Ocean arise some of the highest peaks of the Andes, yet the way upward is much longer. From the coast, or from the decks of ships sailing by it, may be seen, in clear weather, some of the peaks of the mountains. On the shores, hazes and mists often temperthe tropical sun and obscure distant objects; but, at early morning and evening, sometimes the great snowy dome of Chimborazo may be seen afar, towering in majesty above the tropical verdure between its base and the ocean. It looks as if invading the heavens with its colossal form; and at such times it wears a vesture of glory. A few years ago, in New England, of a clear night in the depth of winter, an aurora of the north reddened the whole sky; and the earth beneath, covered with snow, was as red as the sky above. Imagine such an aurora to fall upon the snowy summit of a mountain four miles high, and you may conceive how attractive is the flush of beauty upon the brow of Chimborazo at sunrise and at sunset.
Turn from the broad Pacific, as its long waves glance in the sun; and, as the morning tide washes up the tropical rivers, go with it along one of them, a part of the way, perhaps, in a sailing vessel or a steamer, but the rest in a light canoe. Tropical shrubbery and forests line the banks of the stream. New forms and modes of life impress the traveller from the temperate zone. The scenery of the tropics, so long the wonder of the imagination, now expands in wild luxuriance before the sight. When you have gone as far as you can along the winding river, waiting, perhaps, for hours, here and there upon the bank, in some rude cabin, or under the shade of some broad fragrant tree, for the returning tide from the ocean to bear you swiftly on; disembark upon a strange soil, and prepare to pursue your journey by mules or horses.
You reach the forests, and pierce their dark recesses by narrow paths, mere winding threads of road. Great clouds of foliage press around you, and, at the slightest breeze, thrill with that murmur of myriads of trees, which is so full of mystery and awe; for there, the very forests, unbroken and unbounded, seem audibly to breathe together with mystical accord, and to blend low quivering tones with the grand chorus which swells daily upward from vales and mountains, seas and shores.
Interspersed with the thick foliage, on every hand are blossoms and fruits of every tropical kind. Pale, white bridal blossoms clothe the orange tree, or golden fruit hangs among its clusters of glossy leaves. The starry rind and pale-green crown of the pineapple tempt you to enjoy the luscious fruit. High in air the cocoanut tree lifts its palmy diadem. The long broad leaves of the plantain protect its branches of green or yellow fruit, and throw a grateful shade upon the way, open here and there. Here is, indeed "a wilderness of sweets," and the air is full of blended fragrances. While the eye ranges, seeing trees, fruits, and flowers innumerable, of glorious hues and countless kinds, most never seen by you before, or at least only as exotics, the ear also takes in varied sounds. Birds are singing, insects humming; every tree seems a choir, and the immeasurable forest a wide congregation of joyful voices.
You are now on the lowest stage of that sublime gradation of climates and scenery displayed by the Andes. You cross it in two or three days' journey (for, as in the East, so, in the mountainous regions of South America, travelling is measured less by miles than by days' journeys). You then arrive at the foot of one of the mountains. Stop and look up! A ridge covered with forests to its very top stands steep before you. The wind makes tremulous the masses of evergreen foliage, which are now shaded by the reluctant mists of the morning, slowly ascending, and now are bright with the full splendor of noon. Above that ridge rises another, and another yet, unseen at the foot. Begin the ascent. The mules tremble as they strive to keep their hold on the steep, slippery soil. Press upward in zigzag paths for hours. Reach the top of the ridge, and descend into the valley between it and another higher opposite; then, ascend again. As you thus slowly, patiently, yet surely reach the heart of the mountainous region, wild diversity of views holds you bound in wonder and strange delight. Here are level places—here pure, bright brooks glide on as smoothly as in meadows. There, a torrent rushes over crags, foaming and roaring in an everlasting cascade. Before you may be a hillside, green with luxuriant pasturage, where flocks and herds graze quietly through the day, while the shepherd, with his crook and harmonic pipe, reminds you of classic scenes. Turn aside—and you may look down into cavernous recesses, whose gloomy, depths you cannot measure. Scenes fair and fearful meet in the same horizon. So, in life, the gentle charities, that, like the face of Una, make sunshine in the shady place, are often found not far from rugged rage and black despair. Press on through glad and sombre scenery. Press upward in steep ways, miry and craggy, narrow and broad, by turns.
