is adapted to our wants, our feelings, our Anglo-Saxon love of liberty, and will be restored in all its pristine purity and integrity so soon as the Radicals are expelled from power. It worked admirably, save for the slavery question, for nearly a century, and that cause of dissension being removed, it may continue to work well for many centuries to come.

Institutions, not constitutions, are the real efficient safeguards, muniments and defences of liberty. The institutions of England, especially her King, her Houses of Lords and of Commons, her Established Church, her Judiciary, her landed entails and her limited suffrage, are older, more venerated and possessed of more strength and vitality than any similar institutions of ours. We change, or greatly modify, most of our institutions so often, that we do not give them time to harden into strength and consistency, nor to win and secure the respect, attachment and veneration of the people. To this general rule there is, however, one signal and distinguished exception. Our States are at once institutions and sovereign nations. The Government of England is also an institution, although the aggregate of many lesser institutions. Our State Governments are also, like the institutions of England, prescriptive. No one can trace back to their beginning, nor detect and expose their gradual accretions, growth and development. The founders of the Old Thirteen States brought over with them Anglo-Saxon laws, customs, habits, liberties and other institutions. The birthplace of these institutions was the forests of Germany; but when or how born, formed or created, no one can tell. It is only natural-born prescriptive institutions that possess strength, vitality and stability. These States are far older than the Federal Government, which, however, was not made by the United States Constitution, not manmade, but grew up gradually, insensibly and naturally out of the wants and circumstances of the times. There was, for many purposes, a union of the States or Colonies, for half a century before the Revolution of 1776, and Congresses and Conventions of the States long preceded even the confederation. Our unwritten Federal Constitution, our prescriptive Constitution, forms the larger and better part of our written Federal Constitution. That written Constitution would not have lasted a year had not its framers wisely adopted what was already in existence, what was natural, of English and German descent, prescriptive and immemorial. In saying this of the Federal Government, we are but "rendering unto Cæsar the things that are Caesar's." It has rights and powers which are sovereign within a limited sphere. But the States have also rights and powers which, in a far wider sphere, are sovereign, and they, too, within their appropriate sphere, should be respected and obeyed. They, and the Federal Government, are co-ordinate sovereigntics, opposing, antagonising, antinomic forces, that, by their antagonism and opposition, co-operate to sustain and keep in life and action the great framework of society, and of Government, State and Federal. It is an unphilosophical, a senseless, an absurd objection to our

Republican form of government, that the limits of the respective powers of the State and Federal Government are not exactly defined, nor capable of exact definition. They would not live a year if they were capable of such exact definition. Who can define the exact limits of the powers of Executive and Legislature, of Legislature and Judiciary, of the civil and the military power, of representative and constituency, of Church and State? Why, no one! Each is continually warring with the other in the attempt to increase its sphere of action; and it is by such war that the fabric of government and of society is sustained. Whenever any institution ceases to be jealous and aggressive, loses its esprit de corps, its selfishness, and becomes apathetic and quiescent, that institution is about to perish.

Opposing forces, forces whose respective, appropriate limits are wholly undiscoverable and undefinable, keep in action, and, by their antagonism, sustain the universe from the solar system, with its centripital and centrifugal forces, down to the minutest plant, with its light and darkness, its moisture and dryness, its heat and cold, its earth, its lime, its ammonia, and a thousand other minute and recondite forces, which, by their opposition, keep the plant growing, yet any one of which alone, or in excess, would be poison and death to the plant. Away, then, with the notion that the Federal Govvernment and the State Government cannot get along successfully together because they will often antagonize. They should antagonize, be jealous of each others authority, keep up, at least, continual disputes and wars of words, keep watch and guard over each other, cherish esprit de corps and selfishness to a moderate degree, and become the "antinomes" or opposing, yet co-operative, forces essential to the preservation of individual liberty and the maintenance and stability of society and of government.

