brush of 1812, “we did not think much about that”; and everybody knows that the Mexican business did not concern us much, except in its political relations.  No!  War is a new thing to all of us who are not in the last quarter of their century.  We are learning many strange matters from our fresh experience.  And besides, there are new conditions of existence which make war as it is with us very different from war as it has been.

The first and obvious difference consists in the fact that the whole nation is now penetrated by the ramifications of a network of iron nerves which flash sensation and volition backward and forward to and from towns and provinces as if they were organs and limbs of a single living body.  The second is the vast system of iron muscles which, as it were, move the limbs of the mighty organism one upon another.  What was the railroad-force which put the Sixth Regiment in Baltimore on the 19th of April but a contraction and extension of the arm of Massachusetts with a clenched fist full of bayonets at the end of it?

This perpetual intercommunication, joined to the power of instantaneous action, keeps us always alive with excitement.  It is not a breathless courier who comes back with the report from an army we have lost sight of for a month, nor a single bulletin which tells us all we are to know for a week of some great engagement, but almost hourly paragraphs, laden with truth or falsehood as the case may be, making us restless always for the last fact or rumor they are telling.  And so of the movements of our armies.  To-night the stout lumbermen of Maine are encamped under their own fragrant pines.  In a score or two of hours they are among the tobacco-fields and the slave-pens of Virginia.  The war passion burned like scattered coals of fire in the households of Revolutionary times; now it rushes all through the land like a flame over the prairie.  And this instant diffusion of every fact and feeling produces another singular effect in the equalizing and steadying of public opinion.  We may not be able to see a month ahead of us; but as to what has passed, a week afterwards it is as thoroughly talked out and judged as it would have been in a whole season before our national nervous system was organized.

  “As the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea,
  Thou only teachest all that man can be!”

We indulged in the above apostrophe to War in a Phi Beta Kappa poem of long ago, which we liked better before we read Mr. Cutler’s beautiful prolonged lyric delivered at the recent anniversary of that Society.

Oftentimes, in paroxysms of peace and good-will towards all mankind, we have felt twinges of conscience about the passage,—­especially when one of our orators showed us that a ship of war costs as much to build and keep as a college, and that every port-hole we could stop would give us a new professor.  Now we begin to think that there was some meaning in our poor couplet.  War has taught us, as nothing else could, what we can be and are.  It has exalted our manhood and our womanhood, and driven us all back upon our substantial human qualities, for a long time more or less kept out of sight by the spirit of commerce, the love of art, science, or literature, or other qualities not belonging to all of us as men and women.