other villages and sparse settlements here and there; also a very few thousand frontiersmen enjoying a semi-civilized mode of life, between the Alleghany Mountains and the Ohio River, and between Lake Erie and the Kanawha River. More than thirteen millions of civilized, free, independent people now occupy the same territory. This contrast between a hundred years ago and the present day clearly shows the superiority of civilization to barbarism—of Christianity to Paganism. In conclusion, from the brief notes presented it is manifest that at least four different peoples or governments have at different periods, within historic times, claimed ownership of the Great Northwest and exercised civil authority over the inhabitants, sometimes ruling them by military power. These were, first, the various Indian tribes that occupied the country; second, the English and French governments-the latter, after claiming ownership and exercising authority, civil and military, over these extensive regions from 1671 to 1763, a period of ninety-two years, finally surrendering all claim of title to it at the last-named date; the former (the British government), after claiming title for nearly two centuries, ultimately, by acceding to the provisions of the treaty of Paris, ratified in 1784, surrendering perpetually all right to ownership and authority. Lastly, by the Government of the United States, which, in pursuance of the ordinance of 1787, enacted by Congress under the Articles of Confederation, established civil government here during the next year, under which benign rule the people of the Great Northwest have, for more than three generations, enjoyed a degree of prosperity and happiness seldom, if ever, paralleled. The United States, in a few brief months after establishing a territorial government "Northwest of the River Ohio," adopted a constitution, and became thereby a constitutional government, a NATION; under whose just and equitable legislation and wise statesmanship, for the last ninety-two years (just the number of years of French rule here), the Great Northwest has become emphatically great-great, not only in territorial extent and prolific soil, but also great in the immensity, variety, and value of her productions-in the excellence of her common schools-in the amplitude of her educational facilities for all of school age-in the number and superiority of her higher educational institutions, colleges, and universities-in the number, variety, and character of her benevolent institutions-in the number of liberally sustained Christian churches, whose pulpits are generally occupied by a competent learned ministry-and in the intelligence, the virtue, the intellectual and moral culture, the Christian civilization that characterize her more than thirteen millions of inhabitants. ISAAC SMUCKER THE PICTURESQUE IN THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION The principal dates, names, and general results connected with the American Revolution we have learned during our school-days, but how seldom do we contemplate the picturesque in its history! There are other truths embalmed by history than those which are treasured in the notebooks of political economists or statistical collectors, results of higher value than any theory of wages, or of population. These are the lessons of a moral and religious nature, of single-hearted patriotism, of generous selfdenial, and transparent public virtue, through which the virtues of the fireside and home are clearly seen. When they come before the eye embodied in incidents that are picturesque, they lose none of their value, but deserve and command as much genuine interest and admiration as were ever bestowed on the happiest combination of Nature's or of Art's results. If some matter-of-fact persons prefer to wander through dusky avenues where the grim skeletons of departed ages are preserved, may there not be others who prefer a ramble through that picture gallery whose walls are clothed in colors undimmed by time, and forms and figures that realize the spirit of the past? The sense of the beautiful is an instinct of our nature which tells us through mere impressions what is homely or picturesque, just as the instincts of the body teach us what is sweet or bitter, fragrant or offensive; and it has equal scope, be the object of contemplation the record of man's high doings or the workings of Nature's changing scene. In each the mind may discover much, or may see nothing. In Nature the commonest sights and the commonest sounds are rich for the poet and poor for the man of prose. To the voice of the wind, to the common notes of the winter night, there are many souls in which no echo is awakened, no thought aroused, except, perhaps, the thought that it is very cold out of doors, or very comfortable within. Yet to others how mournfully and how powerfully do all these voices speak! A great poet has said that there is nothing so like the voice of the Spirit as the wind, and I myself have heard from a young and mourning mother's lips, who dreamed not of technical poetry when she spoke, a thought which was the whispered echo of that spirit's voice, and showed how strongly the poetic instinct may operate unconsciously. For what technical poet is there who could suggest a more poetical idea than hers, when she heard the sighing of the wind on the first night of a mother's desolation, and said that she thought it brought a message from the fresh grave of her buried child to beg its mother to come and sit and sing by its lonely pillow? Yet this was the voice of the same wind to which the prosaic man listened without emotion. There is no exclusive theory of poetic sentiment. We are told that it is "The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, Indeed the golden that can awaken bright associations in the mind of man. threads of history's romance are interwoven in the russet garment of every day's doings, so that you have only to hold it in its true light to see it shining and glittering as gayly and brilliantly as if the hand of an enchanter had worked it for holiday attire, and woven it all of golden tissue. Is there a school-boy, or one who remembers his school-boy days, who, when reminded of it, will not acknowledge the enduring feeling which some one incident in the history of our Revolution must have awakened in his generous bosom, and that, too, less because the moral was striking than because the incidents were picturesque. The classical student is familiar with the mournful tragedy which, in the reign of the first emperor of Rome, cost the empire the flower of its army, and wrung from the lips of one, whose career of prosperity knew no interruption but this, a bitter lamentation, "Quintilius Varus, restore me my legions." It was the cry of