The International Monthly Magazine Volume V to No II

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"Accustomed from his cradle to reflect on himself and his
circumstances, the American from the first instant of his entry
into active life is ever on the watch to improve their condition.
Is he rich, and consequently more directly interested in the
common wealth, then every new law, every change in the personal
direction of the government, awakes in him a new care for the
future, while on the other hand, if poor, then every change in the
state may perhaps afford him a new opportunity of bettering his
condition. Therefore he is ever wide awake--ever looking out for
the future, not as a mere spectator, but as one playing a part and
occupied in maintaining the present state of affairs, or in
improving them. The entire mass of the population is continually
in a state of political agitation, and, urged by hope of their aid
or fear of their power, we see every one continually seeking for
expressions of public opinion. No man is so rich or powerful that
he need not fear them--none so wretched and poor but that he may
venture to entertain the hope of being through them aided and
relieved. Public opinion is in America the mightiest organ of
justice--shielding no one, from the president to the simplest
citizen, and proceeds, mowing, casting down, or grinding to powder
all things which oppose it and deserve its condemnation.

"This condition of perpetual agitation gives the American an
appearance of ceaseless restlessness, but it is in reality the
true ground of peace and content. _The American has no time to be
discontented_, and this is the most praiseworthy point of their
constitution and popular life. The republican has necessarily as
many severe and arduous duties to fulfil as the inhabitants of any
monarchy--but their fulfilment is gratifying and consoling--for it
is allied to the consciousness of power. The American has no
desire for the quiet temper of the European, and least of all for
the silent happiness of the German, which last, alas! appears
since the dissipation of the intoxication of the Revolution of
March, 1848, to consist, as far as the great mass of the
population is concerned, merely in the egotistic repose of
self-sufficiency, weakness, and ignorance. The American finds
repose only in his house, in his family circle, and among his
children; all without the walls of that home is an incessant
working and striving, in politics as in trade--by the streets and
canals, as in the woods of the West. Different as the elements are
from which the inhabitants of the United States are formed, and
different as the circumstances may be under which they live, there
still prevails among them a certain unity of character, an
equanimity of feeling, which it would be difficult to parallel,
resulting perhaps from the very heterogeneousness and mixture of
elements itself, since no one element allows to another
pre-eminence. They have all something in common in their
appearance, which gives them the air almost of relations--something
in their gait and manners which declares them to be other than
English, Germans, or French. Through the entire land, through
every class, there is disseminated a certain refinement of manner,
an appreciation of decency and nobility of character, which
springs from a consciousness of their own rights and respect for
mankind. Even emigrants, in America, soon learn to cast aside
their rough prejudices as regards caste, for the proud affability
of the aristocratic, the vanity of the small citizen, the want of
confidence and ease in the mechanic, the slavish servitude and
snappish insolence of liveried servants, find in America no place.
_Man_ is there esteemed only as _man_--only ability gains honor--and
where _that_ is, and there alone, can true nobility be found. No
one there inquires who a man is, or who were his parents, but
'What can he _do_, what are his capabilities, and what can he
produce?' Rank and caste are in America unknown. Every man feels
his freedom and independence, and expresses himself accordingly.
Even the servant is a free man, who has, it is true, hired his
service, but not his entire existence. The American is polite, but
over-refined, unmeaning compliments form no part of his manners,
nor does he expect them from others. No man vexes or troubles
himself for another, in consequence of which we find in American
society very little stiffness and reserve, yet we find in every
respect that the very highest regard is there paid to propriety
and decency--particularly as regards the female sex, since in no
country, not even in England, do ladies enjoy such respect and
regard as in the United States. Ever depending upon, and confiding
in himself, the American is in his manners free, open, and
unreserved. The mass of the people is possessed of intelligence
and spirit, though not so scientifically educated as in Europe,
and a higher degree of intelligence penetrates even the lower
class, who consequently form a marked and singular contrast with
those of like rank in Europe. It is not from being versed in the
higher branches of abstract learning and science, but from the
great amount of that direct practical knowledge which exerts the
greatest influence in making life happy, that the Americans are
distinguished from other nations, and for the acquisition of which
they have made better provision and preparation than any other
people. As yet too deeply occupied with the Needful and Important,
they are compelled to leave the development of the higher branches
to the care and noble generosity of individuals. But a glance at
the sums which are annually devoted to the establishment and
maintenance of schools and universities, will suffice to evidence
the liberality with which the proper education of the people is
cared for in the United States. Knowledge is indeed esteemed, but
only according to its use and applicability to the wants of life;
so that a practical tanner is there worth more than a learned
pedant. _Wealth, or rather wealth allied to ability and
universality of talent, is there more highly esteemed than
learning,_ while hospitality, patriotism, and toleration, allowing
every one to think and feel as he likes, are universal
characteristics. So that in the United States nothing is wanting
to the attainment of a true civil and social freedom, even though
the means thereto are not invariably correctly understood or
admitted (as is indeed the case by us), and though--since men are
every where subject to the same weaknesses--they measure happiness
rather by the standard of their own intelligence and virtues, than
by fortune and nature, which latter, impartially considered, is
the basis of the physical happiness of the American. That,
however, which constitutes his _moral_ happiness is this; that in
his country, domestic life enjoys the true supremacy, _and to
this, public life and the state are subordinate_. It is true that
the American statesmen have fallen into the same error as the
European--_id est_, to believe that without _them_ the people could
never prosper, and still live in the belief that home-happiness
hangs on them, their theories and arts of governing; but the most
superficial glance teaches that if wise laws are able to effect
more for the happiness of man than they can bring about, still no
one should _there_ attempt to draw happiness from such a source
when popular and private life have combined to bestow it. But
should the happiness of the Americans ever be derived from this
side, it will be more sensible to assume that the foundation
thereof will be the release from that which in the recent culture
has passed for the deepest political wisdom. The true secret of
all the good fortune of America lies in the favorable condition of
external things. 'It is not with them as in Europe, where the poor
can only better their condition or become rich by making the rich
poor, for therein lies the source of an infinite strife which hath
been combated for centuries, with the axioms of religion and
morals. But in America, men when striving to better their
condition, instead of becoming enemies and turning their arms
against each other, strive with _Nature_, and wring from her
boundless stores that wealth which she so bountifully affords!'"

