CHAPTER V.

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THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

DEVOTED TO

LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.

* * * * *

VOL. II.--AUGUST, 1862.--No. II.

* * * * *

AMONG THE PINES.

[CONCLUDED.]

'My God! drowned herself and her child!' exclaimed the Colonel, with

deep emotion.

'Come, my friend, let us go to them at once,' I said, laying my hand on

his arm, and drawing him unresistingly away.

A pair of mules was speedily harnessed to a large turpentine-wagon, and

the horses we had ridden the day before were soon at the door. When the

Colonel, who had been closeted for a few minutes with Madam P--, came

out of the house, we mounted and rode off with the 'corn-cracker.'

The native's farm was located on the stream which watered my friend's

plantation, and was about ten miles distant. Taking a by-road which led

to it through the woods, we rode rapidly on in advance of the wagon.

'Sort o' likely gal, thet, warn't she?' remarked the turpentine-maker,

after a while.

'Yes, she was,' replied the Colonel, in a half-abstracted manner,

'_very_ likely.'

'Kill harself 'case har man war shot by thet han'som overseer uv yourn?'

'Not altogether for that, I reckon,' replied my host,' I fear the main

reason was her being put at field-work, and abused by the driver.'

'Thet comes uv not lookin' arter things yerself, Cunnel. I 'tend ter my

niggers parsonally, and they keer a durned sight more fur this world

then fur kingdom-cum. Ye cudn't hire 'em ter kill 'emselves fur no

price.'

'Well,' replied the Colonel, in a low tone, 'I _did_ look after her. I

put her at full field-work myself.'

'By--!' cried the native, reining his horse to a dead stop, and speaking

in an excited manner; 'I doan't b'lieve it, 'taint 't all like ye; yer a

d--d seceshener--thet comes uv yer bringin'-up; but ye've a soul

bigger'n a meetin'-house, and ye cudn't hev put thet slim, weakly gal

inter th' woods, no how!'

The Colonel and I instinctively halted our horses, as the 'corn-cracker'

stopped his.

'It is true, Barnes,' said my host, in a low voice, 'I _did_ do it!'

'May God Almighty furgive ye, Cunnel,' said the native, starting his

horse forward, '_I_ wudn't hev dun it fur all yer niggers, by----.'

The Colonel made no reply, and we rode on the rest of the way in

silence.

The corn-cracker's house--a low, unpainted, wooden building--stood near

the little stream, and in the centre of a cleared plot of some ten

acres. This plot was surrounded by a post and rail fence, and in its

front portion was a garden, which grew a sufficient supply of vegetables

to serve a family of twenty persons. In the rear, and at the sides of

the dwelling, were about seven acres, devoted mainly to corn and

potatoes. In one corner of the lot were three tidy-looking negro-houses,

and close beside them I noticed a low shed, near which a large quantity

of the stalks of the tall, white corn, common to that section, was

stacked in the New-England fashion. Browsing on the corn-stalks were

three sleek, well-kept milch-cows and a goat.

About four hundred yards from the farmer's house, and on the bank of the

little run, which there was quite wide and deep, stood a

turpentine-distillery, and around it were scattered a large number of

rosin and turpentine barrels, some filled and some empty. A short

distance higher up, and far enough from the 'still' to be safe in the

event of a fire, was a long, low, wooden shed, covered with rough,

unjointed boards, placed upright, and unbattened. This was the

'spirit-house,' used for the storage of the spirits of turpentine when

barreled for market, and awaiting shipment. In the creek, and filling

nearly one-half of the channel in front of the spirit-shed, was a raft

of pine-timber, on which were laden some two hundred barrels of rosin.

On such rude conveyances the turpentine-maker sent his produce to

Conwayboro. There the timber-raft was sold to my wayside friend, Captain

B--, and its freight shipped on board vessel for New-York.

Two 'prime' negro men, dressed in the usual costume, were 'tending the

still,' and a negro-woman, as stout and strong as the men, and clad in a

short, loose, linsey gown, from beneath which peeped out a pair of

coarse leggins, was adjusting a long wooden trough, which conveyed the

liquid rosin from the 'still' to a deep excavation in the earth, at a

short distance. In the pit was a quantity of rosin sufficient to fill a

thousand barrels.

'Here, Bill,' said Barnes to one of the negro men, as we pulled up at

the distillery, 'put these critters up, and give 'em some oats, and when

they've cooled off a bit, water 'em.'

'Yas, yas, massa,' replied the negro, springing nimbly forward, and

taking the horses by the bridles, 'an' rub 'em down, massa?'

'Yas, rub 'em down right smart,' replied the corn-cracker; then turning

to me, as we dismounted, he said: 'Stranger, thet's th' sort o' niggers

fur ye; all uv mine ar' jess like him, smart and lively as kittens.'

'He does seem to go about his work cheerfully,' I replied.

'Cheerfully! d--d ef he doan't--all on 'em du! They like me better'n

thar own young 'uns, an' it's 'case I use 'em like human bein's;' and he

looked slyly toward the Colonel, who just then was walking silently

away, in the direction of the run, as if in search of the drowned

'chattels.'

'Not thar, Cunnel,' cried the native, 'they're inter th' shed,' and he

started to lead the way to the 'spirit-house.'

'Not now, Barnes,' I said, putting my hand on his arm, 'leave him alone

for a little while. He is feeling badly, and we'd better not disturb

him.'

The native motioned me to a seat on a rosin-barrel, as he replied:

'Wal, he 'pears ter, thet's a fact, and he orter. D--d ef it arn't

wicked to use niggers like cattle, as he do.'

'I don't think he means to ill-treat them; he's a kind-hearted man.'

'Wal, he ar' sort o' so; but he's left ev'ry thing ter thet d--d

overseer uv his'n. I wudn't ha' trusted him to feed my hogs.'

'Hogs!' I exclaimed, laughing; 'I supposed you didn't _feed_ hogs in

these diggings. I supposed you 'let 'em run.''

'_I_ doan't; an' I've got th' tallest porkys 'round har.'

'I've been told that they get a good living in the woods.'

'Wal, p'raps the' du jest make eout ter live thar; but my ole 'oman

likes 'em ter hum. They clean up a place like, eat up all th' leavin's,

an' give th' young nigs suthin' ter du.'

'It seems to me,' I said, resuming the previous thread of the

conversation, 'that overseers are a necessity on a large plantation.'

'Wal, the' ar', an' thet's why thar ortent ter be no big plantations;

God Almighty didn't make human bein's ter be herded togethar in th'

woods. No man orter ter hev more'n twenty on 'em--he can't look arter no

more himself, an' it's agin natur' ter set a feller over 'em what han't

no int'rest in 'cm, an' no feelin' fur 'em, an' who'll drive 'em round

like brutes. I never struck one on 'em in my life, an' my ten du more'n

ony fifteen th' Cunnel's got.'

'I thought they needed occasional correction. How do you manage them

without whipping?'

'Manage them! why, 'cordin' ter scriptur'--do ter 'em as I'd like ter be

dun ter, ef I war a nigger. Every one on 'em knows I'd part with my last

shirt, an' live on taters an' cow-fodder, 'fore I'd sell 'em; an' then I

give 'em Saturdays for 'emselfs; but thet's cute dealin' in me, (tho'

th' pore, simple souls doan't see it,) fur ye knows the' work thet day

fur 'emselfs, an' raise nigh all thar own feed, 'cept th' beef and

whisky, an' it sort o' makes 'em feel like folks, too, more like as ef

the' war _free_--the' work th' better fur it all th' week.'

'Then you think the blacks would work better if free?'

'In _course_ I does--it's agin man's natur' to be a slave. Thet lousy

parson ye herd ter meetin' a Sunday, makes slavery eout a divine

institooshun, but my wife's a Bible 'oman, and she says 'tan't so; an'

I'm d--d ef she arn't right.'

'Is your wife a South-Carolina woman?'

'No, she an' me's from th' old North--old Car'tret, nigh on ter

Newbern--an' we doan't take nat'rally to these fire-eaters.'

'Have you been here long?'

'Wal, nigh on ter six yar. I cum har with nuthin' but a thousan' ter my

back, slapped thet inter fifteen hun'red acres, paid it down, and then

hired ten likely North-Car'lina niggers, hired 'em with th' chance uv

buyin' ef the' liked eout har. Wal, th' nigs all know'd me, and the'

sprung ter it like blazes; so every yar I've managed ter buy two on 'em,

and now I've ten grow'd up, and thar young uns, th' still and all th'

traps paid fur, an' ef this d--d secesh bisness hadn't a come 'long, I'd

hev hed a right smart chance o' doin' well.'

'I'm satisfied secession will ruin the turpentine business; you'll be

shut up here, unable to sell your produce, and it will go to waste.'

'Thet's my 'pinion; but I reckon I kin manage now witheout turpentine.

I've talked it over 'long with my nigs, and we kalkerlate ef these ar

doin's go eny furder, ter tap no more trees, but cl'ar land an' go ter

raisin' craps.'

'What! do you talk politics with your negroes?'

'Nary a politic; but I'm d--d ef th' critters doan't larn 'em sumhow.

The' knows 'bout as much uv what's goin' on as I du; but plantin' arn't

politics, it's bisness, an' they've more int'rest in it nor I hev,

'cause they've sixteen mouths ter feed agin my four.'

'I'm glad, my friend, that you treat them like men; but I have supposed

they were not well enough informed to have intelligent opinions on such

subjects.'

'Informed! wal, I reckon the' is; all uv mine kin read, an' sum on 'em

kin write, too. D'ye see that little nig thar?' pointing to a juvenile,

coal-black darky of about six years, who was standing before the 'still'

fire; 'thet ar little devil kin read an' speak like a parson. He's got

hold, sumhow, uv my little gal's book o' pieces, an' larned a dozen on

'em. I make him cum inter th' house, once in a while uv an evenin', an'

speechify, an' 'twould do yer soul good ter har him, in his shirt-tail,

with a old sheet wound round him fur a toger (I've told him th'

play-actors du it so down ter Charles'on,) an' spoutin' out: 'My name am

Norval; on de Gruntin' hills my fader feed him hogs!' The little coon

never seed a sheep, an' my wife's told him a flock's a herd, an' he

thinks 'hog' _sounds_ better'n 'flock,' so, contra'y ter th' book, he

puts in 'hogs,' and hogs, you knows, hev ter grunt, so he gits 'em on

th' Gruntin' hills;' and here the kind-hearted native burst into a fit

of uproarious laughter, in which, in spite of myself, I had to join.

When the merriment had somewhat subsided, the turpentine-maker called

out to the little darky:

'Come here, Jim.'

The young chattel ran to him with alacrity, and wedging in between his

legs, placed his little black hands in a free-and-easy way on his

master's knees, and looking up trustfully in his face, said:

'Wal, massa?'

'What's yer name?'

'Dandy Jim, massa.'

'Thet arn't all; what's th'rest?'

'Dandy Jim of ole Car'lina.'

'Who made ye?'

'De good God, massa.'

'No, he didn't; God doan't make little nigs. He makes none but white

folks,' said the master, laughing.

