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Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 73, November, 1863 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 73, November, 1863




The commercial results are not quite so satisfactory. The exports,
indeed, have risen to fifteen millions of dollars, and the imports to
twenty-five millions more; while some two hundred thousand Europeans
have made their home in the Colony, and a few hundred square miles have
been subjected to European culture. But as the yearly cost of the
occupation is fifteen million of dollars, the net profit cannot be
great. Algeria, however, is the safety-valve of France, giving active
employment to the idle, the discontented, and the revolutionary; and the
Government, on that account, may consider that the money is well
expended.

One consequence of the occupation of Algeria has generally been
overlooked,--its naval result. Hitherto France had absolutely no good
port in the Mediterranean (if we except those of Corsica) but Toulon and
Marseilles. It was absolutely less at home in its own sea than England.
The new conquest gave it a strip of coast on the southern border of the
sea, but no port. The harbor of Algiers, with the exception of a little
haven artificially protected and capable of holding insecurely a dozen
vessels, was much like that of Cherbourg, an open bay, facing northward.
The storms sweep it with such fury that not less than twenty vessels
have been driven ashore in one gale. But the French genius seems to
delight in such struggles for empire with the waves. Almost with the
taking of the citadel the engineer began his work. Two jetties, as they
are called, were pushed out from the land into deep water,--one from
the mole on the north, half a mile long, and the other from Point
Bab-Azoum on the south, a third of a mile long. In 1850 these were so
far complete as to inclose a safe harbor of two hundred acres. But not
content, the French have already planned, and possibly are now finished,
still other works, by which the perilous roadstead outside this harbor
shall be transformed into a secure anchorage of sixteen hundred acres.
Past events warrant us in believing that these improvements will be
pursued with no slack hand, until astonished Europe finds another
Cherbourg, a safe harbor, ample means of repair, and frowning guns to
repel all invaders. Imprudent Young France, indeed, whispers now that
Algiers makes the Mediterranean a French lake. But that is a little
premature. While Gibraltar and Malta hold safely their harbors, and
England's naval power is unbroken, no nation can truly make this boast.

* * * * *

The next enterprise of France was hardly so creditable to her as the
Algerine conquest. Midway in the Pacific is the island of Tahita or
Otaheite,--as fair a gem as the sun ever looked down upon. The soft and
balmy air,--the undulating surface, rising to mountains and sinking into
deep valleys, luxuriant with tropical verdure,--the distant girdle of
coral reefs, which holds the island set in a circlet of tranquil blue
waters,--the gentle and indolent temper of the natives,--have all
conspired to throw an air of romance around the very name Otaheite. The
Christian world is bound to it by another tie. For thither came
Protestant missionaries, drawn by the reports of the tractable
disposition of the islanders, and labored with such success that in 1817
the king and all his subjects espoused Christianity.

Into this island Eden discord came in the guise of a Roman catechist,
who was sent thither for the express purpose of proselyting. As if aware
of the nature of his ungracious task, he disguised his real character.
But he was detected, and, together with a companion who had joined him,
was dismissed from the island by Queen Pomare, who dreaded the sectarian
strife his presence would awaken. This was her whole offence. Four years
later, in 1838, when the whole transaction might well have been
forgotten, Captain De Petit Thouars appeared in the French frigate
Venus, and demanded and obtained satisfaction in the sum of two thousand
piastres Spanish, and freedom for Catholic worship. In two subsequent
visits, though no new offence had been given, he increased the severity
of his demands, first putting the island under a protectorate, and
finally, in 1843, taking full possession of it as a French colony. The
helpless Queen appealed to Louis Philippe, who returned the island, but
reaffirmed the protectorate.

This same French protectorate is a rare piece of ponderous irony. The
French governor collects all export and import duties, writes all
state-papers, assembles and dismisses the island legislature according
to his good pleasure, doles out to the Queen a yearly allowance of a
thousand pounds, puts her in duress in her own house, if her conduct
displeases him, and will not allow her to see strangers, except by his
permission. Few will believe that zeal for the honor of the Catholic
Church prompted Louis Philippe to inflict so disproportioned a
punishment. That the island is the best victualling-station in the South
Pacific is a far greater sin, and one for which there could be in
covetous eyes no adequate punishment, except that seizure which is so
modestly termed a protectorate.