Now, so deep are the paths cut in the mountain, so high are the banks, so contracted is the way, that, the higher you rise, the less you appear to see; and you feel disappointed at missing the grand horizon of smaller mountains, on which, coming nearer the summit, you expected to look; but now, a shout of exultation breaks from your lips; and well it may. A new Pacific Ocean seems to expand before you, as if by some sudden enchantment. It is an ocean of constant verdure and inexhaustible fertility, spreading far, far below you, as far as you can see, on every side but that from which, high on the mountain top, you look down upon the view. The seeming ocean is the first table land, whose soft, green undulations fill the horizon, though, when the sky is clear, the snowy mountains may be seen far away, dazzling the heavens and the earth with their brightness. Spring and autumn here join hands, consecrating the double seedtime and the double harvest of the year. Yonder is a field of ripened grain. And there is the Indian laborer, near his cabin of thatch and clay, guiding the rude ploughshare through the fertile soil.
Descend the mountain, and, crossing that sea of beauty, ascend the mountains beyond. The scenes, just now all soft and pleasing, give way to others which unite the lovely and the severe. Look upward. There rises a mountain, so gently curving and so green, so alluring with its light and shade, that it seems the very emblem of graceful majesty, looking as if it must know its wondrous beauty, and as calm as if no wind strong enough to make a violet tremble could ever breathe upon its face; yet near, in vivid contrast, stands a craggy peak, towering up, up, toward the deep blue sky, so broken and so black that it seems like the very Giant Despair of mountains, frowning with unearthly fierceness upon his gentle neighbor, who returns his grim looks with meek and placid trust. Where whirlwinds and tempests await the signal for howling desolation, stands the beautiful colossal image of sublime serenity.
Again, steep, rocky roads lead over rugged cliffs. Your horses climb panting, and descend, picking their steps, upon the other side. Stop awhile on this green space, a valley between two high ridges. Countless flowers spread fragrance and beauty around. They are not those alone of the strictly tropical level, but, owing to the height above the sea, the floral wealth of the temperate zone is embosomed in the torrid region itself, and adds the charm of an almost magical diversity to the intrinsic splendors of the scene. See small objects flitting about from flower to flower. They are the smallest and most delicate of hummingbirds, nowhere found but in America. Watch their colors, changing with every changing motion, purple, crimson, golden, green. It is as if the very flowers hadtaken life, and were revelling with conscious glee in the soft, bright air. The hues of these birds are dazzlingly bright. The little creatures glance about like prismatic rays embodied in the smallest visible forms.
After gazing upon these hummingbirds with joy as great as theirs, as they revel like fairies in the profusion of this flowery valley, look upward on the high, grand ridges that close it in. What suddenly starts from the very top of yon cliff, and floats in the air, high, high, above you? It is the great condor, expanding his broad wings, wheeling in flight from ridge to ridge, curving with majestic motion, now poising himself upon his wings, now apparently descending, now suddenly but gracefully turning upward, until his lessening shape has gone beyond the farthest reach of sight. The hummingbird and the condor; hillsides covered with sheep; rocky ridges inaccessible to man or beast; brooks that quiver gently on; impetuous torrents; the beauty of Eden and craggy desolation like that of chaos—these all can you see among the Andes.
Let not the fascination of this valley, the songs of birds, the flowers, the hummingbirds glistening among them like gems, the soft outlines of the scenery detain you long. Harder and sterner scenes await you. The Andes are a picture of life. Every cliff records a lesson; and the unnumbered flowers interweave with their varied dyes and rich perfumes gentle suggestions, sweet similitudes for the understanding and the heart. If, as in this charming valley, the senses may be dissolved in joy, and the spirit would linger willingly in rapt delight, soon some hard experience, kindly sent, requires one to brace all manly energy for the rough encounter, the blast of peril, and duty's steep and craggy road. You ascend in narrowing ways, casting long, lingering looks upon the valley, whenever it opens to view between the cliffs.