'Yas, he'm do; missus say he'm do; dat he make dis nig jess like he done

little Totty.'

'Wal, he did, Jim. I'm d--d ef _He_ didn't, fur nobody else cud make

_ye!_' replied the man, patting the little wooly head with undisguised

affection.

'Now, Jim, say th' creed fur 'de gem-man.''

The young darky then repeated the Apostles' Creed and the Ten

Commandments.

'Is thet all ye knows?'

'No, massa, I knows a heap 'sides dat.'

'Wal, say suthin' more; sum on 'em pieces thet jingle.'

The little fellow then repeated with entire correctness, and with

appropriate gestures and emphasis, though in the genuine darky

dialect--which seems to be inborn with the pure, Southern black--Mrs.

Hemans' poem:

'The boy stood on the burning deck.'

'Mrs. Hemans draped in black!' I exclaimed, laughing heartily; 'How

would the good lady feel, could she look down from where she is, and

hear a little darky doing up her poetry in that style?'

'D--d ef I doan't b'lieve'twud make her love th' little nig like I do,'

replied the corn-cracker, taking him up on his knee as tenderly as he

would have taken up his own child.

'Tell me, my little man,' I said, 'who taught you all these things?'

'I lamed 'em myseff, sar,' was the prompt reply.

'You learned them yourself! but who taught you to read?'

'I larned 'em myseff, sar!'

'You couldn't have learned _that_ yourself; didn't your 'massa' teach

you?'

'No, sar.'

'Oh! your 'missus' did?'

'No, sar.'

'No, sar!' I repeated; then suspecting the real state of the case, I

looked him sternly in the eye, and said: 'My little man, it's wrong to

tell lies, you must _always_ speak the truth; now, tell me truly, did

not your 'missus' teach you these things?'

'No, sar, I larned 'em myseff.'

'Ye can't cum it, stranger; ye moight roast him over a slow fire, an'

not git nary a thing eout on him but thet,' said the corn-cracker,

leaning forward, and breaking into a boisterous fit of laughter. 'It's

agin th' law, an' I'm d--d ef _I_ teached him. Reckon he _did_ larn

himself!'

'I must know your wife, my friend. She's a good woman.'

'Good! ye kin bet high on thet; she's uv th' stuff th' Lord makes angels

eout on.'

I had no doubt of it, and was about to say so, when the Colonel's

turpentine-wagon drove up, and I remembered I had left him too long

alone.

The coachman was driving, and Jim sat on the wagon beside him.

'Massa K--,' said the latter, getting down and coming to me, 'Whar am

dey?'

'In the spirit-shed.'

He was turning to go there, when I called him back, saying: 'Jim, you

must not see your master now; you'd better keep out of sight for the

present.'

'No, massa; de ma'am say de Cunnel take dis bery hard, and dat I orter

tell him I'se sorry for what I'se done.'

'Well, wait awhile. Let me go in first.'

Accompanied by the corn-cracker, I entered the turpentine-shed. A row of

spirit-barrels were ranged along each of its sides, and two tiers

occupied the centre of the building. On these a number of loose planks

were placed, and on the planks lay the bodies of the metif woman and her

child. The Colonel was seated on a barrel near them, with his head

resting on his hands, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He did not seem

to notice our entrance, and passing him without speaking, I stepped to

the side of the dead.

The woman's dress, the common linsey gown worn by her class, was still

wet, and her short, kinky, brown hair fell in matted folds around her

head. One arm hung loosely by her side; the other was clasped tightly

around her child, which lay as if asleep on her bosom. One of its small

hands clung to its mother's breast, and around its little lips played a

smile. But how shall I describe the pale, sweet beauty of the face of

the drowned girl, as she lay there, her eyes closed, and her lips

parted, as in prayer? Never but once have I seen on human features the

strange radiance that shone upon it, or the mingled expression of hope

and peace and resignation that rested there, and that was in the

long-gone time when, standing by her bedside, I watched the passing away

of one who is now an angel in heaven!

'Come, my dear friend, let us go,' I said, turning and gently taking the

Colonel by the arm, 'the negroes are here, and will take charge of the

dead.'

'No, no!' he replied, rising and looking around as if aroused from a

troubled dream; 'that is for _me_ to do!' Then he added, after a

moment's pause, 'Will you help me to get them into the wagon?'

'Yes, I will, certainly.'

He made one step toward the body of the dead girl, then sinking down

again on the barrel, covered his face with his hands, and cried out: 'My

God! this is terrible! Did you ever see such a look as that? It will

haunt me forever!'

'Come, my friend, rouse yourself--this is weakness; you are tired with

the long ride and excitement of the past few days. Come, go home; I will

look after them.'

'No, no! I must do it. I will be a man again;' and he rose and walked

steadily to the dead bodies. 'Is there any one here to help?' he asked.

Jim was standing in the doorway, and I motioned to him to come forward.

The great tears were streaming down his face, as he stepped timidly

toward his master, and said: 'I'll do dis, massa, don't you trubble

yerself no more.'

'It's good of you, Jim. You'll forgive me for being so cruel to you,

won't you?' said the Colonel, taking the black by the hand.

'Forgib ye, massa! _I_ war all ter blame; but ye'll forgib me,

massa--ye'll forgib me!' cried the black, with strong emotion.

'Yes, yes; but say no more about it. Come, let us get Julie home.'

But the poor girl was already _home_--home where her sufferings and her

sorrows were over, and all her tears were wiped away forever!

We four bore away the mother and the child. A number of blankets were in

the bottom of the wagon, and we laid the bodies carefully upon them.

When all seemed ready, the Colonel, who was still standing by the side

of the dead, turned to my new friend, and said: 'Barnes, will you loan

me a pillow? I will send it back to-night.'

'Sartin, Cunnel,' and the farmer soon brought one from the house.

Lifting tenderly the head of the drowned girl, the Colonel placed it

beneath her, and smoothing back her tangled hair, he gently covered her

face with his handkerchief, as if she could still feel his kindness, or

longer cared for the pity or the love of mortal. Yet, who knows but that

her parted soul, from the high realm to which it had soared, may not

then have looked down, have seen that act, and have forgiven him?

* * * * *

In the first moments of grief the sympathy of friends and the words of

consolation bring no relief. How much more harshly do such words grate

on the ear when the soul is bowed down by remorse and unavailing regret!

Then the wounded spirit finds peace nowhere but with God.

I saw that the Colonel would be alone, and turning to him, as he

prepared to follow the strange vehicle which, with its load of death,

was already jolting its way over the rough forest road, I said:

'Will you pardon me, if I remain with your friend here for a while? I

will be at the mansion before dark.'

'Oh! certainly, my friend; come when you feel disposed,' he replied, and

mounting his horse, he was soon out of sight among the trees.

'Now, Barnes,' I said, shaking off the gloomy feelings that had

oppressed me; 'come, I must see that wife of yours, and get a glimpse of

how you live.'

'Sartin, stranger; come in. I'll give ye th' tallest dinner my 'oman can

scare up, an' she's sum pumkins in th' cookin' line;' and he led the way

to the farm-house.

As I turned to follow, I slipped a half-dollar into the hand of the

darky who was holding my horse, and asked him to put her again into the

stable.

'I'll do dat, sar; but I karn't take dis; massa doan't 'low it nohow,'

he replied, tendering me back the money.

'Barnes, your negroes have strange ways; I never met one before who'd

refuse money.'

'Wal, stranger,'tan't hosspetality to take money on yer friends, and

Bill gets all he wants from me.'

I took the silver and gave it to the first darky I met, who happened to

be an old centenarian belonging to the Colonel. As I tossed it to him,

he grinned out: 'Ah! massa, I'll git sum 'backer wid dis; 'pears like I

hadn't nary a chaw in furty yar.' With more than one leg in the grave,

the old negro had not lost his appetite for the weed: in fact, that and

whisky are the only 'luxuries' ever known to the plantation black.

As we went nearer, I took a closer survey of the farm-house. It was, as

I have said, a low, unpainted, wooden building, located in the middle of

a ten-acre lot. It was approached by a straight walk, paved with a

mixture of sand and tar, similar to that which the reader may have seen

in the Champs Elysées. I do not know whether my backwoods friend or the

Parisian pavior was the first inventor of this composition; but I am

satisfied the corn-cracker had not stolen it from the stone-cracker. The

walk was lined with fruit-bearing shrubs, and directly in front of the

house were two small flower-beds.

The dwelling itself, though of a dingy-brown wood-color, was neat and

inviting. It may have been forty feet square on the ground, and was only

a story and a half high; but a projecting roof and a front dormer-window

relieved it from the appearance of disproportion. Its gable ends were

surmounted by two enormous brick chimneys, carried up on the outside, in

the fashion of the South, and its high, broad windows were ornamented

with Venetian blinds. Its front door opened directly into the

'living-room,' and at the threshold we met its mistress. As the image of

that lady has still a warm place in a pleasant corner of my memory, I

will describe her. She was about thirty years of age, and had a fresh,

cheerful face. To say that she was handsome, would not be strictly true;

though she had that pleasant, gentle, kindly expression that sometimes

makes even a homely person seem beautiful. But she was not homely. Her

features were regular, her hair glossy and brown, and her eyes black and

brilliant, and for their color, the mildest and softest I had ever seen.

Her figure was tall, and in its outline somewhat sharp and angular; but

she had an ease and grace about her that made one forget she was not

molded as softly and roundly as others. She seemed just the woman on

whose bosom a tired, worn, over-burdened man might lay his weary head,

and find rest and forgetfulness.

She wore a neat calico dress, fitting closely to the neck, and an apron

of spotless white muslin. A little lace cap perched cosily on the back

of her head, hiding a portion of her wavy, dark hair, and on her feet--a

miracle, reader, in one of her class--were stockings and shoes! Giving

me her hand--which, at the risk of making her husband jealous, I held

for a moment--she said, making a gentle courtesy:

'Ye ar welcome, stranger.'

'I sincerely thank you, madam; I _am_ a stranger in these parts.'

She tendered me a chair; while her husband opened a sideboard, and

brought forth a box of Havanas and a decanter of Scuppernong. As I took

the proffered seat, he offered me the refreshments. I drank the lady's

health in the wine, but declined the cigars. Seeing this, she remarked:

'Yer from th' North, sir, arn't ye?'

'Yes, madam, I live in New-York; but I was born in New-England.'

'I reckoned so; I knew ye didn't belong in Car'lina.'

'How did you know that, madam?' I asked, laughing.

'I seed ye doan't smoke 'fore wimmin. But ye mustn't mind me; I sort o'

likes it; it's a great comfut to John, and may be it ar to ye.'

'Well, I do relish a good cigar; but I never smoke before any lady

except my wife, and though she's only 'a little lower than the angels,'

she _does_, once in a while, say it's a shame to make the _house_ smell

like a tobacco-factory.'

Barnes handed me the box again, and I took one. As I was lighting it, he

said:

'Ye've got a good 'oman, hev ye?'

'There's none better; at least, I think so.'

'Wal, I'm 'zactly uv thet 'pinion 'bout mine; I wouldn't trade her fur

all this worle an' th' best half uv t'other.'

