At the Republican Convention in Illinois the next year, Abraham Lincoln first enunciated the doctrine that "the Union cannot permanently endure half-slave and half-free." Four months later Gov. Seward declared that "the United States must and will, sooner or later, become either entirely a slaveholding nation, or entirely a free-labor nation." During the next presidential campaign slavery was the prominent question, and the will of the people was shown by the election of Lincoln, the anti-slavery candidate. To say that Lincoln was elected because John Brown made his raid into Virginia would be to take an untenable position. To deny that John Brown's raid had any influence in putting him in the Presidential chair is to assume something quite as difficult to maintain. He was a powerful factor among the political influences of the day. The Southern states were determined to maintain slavery at any cost, and so accustomed were they to be the ruling power in national politics, that they were slow to believe that any but a feeble opposition would be offered them. The abolitionists of the North were supposed to be harmless fanatics, whose speeches were to be taken into consideration as representing a certain phase of Northern sentiment, but a sentiment which they could terrify into silence by threats of disunion. When John Brown dared to take up arms and send Garrison's message into the South along the path of his rifle ball, they appreciated, for the first time, the fact that their power was not impregnable. That scattering fire at Harper's Ferry hastened secession; for the South felt then that slavery must go out from the Union, aud they preferred to go with it. Such an enterprise as John Brown's, however rash, however ill-considered it may have been, commended itself to the people by its romance, by its bravery, by the grand recklessness of its conception, and the grandeur steadfastness and heroism of its leader. Even his enemies admired him. Even they were moved to occasional sympathy with him. Could those of like faith with him, who, agreeing with him in theory, lacked the

courage and decision which enabled him to put his theories in practice,―could they be unaffected by John Brown's act? It was not possible for men to die like those who held the armory at Harper's Ferry; it was not possible for a man to live as John Brown lived between the time of his capture and execution,-it was not possible for such a man as he to make such a speech as his last one in the court-room, without stirring the hearts of the people. When we consider how powerful even a slight cause may be in influencing an election; how potent an influence an example of heroism and self-sacrifice has always exercised upon the masses; and what a grand example of heroism and self-sacrifice was offered them, who can estimate his influence?

During the trying scenes at the close of his life, scenes under which a brave man might well have broken down, he maintained the dauntless composure which had always characterized him. He had never any great respect for authority simply because it was authority. At the time of the troubles in Kansas, a reward of three thousand dollars had been offered for him by the governor of the state, a reward to which President Buchanan added two hundred and fifty dollars. John Brown, in addressing a public meeting not long afterward, alluded to this and remarked, parenthetically, that he would give two dollars and fifty cents for the delivery of the body of James Buchanan in any jail in the free states. This same contempt for an authority which he did not respect was shown during his trial. He feared no penalty man could inflict. On the contrary, he said, "I think perhaps my object would be nearer fulfillment if I should die." Of the court he asked no favor for himself, but he desired that clemency be shown to his followers. His sole anxiety was that he should not be thought to have undertaken this enterprise from any motive but a desire to help the "despised poor," or for any purpose but to free the slaves. He paid the penalty of the far-sightedness which showed him the fatal peril to the country

which he loved, and of the patriotism which forced him to strike a blow apparently against its vital parts in order to save its eternal life. A brave man he certainly was, and, as we have said before, the most romantic figure in American history. See him in the Armory during the last assault by his foes! One son lies dead near him, another lies outside the wall of the fortification, grasping in his cold hand the flag of truce which had been no protection to him. The father stands with one hand upon the pulse of a dying son, holding his rifle in the other, while he bids his men "Keep cool" and directs their last desperate defence. Again, in the court-room, this grayheaded veteran, weak from his fresh wounds, carrying the weight of his sixty years, dares, in this crowd of his bitterest enemies, in their own court-room, to accuse them,-and accuses them in a speech whose manliness could not be surpassed, whose sarcasm was as biting as it was unconscious. "This Court acknowledges, as I suppose," he said, "the validity of the law of God. I see a book kissed here which I suppose to be the Bible, or, at least, the New Testament. That teaches me that all things whatsoever I would that men should do unto me, I should do even so unto them'. It teaches me, further, to remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them'. I endeavored to act up to that instruction. I say, I am yet too young to understand that God is any respecter of persons. I believe that to have interfered as I have done, as I have always freely admitted I have done, in behalf of His despised poor, was not wrong, but right. Now, if it be deemed necessary that I should forfeit my life for the furtherance of the ends of justice, and mingle my blood further with the blood of my children and with the blood of millions in this slave country whose rights are disregarded by wicked, cruel, and unjust enactments-I submit; so let it be done."

When he stood on the scaffold, ready for the trap to fall, a last effort was made to break down his composure, and draw from him one sign of weakness. Militia had been col

lected from all parts of the state to the number of three thousand. All was ready and the signal was about to be given, when Col. August, who was in command, called out "Not ready yet" and then proceeded, as he said, "to try to break the old man down." "I just kept him waiting there with the rope around his neck while I marched and countermarched the troops around the scaffold. I wanted to see whether I couldn't make the old fellow give in at the last minute. But I couldn't. He certainly was the coolest man I ever saw." So ended John Brown's enterprise, and from that moment began its fruition. So died the man whom it required "ages to make and ages to understand." An enthusiast, a fanatic, insane, if you will-the doctors say we are all more or less tinged with insanity, but a man of stern principle, of great tenderness, of justice, of charity. A man who dared more for conscience sake than any man in our history. A man who gives us a new idea of the capabilities of human nature, and a higher standard of moral grandeur than we have ever had. John Brown accomplished nothing? He at least added to the sumtotal of heroism placed to the credit of humanity.

E. M. H., '82.

De Temporibus et Moribus.

Sailing around one of the Great Lakes which is, as its beau tiful Indian name suggests, remarkable for its clear, deep blue water, you will find in its northern part a small inlet called Thunder Bay. This name, also given by the Indians, does not suggest to us a quiet, safe retreat for boats storm-tossed on the treacherous waves, but such a harbor is found within this little bay. Here the boisterous waters seem to have gone to sleep, and the quiet surface is broken only by numerous islands. The level shores stretch on every side as far as the eye can see, and the whole scene seems to speak of peace and safety. Scattered along its shore are several little hamlets, where dwell a few lumbermen and fishermen ; and at its most northern point is a little city whose name, Alpena, is the same as that given by the Indians, many years ago, to this whole region of country, and means "The good country of partridges." The city of five thousand inhabitants seems a little world by itself. The nearest railway is distant one hundred and thirty miles. Between Alpena and Bay City, which is almost directly south, and distant about one hundred and fifty miles, boats run each day during part of the year, thus affording easy, though slow, communication with the outside world. During four months of the year, when navigation is impossible, and the bay is a sheet of ice, the long distance to the railway must be traveled by stage, through dark forests, and over rough roads. So isolated is Alpena, and so far to the north, that the people say