Here, the ridges are so near together that the shrubbery from the top of each joins in an arch overhead. There, you pass along by the side of a mountain, in a path which affords scarcely room for a single horseman, and where he who enters the close defile, shouts aloud, and, if the first, thus gains a right of way through, and parties on the other side, hearing the shout, must wait their turn. Now, you leave for a while the narrow road, and descend upon a beautiful table land, bounded on the sides by parallel but distant mountains; and the open places reveal fertile plains in far perspective. Light streams through the wide, clear space in a golden tide of splendor. Again, you are partly surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills, rising in gradations, and of such impressive magnitude and extent that one might imagine that here the secret forces of nature are wont to take bodily shape, to look on the grand tragic storms which their own fearful agency has raised.
Now, on one side, the mountains subside into soft undulations; on the other, the ridges are colossal, dark, and broken, and along the edges of their successive summits is a line of snow, varying with the line of the cliffs, and glittering like burnished silver in the sun, above the jagged battlements. The deep blue sky, the shining snow, the huge, dark, rocky bases, the different shades of color harmoniously blending, the soft and rugged shapes contrasting vividly—well may impress the soul with pleasure-relieving awe, with awe-ennobling pleasure.
Dismount awhile for rest. Enter this rude, thatched house by the wayside, on a level spot. Laden mules pass by in crowds, attended by Indian drivers, each of whom doffs his hat and blesses you—a mere ceremony, it may be, but one in picturesque keeping with the scenery. Invigorated by the breeze, the shade, the rest, prepare to go higher, higher, higher yet. First, pluck some of these roses that grow profusely around you, that, if you reach the lineof snow that never melts, you may place upon the cold bosom of perpetual winter these blushing symbols of perpetual spring.
Again, you reach the edge of a cliff, through the deep, narrow valley between which and the cliff opposite pours a furious torrent, which, resounding louder and louder as it is approached, now drowns all other sounds in its despotic roar. But, fearful as it looks, it must be crossed. Some of these torrents are spanned by bridges; but most of them are so impetuous, especially in the rainy season, that bridges even of stone would be undermined, and those of timber would be swept away like wisps of straw. You must now trust to the sagacity of your mules or horses. You descend the precipitous side of the cliff, seeming to yourself as if about to fall headlong into the torrent; but after a painful and perilous jaunt, you reach its level. Its roar now confuses and nearly stuns you. Each side is more or less precipitous, and you seem at the mercy of the furious tide, while jutting rocks above seem just ready to be loosened by some convulsion, and to crush you with their merciless weight: meantime, your horse stands unmoved by the peril before or above him, apparently deaf to the noise of the torrent, and quietly surveys the rapids, as if to select the safest point to cross. Disturb him not. He takes his time, and places one foot and then another in the torrent. As he reaches the main current, he trembles, not with fear, but with the effort to keep himself from being swept against the rocks. He may be able to keep his footing and to walk across, though panting and shaking at every step; or the stream may be so deep that he is forced to swim. If so, he bears upmanfully(if one may say so) against the rushing force, and at last scrambles up the least steep peak of the opposite bank, bearing you more dizzy than he is. But the bank itself is only the foot of a ridge as precipitous as that which you descended to reach the stream. Quietly, patiently, surely the horse ascends. A sudden misstep or unwary slip among the loose stones of the path would send you far backward into the torrent which you have just escaped. This very seldom happens, for the horses and mules have been well trained for the service. In all the perils, the horse or mule is a safer guide than you. Give him a free rein, and he will bear you up the hardest, roughest, steepest places.
You are now high among the Andes, far above every sign of tropical vegetation; and, although hourly you are approaching the equatorial line, yet hourly also it is growing colder. Look up! A snowy peak rises directly before you, and seems to challenge you with its refulgent, inaccessible majesty. The sight at first almost appals, but fascinates. The feeling of fear soon surrenders to absorbing enjoyment of the sublimity of the scene. The more you look, the more you desire to look. There stands the mountain, a single glance at which repays all the fatigue and danger of the road;—there it stands, as high above the Pacific Ocean as if Vesuvius should be piled upon itself again, and again, and yet again. Clear snow covers it with a robe of dazzling light.
The snowy peak, though it seems so near in the pure atmosphere, is a weary distance off. As you advance slowly and laboriously upward, the wind blows almost like a hurricane. You can hardly breast its force. It grows colder and colder. Here, on the equator, man may freeze to death. Bear a stout heart and a firm face against the cold and the wind.