* * * * *

Pass now from the Pacific to the Indian Ocean. There is the little rocky
island of St. Paul, situated in the same latitude as Cape Town and
Melbourne; and, planted with singular accuracy equidistant from the two,
it is the only place of shelter in the long route between them. Its
harbor, if harbor it may be called, is the most secure, the most
secluded, and the most romantic, perhaps, in the whole world. St. Paul
is of volcanic origin. It is, indeed, little more than an extinct
crater with a narrow rim of land around it to separate it from the sea.
Through this rim the waters of the great Indian Ocean have cut a
channel. The crater has thus become a beautiful salt lake, a mile in
diameter, clear, deep, almost circular, and from whose border, on every
side, rise the old volcanic walls draped in verdure. The strait
connecting it with the sea is but three hundred feet wide, and at high
tide ten feet deep,--thus affording an easy passage for small vessels
into this most delightful seclusion; and no doubt the strait might be so
deepened as to float the largest ships. St. Paul is not at present much
frequented. But in a sea which is every year becoming more populous with
the commerce of every nation, who shall tell what such a central station
may become? Its title was somewhat uncertain. England thought she held
it as a dependency of Mauritius. But in 1847 the governor of Bourbon,
with a happy audacity, took possession of it, as an outpost of his own
island, and planted a little French colony of fishermen. We have not
heard that the assumption has been disputed.

* * * * *

No doubt, most of our readers may have observed in the daily prints
occasional allusions to the French War in Cochin China. Probably few
have understood the full meaning of the facts so quietly chronicled.
Perhaps none have dreamed that they were reading the first notices of a
new Eastern conquest, which, in extent and importance, may yet be second
only to that which has already been achieved by the British in
Hindostan. Yet so it is. The Cambodia is the largest river in Southern
Asia, and, together with the smaller and parallel river of Saigon,
drains a tract of not less than five hundred thousand square miles. The
region for which the French have been contending includes the provinces
which cluster around the mouths of these two rivers, and command them.
No position could be happier. For while on the one hand it controls the
outlet of a river stretching up into a rich and fertile country eighteen
hundred miles, on the other it projects into the Chinese Sea at a point
nearly midway between Singapore and Hong Kong, and so secures to its
possessor a just influence in that commercial highway. The ostensible
cause of the war in this region was the murder of a French missionary.
If this was ever the real cause, it long since gave way to a settled
purpose of conquest.

In the latter part of the year 1862 the Emperor of Cochin China was
forced to cede to France the coveted provinces. Already new
fortifications have arisen at Saigon, and dock-yards and coal-depots
been established, and all steps taken for a permanent occupation of the
territory. The following advertisement appeared in the London "Times"
for January 23, 1863,--"Contract for transportation from Glasgow to
Saigon of a floating iron dock in pieces. Notice to ship-owners. The
administration of the Imperial Navy of France have at Glasgow a floating
iron dock in pieces, which they require to be transported from that port
to Saigon, Cochin China. The said dock, with machinery, pumps, anchors,
and instruments necessary to its working, will weigh from two thousand
to twenty-five hundred tons. Ship-owners disposed to undertake the
transport are requested to forward their tenders to the Minister of
Marine and Colonies previous to the fifth of February next." Now, if we
consider that the news of the cession of these provinces did not reach
France until the close of the year 1862, that this advertisement is
dated January 23, 1863, and that a dock of the magnitude described could
hardly be constructed short of many months, we shall be satisfied, that,
long before any definite articles of peace had been proposed, the
Emperor had settled in his own mind just what region he would annex to
his dominions.