'Don't ye talk so, John,' said the lady. Then addressing me, she added:

'It's a good husband thet makes a good wife, sir.'

'Sometimes, madam, but not always, I've known some of the best of wives

who had miserable husbands.'

'An' I'm d--d ef _I_ made my wife th' 'oman she ar',' said the

corn-cracker.

'Hush, John, ye mustn't swar so; ye knows how often ye've said ye

wouldn't.'

'Wal, I du, an' I won't agin, by--.' But Sukey, whar's th' young uns?'

'Out in the lot, I reckon; but ye mustn't holler'm in--they'r all dirt.'

'No matter for that, madam,' I said, 'dirt is healthy for little ones;

rolling in the mud makes them grow.'

'Then ourn orter grow right smart, fur they'r in it allers.'

'How many have you, madam?'

'Two; a little boy, four, and a little gal, six.'

'They're of interesting ages.'

'Yas, the' is int'restin'; ev'ry uns own chil'ren is smart; but the'

does know a heap. John was off ter Charl'ston no great while back, an'

the little boy used ter pray ev'ry mornin' an' ev'nin' fur his fader ter

cum hum. I larned 'em thet jest so soon as the' talked, 'cause thar's no

tellin' how quick the' moight be tooken 'way. Wal, the little feller

prayed ev'ry mornin' an' ev'nin' fur his fader ter cum back, and John

didn't cum; so finarly he got sort o' provoked with th' Lord, an' he

said God war aither deaf an' couldn't har or he war naughty an' wouldn't

tell fader thet little Johnny wanted to seed 'im 'werry mooch,'' and

here the good lady laughed pleasantly, and I joined in most heartily.

Blessed are the children that have such a mother!

Soon the husband returned with the little girl and boy and four young

ebonies, all bare-headed and all dressed alike, in thick trowsers and a

loose linsey shirt. Among them was my new acquaintance, 'Dandy Jim, of

ole Car'lina.'

The little girl came to me, and soon I had two white children on one

knee and two black on the other, with Dandy Jim between my legs, playing

with my watchchain. The family made no distinction between the colors,

and as the children were all equally clean, I did not see why _I_ should

do so.

The lady renewed the conversation by remarking: 'P'raps ye reckon it's

quar, sir, that we 'low ourn to 'sociate 'long with th' black chil'ren;

but we karn't help it. On big plantations, it works sorry bad, fur th'

white young uns larn all manner of evil from the black uns; but I've

laboored ter teach ourn so one won't do no harm ter t'other.'

'I suppose, madam, that is one of the greatest evils of slavery. The low

black poisons the mind of the white child, and the bad influence lasts

through life.'

'Yas, it's so, stranger; an' it's the biggest keer I hev. It often

'pears strange ter me thet our grow'd up men arn't no wuss than the'

is.'

In those few words, that unlettered woman had said what would--if men

were but wise enough to hear and heed the great truth which she

spoke--banish slavery from this continent forever!

After a while, the farmer told the juvenile delineator of Mrs. Hemans

and the other poets to give us a song; and planting himself in the

middle of the floor, the little darky sang 'Dixie' and several other

negro songs, which his master had taught him, but into which he had

introduced some amusing variations of his own. The other children joined

in the choruses; and then Jim danced breakdowns, 'walk-along-Joes,' and

other darky dances, his master accompanying him on a cracked fiddle,

till my sides were sore with laughter, and the hostess begged them to

stop. Finally the clock struck twelve, and the farmer, going to the

door, gave a long, loud blast on a cow's horn. In about five minutes,

one after another of the field hands came in, till the whole ten had

seated themselves on the verandah. Each carried a bowl, a tin-cup, or a

gourd, into which my host--who soon emerged from a back room[1] with a

pail of whisky in his hand--poured a gill of the beverage. This was the

day's allowance, and the farmer, in answer to a question of mine, told

me he thought negroes were healthier and worked better for a small

quantity of alcohol daily. 'The' work hard, and salt feed doan't set 'em

up 'nough,' was his remark.

Meanwhile the hostess busied herself with preparations for dinner, and

it was soon spread on a bright cherry table, covered by a spotless white

cloth. The little darkies had scattered to the several cabins, and we

soon sat down to as good a meal as I ever ate at the South.

We were waited on by a tidy negro woman, neatly clad in a calico gown,

with shoes on her feet, and a flaming red and yellow kerchief on her

head. This last was worn in the form of a turban, and one end escaping

from behind and hanging down her back, it looked for all the world like

a flag hung out from a top turret. Observing it, my host said:

'Aggy--showin' yer colors? Ye'r Union gal--hey?'

'Yas, I is dat, massa; Union ter de back-bone,' responded the negress,

grinning widely.

'All th' Union _ye_ knows on,' replied the master, winking slyly at me,

'is th' union yer goin' ter hitch up 'long with black Cale over ter

Squire Taylor's.'

'No, 'tan't, massa; takes more'n tu ter make de Union.'

'Yas, I knows; it gin'rally takes ten or a dozen: reckon it'll take a

dozen with ye.'

'John, ye mustn't talk so ter th' sarvents; it spiles 'em,' said his

wife.

'No it doan't; do it, Aggy?'

'Lor', missus, I doan't keer what massa say; but I doan't leff no oder

man run on so ter me!'

'No more'n ye doan't, gal! only Cale.'

'Nor him, massa; I makes him stan' 'roun', _I_ reckon.'

'I reckon ye du; ye wudn't be yer massa's gal ef ye didn't.'

When the meal was over, I visited with my host the negro houses. The

hour allowed for dinner[2] was about expiring, and the darkies were

preparing to return to the field. Entering one of the cabins, where were

two stout negro men and a woman, my host said to them, with a perfectly

serious face:

'Har, boys, I've fetched ye a live Yankee ab'lishener; now, luk at 'im

all roun'. Did ye ever see sech a critter?'

'Doan't see nuffin' quar in dat gemman, massa,' replied one of the

blacks. 'Him 'pears like bery nice gemman; doan't 'pear like

ab'lishener;' and he laughed and scraped his head in the manner peculiar

to the negro, as he added: 'Kinder reckon he wudn't be har ef he war one

of _dem_.'

'What der _ye_ knows 'bout th' ab'lisheners? Ye never seed one; what

d'ye 'spose the' luk like?'

'Dey say dey luk likes de bery ole debil, massa; but reckon 'tan't so.'

'Wal, the' doan't; the' luk wuss then thet; they'm bottled up thunder

an' lightnin', an' ef the' cum down har, they'll chaw ye all ter hash.'

'I reckon!' replied the darky, manipulating his wool and distending his

face into a decidedly incredulous grin.

'What do you tell them such things for?' I asked good-humoredly.

'Lor' bless ye, stranger, the' knows th' ab'lisheners ar thar friends,

jest so well as ye du; and so fur as thet goes, d--d ef the' doan't know

I'm one on 'em myseff, fur I tells 'em ef the' want to put the' kin put,

an' I'll throw thar trav'lin 'spenses inter th' bargin. Doan't I tell ye

thet, Lazarus?'

'Yas, massa; but none ob massa's nigs am gwine ter put--lesswise, not so

long as you an' de good missus am 'bove groun'.'

The darky's name struck me as peculiar, and I asked him where he got it.

'_'Tan't_ my name, sar; but you see, sar, w'en massa fuss hire me ob ole

Capt'in ----, up dar ter Newbern-way, I war sort o' sorry like--hadn't

no bery good cloes--an' massa he den call me Lazarus, 'case he say I war

all ober rags and holes, an' it hab sort o' stuck ter me eber sense. I

war a'mighty bad off 'fore dat, but w'en I cum down har I gets inter

Abr'am's buzzum, I does,' and here the darky actually reeled on his seat

with laughter.

'Is this woman your wife?' I asked.

'No, sar; my wife 'longs to Cunnel J----; dat am my new wife--my ole

wife am up dar whar I cum from.'

'What! have you two wives?'

'Yas, massa, I'se two.'

'But that's contrary to Scripture?'

'No, sar; de Cunnel say 'tan't. He say in Scriptur' dey hab a heap ob

'em, and dat niggers kin hab jess so many as dey likes--a hun'red ef dey

want ter.'

'Does the Colonel teach that to his negroes?' I asked, turning to the

native.

'Yas, I reckon he do, an' sits 'em th' 'zample, too,' he replied,

laughing; 'but th' old sinner knows better'n thet; he kin read.'

'Do you find that in the Bible, Lazarus?'

'Yas, massa, whar I reads it. Dat's whar it tell 'bout David and Sol'mon

and all em--dey hab a heap ob wives. A pore ole darky karn't hab nuffin'

'sides dem, an' he _orter_ be 'low'd jess so many as he likes.'

Laughing at the reasoning of the negro, I asked:

'How would _you_ like it, if your wife over at Colonel J----'s had as

many husbands as _she_ liked?'

'Wal, I couldn't fine no fault, massa; an' I s'pose she do, dough I

doan't knows it, 'case I'se dar only Sundays.'

'Have you any children?'

'Yas, sar, Ise free 'longin' ter de Cunnel, an' four or five--I doan't

'zactly know--up ter hum; but _dey'se_ grow'd up.'

'Is your wife up there married again?'

'Yas, massa, she got anoder man jess w'en I cum 'way; har ole massa make

har do it.'

We then left the cabin, and when out of hearing of the blacks, I said to

the corn-cracker: 'That _may be_ Scripture doctrine, but _I_ have not

been taught so.'

'Scriptur' or no Scriptur', stranger, it's d----d heathenism,' replied

the farmer, who, take him all in all, is a superior specimen of the

class of small planters at the South; and yet, seeing polygamy practiced

by his own slaves, he made no effort to prevent it. He told me that if

he should object to his darky cohabiting with the Colonel's negress, it

would be regarded as unneighborly, and secure him the enmity of the

whole district! And still we are told that slavery is a _divine_

institution!

After this, we strolled off into the woods, where the hands were at

work.

They were all stout, healthy, and happy-looking, and in answer to my

comments on their appearance, the native said that the negroes on the

turpentine-farms are always stronger and longer-lived than those on the

rice and cotton-fields. Unless carried off by the fevers incident to the

climate, they generally reach a good old age, while the rice-negro

seldom lives to be over forty, and the cotton-slave very rarely attains

sixty. Cotton-growing, however, my host thought, is not, in itself, much

more unhealthy than turpentine-gathering, though cotton-hands work in

the sun, while the turpentine-slaves labor altogether in the shade.

'But,' he said, 'the' work 'em harder nor we does, an' doan't feed 'em

so well. We give ourn meat and whisky ev'ry day, but them articles is

skarse 'mong th' cotton blacks, an' th' rice niggers never get 'em

excep' ter Christmas-time, an' thet cums but onst a yar.'

'Do you think the white could labor as well as the black, on the rice

and cotton-fields?' I asked.