Now it is too steep even for the horses and mules of the Andes. You are ascending toward the snowy peak whose alluring brightness has charmed the long way, since you saw it first. Dismount and climb as you can among the rocks. The glittering snow is near. You pant as if you might soon lose allpower to breathe again; yet, press on, and now touch at last the pure, bright, equatorial snow.
Would you now reach the very summit which shines far, far above you, arrayed in glowing white. That you cannot do. Angels descending on ministries of grace may touch that snowy mountain top, but mortal feet it never felt. That radiant peak is sacred from bold endeavor and the assaults of battle. War's gory feet never climbed so far. War's flaming torch never stained that pure and snowy light. Swords never flashed among those white defiles. Angels of peace guard the tops of the Andes. There is truce to all the rage of earth. During the middle ages, an interval in every week was sacred from the assaults of foes. It was called the Truce of God. Not for three days, but for countless ages, from the birth of time to the final consummation, on these snowy summits of the Andes shines in pure white the Holy Truce of God.
In Italy and Sicily, an ethereal veil, a pale, blue gossamer, spreads over the scenery, as if each object had caught some delicate reflection from the blue heavens above; and the golden illumination of this misty veil causes the peculiar charm of Italian sunsets. This effect is generally wanting in the scenery of the Andes near the equator, though among the mountains more remote, a similar effect is sometimes seen. Among the Andes of the equatorial region, so pure is the air, that the farthest objects visible are exactly defined. The curves and angles of distant cliffs are as clearly seen as those of masses of rock at one's side. Hardly a ray of light is so refracted as to disturb the perfect shape and color of any object in the horizon. The splendor of the sun brings out the true colors of everything within the range of sight; and so various are these colors, and so diversified are the groupings of ridges and valleys, in the scenery of the Andes of the equator, that the pure developing and defining light and the clear air of that region produce effects as enchanting as the transforming light and the soft veiling air of Italy. At sunrise and at sunset, indeed, but especially at sunset, a rosy light tinges the snowy summits of the far-off mountains, but those near shine with pure white, like mountains of silver. The hue of every precious stone is found in the colors of the Andes. Even the crevices on the rocky sides of the mountains without verdure seem when the sun shines upon them to be filled and overflowing with warm hues, varying from the softest lilac to the deep, rich, pervading purple which the artist loves to revel in. Each of the Andes, besides his emerald or pearly crown, seems also to wear, like the high priest of old, a jewelled breastplate, reflecting on earth the glory of the skies.
The table lands of the Andes, especially when seen from above, resemble the rolling prairies of western North America. Both have the same beautiful and various undulations, though those of the table lands are bolder. The prairies are far more extensive; though, often, the table lands present as broad a horizon of gently curving land. These table lands in some places extend like vast halls between widely separate but parallel chains of the Andes—again, like broad corridors along a line of ridges—again, like wide landings to gigantic stairs, of which the stone steps are mountains—again, they expand in hollows surrounded by hills, like lakes of land. Here is one large enough for several small farms only—there, many towns and rural estates are found on the same table land. Here is one which you may traverse in an hour—there is one which may be several days' journey across.
The agricultural wealth of the Andes is mainly concentrated in these table lands, in these millions of rolling acres. The table lands are above the region of forests. About the watercourses, on the farms, and in the towns, a few treesmay be found—sometimes avenues of them laid out with care and beauty; and the fruit trees of the temperate zone may here be cultivated; but the great forests of the tropical level and the pines of the mountains are absent.
TheParamosare sandy plains, in fact, mountain deserts, in the dry season liable to great droughts, and in the wet season to fearful snowstorms. The armies of Independence, during the wars between Spain and South America, suffered terrible hardships and exposures in theParamos. ThePampasare wide and level plains, not so high as the table lands, where graze innumerable herds of wild cattle. They are beyond the ranges of mountains, in the more central parts of South America. There are none west of the Andes.