* * * * *

We shall not need much argument to convince us that the subjugation of
Mexico does not, either in character or methods, differ much from other
acts of the French ruler. Nevertheless, the details are curious and
instructive. It must be allowed that Mexico had given the Allies causes
of offence. She left unpaid large sums due from her to foreign
bond-holders. The subjects of the allied powers, temporarily resident in
Mexico, were robbed by forced loans, and sometimes imprisoned, and even
murdered. To redress these grievances, an expedition was fitted out by
the combined powers of England, France, and Spain. The objects of the
expedition were, first, to obtain satisfaction for past wrongs, and,
second, some security against their recurrence in the future. It was
expressly agreed by all parties, that the Mexicans should be left
entirely free to choose for themselves their own form of government.
Later events would seem to prove that England and Spain were sincere in
their professions.

Everything went on smoothly until the capture of Vera Cruz. Then the
French Emperor unfolded secret plans which were not contained in the
original programme. They were these: To take advantage of the weakness
of the United States to establish in Mexico a European influence; to
take possession of its capital city; and thence to impose upon the
Mexican people a government more agreeable than the present to the
Allies. England and Spain retired from the expedition with scarcely
concealed disgust, declaring, in almost so many words, that they did not
come into Mexico to rob another people of their rights, but to gain
redress and protection for their own subjects. Louis Napoleon does not
even seek to conceal his intentions from us. "We propose," he says, "to
restore to the Latin race on the other side of the Atlantic all its
strength and prestige. We have an interest, indeed, in the Republic of
the United States being powerful and prosperous; but not that she should
take possession of the whole Gulf of Mexico, thence to command the
Antilles as well as South America, and to be the only dispenser of the
products of the New World." This is plain enough. What will be the final
form of settlement we do not even conjecture. It is probable that the
Emperor does not himself know. With our fortunes so unsettled, and with
so many European jealousies to conciliate, even his astute genius may
well be puzzled as to the wisest policy. But it is of no consequence
what particular government France may impose upon the conquered
State,--monarchical, vice-regal, or republican,--Maximilian, a
Bonaparte, or some one of the seditious Mexican chiefs. In either case,
if the French plan succeeds, the broad country which Cortes won and
Spain lost, will be virtually a dependency of France.

* * * * *

Even while we write, France has embarked in yet other schemes of
colonial aggrandizement. She has just purchased the port of Oboch on the
eastern coast of Africa, near the entrance of the Red Sea. The place is
not laid down upon the maps; nor is its naval and commercial importance
known; but its proximity to Aden suggests that it may be intended as a
checkmate to that English stronghold. In the great island of Madagascar
she is founding mercantile establishments whose exact character have not
as yet been divulged; but experience teaches us that these enterprises
are likely to be pursued with promptness and vigor.

Thus France is displaying in colonial affairs an aggressive activity
which was scarcely to have been expected. To what extent she may perfect
her plans no one can prophesy. That she will be able to girdle the earth
with her possessions, and rear strongholds in every sea, is not
probable. England has chosen almost at her leisure what spots of
commercial advantage or military strength she will occupy; and the whole
world hardly affords the material for another colonial system as wide
and comprehensive.

* * * * *

There is one consideration which ought not to be overlooked. It is this:
the relations which Louis Napoleon has succeeded in maintaining between
himself and that power which had the most interest in defeating his
schemes, and the most ability to do it. Under the Bourbons, the whole
policy of France was based upon a principle of settled and unchangeable
enmity to England. As a result, war always broke out while French
preparations were incomplete; and the concentrated English navy swept
from the sea almost every vestige of an opposing force. The present
French emperor has adopted an altogether different course. He has sought
the friendship of England. He has multiplied occasions of mutual action.
He has sedulously avoided occasions of offence. Kinglake, in his
"Crimean War," intimates that Louis Napoleon desired this alliance with
England and her noble Queen to cover up the terrible wrongs by which he
had obtained his authority. It is more likely far that he sought it in
order that under its shadow he might build himself up to resistless
power: just as an oak planted beneath the shade of other trees grows to
strength and majesty only to cut down its benefactors.

