ness, in the absence of these, we say, we shall be sure to find neat places of worship instead of huge cathedrals, comfortable dwellings instead of magnificent palaces and baronial mansions. We shall be sure to find a general appearance of thriftiness and honest independence, instead of a few cases of prodigious opulence, surrounded by a thousand cases of miserable, squalid poverty.

And how much more agreeable to the moral taste of the philanthropist and Christian, is the aspect of things produced by the democratic principle, than its opposite? How much better is it, that instead of overgrown and stupendous fortunes, perpetuated here and there, wealth should be more equally divided, according to the ratio of a man's talent to acquire it; that estates should, moreover, be of a size sufficient to enable a man to bring up a family, and give his children a solid education, and clothe them respectably? Who, as he travels through this country, will mourn the absence of splendid ducal palaces, and public buildings of costly grandeur, if he sees in every direction comfortable dwellings, and the marks of a steady, thrifty, independence? Who would not rather see many commodious places of worship, than a solitary, sumptuous minister? Who would not prefer the diffusion of knowledge among the people, sufficient for their wants as intelligent and immortal beings, to having an immense amount of learning stored up in a few minds, while the great majority are kept in ignorance?

This contrast is decidedly in favor of the democratic principle, because it shows, that its direct and necessary tendency is to ameliorate the human condition, by placing what is really essential to happiness within reach of the majority. To every philanthropist, this must be a gratifying truth; to every Christian, a matter of devout praise; to every republican, a theme of honest exultation. Cold, then, must be the heart, narrow and selfish the mind, that can look with indifference on these humanizing effects produced by popular ascendency; hypercritical and fastidious, if not unchristian, the taste which can find fault. in the captious spirit of a Cooper, in his last works,— that literary Ishmaelite,-because we have not on these democratic shores so much show, and pomp, and splendor, as exists in old monarchical countries; and fail to see, or refuse to acknowledge, how immensely the absence of

these is counterbalanced by "great and generally diffused blessings."

Another result, to be reasonably anticipated from the prevalence of the democratic principle is, the suppression of war. This is a game that kings play at, not the people, and the reason that the former are so fond of it, and plunge so readily into it, is their being placed in a position which exposes them to all the bad passions that drive armies to the battle-field, while they feel few of those counteracting restraints which they would experience, were their own persons more exposed to danger. It is an easy matter, to sit upon a throne, rioting in luxury, clad in purple, and faring sumptuously every day; elated with the pride of power, and intoxicated with the fumes of flattery; surrounded by an obsequious court, and instigated by ambitious generals; it is easy, under such circumstances, to fly into a royal passion at imagined injuries, and forthwith declare war, and make out a campaign on paper, and give the orders that set an army in motion. Wonderfully fine and amusing is it, for a crowned head to review his troops, and see their bristling bayonets glittering in the sun, and hear the martial music, "the pealing fife, and stirring drum," and then retire to his velvet couch, and read, amid the pomp and splendor of regal magnificence, the bulletins that announce victory after victory. But he sees not the gory field, and streams empurpled with blood; he sees not the mangled bodies, nor the scattered limbs; he sees not cannon balls burying themselves in human flesh, nor whole regiments mowed down at every fresh roar of artillery; he hears not the choking cry, the embittered sob, the agonizing wail of those who long to die, but cannot; he hears none of the groans that are wafted over a field of carnage; he goes not to the hospital to behold the mutilated masses of flesh, which are called men, but which have lost almost every vestige of the human form. Above all, a king feels no danger of being himself the subject of all this horrid suffering, the victim of such dread cruelty. But the people see, and hear, and feel, all this. They know on whom the tug of war must come, if the banners are unfurled for conflict. They know at whose breasts the deadly musket will be aimed, and by whom the sufferings, and toil, and want, must be endured. They know whose blood must

VOL, IV.-NO. XIV.

38

flow, and who must fill the gory bed. They know who have got, in the end, to pay for the immense expenditure of war, and by whose sweat and labor these gigantic losses are to be made up, and from whose hands taxes are to be wrung to defray the expenses of this kingly amusement. And, knowing this, will they be forward to bare their breasts to the steel in this thankless game? When the government is thoroughly popular, the questions of peace and war must be settled by the people's representatives, and will they delegate men who will be disposed to plunge the people into the odious business of fighting? Far from it. The democracy hate war, unless in cases of absolute necessity. They care not to be torn from their wives and sisters, except when patriotism demands it, to ward off the aggressor, and prevent oppression. They are not liable to the imperious passions that swell the bosoms of kings, nor to the vanity of thinking that an insult, or diplomatic peccadillo can be washed out only by an effusion of human blood. They pretend not to any such chivalry as this. They prefer the quiet and peace of their own cheerful homes, the smiles of their wives and children, the enjoyment of their innocent pleasures, the pursuits of their business, and all those domestic delights that cluster round the fireside of a well-regulated family. While in the fruition of this pure happiness, and having it in their power to say whether they will resign it or not, will they exchange it for the hardships of the camp, the bustle, din, and perils of war, the horrors and carnage of battle, and the shock of arms? Such a choice will never be made by the people; nor will they suffer themselves to be forced into it, when the democratic principle has gained its rightful ascendency.