We have made these quotations less on account of any merit which they
possess, than to give our readers an idea of the general opinion
prevailing in Germany in regard to our country; and to confirm an
assertion made in a recent number of the _International_, that in no
country in Europe are we so impartially and favorably judged. There is one
particular, however, in which we find this book worthy of especial praise.
The author highly commends the flourishing state of religion in the United
States, declaring that we are in this respect superior to the Germans, and
that on the Sabbath the churches are filled to a degree unknown in Europe.
It is from our deep-rooted attachment to domestic life, and our observance
of religion, that he correctly deduces our true happiness, as separated
from the natural advantages of the country. It is greatly to be desired
that the majority of his countrymen resident in America, would allow
themselves to be impressed in a similar manner as to the advantages of
piety and Sabbath-keeping. There is in the United States a vast number of
German newspapers--conducted we should imagine for the greater part by
unprincipled and worthless adventurers of the red republican, socialist
stamp, who, despite the protection which they here enjoy, incessantly and
spitefully abuse every institution to which they are really indebted for
their asylum among us, and most of all our observation of the Sabbath, in
a style which entitles them to something severer than mere contempt. But
Herr Bromme is right. Respect for morality and religion, a due regard for
the Sabbath, and a dependence on the home-circle for pleasure and
recreation, are the surest safeguard of peace, happiness, and prosperity.

A VISIT TO THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS' TEMPLE AT BAKU.

