VOL. VI.-SEPTEMBER, 1855.-No. IX. THE COUNTRY. BY THE EDITOR. "God made the country, and man made the town. And least be threatened in the fields and groves." FROM all we know, Cain was the first man that "builded a city." If we consider what manner of man this Cain was, and then also apply to him and his work the maxim that, as the tree is so is the fruit, it will not much raise our estimation of the piety and goodness of this thing that Cain did. We would almost be forced to conclude, that the same spirit which suggested to him to slay his brother, also moved him to build a city. If the reader draws this conclusion we cannot help it; we are not arguing the case, but only giving history. It is a fact that a murderer built the first city-make of the fact what you can. A certain wise man has also said: "Cities are the devil's universities!" If this is too severely said, fight it out with him, and do not blame us for stating the history of opinions. Moreover, God, in ancient times, dealt very severely with cities, as we have read in the Bible. Our Saviour, too, said, "Wo!" to cities-charged them with having "killed the prophets," and declared that though exalted to heaven they should be "thrust down to hell." All this would seem to show that cities have, in all ages, been characterized in a great degree by the spirit of the one who built the first. If our own opinion on this point should be desired, we would not be slow to say that we have no great faith in the holiness of cities. Though some have the saintly prefix St. attached to their names, yet we doubt their right to canonization. We are of opinion that selfinterest, and a spirit of worldliness, has built every city on the globe; and that these are the master spirits that reign and rule in them. They have their good; but so from the dung-hill may the fowl scratch wholesome grains. They have their outward polish; but so have whited sepulchres, which nevertheless are within, full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness. If the veil which covers the Vol. VI.-17 abominations of our larger towns and cities could be removed, it would abundantly appear, that a good man's language was not a whit too earnest when he said: "These are the blotches and boils of the body politic!"-strong language, but not too strong. Truly, as the poet says, "man made the town." Man, sinful man, makes it the sink of iniquity which it in truth too often proves to be. Our introduction is perhaps too long, and rather spicy. Our subject is not cities, but the country. It is not our object to blame towns, but to praise the country. We offered these strictures upon cities by way of back-ground to our picture. We proceeded upon the principle generally adopted by two who are disputing with each other: "When DOWN goes my opponent, The country-we praise the country. What a "volume in a word" has the poet uttered, when he exclaims "God made the country." What God makes is worthy of Him. It will be a continued revelation of Himself; and He will ever be found in its midst, the source of rest, and peace, and joy. "God made the country." One must be in the midst of rural scenes to feel fully the beauty and force of this declaration. By this we do not mean that one must fly through it in a railroad car. It despises such an attempt to view its glories, and hence seems to run away before our eyes; not a tree will stand still long enough to enable us to get it full in our eyes. Rattling, rumbling, rolling, roaring we go through bridges, through deep-cuts, and through hills we go, as though we were doomed vagabonds. Do not call this seeing the country. A fool, walking through a library and gazing at the backs of books, views the fields of literature as much as a traveler in a railroad car views the country. Away from thoroughfares, away from towns, where only the faintest din of the noisy world is heard, and where only the tallest spire of the distant town is seen-here is the country. Here we sit under the shade of an ancient tree and look out at leisure upon the quiet fields, the distant green woods, the blue sky above, with here and there a white floating cloud, mocked by its own shadow that moves, like a dream-image, over the serene landscape before us. It is harvest time, and yonder are golden fields that but barely wave with whiter sheen in the gentle breeze. Others by their side are already streaked with hollow swaths and rows of shocks. There are the hay-fields, so soon green again since the mowers have passed over them. There are green fields of oats, even now growing white on the surface, bidding the farmer hasten to finish the earlier harvest to be ready for this. Yonder, |