The table lands complete the sublime varieties of the scenery. Their serenity enchants, as the grandeur of the mountains that rise above them exalts the mind. The works of nature are not only adapted to human need with Omniscient skill, as these fertile lands among the sterner mountains prove; but, feelings different, yet harmonious, are excited by the combinations of Infinite Power. The emotion of awe, being one of great concentration, becomes even painful, if the tension of the mind be too long sustained; and so He who tempers the ineffable splendor of His immediate presence even to the gaze of angels, with the rainbow of emerald about his throne, with the sea of crystal, the tree of life, or the gates of precious stones, also soothes the sublimity of mountains with gentle traits of scenery and soft gradations of color which give enjoyment more passive than awe, and rather captivate than overpower the eye and soul.
From the table lands can often be seen in the distance snow-covered tops of mountains, projected in bold, white outlines against the deep-blue sky; and there the sky is really blue, not of that pale tinge that often passes for it, but of a deeper blue than even the rich October sky of North America. As if joining the sky, are the shining summits of the mountains. The two ethereal colors, blue and white, thus meet in dazzling harmony. Sometimes so many of these white, towering heights can be seen, and in so different quarters, that one may almost fancy the sky itself to be a vast dome of sapphire supported by gigantic pillars of marble.
Most of the cities, villages, and farms are on these table lands. Often, for the sake of the grand view, a villa is built on a steep ridge, within sight of the broad, undulating surface of some plateau; or, in some position of peerless beauty, the glittering cross on some convent may be seen. The Spanish race appreciate the picturesque, as is shown by their choice of sites, not only in Spain, but in Spanish America. The poetical, imaginative character which has marked Spanish annals for centuries, still marks those who have any claim to Spanish descent. The South American, though half an Indian, recognizes the grandeur of his native mountains, and the beauty of the broad, fertile valleys, while a thorough-going Anglo-Saxon of North America, in the same places, would calculate whether or not the torrent that rushes foaming and glittering down the mountain is too steep to serve a mill, or whether the smaller mountains might not be levelled for building lots; or he would gaze upon some beautiful table land with wonder indeed, but with wonder chiefly how much wheat or barley there grows to the acre, or can be made to grow. The table lands produce the grains and fruits of the temperate zone; and, accordingly, proprietors who own, as many do, estates on the tropical and on the temperate level, may supply their tables with fruits from their own grounds, for which, in other countries, the world must be brought under contribution. The soil is cultivated mainly by Indians. Descendants of the ancient rulers of the land now till the fields of the descendants of the conquerors.
Some, indeed, representing more or less the Indian part of the population, are owners of estates; yet a full Indian rarely has lands of his own. He is a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, tills the fields, and performs most of the drudgery of the country. More South Americana of Indian descent, out of the general population, have gained honor and power than could possibly have done so under the confined and absolute sway of the Incas. The Indians of all Spanish America have progressed, however slowly and rudely, in the arts, labors, culture, and faith of Christian civilization, and, in the aggregate, are in advance of the Indians of Anglo-America.
Let the imagination survey the whole range of the Andes for their vast extent of sixty degrees of latitude. On every level space are seen the signs of culture and human habitation, fields green with the early grain, or yellow with the harvest. The roads now wind through forests of constant shade, even under the burning sun of the equator; now they turn with gentle windings, or with steep abruptness, while below spread bright and beautiful lands, and interesting the more because associated with the homes and lives of men.
In the grandest scenery, some sign of man's abode will be grateful. No one, indeed, whose soul has not been warped out of all likeness to the Divine image which it once wore, can regard without abhorrence such intrusions of noisy machinery into scenes of natural sublimity as, for instance, have desecrated the neighborhood of Niagara Falls, and which would have done so yet more, but for the energetic and forever-praiseworthy resistance of the proprietors of adjacent grounds; as if America, with her thousands of miles of rivers, and almost infinite number of rapid, unfailing brooks, had not mill privileges enough, without daring to insult the Divine Majesty by wresting the Falls of Niagara from their true design. The spirit of gain, which has been eager, though—thanks be to God—it has not been able to spoil the natural glory of Niagara, is vile, degraded, base enough to sell a mother's dying gift for gold, or to seize, if it had the power, the jewelled gates of the New Jerusalem as collateral security for its meagre faith in anything divine.