'Yas, an' better--better any whar; but, in coorse, 'tain't natur' fur

black nor white ter stand long a workin' in th' mud and water up ter

thar knees; sech work would kill off th' very devil arter a while. But

th' white kin stand it longer nor the black, and it's 'cordin' ter

reason that he shud; for, I reckon, stranger, that the spirit and pluck

uv a man hev a durned sight ter du with work. They'll hole a man up when

he's clean down, an' how kin we expec' thet th' pore nig, who's nary a

thing ter work fur, an who's been kept under an' 'bused ever sense Adam

was a young un'--how kin we expec' he'll work like men thet own

'emselfs, an' whose faders hev been free ever sense creation? I reckon

that the parient has a heap ter du with makin' th' chile. He puts the

sperit inter 'im: doan't we see it in hosses an' critters an' sech like?

It mayn't crap eout ter onst, but it's shore ter in th' long run, and

thet's th' way th' black han't no smarter nor he is. He's been a-ground

down an' kept under fur so long thet it'll take more'n 'un gin'ration

ter bring him up. 'Tan't his fault thet he's no more sperit, an' p'raps

'tan't ourn--thet is, them on us as uses 'em right--but it war the fault

uv yer fader an' mine--yer fader stole 'em, and mine bought 'em, an'

the' both made cattle uv 'em.'

'But I had supposed the black was better fitted by nature for hard

labor, in a hot climate, than the white.'

'Wal, he arn't, an' I knows it. Th' d----d parsons an' pol'tishuns say

thet, but 'tan't so. I kin do half agin more work in a day then th' best

nig I've got, an' I've dun it, tu, time an' agin, an' it didn't hurt me

nuther. Ye knows ef a man hev a wife and young 'uns 'pendin' on him, an'

arn't much 'forehanded, he'll work like th' devil. I've dun it, an' ye

hev ef ye war ever put ter it; but th' nigs, why, the' han't got no

wives and young 'uns ter work fur--the law doan't 'low 'em ter have

any--the' han't nary a thing but thar carcasses, an' them's thar

masters'.'

'You say a man works better for being free; then you must think 'twould

be well to free the negroes.'

'In coorse, I does. Jest luk at them nigs o' mine; they're ter all

'tents an' purposes free, 'case I use 'em like men, an' the' knows the'

kin go whenever the' d----d please. See how the' work--why, one on 'em

does half as much agin as ony hard-driv' nigger in creation.'

'What would you do with them, if they were _really_ free?'

'Du with 'em? why, hire 'em, an' make twice as much eout on 'em as I

does now.'

'But I don't think the two races were meant to live together.'

'No more'n the' warn't. But 'tan't thar fault thet they's har. We han't

no right to send 'em off. We orter stand by our'n an' our faders'

doin's. The nig keers more fur his hum, so durned pore as it ar', then

ye or I does fur our'n. I'd pack sech off ter Libraria or th' devil, as

wanted ter go, but I'd hev no 'pulsion 'bout it.'

'Why, my good friend, you're half-brother to Garrison. You don't talk to

your neighbors in this way?'

'Wal, I doan't;' he replied, laughing. 'Ef I dun it, they'd treat me to

a coat uv tar, and ride me out uv th' deestrict raather sudden, I

reckon; but yer a Nuthener, an' the' all take nat'rally ter freedum,

excep' th' d----d doughfaces, an' ye aren't one on 'em, I'll swar.'

'Well, I'm not. Do many of your neighbors think as you do?'

'Reckon not many round har; but up in Cart'ret, whar I cum from, heaps

on 'em do, though the' darn't say so.'

By this time we had reached the still, and directing his attention to

the enormous quantity of rosin that had been run into the pit which I

have spoken of, I asked him why he threw so much valuable material away.

'Wal, 'tan't wuth nothin' har. Thet's th' common, an' it won't bring in

York, now, more'n a dollar forty-five. It costs a dollar an' two bits

ter get it thar an' pay fur sellin on it, an' th' barr'l's wuth the

difference. I doan't ship nuthin wuss no No. 2.'

'What is No. 2?'

He took the head from one of the barrels, and with an adze cut out a

small piece, then handing me the specimen, replied:

'Now hole thet up ter th' sun. Ye'll see though it's yaller, its clean

and clar. Thet's good No. 2, what brings now two dollars an' two bits in

New-York, an' pays me 'bout a dollar a barr'l; it's got eout o' second

yar dip, an' as it comes eout uv th' still, is run through thet ar

strainer,' pointing to a coarse wire-sieve that lay near. 'Th' common

rosum, thet th' still's runnin' on now, is made eout on th' yaller

dip--thet's th' kine o' turpentine thet runs from th' tree arter two

yar's tappin'--we call it yallar dip 'case it's allers dark. We doan't

strain common 'tall, an' it's full uv chips and dirt. It's low now, but

ef it shud ever git up, I'd tap thet ar' heap, barr'l it up, run a

little fresh-stilled inter it, an' 'twould be a'most so good as new.'

'Then it is injured by being in the ground.'

'Not much; it's jest as good fur ev'ry thing but makin' ile, puttin' it

in the 'arth sort o' takes th' sap eout on it, an' th' sap's th' ile.

Natur' sucks thet eout, I s'pose, ter make th' trees grow--I expec' my

bones 'ill fodder 'em one on these days.'

'Rosin is put to very many uses.'

'Yes, but common's used mainly for ile and soap; th' Yankees put it

inter hard yaller soap, 'case it makes it weigh, an' yer folks is up ter

them doin's, and he looked at me and gave a sly laugh. I could not deny

the 'hard' impeachment, and said nothing. Taking a specimen of very

clear light-colored rosin from a shelf in the still-house, I asked him

what that quality was worth.

'Thet ar brought seven dollars for two hundred an' eighty pounds in

York, airly this yar. It's th' very best No. 1; an' it's hard ter make,

'case ef th' still gets overhet it turns it a tinge. Thet sort is run

through two sieves, the coarse 'un, an' thet ar,' pointing to another

wire strainer, the meshes of which were as fine as those of the

flour-sieve used by housewives.

'Do your seven field-hands produce enough 'dip' to keep your still a

running?'

'No, I buys th' rest uv my naboors who han't no stills; an' th' Cunnel's

down on me 'case I pay 'em more'n he will; but I go on Franklin's

princerpel: 'A nimble sixpence's better'n a slow shillin'. A great ole

feller thet, warn't he? I've got his life.'

'And you practice on his precepts; that's the reason you've got on so

well.'

'Yas, thet an' hard knocks. The best o' doctrins arn't wuth a d----n ef

ye doan't work on 'em.'

'That is true.'

We shortly afterward went to the house, and there I passed several hours

in conversation with my new friend and his excellent wife. The lady,

after a while, showed me over the building. It was well-built,

well-arranged, and had many conveniences I did not expect to find in a

backwoods dwelling. She told me its timbers and covering were of

well-seasoned yellow pine--which will last for centuries--and that it

was built by a Yankee carpenter, whom they had ''ported' from

Charleston, paying his fare, and giving him his living and two dollars

and a half a day. It had cost as near as she 'cud reckon, 'bout two

thousan' dollars.'

It was five o'clock, when, shaking them warmly by the hand, I bade my

pleasant friends 'good-by,' and mounting my horse rode off to the

Colonel's.

The family were at supper when I returned to the mansion, and, entering

the room, I took my accustomed place at the table. None present seemed

disposed to conversation. The little that was said was spoken in a low,

subdued tone, and no allusion was made to the startling event of the

day. At last the octoroon woman asked me if I had met Mrs. Barnes at the

farmer's.

'Yes,' I replied, 'and I was greatly pleased with her. She seems one of

those rare women who would lend grace to even the lowest station.'

'She _is_ a rare woman; a true, sincere Christian. Every one loves her;

but few know all her worth; only those do who have gone to her in sorrow

and trial, as----' and her voice trembled, and her eyes moistened----

'as I have.'

And so that poor, outcast, despised, dishonored woman, scorned and cast

off by all the world, had found one sympathizing, pitying friend. Truly,

'He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.'

When the meal was over, all but Madam P---- retired to the library.

Tommy and I fell to reading, but the Colonel shortly rose and continued

pacing up and down the apartment till the clock sounded eight. The lady

then entered, and said to him:

'The negroes are ready, David; will _you_ go, Mr. K----?'

'I think not, madam,' I replied; 'at least not now.'

I continued reading, for a time, when, tiring of the book, I laid it

down, and followed them to the little burial-ground.

The grave of Sam was open, and the plantation blacks were gathered

around it. In the centre of the group, and at the head of the rude

coffin, the Colonel was seated, and near him the octoroon woman and her

son. The old preacher was speaking.

'My chil'ren,' he said, 'she hab gone ter Him, wid har chile--gone up

dar, whar dey doan't sorrer no more, whar dey doan't weep no more, whar

all tears am wiped from dar eyes foreber. I knows she lay han's on

harseff, and dat, my chil'ren, am whot none ob us shud do, 'case we'm de

Lord's; he put us har, an' he'll take us 'way when we's fru wid our

work, not afore. We hab no right ter gwo afore. Pore Juley did--but

p'raps she cudn't help it. P'raps de great sorrer war so big in har

heart, dat she cudn't fine rest nowhar but in de cole, dark riber.

P'raps she warn't ter blame--p'raps,' and here his eyes filled--'p'raps

ole Pomp war all ter blame, fur I tole har, my chil'ren'--he could say

no more, and sinking down on a rude seat, he covered his face, and

sobbed audibly. Even the Colonel's strong frame heaved with emotion, and

not a dry eye was near. After a time the old man rose again, and with

streaming eyes, and upturned face, continued:

'Dar's One up dar, my chil'ren, dat say: 'Come unter me, all ye dat am

weary an' a heaby laden, an' I will gib you ress.' He, de good Lord, he

say dat; an' p'raps Juley hard him say it, an' dat make har gwo.' Again

his voice failed, and he sank down, weeping and moaning as if his heart

would break.

A pause followed, when the Colonel rose, and aided by Jim and two other

blacks, with his own hands nailed down the lid, and lowered the rude

coffin into the ground. Then the earth was thrown upon it, and then the

long, low chant which the negroes raise over the dead, mingling now with

sobs and moans, and breaking into a strange wild wail, went up among the

pines, and floating off on the still night air, echoed through the dark

woods, till it sounded like music from the grave. I have been in the

chamber of the dying; I have seen the young and the beautiful laid away

in the earth; but I never felt the solemn awfulness of death as I did

when, in the stillness and darkness of night, I listened to the wild

grief of that negro group, and saw the bodies of that slave mother and

her child, lowered to their everlasting rest by the side of Sam.

The morning broke bright and mellow with the rays of the winter sun,

which in Carolina lends the warmth of October to the chills of January,

when, with my portmanteau strapped, and my thin overcoat on my arm, I

gave my last 'God bless you' to the octoroon woman, and turned my face

toward home.

Jim shouted, 'All ready,' the driver cracked his whip, and we were on

our way to Georgetown.

The recent rains had hardened the roads, the bridges were repaired, and

we were whirled rapidly forward, and at one o'clock reached Bucksville.