In a recent number of the _Russian Archives for Scientific Information_,
is an account of a visit made by a Russian lady of distinction, in company
with her husband and sons, to a temple of the Indian sect of Gebers, or
Fire Worshippers, near Baku, a city of Georgia, lying on the Caspian Sea.
We translate this interesting narrative for the _International_, as
follows:

In order the better to enjoy the spectacle of the fire, we chose the
evening for our excursion thither; but a thick fog came on, which made the
road difficult and dangerous. When we finally reached the place it was
pitch dark; the flames were rising in beautiful purity to the peaceful sky
of night, and the entire castle, within which was the temple, seemed to be
surrounded by a circle of watch-fires. These were lighted by Persians from
the neighborhood, who were busy burning lime and baking bread, dark forms
like those which worked on the tower of Babel, and burnt lime for it. They
were now brought here by the ease and cheapness of carrying on their
occupations. All that is necessary is to make a hole in the ground, touch
a burning coal to it, and an inexhaustible flame rises forth like a
spring. Behind this range of little flames and fires, rose, in the pale
light, the dirty white walls of the castle, in the centre of which there
flashed from the summit of two lofty pillars great masses of the purest,
clearest, and keenest flame, which were now bent down horizontally and
wreathed like serpents by the force of the wind, and now rose
perpendicularly to the sky, whose dome they lighted up like two vast altar
tapers. We drove around the edifice, and stopped on one side where there
were no flames rising from the earth. A fine rain was falling, but we
remained without while our guide went in to announce us. He came back
immediately with a swarthy Hindoo. The sight of this man impressed me
strangely, and I forgot that he belonged to a remote colony of a few
individuals, and asked myself if we had been suddenly transported to
India, or if India had been brought up to the Caspian.

We went into the court-yard, in which stands the temple, with its two
fire-pillars. About half way up hang a couple of large bells, which the
Hindoo sounded by way of preparing us for what we were to see. There was
something fearful in the loud clangor, and my boys crowded close beside
me. Except our party, no one was to be seen except the swart Geber, in his
white turban and long brown robe, with just enough of a pair of light blue
trowsers visible to bring into distinctness his naked black feet. His
features were noble, and his beard long and black. He looked like a
conjurer, like the lord of an enchanted castle, summoning his spirits. The
hissing fire, as if obeying him, flashed up more brightly at the crash of
the bells; now it was clear as day around us, and now it was twilight as
the wind lowered the flame. My husband and sons and the guide who had
brought us to the place, were all dressed in oriental costume, and I alone
seemed to belong to Europe. A shudder of home-sickness came over me, and
at every moment I expected to see something monstrous, to behold all the
cruelties of a heathenish and barbarous worship.

The interpreter now summoned us to follow the Geber. We were told that the
castle was built by a rich Indian nabob, who was a fire worshipper, and
who, with his followers, long inhabited it. Now, only three Hindoos remain
from that period of splendor. But nature remains eternally the same, and
whether worshipped or not, the flames still shine and awe the
superstitious, and so great is the fame of the place that many pilgrims
come yearly from distant India to pray, and to have prayers said for them,
here in the visible presence of the primeval light.

At last we came to the cell of the priest, and on his invitation entered
it. We passed through a low door, and down a few steps, and found
ourselves in a small, semicircular, low, but very white room, with a floor
of mason-work, and a small altar in the centre. Around the wall were
seats, also of mason-work. In the altar there was an opening as large as a
gun-barrel, from which rose a slender flame that lighted the room very
clearly. There were other little openings on the sides of the altar. The
Hindoo took a wisp of straw, lighted it, and touched these openings, from
which the most beautiful flames at once issued. The children, who had
never seen gas lights, or at least did not remember them, regarded all
this as the most perfect witchery. On a second altar, which, like the
first, was about the height of a common table, lay or stood the idols and
treasures of our priest. Small steps led up to it, which were used to hold
muscles, stones, shells, and other instruments employed in the sacred
rites. The idols were of metal, and ugly and monstrous, like Chinese
images. Beside these figures, we were astonished to see crosses of various
forms and sizes. We asked the Geber about them, and he answered with
oriental emphasis: "There is one God, and no one has seen him; therefore
every one adores him after his own way, and represents him after his own
way." The reply was diplomatic enough, and we could not ascertain how the
crosses had come there.