But, though the presence of that sacrilegious materialism, of that practical blasphemy, which defies creative Deity at the very shrines where its infinite power is most wonderfully displayed, is a plague spot, a malignant sign of spiritual leprosy, which warns all to beware of its vile contagion; yet, the suggestions of rural toil, the sight of tilled fields, the cottage, the shepherd and his flock, are all harmonious with nature, even in her grandeur; for they show that the glorious wonders of earth were given, not, indeed, to be distorted, but to be enjoyed by man; and even the stupendous mountain derives a new charm from the reflection that it may minister daily to the elevation of the soul, while the benign fertility of the valley sustains the natural life.
How pleasantly these villages nestle upon the breasts of the mountains, as if there to find shelter from the stormy blast! Trains of mules, attended by their drivers, whose shrill shouts echo among the rocky hills, wind upward, laden with rich tropical fruits from the coast, or with goods from other lands. Other trains descend, laden with grain and the fruits of the temperate zone, from the higher districts. Well-guarded mules bear bars of precious silver from the mountain mines for the currency of the world, or to render dazzling service on the tables of nobles and kings in foreign lands. Look upon the gorgeous clouds above you, as if the snowy Andes were soaring heavenward; reach higher points, and look upon shining clouds far below, as if the same snowy mountains had descended to bow in meek devotion. The llama, the delicate beast of burden, sometimes called the Peruvian camel,with gently curving neck, moves gracefully on, turning often and quickly, from side to side, mild, plaintive eyes, as if entreating pity.
The cascade glances like a streak of silver from the mountain at your side; in the valley you see the sweet, calm lake, or you hear the torrent, sounding among shadowy woodlands, never weary, never still. Stand on a lofty ridge, and look abroad on the vast, snowy heights that appear in the horizon;—then let the 'mind's eye' look beyond the horizon, and behold similar peaks stretching three thousand miles along. Then bend reverently before Him who has made earth so grand.
Go to the galleries of Rome and Florence. It is wise to gather new beauty to the soul from works of art, and to study the exquisite graces which the great masters have gathered from nature and delineated in glowing canvas or in lasting marble; yet, here is a gallery of paintings by the Great Master and Author of all sublimity and beauty in heaven and earth, extending, not from room to room of buildings made with hands and roofed with cedar, but from hall to hall of nature's colossal cathedral, roofed by the infinite sky. Look at these pictures, ever changing, yet ever grand, of majestic mountains, of reposing valleys, of fertile plains, of rural homes, of streams and waterfalls, of vast forests, of myriad forms of life and beauty, of sunrise, sunset, and the glittering moon. What a marvellous variety in the objects portrayed! What surprises at every turn! Colors more brilliant than Titian or Allston could combine, join in harmonious effect on every side, and grace and vigor, beauty and grandeur, are blended in every scene and almost in every outline. Would you examine the famous statues of the world, and admire the symmetry of form and power of expression drawn forth by human skill from the hard, white stone? Or will the fragments of ancient art give delight for their expressive beauty, visible though in broken forms? Behold here a gallery of statuary, a line of divine masterpieces, whiter than Parian marble, wrought by the 'Ancient of Days.' Will you admire Michael Angelo's colossal 'Day and Night'? and revere the mortal genius that can so impress the soul? Give homage, then, for the majesty of power with which He who created and adorned the universe has displayed, among the Andes, Day and Night—Day robed with unutterable splendor, Night with transcendent awe.
Mountains!—the grandest of nature's visible works—ye are also the figures of majesty, of strength, of loftiness of soul! Ye are the raised letters which record on the great globe the history of man! Ye are the mighty scales in which the fate of nations has been weighed! Ye have checked the march of conquest, or inspired with new, defiant energy the conqueror's will! Your ranges are the projecting lines which mark, on the great dialplate of the world, the shadows of the rolling ages! On your steep, bleak heights empires have been lost and won! Ye show how weak is man, how great is God!
Ye are the home of meditation, the colossal pillars of the audience chamber of the Deity! The Mount of Contemplation rises far above the mists of partial opinion and the mire of conflict, the discords of jangling interests and the refractions of divided policies, girt by a serene and sublime horizon, and within hearing of Nature's everlasting song.