There we met a cordial welcome, and remained to dinner. Our host pressed

us to pass the night at his house, but the Colonel had business with one

of his secession friends residing down the road--my wayside

acquaintance, Colonel A----, and desired to stay over night with him. At

three o'clock, bidding a kindly farewell to Captain B---- and his

excellent family, we were again on our way.

The sun was just sinking among the western pines, when we turned into a

broad avenue, lined with stately old trees, and rode up to the doorway

of the rice-planter. It was a large, square, dingy old house, seated on

a gentle knoll, a short half-mile from the river, along whose banks

stretched the rice-fields. We entered, and were soon welcomed by its

proprietor.

He received my friend warmly, and gave me a courteous greeting,

remarking, when I mentioned that I was homeward bound, that it was wise

to go. 'Things are very unsettled; there's no telling what a day may

bring forth; feeling is running very high, and a Northern man, whatever

his principles, is not safe here. By the way,' he added, 'did you not

meet with some little obstruction at Conwayboro, on your way up?'

'Yes, I did; a person there ordered me back, but when things began to

look serious, Scipio, the negro whom you saw with me, got me out of the

hobble.'

'Didn't he tell the gentleman that you were a particular friend of mine,

and had met me by appointment at Captain B----'s?' he asked, smiling.

'I believe he did, sir; but I assure you, _I_ said nothing of the kind,

and I think the black should not be blamed, under the circumstances.'

'Oh! no; I don't blame him. I think he did a smart thing. He might have

said you were my grandmother, if it would have served you, for that low

fellow is as fractious as the devil, and dead sure on the trigger.'

'You are very good, sir,' I replied; 'how did you hear of it?'

'A day or two afterward, B---- passed here on his way to Georgetown. I

had been riding out, and happened to be at the head of my avenue when

he was going by. He stopped, and asked if I knew you. Not knowing then

the circumstances, I said that I had met you casually at Bucksville, but

had no particular acquaintance with you. He rode on, saying nothing

further. The next morning I had occasion to go to Georgetown, and at Mr.

Fraser's office accidentally heard that Scip--who is well known and

universally liked there--was to have a public whipping that evening.

Something prompted me to inquire into it, and I was told that he had

been charged by B---- with shielding a well-known abolitionist at

Conwayboro--a man who was going through the up-country distributing such

damnable publications as the New-York _Independent_ and _Tribune_. I

knew, of course, it referred to you, and that it wasn't true. I went to

Scip and got the facts, and by stretching the truth a little, finally

got him off. There was a slight discrepancy between my two accounts of

you,' (and here he laughed heartily,) 'and B----, when we were before

the Justice, remarked on it, and came d----d near calling me a liar. It

was lucky he didn't, for if he had he'd gone to h----l before the place

was hot enough for him.'

'I can not tell you, my dear sir, how grateful I am to you for this. It

would have pained me more than I can express, if Scip had suffered for

doing a disinterested kindness to me.'

Early in the morning we were again on our way, and twelve o'clock found

us seated at a dinner of bacon, corn-bread, and waffles, in the 'first

hotel' of Georgetown. The Charleston boat was to leave at three o'clock;

and, as soon as dinner was over, I sallied out to find Scip. After a

half-hour's search I found him on 'Shackelford's wharf,' engaged in

loading a schooner bound for New-York with a cargo of cotton and

turpentine.

He was delighted to see me, and after I told him I was going home, and

might never see him again, I took his hand warmly in mine, and said:

'Scip, I have heard of the disgrace that was near being put upon you on

my account, and I feel deeply the disinterested service you did to me;

now, I _can not_ go away without doing _something_ for you--showing you

in _some_ way that I appreciate and _like_ you.'

'I likes _you_, massa,' he replied, the tears coming to his eyes; 'I tuk

ter you de bery fuss day I seed you, 'case, I s'pose'--and he wrung my

hand till it ached--'you pitied de pore brack man. But you karnt do

nuffin fur _me_, massa; I doan't want nuffin; I doan't want ter leab

har, 'case de Lord dat put me har arn't willin' I shud gwo. But you kin

do suffin, massa, fur de pore brack man, an' dat'll be doin' it fur

_me_, 'case my heart am all in dat. You kin tell dem folks up dar, whar

you lib, massa, dat we'm not like de brutes, as dey tink we is. Dat we's

got souls, an' 'telligence, an' feelin's, an' am men like demselfs. You

kin tell 'em, too, massa--'case you's edication, and kin talk--how de

pore wite man am kep' down har; how he'm ragged, an' starvin', an' ob no

account, 'case de brack man am a slave. How der chil'ren can't get no

schulein', how eben de grow'd-up ones doan't know nuffin--not eben so

much as de pore brack slave, 'case de 'stockracy want dar votes, an

cudn't get 'em ef dey 'low'd 'em larnin'. Ef your folks know'd all de

truf--ef dey know'd how boff de brack an' de pore w'ite man, am on de

groun', an' can't git up, ob demselfs--dey'd do suffin--dey'd break de

Constertution--dey'd do _suffin_ ter help us. I doan't want no one

hurted, I doan't want no one wronged; but jess tink ob it, massa, four

million ob bracks, an' nigh so many pore w'ites, wid de bressed Gospil

shinin' down on 'em, an' dey not knowin' on it. All dem--ebry one ob

'em--made in de image ob de great God, an' dey driven roun' an' 'bused

wuss dan de brutes. You's seed dis, massa, wid your own eyes, an' you

kin tell 'em on it; an' you _will_ tell 'em on it, massa;' and again he

took my hand while the tears rolled down his cheeks; 'an' Scip will

bress you fur it, massa--wid his bery lass breaf he'll bress you; an' de

good Lord will bress you, too, massa; he will foreber bress you, for

he'm on de side ob de pore an' de 'flicted; his own book say dat, an' it

am true, I knows it, fur I feels it _har_;' and he laid his hand on his

heart, and was silent.

I could not speak for a moment. When I mastered my feelings, I said: 'I

_will_ do it Scip; as God gives me strength, I _will_.'

Reader, I am keeping my word.

This is not a work of fiction. It is a record of facts, and therefore

the reader will not expect me to dispose of its various characters on

artistic principles--that is, lay them away in one of those final

receptacles for the creations of the romancer--the grave and matrimony.

Death has been among them, but nearly all are yet doing their work in

this breathing, busy world.

The characters I have introduced are real. They are not drawn with the

pencil of fancy, nor, I trust, colored with the tints of prejudice. The

scenes I have described are true. I have taken some liberties with the

names of persons and places, and, in a few instances, altered dates; but

the events themselves occurred under my own observation. No one

acquainted with the section of country I have described, or familiar

with the characters I have delineated, will question this statement.

Lest some one who has not seen the slave and the poor white man of the

South, as he actually is, should deem my picture overdrawn, I will say

that 'the half has not been told!' If the whole were related--if the

Southern system, in all its naked ugliness, were fully exposed--the

truth would read like fiction, and the baldest relation of fact like the

wildest dream of romance.

* * * * *

The overseer was never taken. A letter which I received from Colonel

J----, shortly prior to the stoppage of the mails, informed me that Moye

had succeeded in crossing the mountains into Tennessee, where, in an

interior town, he disposed of the horse, and then made his way by an

inland route to the free States. The horse the Colonel had recovered,

but the overseer he never expected to see. Moye is now, no doubt,

somewhere in the North, and is probably at this present writing a

zealous Union man, of somewhat the same 'stripe' as the conductors of

the New-York _Herald_ and the Boston _Courier_.

I have not heard directly from Scipio, but one day last July, after a

long search, I found on one of the wharves of South street a coasting

captain who knew him well, and who had seen him the month previous at

Georgetown. He was at that time pursuing his usual avocations, and was

as much respected and trusted as when I met him.

A few days after the tidings of the fall of Sumter were received in

New-York, and when I had witnessed the spontaneous and universal

uprising of the North which followed that event, I dispatched letters to

several of my Southern friends, giving them as near as I could an

account of the true state of feeling here, and representing the utter

madness of the course the South was pursuing. One of these letters went

to my Union acquaintance whom I have called, in the preceding pages,

'Andy Jones.'

He promptly replied, and a pretty regular correspondence ensued between

us, which has continued, at intervals, even since the suspension of

intercourse between the North and the South.

Andy has stood firmly and nobly by the old flag. At the risk of every

thing, he has boldly expressed his sentiments every where. With his life

in his hand and--a revolver in each of his breeches-pockets, he walked

the streets of Wilmington when the secession fever was at its hight,

openly proclaiming his undying loyalty to the Union, and 'no man dared

gainsay him.'

But with all his patriotism, Andy keeps a bright eye on the 'main

chance.' Like his brother, the Northern Yankee, whom he somewhat

resembles and greatly admires, he never omits an opportunity of 'turning

an honest penny.' In defiance of custom-house regulations and of our

strict blockade, he has carried on a more or less regular traffic with

New-York and Boston (_via_ Halifax and other neutral ports) ever since

North-Carolina seceded. His turpentine, while it was still his property,

has been sold in the New-York market, under the very eyes of the

government officials, and, honest reader, _I_ have known of it.

By various roundabout means, I have recently received letters from him.

His last, dated in April, and brought to a neutral port by a shipmaster

whom he implicitly trusts, has reached me since the previous chapters

were written. It covers six pages of foolscap, and is written in

defiance of all grammatical and orthographical principles; but as it

conveys important intelligence in regard to some of the persons

mentioned in this narrative, I will transcribe a portion of it.

It gave me the melancholy tidings of the death of Colonel J----. He had

joined the Confederate army, and fell, bravely meeting a charge of the

Massachusetts troops, at Roanoke.

On receiving the news of his friend's death, Andy rode over to the

plantation, and found Madam P---- plunged in the deepest grief. While he

was there, a letter arrived from Charleston, with intelligence of the

dangerous illness of her son. This second blow crushed her. For several

days she was delirious and her life despaired of; but throughout the

whole, the noble corn-cracker, neglecting every thing, remained beside

her.

When she returned to herself, and had in a measure recovered her

strength, she learned that the Colonel had left no will; that she was

still a slave, and soon to be sold, with the rest of the Colonel's

_personal property_, according to law.

This is what Andy writes about the affair. I give the letter as he wrote

it, merely correcting the punctuation and enough of the spelling to make

it intelligible:

'W'en I hard thet th' Cunnel hadent leff no wil, I was hard put what ter

dew; but arter thinkin' on it over a spell, I knowed shede har on it

sumhow; so I 'cluded to tell har miseff. She tuk on d----d hard at fust,

but arter a bit, grew more calm like, and then she sed it war God's wil,

an' she wudent komplane. Ye knows I've got a wife, but w'en the ma'am

sed thet, she luk'd so like an angel, thet d----d eff I cud help puttin'

my arms round har, an' huggin' on har, till she a'moste screeched. Wal,

I toled har I'd stan' by har, eff evrithing went ter h----l, an' I wil,

by----.