This proposal for alliance was unquestionably received by the English
people at first with feelings akin to disgust. The memory of the bad
faith by which power had been won, of the wrongs and exile of the
greatest statesmen and soldiers of France, and of the red carnage of the
Boulevards, was too recent to make such a friendship attractive. Though
acceptance of it might be good policy, yet it could not be yielded
without profound reluctance. But soon this early sentiment gave way to
something like pride. It was so satisfactory to think that the allied
powers were wellnigh irresistible; that they had only to speak and it
must be done; that they could dictate terms to the world; that they
could scourge back even the Russian despot, seeking to pour down his
hordes from the icy North to more genial climes. It is hardly
surprising, then, that men came to congratulate themselves upon so
favorable an alliance, and concluded to overlook the defect in his title
in consideration of the solid benefits which the occupant of the French
throne conferred.

But this feeling could not last. When the people of England saw how
inevitably Louis Napoleon reaped from every conflict some selfish
advantage, how the Crimean War gave him all the prestige, and the
Italian War the coveted province of Nice, they began to doubt his fair
professions. And this jealousy is fast deepening into fear. The English
people have an instinct of approaching danger. Any one can see that the
"_entente cordiale_" is not quite what it once was. When a British Lord
of Admiralty can rise in his place in Parliament, and, after alluding to
the powerful and increasing naval force of France, add,--"I say that any
Ministry who did not act upon that statement, and did not at once set
about putting the country in the position she ought to occupy in respect
to her navy, would deserve to be sent to the Tower or penitentiary,"--we
may be sure that England has as much jealousy as trust, and perhaps
quite as much alarm as either.

But we have only to look at her acts to know what England is thinking.
For six years she has been engaged in an unceasing war with
France,--not, indeed, with swords and bayonets, but as really with her
workshops and dockyards. She has tasked these to their uttermost to
maintain and increase her naval superiority. And this is not the only
evidence we have of her true feeling. The building of new fortifications
for her ports, and the enlargement and strengthening of the old
defences, all tell the same story of profound distrust. "Plymouth has
been made secure. The mouth of the Thames is thought to be impregnable."
That is the way English papers write. Around Portsmouth and Gosport she
has thrown an immense girdle of forts. We may think what we will of
Cherbourg, England views it in the light of a perpetual menace. To the
proud challenge she has sent back a sturdy defiance. Right opposite to
it, on her nearest shore, she has reared a "Gibraltar of the Channel."
If you take your map, you will perceive, facing Cherbourg, and
projecting from the southern coast of England, the little island of
Portland, which at low tide becomes a peninsula, and is connected with
the main land by Chesil Bank, a low ridge of shingle ten miles long. On
the extreme north of this island, looking down into Weymouth Bay, is a
little cluster of rocky hills, rising sharply to a considerable height,
and occupying, perhaps, a space of sixty acres. This is where the
fortress, or Veme, as it is called, is built. On the northern side, the
cliff lifts itself up from the waters of the bay almost in a
perpendicular line, and is absolutely inaccessible. On all other sides
the Veme has been isolated by a tremendous chasm, which makes the dry
ditch of the fort. This chasm has been blasted into the solid rock, and
is nowhere less than a hundred feet wide and eighty feet deep. At the
angles of the fortress it widens to two hundred feet, and sinks beneath
the batteries in a sheer perpendicular of one hundred and thirty feet.
Two bastions jut from the main work into it, protecting it from approach
by a terrible cross-fire. All the appointments are upon the same scale.
The magazines, the storehouses, the water-tanks, are built to furnish
supplies for a siege, not of months, but of years. On every side the
rocky surface of the hills has been shaved down below the level of its
guns; so that there is not a spot seaward or landward that may not be
swept by its tremendous batteries. Such is this remarkable stronghold
which is rising to completion opposite Cherbourg. Yet it is but one of
several strong forts which are to protect the single harbor of Weymouth
Bay. Was this Titanic work reared in the spirit of trust? Does it speak
of England's hope of abiding friendship with France? No; it tells us
that beneath seeming amity a deadly struggle is going on,--that every
dock hollowed, every ship launched, every colony seized, and every
fortress reared, is but another step in a silent, but real, contest for
supremacy.