Behold the holy family of mountains, on which the angels look with reverential wonder: the Mount of Awe, black with clouds and vivid with lightnings, whence descended the guide of wandering Israel, with light divine reflected on his brow; the Mount of Transfiguration, where native Deity gleamed from the face of the benign Messiah on adoring, rapt disciples; the Mount of Sorrow, where the world's grief wasborne, and which celestial grace has made the Mount of Joy to 'numbers without number;'—the Mount of Ascension, where last stood on earth Incarnate Mercy. Look up! look up! See how the angelic guards point with amaranthine wands afar, where glows, beyond the vale of tears, the Mountain of Immortal Life.
Behold, in exalted vision, the mountains of Asia and of the islands of the Eastern seas, of Africa, of Europe, of America;—see how they are baptized with fire, one after, another, as the sun rises, to spread around the world the light of its daily consecration. How sadly is the world's morning glory soiled and dimmed by thoughtless man ere comes again the dark and silent night!
Not long after the outbreak of the present war, the loyal portion of the country discovered that the sympathies of the British Government, and, in a great measure, of the British nation, were with the revolted States. The expectations of those who looked toward England for at least a hearty moral support, were quickly destroyed by the ill-concealed spirit of exultation which she exhibited on more than one occasion. Although it can hardly be asserted that the great body of our people expected from her more than an impartial observance of strict neutrality, it nevertheless occasioned considerable surprise that a country, called so often as herself to the task of surpressing rebellions, should be prejudiced against ourselves when similarly situated.
With France, however, it was different. We had for years been accustomed to regard the French as our natural allies. The amicable relations which had existed between us, with but comparatively little interruption, since the days of the Revolution, naturally led us to look to them for a degree of sympathy not to be expected from our constant rivals and competitors the English. It was with painful surprise therefore that we shortly perceived that the French Government was, of all others, the most hostile to our cause, and the one to be regarded with the most suspicion and distrust.
Spain also took advantage of our weakened condition to display a spirit of enmity toward us no less decided than that observed on the part of her more powerful neighbors. In short, of the whole great family of European nations scarcely one expressed a friendly interest for us in our perilous position.
It is not surprising, then, that, surrounded as we were by traitors at home, we manifested an almost unmanly regret on finding ourselves deserted by those whom we were wont to consider as friends abroad; and when we now reflect upon the bearing of those nations toward us, the inquiry naturally arises, whether there really exists no such thing as true friendship between nations. It is a mournful question; and not a few, unwilling to believe that such is the case, will at once point to frequent close alliances, to more than one example of the generous behavior of one people toward another. But our own experience has taught us that friendship exists between nations only so far as it is warranted by interest, and that all the instances referred to as proving the contrary, have beenowing to the personal influence of high-minded men, who, at the time, were in power; and even in such cases a far-sighted policy will frequently prove to have been the ruling motive which prompted their apparently disinterested measures.
And here we pause to consider what considerations of interest could have stirred up such hostility to our prosperity, and caused such gratification when our very existence was threatened. In what way would our destruction benefit England? The advantages which she derives from her commercial intercourse with us are far greater than any which would accrue to her if she ruled the broken fragments of our country as she rules the oppressed provinces of India or her distant possessions in Australia. The same may be substantially said with regard to France. How far from compensated would she be for the loss of such large consumers of her staple productions as ourselves by the acquisition of portions of territory here, which would in all likelihood prove as unprofitable as her African dominions?
Spain, too, although her shadow of an excuse for her apparent ill will toward us may be a little darker than that of Great Britain or France, since she doubtless hopes that by the destruction of our power and influence, she may be able to regain her ascendency over her former colonies, can scarcely be so blind as not to perceive that but little attention would probably be paid to her claims by her more powerful coadjutors in the work of our annihilation.
It does not appear, then, that these nations can urge even self-interest as a pretext for their treacherous enmity to us; and we again return to the question, What is the cause of their continued unfriendliness?
The comparison of the nation to the individual has become hackneyed, but we are forced to the conclusion that it is not alone true in considerations of policy and self-interest. Our experience has taught us that it holds good in the fact that mere feelings of spiteful jealousy and envy can, in the most powerful communities, override the dictates of justice—nay, even of interest itself.
Again, a little examination will show that a permanent friendship is not to be expected between different nationalities, from the very nature of their structure. A nation is composed of individuals—of individuals whose pursuits and principles are widely distinct. The parties formed from these different classes are often diametrically opposed to each other in their ideas of policy and government. Moreover, their relations with foreign countries enter, to an important extent, into the counsels of every administration, and, as successive parties come into power, it is not to be expected that connections with other Governments will remain unchanged.