Now you, Mr. Editor, and our intelligent, appreciative readers, will at once perceive that we have indulged in this digression for the double purpose of explaining the subject on hand, and of illustrating and explaining, in piecemeal, and by an example, our system of Antinomic Pathology. Nobody would read a system, a moral and physical kosmos, with such a forbidding title, at once, if presented in its entirety; but if we can, by occasional familiar examples, show what an important, what a supreme and controlling part "antinomes" play in the economy of the universe, as well moral as physical, we may succeed in exciting the curiosity of our readers to the perusal and study of our "Antinomic Pathology" when we present it in its entirety, which we mean to do ere long.

Returning from this digression, we assure our readers that we foresee a good time coming," and that not very far distant.

State sovereignty, though suspended, remains intact; for the Southern States are still, originally and anatomically, sovereign. They have each a soil and a people, a militia, an executive, a legislature, a judiciary, and separate and distinct laws, customs, habits and institutions. They are each sovereign, complete States or na

tions, because they have all the offices, institutions and functions that pertain to constitute a sovereignty. Their sovereignty is more than a metaphysical deduction-it is a physical fact. So soon as the Federal troops are removed and the Southern States fully restored to the Union, they will become again watchful and efficient guardians and defenders of the liberty of the South. In the mean time, we must keep cool, evince the same fortitude under a temporary oppression that we exhibited throughout the war. Never become "terribly in earnest," like the Radicals, and, by losing our tempers, cloud and upset our judgments.

We have often had occasion to remark that the maxims in all languages are the same; that they are systems of philosophy, tersely expressed, and like all systems of philosophy, but half truths, any one of which, if made the sole guidance of conduct, becomes a whole falsehood. Hence, we think, in all languages where you find one maxim you may find another having an opposite meaning. Truth, or the line of rectitude, lies somewhere between those opposing maxims; yet no one will ever discover exact truth or the line of rectitude, though we all know when we have departed or aberred far from them. Stoicism and epicurism were, in like manner, half truths, and the line of rectitude, or positive truth, lay somewhat between them. Yet it is vain to attempt to define that

The Yankee maxim, "Be sure you are right, then go ahead," is but another version of Mr. Carlyle's "terribly in earnest"-a very good maxim when we are about to storm an intrenchment, and when the action will be over in a few moments; but a very unwise and unsafe one for the conduct of life, for change of circumstances is continually making what was right to-day wrong to-morrow.

We recommend, under our present circumstances, the opposite maxims to them, their "antinomes," for the adoption and practice of the South, to wit: "Much haste, little speed;" "Festina lente," that is, "Hasten slowly;" "Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re," that is, "Gentle in manner, firm of purpose;" "Nil admirari," that is, "Be never startled or thrown off your guard," or, "Be surprised at nothing."

ART. VIII.-SKETCHES OF FOREIGN TRAVEL.

NO. 2.

BRUNSWICK HOUSE HOTEL, LONDON, May 20th, 1866. THE Brunswick House Hotel is a handsome structure, four stories high, overlooking Hanover Square, a few rods from Regent Street, and kept by a plump landlady, who knows her business. I am comfortably lodged, capitally served, well fed, and laboriously fleeced. There is a detailed thoroughness in the system of hotel charges, much to be admired when viewed abstractly as a system, seriously to be reprobated when subjected to its practical application. Every item is implacably registered. The sleeping-room, the use of a din

VOL. II.-NO. II.

12

ing room, every bit of candle, every single fire, and all the meals, figure under separate heads, and the end of every week brings up a bill as long and as painful as the moral law. Long as it is, it has yet an incisive appendix. The chambermaid has to be defrayed, a douceur goes to the waiter, the cook confidently expects a bonus, and Boots affectionately desires to be "remembered.

My first aim, of course, is the epidemic one of all travelers-" to do" London. After that, I propose, if possible, to get beneath the surface of things, and see something of the social, and other less obvious, features of this great country.