that emperor when he thought of his soldiers massacred amidst the forests of Germany, led thither by the rashness of an experienced general. Under a succeeding reign, a victorious Roman army, led by Germanicus, penetrated these very forests, and came, as it were by chance, to the scene of former discomfiture. Beautiful and impressive as is the narrative which the Roman annalist gives of the scene which then ensued, more picturesque is the parallel which our own early history affords, and it is the romance in this parallel which has always impressed me, for in it there seems all the poetical accessories that sometimes make history so picturesque. On the evening of July 8, 1755, in the deep recesses of what was then a Pennsylvania wilderness, a young Virginian soldier, just twenty-three years of age, emerged from the forest and found himself, after a toilsome and solitary journey, in the presence of a large and well-appointed British army. The sun was just setting, and cast its bright beams upon the still waters of the river that flowed gently by, and on the gay banners and burnished accoutrements of this proud array. Officers and men were alike inspired with cheering hopes and confident anticipations. Every man was neatl dressed in full uniform, the soldiers were formed in columns and marched in exact order, the sun gleamed upon their burnished arms, and the deep forest overshadowed them with solemn grandeur. Thus it was that the young Virginian, George Washington, then a colonel in the militia, having been detained by sickness on the road, rejoined the army of General Braddock, the Quintilius Varus of his time. The noon of the next day's sun looked down upon a scene of savage victory and ruthless massacre. But the sequel of that gay parade I need not repeat. How picturesque must have been the doings of the "Old Congress," and it is indeed a great misfortune that its secret doings and deliberations are almost entirely lost to our history. The witnesses of that conclave have one by one gone down to the grave. How little concord prevailed at some periods may be inferred from the following anecdote, for which I am indebted to the retentive memory of one of my aged friends, who has not forgotten his revolutionary lineage. On the 8th day of May, 1776, while Congress was in session in Philadelphia, the sound of heavy artillery was heard down the Delaware. It was soon known that it proceeded from the gunboats that had been sent to protect the river from the British cruisers. Hitherto no sound of actual war had reached this portion of the province, where the inhabitants were more pacific in their tone than was suited to the ardor and exasperation of New England. As the sound of the first cannon burst upon the ear of Congress, old Samuel Adams sprang upon his feet and cried out with much exultation, to the infinite dismay of some timid members who sat near him, "Thank God! the game's begun, no one can stop it now." "I wish that man was in heaven," was the ejaculation of one of his neighbors. "No, not in heaven," said another with a countenance of unmitigated disgust-" not in heaven, for I hope to get there some day myself." In concord or discord, the work of the Old Congress was almost miraculous, and it is a pity that beyond its general results we know but little. What a rich addition to our history would it be if the illuminated record of these councils were by some kind act of Providence yet rescued from oblivion! What wish is there nearer to the heart of the American historian than that this record may yet be saved, that the scrutiny of some one who has forgotten perhaps that he had ever a drop of the "blood of the Revolution" in his veins, may yet find some portion of that record in a forgotten trunk in some neglected garret? That there was in such a body discordant opinions, hotly and angrily maintained, that there were some corrupt motives and selfish purposes is no doubt true, but that the vast and controlling ma jority was purely patriotic and imbued with the true spirit of heroic virtue the result has shown, and after all the one answer to all criticism, the best test of all work, is result. How picturesque, how almost miraculous, was the work of the "Old Congress," for although it met as a mere deliberative convention, with hardly a shadow of authority under the law or provincial constitution, it became almost imperceptibly the government itself. It raised armies, appointed generals, levied taxes, made treaties, without even the semblance of regular authority. Such the success, such the result of justified revolution. It would be in vain to attempt in this article to point out the many picturesque incidents of that great struggle which began with the session of the first Congress, in September, 1774, and terminated at the signing of the Provisional Treaty, on the 30th of November, 1782. Equally vain to endeavor to trace the romance of the Revolution even through its battles. There was not one, beginning at Lexington and ending at Yorktown, that had not some coloring of romance about it. Trenton, Princeton, and Germantown emphatically so; and the whole Southern campaign, from the rout at Camden through the bright series of victories at Guilford, till the British troops were hemmed in at Yorktown, was a tissue of exploits picturesque as they were gallant. But to judge more accurately of the romance and purity of our Revolution, contrast it for a moment with that other of history's records which was so soon after written-the revolution in France. I have often endeavored to find, either in the aggregate or in the details, any trait on which the poetical instinct can dwell in the annals of Revolutionary France. They were tragic enough, but it was that unvarying, unmitigated tragedy which nauseates the mind with horrors. There was no more poetry in it than there is in the gallows. There was not a leaf, or a flower, or a fragrant herb ever cast into the boiling caldron, or bubbled to its surface; but it was like witchcraft's dread mixture which the poet tells of, the fermentation of coarse ingredients. There was no object of pathy. The Republic itself was no creation of beauty, even as it sprang from its birthplace. There was the helmet and the sword and the Gorgon shield, with all its hissing snakes, but there was not the majestic beauty or the stately step of the Goddess. When the Republic fell, after it had so often changed its garb from one costume of frippery to another, and so often washed its bloody hands, I know nothing to compare it to in all its mutilated and unpitied deformity than that most digusting of all its horrible pictures, when Robespierre lay extended on a table in the Committee of Public Safety, with his hands tied behind him like a common felon's, his jaw broken sym |