On the altar and its steps lay a great number of singularly beautiful
Indian stones, which the boys wanted very much, but which, in spite of our
large offers, we could not obtain. They were mementoes from the distant
fatherland, and possibly they served as sacred ornaments for the little
cell. There were also several censers, lamps, and little silver plates and
salvers. The air was stifling from the fumes of gas, and the heat was like
that of a vapor bath. The priest took from the altar some pieces of red
and white candied sugar, held them, praying, before his idols, sprinkled
them with holy water, and handed them to us on a silver plate.

A second Hindoo now came in, a tall old man, whose name, as he told us,
was Amintaas. He invited us into his cell, which was larger and
differently arranged. In the centre was a large kettle, set in mason-work,
with water in it, and a gas flame burning under it; the altar was in
another apartment beyond, and separated from the first by a low wall or
fence, with a passage through. Another apartment, similarly divided off,
was spread with carpets for sleeping. After we had seen the stones,
shells, and idols, which were richer and more numerous than in the former
cell, the Hindoos asked us if they should pray for us. We agreed, and the
ceremony began. A large muscle shell was washed in the kettle, the plates
were set in order at the foot of the altar, a censer began to smoke, the
silver plate with candied sugar was set over a lamp Between two bells,
whose handles were the most monstrous figures of idols. These bells
Amintaas took and began to ring vehemently. The other Hindoos stood behind
him and beat two big cymbals, accompanying this noise with the most
inhuman and frightful howling that a man's lungs ever produced. Still,
there was method and a regular cadence in it. Finally, they made a pause,
bowed before the images, murmuring softly, after which they arranged the
plates anew, and sprinkled the sugar with holy water. My husband whispered
in my ear a line from the conjuration in "Faust," and the whole of that
scene rushed vividly into my memory.

Meanwhile the lungs of the old Amintaas had recovered their power, for he
now seized a conch shell, held it in both hands, and with incredible
strength blew long wild notes, with scarce any thing like a tune. I grew
dizzy in listening to this clamor, and at once understood what is meant by
the heathen making a "vain noise," This cannibalistic music was kept up
for a long time, and seemed to form the climax of the sacred rites. The
finale was a combination of wild shouting, banging of the cymbals, ringing
and murmuring. At last the concert was over, and we breathed freely.
Amintaas handed us the candied sugar, and my husband laid down two ducats
in its place. They were received with warm expressions of gratitude, and
laid upon the altar. We went out into the open air, but the scene had
changed. The lonely castle was crowded with Persians who had come from
their lime-burning to see the Europeans. Persian women were sitting around
by sundry little ovens of masonry, where, by the help of gas flames, they
baked their _Tsheuks_, thin cakes of unleavened bread. Followed by the
crowd, we were led a couple of hundred steps from the castle to a spring
that was covered over; the cover was taken off, and a bundle of burning
straw thrown in, when, crackling and hissing, sprung up a splendid pillar
of fire, vanishing in sparks like stars. This beautiful spectacle lasted
but for a moment, and a quarter of an hour was necessary to collect gas
enough to repeat the experiment.

We returned to Baku in the rain, more dead than alive. It was the eve of
Easter. The next morning, as I was sitting on the sofa with the children,
there came in a tall, meagre Hindoo, with gray hair; he was dressed in a
white robe, and brought me white and red sugar on a silver plate. He was
the chief priest from the temple of the Gebers, and had come to Baku to
see the Easter festivities. We took a few grains of his sugar, and I laid
a silver rouble on the plate. While he was making his bows for this, my
husband came in and told him, partly in Tartar, partly in Russian, and
partly in pantomime, that we had been to his temple the night before, and
had prayers said there. He asked at once, with eagerness, how much we had
given, and when he learned the sum, asked for a certificate to that
effect, as, without it, the others would give him no part of the money. We
sent him away without granting his request, for the two screamers of the
night previous had earned all we gave them. We learned afterwards that the
gifts of visitors occasioned quarrels, and often blows, in the romantic
fire-castle. This disgusted me, and yet it is not the fault of these poor
fellows. They must necessarily become covetous, since they profane their
most sacred ceremonies as a means of living. They have neither fields nor
gardens, and the only thing like vegetation that I saw was some lone boxes
in the court yard, filled with shrubs and plants, remains, no doubt, from
the time of the Indian nabob, who sought in vain to establish cultivation
in a soil impregnated with inflammable gas. However, I learned to my
sorrow that grass at least grows there, for, in going through it to the
spring, my feet became perfectly wet.