This does not apply to the course of those countries whose conduct we have been considering, but it teaches us that we should never place reliance upon the long continuance of the friendship of any nation.
Thus, it has already been stated, that not one of what are commonly known as the Great Powers can be depended upon for the slightest demonstration of friendship. Russia has indeed been generally regarded as bearing toward us nothing but good will; yet friendly as her feelings may be, it is owing mainly to the fact that she is so distant, and the interests of the two countries are so widely separated, that she can have no possible motive for turning against us; while, situated as she is, an object of dislike to the other European Governments, she could not be insensible to the policy of conciliating so powerful a nation as our own.
How then shall we proceed in order to preserve ourselves from difficulties in which the interests, jealousies, or changing policy of foreign countries may involve us? The answer has beenmade before—by being ever prepared to meet promptly all hostile demonstrations. Situated as we are, employing our resources to quell a gigantic insurrection, we have no strength to waste in anunnecessaryforeign war. But it should be remembered that if we had had an adequate force to resist a foreign enemy three years ago, the existing rebellion would never have assumed its present proportions. We, who in our previous wars had made ourselves formidable, intrusted our defence to a few thousand men, distributed throughout our broad land, and, while the former valor of our sailors had enabled us to boast our superiority upon the sea, we exposed ourselves, by our reliance upon a small number of old men-of-war, scattered over the world, to the sudden loss of our naval reputation. Large standing armaments are wisely discouraged by the Constitution, but an army of one hundred thousand men, an immense force for some Governments, would be but a small one for our own.
We owe to our being situated apart from other nations, our ability to dispense with the military burdens which European rulers impose upon their subjects; but the increase of neither our land or naval power has been proportional to our own extension, or to those modern inventions and discoveries by which large forces can be easily and expeditiously moved from point to point. An army, therefore, which less than half a century ago would have been ample, is at present far from sufficient for our protection.
We must, above all, recollect that as a Government can expect the affection and support of the people only when it shows that it possesses the elements necessary to maintain itself and protect them, so it can look for the friendship of other countries only when it causes to be seen that it is able and ready to resist any encroachment upon its rights.
For the present we must depend, in a measure, for an abstinence from open demonstrations against us on the part of the nations above referred to, upon the moral sense of the world, which has doubtless, to a great extent, preserved us thus far. But while it is necessary to avoid giving any pretext for war, let no tame submission to insult or wrong lower us in the eyes of the world, and hereafter let it be our policy, by commanding the respect and fear of foreign nations, to assure ourselves of their good will.
North and South the war cries come:Sounds the trumpet, beats the drum.Hosts contending, marshalled foesBattle while the red blood flows.Two great armies whose IdealBursts into the earnest Real.Ideals twain, on battle heightFlaming into radiant light!One, is Freedom over all;One, is Slavery's tyrant thrall:These are written on the plain'Mid the Battle's fiery rain.These the Powers that must contendTo the dark and bitter end.Look upon the Nation's dead!Lo, the blood of martyrs shed!Dying that our Country mayKnow her Resurrection day!What shall be the Traitor's gain?Endless scorn, undying pain.Ever o'er the giant wrongSings the Right her triumph song.Yes, as sure as God doth reignRight the mastery shall obtain!Over all these beauteous landsThese two Brothers clasp their hands.These two Brothers now at strifeMake one heart, one soul, one life!This at last will be their song:'One forever, free, and strong.'Northmen, ye have not in hateClosed the heart's fraternal gate!Ye have not for greed, nor gold,Forged the slave-chains manifold!But in patience ye have wroughtOut your Godlike, freeborn thought!Ye have toiled that man might beClothed with truth and liberty.God hath answered from the skies;Bids you for His own arise!Now the work is at your door:Help His meek and suffering poor!There are hearts uncomforted,Weeping o'er the battle-dead.There are wounded brave ones here:Bring your hearts of kindness near!Freedmen shiver at your gate—Let them not forgotten wait!Bind the wounded heart that bleeds;Mould yourspeechesintodeeds!This is what all true hearts say:'Glorious is our work to-day!'