It only remains to suggest a word or two on the means of perpetuating the progress of enlightened democracy, and giving it a right impulse. One of these means is the diffusion of scriptural knowledge. There is no book, in any language, which so effectually secures the interests of the people, as the New Testament. The strain of its superlative teaching is always in support of the popular rights. Its principles are throughout irreconcilably opposed to tyranny and oppression. Its pages reiterate the sentiment of man's essential equality; leading our minds constantly upward to that high range of contemplation,

which places us all, rich and poor, all, of every grade, social, political, and intellectual, on a perfect level before that Being, in whose presence every human distinction vanishes. In one word, though it does not interfere with existing governments, but on the contrary enjoins submission to them, it breathes the spirit of true enlightened democracy, in all its parts. What could more justly lay claim to this praise, than the principle, so frequently taught, that we are to regard every man as our brother; and that, viewing him in this light, we are to do to him as we would wish him to do to us? This is one of the corner stones of democracy, sufficient to defend it against the imperious claims of aristocratic pride, and the encroachments of monarchy and despotism. Let all imbibe this principle, and what we have been contemplating as making progress, will soon be gloriously consummated. Were further encomium necessary upon the New Testament, as to its republican tendency, we might add, that the great Personage who shines throughout the book, like a superior orb, and "from which the lesser stars, revolving in their golden urns, draw light," that Being who gives the tone and character of the book, cherished the interests of the people. Hence, the common classes heard him gladly. With them he mostly mingled, in social intercourse. Among them he chose his most intimate friends. Out of their ranks he called the men who were to propagate his doctrines. On them he leaned to accomplish his great purpose of benevolence. His conduct, throughout, was strongly tinctured with the spirit of enlightened democracy. It is not meant, that he favored any political creed, or arrayed himself as a partisan to any political question, but that his sympathies were invariably with the people; his influence steadily exerted to raise, instruct, and benefit them; and his sternest rebukes administered to those who would mislead, injure, and oppress them. Such a book would naturally breathe into its readers a spirit favorable to popular ascendency. Such has always been its effect. When its pages have been accessible to the common people, then they have risen in character, made progress in intelligence, acquired social and political power, before which the time-honored and venerable pillars of tyranny and oppression have crumbled. Of this, history gives many examples. Let that book, then, be studied

by every republican, as the best means of completing the triumph of true, enlightened democracy.

Another means, which, while it accelerates the progress of the democratic principle, will promote also its healthy growth, is a disposition among those who are highest upon the social cone to level upwards, at the same time that those who are beneath them, are levelling downwards. Both of these processes ought to be consentaneous. In that way only, can the point of general equality of conditions, towards which every thing is tending, be reached in safety. That it will be reached, somehow, no doubt can exist. The movement in that direction, which is making in society, is just as steady as the wheeling of Jupiter in his orbit, and as irresistible. This is partially shown by the illustrations already employed, and if our limits allowed, it might have been shown to be the lesson which history has been teaching us, ever since the Reformation. From its pages, we should learn, that all the great changes and remarkable events, that have occurred subsequently to that time, have been so many tributaries to the stream that is bearing mankind onward on its broad bosom, to a state of substantial equality. To put a stop, therefore, to this tendency, is beyond the power of any human arm. It has acquired too prodigious a momentum, from the accumulated impulses of centuries, to be now arrested. "To some," says Tocqueville, "it may appear to be a novel accident, which, as such, may still be checked; to others it seems irresistible, because it is the most uniform, the most ancient, and the most permanent tendency, which is to be found in history." In another place, he says, "The various occurrences of national existence have every where turned to the advantage of democracy; all men have aided it by their exertions, those who have intentionally labored in its cause, and those who have served it unwittingly; those who have fought for it, and those who have declared themselves its opponents, have all been driven along in the same track, have all labored to one end, some ignorantly, and some unwillingly; all have been blind instruments in the hands of God."

Hence, the question is not, whether this principle shall go on, and attain the end towards which it is advancing; but how that end shall be reached, consistently with the best interests of all. This is the great problem to be