e could stop would give us a
new professor. Now we begin to think that there was some meaning in our
poor couplet. War has taught us, as nothing else could, what we can be
and are. It has exalted our manhood and our womanhood, and driven us all
back upon our substantial human qualities, for a long time more or less
kept out of sight by the spirit of commerce, the love of art, science, or
literature, or other qualities not belonging to all of us as men and
women.

It is at this very moment doing more to melt away the petty social
distinctions which keep generous souls apart from each other, than the
preaching of the Beloved Disciple himself would do. We are finding out
that not only "patriotism is eloquence," but that heroism is gentility.
All ranks are wonderfully equalized under the fire of a masked battery.
The plain artisan or the rough fireman, who faces the lead and iron like
a man, is the truest representative we can show of the heroes of Crecy
and Agincourt. And if one of our fine gentlemen puts off his
straw-colored kids and stands by the other, shoulder to shoulder, or
leads him on to the attack, he is as honorable in our eyes and in theirs
as if he were ill-dressed and his hands were soiled with labor.

Even our poor "Brahmins,"--whom a critic in ground-glass spectacles (the
same who grasps his statistics by the blade and strikes at his supposed
antagonist with the handle) oddly confounds with the, "bloated
aristocracy;" whereas they are very commonly pallid, undervitalized, shy,
sensitive creatures, whose only birthright is an aptitude for
learning,--even these poor New England Brahmins of ours, subvirates of an
organizable base as they often are, count as full men, if their courage
is big enough for the uniform which hangs so loosely about their slender
figures.

A young man was drowned not very long ago in the river running under our
windows. A few days afterwards a field piece was dragged to the water's
edge, and fired many times over the river. We asked a bystander, who
looked like a fisherman, what that was for. It was to "break the gall,"
he said, and so bring the drowned person to the surface. A strange
physiological fancy and a very odd non sequitur; but that is not our
present point. A good many extraordinary objects do really come to the
surface when the great guns of war shake the waters, as when they roared
over Charleston harbor.

Treason came up, hideous, fit only to be huddled int