'I made up mi minde to onst what ter dew. It war darned harde work tur

bee 'way from hum jess then, but I war in fur it; soe I put ter

Charleston, ter see th' Cunnel's 'oman. Wal, I seed har, an' I toled har

how th' ma'am felte, an' how mutch shede dun at makein' th' Cunnel's

money, (she made nigh th' hul on it, 'case he war alers keerles, an' tuk

no 'count uv things; eff 't'aden't been fur thet, hede made a wil,) an'

I axed har ter see thet the ma'am had free papers ter onst. An' whot der

ye s'poze she sed? Nuthin', by ----, 'cept she dident no nuthin' 'bout

bisniss, an' leff all uv sech things ter har loryer. Wal, then I went

ter him--he ar one on them slick, ily, seceshun houn's who'd sell thar

soles fur a kountterfit dollar--an' he toled me th' 'ministratur hadent

sot yit, an' he cudent dew nuthin' till he hed. Ses I: 'Ye mean th'

'oman's got ter gwo ter th' hi'est bider?' 'Yas,' he sed, 'the Cunnel's

got dets, an' the've got ter bee pade, an' th' persoonal prop'ty muste

bee sold ter dew it.' Then I sed, 'twud bee sum time 'fore thet war dun,

an' the 'oman's 'most ded an uv no use now; 'what'll ye _hire_ har tur

me fur.' He said a hun'red fur sicks months. I planked down the money

ter onst, an' put off.

'I war bilin' over, but it sumhow cum inter my hed thet the Cunnel's

'oman cudn't bee _all_ stun; so I gose thar agin, an' I toled har what

the loryer sed, an' made a reg'lar stump-'peal tew har bettur natur. I

axed har ef she'd leff the 'oman who'd made har husban's fortun', who

war the muther uv his chil'ren, who fur twenty yar hed nussed him in

sickness an' cheered him in healtf, ef shede let _thet 'oman_ bee

auckyund off ter th' hi'est bider. I axed al thet, an' what der ye think

she sed? Why, jest this. '_I_ doan't no nuthin' 'bout it, Mister Jones.

Ye raily must talke ter mi loryer; them matters I leaves 'tirely ter

him.' Then I sed I s'posed the niggers war ter bee advertist. 'O yas!'

she sed, (an' ye see she know'd a d----d site 'bout _thet_,) 'all on

'em muss bee solde, 'case ye knows I never did luv the kuntry; 'sides

_I_ cuden't karry on the plantashun, no how.' Then sed I: 'The Orleans

traders 'ill be thar, an' she wun't sell fur but one use, fur she's

hansum yit; an' ma'am, ye wun't leff a 'oman as white as you is, who fur

twenty yar hes ben a tru an' fatheful _wife_ tar yer own ded husban', (I

shudn't hev put thet in, but d----d ef I cud help it,) ye wun't put

_har_ up on the block, an' hev har struck down ter the hi'est bider, ter

bee made a d----d ---- on?'

'Wal, I s'pose she haden't forgot thet fur more'n twelve yar the Cunnel

hed _luv'd_ t'other 'oman an' onely _liked_ har; fur w'en I sed thet,

har ize snapped like h----l, an' she screetched eout thet she dident

'low no sech wurds in har hous', an' ordurd me ter leave. Mitey sqeemish

thet, warn't it? bein' as shede been fur so mony yar the Cunnel's ----,

an' th' tuther one his raal wife.

'Wal, I _did_ leav'; but I leff a piece of mi mind ahind. I toled har

I'de buy thet ar 'oman ef she cost all I war wuth and I had ter pawne my

sole ter git the money; an' I added, jest by way uv sweet'nin' the pill,

thet I owed all I hed ter har husband, an' dident furget _my_ dets ef

she did _hern_, an' ef his own wife disgraced him, I'd be d----d ef _I_

wud.

'Wal, I've got th' ma'am an' har boy ter hum, an' my 'oman hes tuk ter

har a heep. I doan't no w'en the sale's ter cum off, but ye may bet hi'

on my bein' thar, an' I'll buy har ef I hev ter go my hull pile on har,

an' borrer th' money fur ole Pomp. But _he'll_ go cheap, 'case the

Cunnel's deth nigh dun him up. It clean killed Ante Lucey. She never

held her hed up arter she heerd 'Masser Davy' war ded, fur she sot har

vary life on him. Don't ye feel consarned 'bout the ma'am--I knows ye

sot hi' on har. _I'll buy har_ shore. Thet an' deth ar th' onely things

thet I knows on, in this world, jess now, that ar SARTIN.'

Such is Andy's letter. Misspelled and profane though it be, I would not

alter a word or a syllable of it. It deserves to be written in

characters of gold and hung up in the sky, where it might be read by all

the world. And it _is_ written in the sky--in the great record book--and

it will be read when you and I, reader, meet the assembled universe, to

give account of what _we_ have done and written. God grant that our

record may show some such deed as that!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The whisky was kept in a back room, above ground, because

the dwelling had no cellar. The fluid was kept safely under lock and

key, and the farmer accounted for that by saying that his negroes would

steal nothing but whisky. Few country houses at the South have a

cellar--that apartment deemed so essential by Northern housekeepers. The

intervening space between the ground and the floor is there left open,

to allow of a free circulation of air.]

[Footnote 2: No regular dinner-hour is allowed the blacks on most

turpentine-plantations. Their food is usually either taken with them to

the woods or carried there by house-servants, at stated times.]

SOUTHERN RIGHTS.

The right to poison bullets,

The right to rifle graves,

To cut our prisoners' gullets,

Or treat them like our slaves;

The right to use the savage

To aid us in our fight,

To freely scalp and ravage,

Each is a Southern right.

Call not these claims Satanic,

They're far beyond your ken:

How can a low mechanic

Know aught of gentlemen?

MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

VI.

ON THE PINCIO.

With that wise foresight, shared by all European rulers, the Roman

Pincio was undoubtedly wedded to its purpose of keeping the idle ones

very busy at the very time of day when revolutionary plots find the best

hearing--before dinner. Whirling around its walks in carriages, or

gently promenading under trees, among rose-bushes, and by fountains,

while a large band of musicians play with spirit fine selections from

the last operas, or favorite airs from old ones; the eye gratified by

the sight of pleasant faces, or dwelling enraptured on the beautiful

landscape spread before it--how can the brain disengage itself to think

of Liberty, won through toil and battle, only to be preserved by

self-denial and moral strength?

But the traveler who travels only to travel, and has the means and

spirit to find pleasure wherever he goes, thinking only of what he sees,

enjoys to its fullest extent the luxurious seat of the hired,

white-damask-lined carriage, drawn by stalwart, heavy-limbed, coal-black

horses, with sweeping tails, the white foam flying from the champed

silver bits, the whole turn-out driven by a handsome, white-gloved,

black-coated Roman. In solemn state and swiftly, he winds up the zig-zag

road leading from the piazza Popolo, (so-called from _popolo_, a

poplar-tree, and not as the English will have it, from _popolo_, the

people,) and at last reaches the summit of Roman ambition--the top of

the Pincian hill. He passes other carriages filled with other strangers

like himself, or with titled and fashionable Romans, and finally, his

carriage drawn up to one side of the broad drive in front of the

semi-circle where the band plays, he descends, to walk around and chat

with the friends he may find there.

Toward sunset the scene is full of animation. The sabres of the cavalry

soldiers, on guard to prevent infraction of rules, gleam brightly; the

old infantry soldiers are darting here and there, chasing away sundry

ownerless dogs, who always make it a point to promenade the Pincio; the

Italian nurses from Albano, or at least dressed in Albanese costume,

shine conspicuous in their crimson-bodiced dresses; Englishmen going

through their constitutional; Frenchmen mourning for the Champs Elysées;

artists in broad-brim hats smoking cigars; Americans observing Italy, so

as to be like Italians; ladies of all nations commanding the attention

of mankind as they sweep along the hard-rolled gravel-walks; smiles,

bows, looks of love, indignation, affection, coquetry; faces reflective

of great deeds and greater dinners ... every face bright in the lambent

amber light that streams from the sun dipping his head preparatory to

putting on his night-cap, and bidding Rome _felicissima notte!_ a most

happy night.

Over the irregular walls of the subdued white and mellow gray houses and

palaces, beyond the Tiber running red in the dying sunlight, over the

round-walled castle of San Angelo, the dome of Saint Peter's rises full

in the midst of the twinkling, hazy, red and golden light. Passing the

stone-pines crowning Monte Mario, there gleam away to the left the far

waters of the sea, over which the purple mist of young night tenderly,

softly falls. Once thoughtfully noted, you will remember this glowing

scene years after sublimer and wilder views are lost to memory or grown

so faint that they are to you but as dull colors seen in dreams of old

age compared to the flashing brightness of those presented to the closed

eyes of youth.

As the sun sets and those in carriages and on foot slowly leave the

hights of the Pincio, and descend once more to the old city, you will

hear, as the evening star shines brighter and brighter, the first

liquid, thrilling notes of the nightingales; then as you lean over the

stone parapet, dreamily looking into the dense foliage of trees and

shrubs beneath you, you will feel the beauty of those lines:

Seek the nightingale's sequestered tower,

Who with her love-lorn melody

So bewitched thee in the vernal hour:

When she ceased to love, she ceased to be.

It is from the months of May to November, when travelers have left Rome,

and the city is in the hands of the Romans, that your walks on the

Pincio will prove something more than a mere repetition of a stroll in

Baden-Baden, or a revival of ideas common to the Prado or Prater. No

longer the little prettinesses of the Medicean Venus flirt by you in the

nervous silks that flutter along these walks, but something nobly

womanly, of a solid past, slow and stately, moves solemnly, by. We know

the lives of these copies of the Venus of Milos, we know its most

commonplace and vulgar attributes, but we know, too, its strength! The

city of Rome holds in its women the mothers of heroes, when Providence

shall withdraw the black veil now hung over their rude minds, and let in

the light of knowledge. We who laugh at their sad ignorance, think what

we would be without liberty--our minds enslaved, geography tabooed!

Egypt is a paradise compared to Rome.

The advantages of foreign travel to an intelligent American are to teach

him ... the disadvantages of living any where save in America. And

though the artistic eye dwells with such loving repose on the soothing

colors of Italy, and particularly on the subdued white and gray tones of

Roman ruins and palaces, walls and houses, yet the owner of that

artistic eye should restrain his wrath at the fiery red bricks of our

own cities, for let him reflect that this color goads him on, as it doth

a bull, to make valorous efforts--to do something!

Looking down from the stone balustrade of the Pincio on the piazza

Popolo, we note two churches, one on either side of the Corso; their

architecture is neither more nor less hideous than nine tenths of the

other three hundred and odd churches of Rome; the same heavy,

half-cooked look about doors and windows, suggesting cocked-hats of the

largest size on the heads of dwarfs of no size at all; the same heavy

scroll-work, reminding one of the work of a playful giant of a

green-grocer who has made a bouquet of sausages and cabbages, egg-plants

and legs of mutton, and exhibits it to a thick-headed public as a--work

of art. O Roman _Plebs!_ lay this nattering unction to your soul--we did

not do that!