In assuming to delineate London, even superficially, one is met on the very threshold by two difficulties, which are almost incurable. One is to elect where to begin; the other is to give anything like a tolerable picture of what challenges the eye. In writing, then, I can only promise to accord you the most salient points in whatever occurs to me as most likely to enlist the curiosity of your readers.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.-The spot in London which, far above all others, attracted my attention, was Westminster Abbey, for it is the repository of things in which Americans hold, with the English, a wide community of interest. This immense Gothic pile is said to have been founded by a Saxon king, named Sebert, in the seventh century, but being destroyed by the Danes, was rebuilt by Edgar, in 758, and greatly enlarged by Edward the Confessor in 1245. The nave and eastern part were erected by Edward the First, and the western towers were completed by Sir Christopher Wren. The most important addition made to it was the chapel of Henry the Seventh. It is out of strict keeping with the general design of the building, but is certainly an exquisite piece of architecture. We enter the church through a small doorway, scarce six feet high, and are ushered at once, without any preliminary, into the

Poets' Corner.-I remained there for several hours, deciphering inscriptions, inspecting monuments, and endeavoring to obtain a full and realizing sense of the great presences in which I stood. In a place like that one may surely be permitted to feel within himself some faint stirring of the Heroic and the Reverential, and even avow as much, without exposing himself to a suspicion of affectation. There, in common dust and silence, sleeps the greater part of England's learned, and wise, and heroic, and eloquent dead, crowned with speaking statues and monuments, and all the tender memorials of a nation's love and gratitude.

There is "rare Ben Jonson," looking down on us, shaggy and grim, in his marble effigy; there Samuel Butler, the author of Hudibras, with his handsome upper lip curling with sarcastic humor; there Edmund Spenser, of the Fairie Queen; there John Milton, with his white brow and his sightless orbs, and his long hair drifting ambrosially over his shoulders; there Thomas Gray, immortal in his Elegy; there John Dryden, handsome, grave, and self-poised; there Thomas Campbell, smiling pleasantly at us over his Byronic collar; there Johnston, the greatest moralist, Sheridan, the greatest

orator, and Garrick, the greatest actor of England, sleeping side by side; there Oliver Goldsmith, ugly, amiable, and full of genius; there Joseph Addison, with his clean-cut and fastidious face, and there glorious old Geoffrey Chaucer, who, with eyes of flame and tongue of fire, sang the morning song of English poesy. Fancy all of these congregated in speaking images around you, the voices of pilgrims like myself bated to inarticulate whispers, and the outer light of heaven filtered through stained glass, and coming down over you, and glorifying you in a dim, religious radiance.

While in the midst of my devotional inquest, with one foot on the grave of Jonson and the other pressing the grave of Sheridan, the daily service which is held in the church suddenly commenced. The responses there are curiously arranged. While allowing the congregation to participate freely, there is a body of professional responders, organized on a strictly artistic plan. A complete choir of voices, including the treble pipes of about twenty boys, and embracing all the distinctive registers, down to the possession of a dozen fine bassos, swell in upon the responses, and impart to their measured cadences the entrancing effect of music. But it was only when the white-haired organist got upon his velvet stool, and laid his thin fingers upon the speaking ivory before him, and the splendid choir broke, with one impulse, into the broad melody of a triumphal hymn, that the old place took on its sublimest aspect.

Think of standing there, with closed eyes and rapt soul, above the gathered ashes of most of the deathless singers of our tongue, and feeling the echoes of the solemn music overflowing you from a hundred arcades of that vast cathedral, which has stood up against the sun and the clouds, and kept grim ward over the concentrated and awful memories of a thousand years.

If De Bow's REVIEW has a nervous organism, it can realize the exaltation of the scene. Let me return, however, somewhat more in detail to the "Poets' Corner" and its sacred population. I make a short note of the principal inhabitants, in the order in which they are arranged.

Ben Jonson. -There is erected to him a tablet and medallion. Beneath them are masks, representing Tragedy and Comedy. The face here delineated as Jonson's exhibits a coarse-featured and rather vulgar-looking man, with a stubby mustache and a ragged patch of hair bristling on his chin. Assuming the likeness to be a faithful one, he certainly could have been no beauty.

Samuel Butler, the author of Hudibras, is honored with a bust garnished with masks. This bust was erected to him by John Barber, of London, with an inscription to the effect, that as he (Butler) had lived all his life in want, he should not, in death, want a monument. Butler, perhaps, would not have considered that a life of penury was adequately compensated by a monument in death, however ingeniously illustrated by a pun. The face of the bust is round and jolly, with a decided disposition towards sarcasm in the mouth. There is really a striking resemblance in it to Gen. Humphrey Marshall, of Ky.