The air of the locality does not seem to be unwholesome for man. At least,
the Geber priests, who had lived there for years, were perfect lions for
health and vigor.

A NEW PORTRAIT OF CICERO.

In the third volume of his _History of the Romans under the Empire_, just
published in London, Mr. MERIVALE gives some elaborate pieces of character
writing, one of which has for its subject CICERO. It is not good for a man
to think harshly of Cicero, and however easy it may seem to be to condemn
manifest faults in his character, it is by no means easy to be fair in the
estimate we make. Mr. Merivale sums up a character which has too often
been roughly put down as that of a great writer and a little man, as
follows:

"Many writers, it has been remarked, have related the death of
Cicero, but Plutarch alone has painted it. In the narrative here
laid before him the reader has the substance of this picturesque
account, together with some touches introduced from collateral
sources. In this, as in many other massages of his Lives, the
Greek biographer has evidently aimed at creating an effect, and
though he seems to have been mainly guided by the genuine
narrative of Tiro, Cicero's beloved freedman, we may suspect him
of having embellished it to furnish a striking termination to one
of his favorite sketches. Nevertheless the narrative is mainly
confirmed by a fragment of Livy's history, which has fortunately
been preserved. The Roman author vies with the Greek in throwing
dignity and interest over the great statesman's end. But in
reviewing the uneven tenor of his career, Livy concludes with the
stern comment, "He bore none of his calamities as a man should,
except his death." These are grave words. In the mouth of one who
had cast his scrutinizing glance over the characters and exploits
of all the heroes of the great republic, and had learnt by the
training of his life-long studies to discriminate moral qualities
and estimate desert, they constitute the most important judgment
on the conduct of Cicero that antiquity has bequeathed to us. Few
indeed among the Romans ever betrayed a want of resolution in the
face of impending death. But it was in the endurance of calamity
rather than the defiance of danger that the courage of Cicero was
deficient. The orator, whose genius lay in the arts of peace and
persuasion, exhibited on more than one occasion a martial spirit
worthy of other habits and a ruder training. In the contest with
Catilina he displayed all the moral confidence of a veteran
general: in the struggle with Antonius he threw himself without
reserve into a position where there was no alternative but to
conquer or to perish. In the earlier conflict he had still his
fame to acquire, his proud ascendency to establish; and the love
of praise and glory inspired him with the audacity which makes and
justifies its own success. But in the later, he courted danger for
the sake of retaining the fame he so dearly prized. He had once
saved his country, and he could not endure that it should be said
he had ever deserted it. He loved his country; but it wan for his
own honor, which he could preserve, rather than for his country's
freedom, which he despaired of, that he returned to his post when
escape was still possible. He might have remained silent, but he
opened the floodgates of his eloquence. When indeed he had once
launched himself on the torrent he lost all self-command; he could
neither retrace nor moderate his career; he saw the rocks before
him, but he dashed himself headlong against them. But another
grave authority has given us the judgment of antiquity, that
Cicero's defect was the want of steadfastness. His courage had no
dignity because it lacked consistency. All men and all parties
agreed that he could not be relied upon to lead, to co-operate, or
to follow. In all the great enterprises of his party, he was left
behind, except that which the nobles undertook against Catilina,
in which they rather thrust him before them than engaged with him
on terms of mutual support. When we read the vehement claims which
Cicero put forth to the honor of association, however tardy, with
the glories and dangers of Caesar's assassins, we should deem the
conspirators guilty of a monstrous oversight in having neglected
to enlist him in their design, were we not assured that he was not
to be trusted as a confederate either for good or for evil.

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