The history of all nations seem to indicate successive ages of grub and

butterfly-life; certainly Rome has been a grub long enough. Let us hope

the sun of Victor Emmanuel, the King of Gallant Men, will hasten the

time when the Romans shall wing their way to the light of Liberty. These

mockeries of architecture shall then stand as warning fingers to the

Romans of the sad days that were; the days when mind and body were

enslaved, and the grinning monkey held the dove tight-clutched in his

brutal grasp. Through sword and fire public taste must pass before it is

purified: the mountain-stream, dashing along with bounding steps, is

clear and sparkling, but in the long stretch of level pastureland or

prairie it is still and--dirty.

It may be well to descend and wander through those close and narrow

streets where the waste-water of old Roman aqueducts makes green and

damp the foundation stories of gloomy houses, and where the

carefully-nurtured traveler sees sights of smoked interiors, dirt and

rubbish in the streets, that terrify him; but let him remember that in

the worst of these kennels the inhabitants have never forgotten that

they had a Past, and the 'I am a Roman Citizen!' still rings in their

ears, eats into their hearts, and is at their tongue's end. Monsieur

About was in Rome when Caper was there; he saw these Romans through

Napoleonic spectacles: while one foot was trying to stamp on Antonelli

gently, the other was daintily ascending the shining steps leading to

the temple of Gallic fame. He is impressed with the idea that the Romans

are hangers-on of hangers-on to patricians, from which we are to infer,

if the patricians are ever hung, there will be a heavy weight to their

feet!

Rocjean, one afternoon, after a walk on the Pincio, was returning to his

studio, when, as he descended to the Via Babuino, he met a Roman artist

named Attonito, who cultivated the English.

'Ow arr you toe-day, my dear?' he asked Rocjean.

'Quite well, except a slight attack of bad English, from which I hope to

recover in a few minutes.'

'Pray tell unto me th-hat weech is bad Englis.'

'Haven't you been on the Pincio?'

'Yas, I tak' consteetutionails up there avery afternoons; it is a

costume Englis' th-hat I vary moche cotton to.'...

'W-hat! Cotton to? Why, that is a clear Americanism; where did you pick

it up?'

'Meester Caper of Noo-York, he told unto me it am more elegant as to

say, I love, or I affection. Bote, 'ave you saw that bu-tee-fool

creechure with 'air of flags?'...

'What!'

''Air of flags; 'ow you name eet? _Capellatura di lino?_'

'Oh! you mean tow-head?'

'Toe! no, no! I mean _lino_.'

'Ah! yes, flaxen hair.'

'_Benissimo!_ Vary well, flagson 'air and blue eyze. Shhe was in

carri-adge with Lady Blumpudy. I go avery afternoons to inspect her as

she takes the airs on the Pincio, Eet would gife me great pleasures to

ally myself to her in marriage compact, bote I do not know eef she has a

fortune. Do you know any theengs?'

'Yes, a great many; one of which is that it is my dinner-time, and as I

turn down the Condotti--good afternoon.'

'Goo-ood by, my dear,' answered Attonito, as he slowly wandered up the

Piazza di Spagna.

Another example of the beneficial effects of the Pincio on the

_bourgeoise_, thought Rocjean. When will the alarm-bell in the clock of

Roman time ring out its awaking peal?

ROME BY NIGHT.

If one would realize the romantic side of Rome in all its stately

grandeur, and receive a solemn and ineffaceable impression of its

beauty, by all means let him, like Quevedo's hero, sleep 'a-daytime' and

do his sight-seeing by moonlight or star-light; for, save in some few

favored quarters, its inspection by gaslight would be difficult.

Remember, too, that all that is grandly beautiful of Rome, the traveler

has seen before he reaches the Imperial City--with the eyes of

understanding, with the eyes of others--in books.

Nothing but a heap of old stones, bricks, and mortar is there here for

the illiterate tourist--he can have six times as jolly a time in Paris

for half the money that he pays 'in that old hole where a fellow named

Culius Jæsar used to live.'

As if the night were not sufficiently dark in this city, there are

always those who stand ready with the paint-brush of fancy to make it

even of a darker hue; whisperings among the travelers in hotels of

certain Jim Joneses or Bill Smiths who have been robbed. Yes, sir, early

in the evening, right there in the Corso: grabbed his watch and chain,

struck him on the head. You know he was a powerfully built man; but they

came behind him, and if he hadn't have done so and so, the rascally

Italians would have killed him, and so forth.

'Re-al-ly; well, you won't catch me out at nights!'

There rises up, as I write, the figure of a slim young man, of the

day-time negro-minstrel style of beauty, who once dwelt three weeks in

Rome. I know that he was profound in knowledge of trick and vice, and

that he had an impediment in his speech--he could never speak the

truth. He told a fearful tale of a midnight robbery in the Piazza di

Spagna--himself the victim. It was well told, and I ought to know, for I

read it years before in a romance, only the scene was, in type, laid in

Venice. According to this negro-minstrel style of youth, he had been

seized from behind, held, robbed of watch and elegant gold chain, red

coral shirt-studs, onyx sleeve-buttons, and a porte-monnaie containing

fifty scudi, etc., etc. He was the theatrical hero of the hotel for two

days, and the recipient of many drinks. Time, the cater of things, never

digested this falsehood, and months after the youth had left, I learned

that he had lost all his jewelry and money at--twenty-deck poker.

A few nights after Caper was domiciled in the Via Babuino, Rocjean

called on him, and as he entered his room, carefully extinguished a

taper, and was putting it in his pocket, when Caper asked him what that

was for?

'That! it's a _cerina_. Have you been two weeks in Rome, and not found

out that? Why, how did you get up-stairs at night?'

'There was a lamp in the entry.'

'None there to-night, so I had to light this. It's only a long piece of

wick, dipped in wax; you see you can roll it up in a ball, and carry it

in your pocket, so! Without this and a box of matches, you can never

hope to be a good Roman. You must have seen that where the houses have

any front-doors, three quarters of them are open all night long; for, as

on every floor of a house, there live different families, they find it

saves trouble--trouble is money in Rome--to leave the door unclosed.

These dark entries, for they are seldom lighted, offer a grand chance

for intrigues, and when you have lived here as long as I have, you will

find out that they--improve the chances. A _cerina_, in addition to

keeping you from breaking your neck, by tumbling down stone stairs,

gives light to avoid the stray dogs that sleep around loose, and to see

if there is any enemy around who wants to give you a few inches of cold

steel. You may laugh at robbers here; but you may cry for mercy in vain

to a Roman who seeks _vendetta_--revenge, you know. Bad way to use

foreign words; but we all do it here. Speak an Italianized English after

a time, the effect of had examples. But come, if you want to see Rome by

moonlight, it's time we were off.'

As they reached the street, Caper asked Rocjean where he could buy the

_cerina_.

'At any _dragheria_' said the latter.

'Good, there is a druggist's store up the street--Borioni's.'

'A _dragheria_ means a grocery-store in Rome. If you want molasses,

however, you must go to the _farmacia_ for it, [that is the Roman for

druggist's shop,] and you will buy it by the ounce.'

'Live and learn,' said Caper, as they entered the grocery and bought the

_cerina_-price, one baioccho a yard.

'And now let us walk out to Saint Peter's, and see the church by

moonlight.'

'The want of sidewalks in this city,' remarked Rocjean, 'compelling the

Romans to walk over cobble-stones, undoubtedly is the cause of the large

feet of the women, added to their dislike of being in pain from tight

shoes or boots. For genuine martyrdom from tight shoes, French, Spanish,

and Americans--but chiefly Cubans--next to Chinese women, are ahead of

the world.'

'But apart from the fact that they do walk on the narrow sidewalks in

the Corso, I have noticed that in the side-streets, even where there is

a foot-walk, nobody takes advantage of it at night.'

'For a good reason, as we shall probably see,' said Rocjean,' before we

reach the bridge of San Angelo. But keep close to me in the middle of

the street.'

The moonlight shone brightly down the narrow street they were then

walking through, which, but for this, the occasional dim light of an

oil-lamp hung in front of a shrine, the light from a wine or grocery

shop, and the ruddy blaze of a charcoal-fire, where chestnuts were

roasting for sale, would have been dark indeed. The ground-floor of

very few Roman houses is ever occupied as a dwelling-place; it is given

up to shops, stables, etc., the families residing, according to their

wealth, on the lowest up to the highest stories; the light purses going

up and the heavy ones sinking. They had walked nearly to the end of this

street, when, happening to look up at the fourth story of a house, he

saw something white being reversed in the moonlight, and the next

instant a long stream of water, reminding him of the horse-tail fall in

Switzerland, came splashing down where a sidewalk should have been.

'What do you think of the middle of the street now?' asked Rocjean.

'Let's stick to it, even if we stick in it. I'm going to buy an

umbrella, _and spread it too_, when I go out of nights, after this.'

They reached the bridge of San Angelo, and studied for a short time the

fine effect of the moonlight shining on the turbid, slow-flowing Tiber,

and lighting up the heavy pile of the castle of San Angelo. Then they

reached the Piazza of Saint Peter's, and here the scene was imperial.

Out and in through the semi-circular arcade of massive pillars the

moonlight stole to sleep upon the soft-toned, gray old pavement, or was

thrown in dancing, sparkling light from the two noble jets of water

tossed in the clear night-air by the splashing fountains. In all its

gigantic proportions rose up, up into the clear blue of the spangled

sky, the grand thought of Michael Angelo--the dome of Saint Peter's.

Returning from Saint Peter's, Rocjean proposed to walk through the

Trastevere, the other side of the Tiber, and to cross over the river by

the ponte Rótto or broken bridge. They found the street along the river

very quiet; here and there a light showed, as on the other side, a

wine-shop or coffee-room; but the houses had few lights in them, and

spite of the moonlight, the streets looked gloomy and desolate.

'They seem to keep dark this side of the river,' said Caper.

'Yes,' answered Rocjean, 'and live light. They go to bed for the most

part early, and rise early; they economize fifty-one weeks in a year, in

order to live like lords for the fifty-second--that is Carnival-week.

Then you shall see these queenly Trasteverine in all their bravery,

thronging the Corso. But here is a clean-looking wine-shop, let us go in

and have a foglietta.'

They found the shop full of thirsty Romans--it is safe to say

that--although the number of small flasks showed they could not indulge

their taste so deeply as they wished to. The centre of the listening

group of Romans, was a bright-eyed, black, curly-haired man, who was

reciting, with loud emphasis:

THE LIFE AND DEATH

OF THE PERFIDIOUS ASSASSIN,

ARRIGO GARBETINGO OF TRENTO,

Who slew nine hundred and sixty-four grown

persons and six children.

He had already got through his birth and wicked childhood, and had

arrived at that impressive part where he commences his career of brigand

at large, accompanied by a 'bool-dog':

'He had a bull-dog of the English breed, oh!

More savage than all others that we've seen, oh!

Close at his side it always walked, indeed, oh!

And never barked! but then his bite was keen, oh!

When on some poor man straight he sprung, take heed, oh!

His soul from body quickly fled, I ween, oh!

Because with cruel, gnashing teeth he tore, oh!

Him all to pieces, in a manner sore, oh!'

The reciter here stopped to drink another tumbler of wine, upon which

Caper and Rocjean, having finished their pint, paid their scot and

departed.