When this hidden fire shall burst forth into a devouring flame, when
this seeming alliance shall change into open enmity and bitter war, no
one can prophesy. But no doubt sooner or later. For between nations, as
well as in the bosom of communities, there are irrepressible conflicts,
which no alliances, no compacts, and no motives of wisdom or interest
can forever hold in check. And when it shall burst forth, no one can
foretell what its end shall be. That dread uncertainty, more than all
these things else, keeps the peace. We can but think that the naval
preeminence of England has grown out of the real character of her people
and of their pursuits,--and that the same causes which, in the long,
perilous conflicts of the past, have enabled her to secure the
sovereignty of the seas, will strengthen her to maintain that
sovereignty in all the conflicts which in the future may await her. But,
whatever may be the result, to whomsoever defeat may come, nothing can
obliterate from the pages of history the record of the sagacity,
perseverance, and courage with which the French people and their ruler
have striven to overcome a maritime inferiority, whose origin, perhaps,
is in the structure of their society and in the nature of their race.

* * * * *

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.


Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something, uncompleted still,
Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,
Like a mendicant it waits:

Waits, and will not go away,--
Waits, and will not be gainsaid.
By the cares of yesterday
Each to-day is heavier made,

Till at length it is, or seems,
Greater than our strength can bear,--
As the burden of our dreams,
Pressing on us everywhere;

And we stand from day to day
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,
On their shoulders held the sky.

* * * * *

THE GREAT INSTRUMENT.


Early in the month of November the mysterious curtain which has hidden
the work long in progress at the Boston Music Hall will be lifted, and
the public will throng to look upon and listen to the GREAT ORGAN.

It is the most interesting event in the musical history of the New
World. The masterpiece of Europe's master-builder is to uncover its
veiled front and give voice to its long-brooding harmonies. The most
precious work of Art that ever floated from one continent to the other
is to be formally displayed before a great assembly. The occasion is one
of well-earned rejoicing, almost of loud triumph; for it is the crowning
festival which rewards an untold sum of devoted and conscientious labor,
carried on, without any immediate recompense, through a long series of
years, to its now perfect consummation. The whole community will share
in the deep satisfaction with which the public-spirited citizens who
have encouraged this noble undertaking, and the enterprising; and
untiring lover of science and art who has conducted it from the first,
may look upon their completed task.

What is this wondrous piece of mechanism which has cost so much time and
money, and promises to become one of the chief attractions of Boston and
a source of honest pride to all cultivated Americans? The organ, as its
name implies, is _the instrument_, in distinction from all other and
less noble instruments. We might almost think it was called
organ as being a part of an unfinished _organism_, a kind of
Frankenstein-creation, half framed and half vitalized. It breathes like
an animal, but its huge lungs must be filled and emptied by alien force.
It has a wilderness of windpipes, each furnished with its own vocal
adjustment, or larynx. Thousands of long, delicate tendons govern its
varied internal movements, themselves obedient to the human muscles
which are commanded by the human brain, which again is guided in its
volitions by the voice of the great half-living creature. A strange
cross between the form and functions of animated beings, on the one
hand, and the passive conditions of inert machinery, on the other! Its
utterance rises through all the gamut of Nature's multitudinous voices,
and has a note for all her outward sounds and inward moods. Its thunder
is deep as that of billows that tumble through ocean-caverns, and its
whistle is sharper than that of the wind through their narrowest
crevice. It roars louder than the lion of the desert, and it can draw
out a thread of sound as fine as the locust spins at hot noon on his
still tree-top. Its clustering columns are as a forest in which every
music-flowering tree and shrub finds its representative. It imitates all
instruments; it cheats the listener with the sound of singing choirs; it
strives for a still purer note than can be strained from human throats,
and emulates the host of heaven with its unearthly "voice of angels."
Within its breast all the passions of humanity seem to reign in turn. It
moans with the dull ache of grief, and cries with the sudden thrill of
pain; it sighs, it shouts, it laughs, it exults, it wails, it pleads, it
trembles, it shudders, it threatens, it storms, it rages, it is soothed,
it slumbers.

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