The New York herald., 1879-10-31

Our genial friend, the proprietor of the
Commercial Advertiser has, we fear, devoted
his summer leisure in his Tusculan villa at
Pleasure Bay too closely to a study of
ancient. history. He sees Caesar everywhere
he turns; he smells Caesar in the air; he
shouts Caesar in his sleep. we suspect; and,
too fresh from his Horace and Froude, he
returns with difficulty, and with reiuc-
tance which does not surprise us, to every
day affairs and those practical and accu-
rate views Of this prosaic century and coun-
try to which he has long accustomed us.
We do not wonder at his bewilderment.
Journalists, it has often been said, ought
to take no holidays ; the ink should never
be dry on their pens the world moves so
fast and events SO crowd upon us TINT he
who intermits his watchfulness even for q
week loses somewhat of his steady grip on
the facts of the day. The possession of SO
charming summer retreat as that which
has of late drawn our versatile contem-
porary away from the labors and duties
OF journalism is, we frankly admit,
great temptation. A pretty house,
we'll shaded, within sound of the Atlantic
surf and with lovely views and vistas on
every side, either of water or of green
lawns breezy piazza, with easy chairs
and good company-these are the seduc-
tions which draw our contemporary away
from the turmoil of the city, and, alas
persuade him to the indulgence of studious
ease. And so, living imprudently long in
the dim past he comes to talk of wounds.
He wants General Grant for q third term,
'because he is q man in whom the people
can place their implicit faith"-thus affiict-
ing us with shocking doubts about the fidel-
ity ofmany eminent republican statesmen
and ''who can bind up the nations
wounds as no other man can."
What wounds? startled public will
demand. Where are these wounds which
need such surgery? Who is hurt? What
hurt him? Why has nobody heard about
these wounds before? Here we have been
living i'll peace and quiet for long time
the war came to a close in 1SG5-more than
fourteen years ago; greenbacks are Mt par
gold is drug in the market, and poor
Secretary Sherman has to stuff it into
peoples pockets the labor troubles have
ceased there is a general revival of in
dustry {; the country is prosperous and con-
tented even the stock market is booming.
And suddenly this journalistic Cincinnatus,
our second-sighted contemporary, lays
down his Horace or his Froude and begins
to tell us about wounds to be healed. Is it
Rip Van Wrinkle who speaks we ask, as he
rubs his eyes and puffs clear smoke from
his Havana.
This is not Rome, o Nestor of the even
ing press; this is the United States of
America. This is not the age of Caesar; this is
the dull, matter Of fact, spinning. ploughing,
telegraphing, trading nineteenth century.
You may go to town by rail; you may send
your instructions by telegraph; steam and
electricity are your cheap servants; peace
and plenty smile around you and Jersey
justice sternly warns off intruders from
your delightful premises. And your talk
is still of wounds to be healed, and you de-
mand o ruler '.who can bind up the ma
tion's wounds as no other man can," as
though surgery were the chief function of
President
It will not do. There are no wounds.
Return to town, good contemporary; lay
down your Froude and look the country in
the face. There is no. longer any question
of binding up wounds. The old sores have
long ago healed over; the dressings have
been removed the country is whole, and
shotguns only exist in the imaginations of
a certain peculiar breed Of republican
statesmen.