'Was that an improvisatore?' asked Caper.

'He might pass for such with a stranger of inflammable imagination, who

didn't know the language,' answered Rocjean. 'He is, in fact, a

reciter, and you can buy the poh, poh-em he was reciting at any of the

country fairs, of the man who sells rosaries and crucifixes. It is one

of the cent-songs of the Papal States, published _con licenza_, with

license; and a more cruel, disgusting, filthy, and demoralizing tendency

than it must have on the people can not well be imagined; and there are

hundreds of worse.'

While Rocjean was talking they had crossed the ponte Rótto, and as he

finished his sentence they stood in front of the ruined house of--Cola

di Rienzil, 'Redeemer of dark centuries of shame--the hope of Italy,

Rienzi, last of Romans!'

'Well,' said Rocjean, as he halted in front of the ruined house, and

looked carefully at the ornamented stones still left, 'when Saint

Peter's church shall be a circus, this house shall be a shrine.'

'That being the state of the case,' spoke Caper, 'let us walk up to the

Trevi fountain and see the effect by moonlight of its flashing waters,

and inhale the flavor of fried fish from the adjacent stands.'

They stood in front of the wild waters dashing, sparkling over the grand

mass of tumbled rocks reared behind the wall of a large palace. Neptune,

car, horses, tritons, all, stone as they were, seemed leaping into life

in the glittering rays of the moonlight, and the rush and splash of the

waters in the great basin below the street, contrasted with the silence

of the city, left a deep impression of largeness and force on the minds

of the two artists.

'Let us go down and drink the water, for he who drinks of it shall

return again to Rome!'

'With all my heart,' said Caper; 'for if the legend has one word of

truth in it, Garibaldi will be back again some _bello giorno_----'

'_Bello giorno_ means fine day; _giorno di bello_ means a day for war: I

drink to both!' spoke Rocjean, dipping water up in his hand.

They returned to the street, and were walking toward the Piazza di

Spagna, when they overtook two well-dressed men evidently none the

better for too much wine. As they passed them, one of the men said to

the other:

'J-im! I don't see but what we-we-'ll have to r-r-roost out-tall night.

I don't know 'ny 'talian, _you_ don't know 'ny 'talian, we-we-'re

nonpl'sh'd, I'm th-think'ng.'

'Ary borry boutére spikinglish?' said the other one to the two artists,

as they were walking on.

'Yes,' said Caper, 'four of 'em. If you've lost your way we'll set you

right. Where's your hotel?'

''Tel? Why, 'Tel Europe p'aza Spanya. Are you English?'

'No, sir! I'm an American born, bred and--buttered,' said Caper.

'B-bullyf'ryou! We'resame spishies--allrite--d-driv'on!'

'Look here,' said the one of the two men who was least tipsy, 'if this

tother g-gen'leman and I could stick our heads into c-cold water we'd

come out tall right.'

'It's only a block or two back to the Trevi fountain,' answered Caper,

'and if your friend will go with you, you'll find water enough there.'

They went back to the fountain, and descending the steps with some

difficulty, the two men soon had their heads pretty well cooled off, and

came up with cleared intellects and improved pronunciation. In the

course of conversation it appeared that the two travelers, for such they

were, after rather too much wine at dinner in their hotel, had been

invited to the German Club, where Rhine wine, etc., had finished them

off: attempting to return to their hotel alone, they had lost their way.

As the four walked along, it came out that one of them owned a painting

by Rocjean, and when he discovered that one of his guides was no other

than that Americanized Frenchman, the whole party at once fraternized,

and disregarding any more moonlight effects, walked at once to Caper's

rooms, where over cigars and a bottle of Copalti's wine they signed,

sealed, and delivered a compact to have a good time generally for the

week the two travelers intended devoting to Rome. The moral of which is

... that you make more friends than meet enemies--walking round Rome by

night.

THE MYSTERIOUS IN ART.

They were in the presence of a man with flowing hair, flowing beard, and

flowing language, in a studio, all light from which was excluded by

heavy curtains, except enough to display an easel on which was placed a

painting, a background of dark blue where were many apparently spider

and crow-tracks.

'Those who in the profundity of their darkness incline to the belief

that the vitality of art, butterfly-like, has fled from this sunny

world, have made the biggest kind of a mistake,' said Mr. Artaxerxes

Phlamm, the Mystic Artist, to Caper. The hit was evidently intended for

Rocjean, but that descendant of the Gauls, for some reason, did not

smite back again; he contented himself with the remark:

'Art is long.'

'Yes, sir,' continued Mr. Phlamm, 'not only it has length, but breadth,

breadth, broadness--it extends from--yes--from--pole to pole.'

'Like a clothes-line,' said Caper.

'Ah!' continued Phlamm, with a pickled smile, 'Fancy, ever Fancy, but it

is Imagination that, as it were, brings man to a level with his destiny

and elevates him to the Olympium hights of the True, and all that rises

much above the meedyochre. But I must not forget that this is your first

visit to me studeeyoh. The painting on the easel is a view of Venice on

the Grand Canal.'

'But,' said Rocjean, 'I do not see the canal.'

'When you are gazing at the stars do you see your boots?' asked Phlamm.

'I always do,' spoke Caper quickly, 'always gaze at 'em at night--smoke

a cigar--put my feet higher than my head--sit in a chair--stars

reflected in boots--big thing!'

'You are full of life and spirits, Caper,' continued Phlamm, 'full of

'em; but Rocjean is more serious, more imbued with his nobil calling. My

illustration, as he understands, would convey the idea that such a thing

as foreground in a painting is false; it's a sham, it's a delusion, and

all that. It may do for pre-Raffleites, but for a man who looks Naychure

in the face, he sees her operating diversely, and he works according. I

repeat it again, when I was on the Grand Canal in Venice, I didn't see

the Grand Canal.'

'Neither did I,' spoke Caper, 'we're just alike; I kept my head all the

time out of the gondola-window looking for pretty girls--and I saw

them!'

'May I ask why you dead-color your canvas blue, and then make your

drawing in black outline?' asked Rocjean.

'What is the color of the sky? Is it not blue? Is not blue a cold color;

is it not the negative to the warmth, the balance to the scales, the one

thing needed on which to rear the glorious fabric that Naychure reveals

to the undimmed vision of man? I know your answer, and I refute it. I

have studied Art from its roots, and now I'm in the branches, and I

grasp the fruit. My manner is peculiar--I have no patent for it--I ask

for none. The illimitable passes the legitimate, and the sw-word is

carried by the hero--for me the bruzh, the paint-bruzh. You see that

painting before you--it is my child--I lavish on it my intentions--I am

going to work three years on that picture!'

'I bet you a new hat you sell it, and a dozen more, and send 'em off

before six months. You're all the rage now since you sold old Goldburg a

picture,' quoth Caper.

'I don't bet, I am opposed to betting. But look that picture of mine in

the face, in the face! Here is a finished painting, The Lake of Zurich;

see those clouds floating mistily away into the far distance--there's

atmosphere for you--there's air! You can't cut those clouds into slices

of cheese as you can them of that humbug of a Cloud Lowrain. Cloud

Lowrain! he's a purty painter! Naychure is my teacher. I go out

mornings and hear the jackdaws chatter, and see trees and all that;

sometimes I walk around in a garden for ten minutes and commune with

Naychure--that's the way to do it. Look at clouds before you paint

'em--I know it's hard when the sun's in your eyes, but do it--I've spent

a week at a time out-doors, like Wordsworth and the great, the grand,

the colossial Ruzking.'

'I like that water,' said Rocjean, alluding to that of the painting.

'Water is my peculiar study; I am now engaged experimenting on it--see

there!' Here Phlamm pointed to a basin.

'Been washing your hands?' asked Caper.

'Scientifically experimenting, not manually. Water is

soup-or-fish-all--earth is not soup-or-fish-all.'

'Our dinners are, during Lent,' quoth Caper, 'unless we're heretics.'

'I don't understand your frivolity--what do you mean?'

'Didn't you say, 'Soup or all fish?''

'Pshaw! You will never make an artist--never, never--_you_ are too, too

superficiall, too much of the earth, dirty.'

'Oh! now I understand,' answered Caper; 'give it to me, I deserve it.'

'I was studying water, its shadows and its superficiality, in that

basin,' continued Phlamm, 'and I study the ocean there, and have

devolved great principles from it. What makes my pictures sought for by

the high and the low, wealthy? What? It's the Truth in 'em, the Mystery,

the Naychure. The old masters were humbugs, they weren't mysterious,

they had no inner sight into the workings of Naychure. Who'd buy one of

their pictures when he might have a Turner for the same price? Nobody.'

'Wouldn't he?' asked Caper. 'Try him with a Raphael, just a small one.'

'Raphael? You mean Raffaele. Ah! he _was_ a painter, he wasn't one of

the old masters, however, he was a middle-age master. What sweetness,

what a kind of--sweetness generally; what a blending of the prayerful

infant with the enthusiastic beauty; the--the polished chastity of his

Mad-donas; the folds of his drapery, and--the drapery of his folds.

Truly enchanting, and so very uncommonly gentlemanly in his colors.'

'The Chesterfield of oil-colors?' suggested Rocjean. 'But _à propos_ of

Nature, you never paint a picture directly from her, do you?'

'Never! Does a great historical painter use the model? No, sir; he draws

on his imagination for his figures. He scorns to copy from a model. I

convey the impression of mystery that Naychure gives me; I am no servile

copyist. And I claim to leave an impression on the minds of the

beholders of my works. Why, even Caper, I believe, can see what I wish

to tell, and read my poems on canvas. Tell me, Caper, what idea does

even that rough sketch of Venice awake in your imaginative faculties,

and all that?'

Caper's face wore a deeply thoughtful look, as he answered: 'I do see

it; I do claim to read the lesson you would teach----'

'Speak it out,' interrupted Phlamm, 'I knew you would feel the deep,

mysterious sentiment as is in it.'

'Spider-tracks and crows' feet on the blue mud of a big marsh,' spoke

Caper resolutely.

'Pshaw!' exclaimed Phlamm impetuously; 'you have no Faith, and without

that, all Art is a sealed thing. Goldburg, to whom I lately sold a

painting, had faith; he saw the grand idea which I explained to him in

that picture; he knew that the Earl of Bigbarns had purchased a work of

mine, and he said to me: 'The opinion of such a man is an opinion as

should be a valuable opinion to a business man, and govern the

sentiments of those who worship Art.' Other artists see Naychure, but

_how_ do they see her? I answer, blindly! They don't feel her here!'

(Phlamm struck his waistcoat in fearful proximity to a pocket in it, and

altogether too low for his heart.)

'Nay-chure,' said Caper to Rocjean, as they left this studio of the

mysterious one, 'ruined a good Barnum to make a poor Phlamm, when she

made him.'

A BATH-HUNT.

It is a mournful sight to see a city of one hundred and eighty thousand

five hundred and thirty-nine inhabitants, including one thousand three

hundred and thirty-one priests, two thousand four hundred and four

monks, and eight hundred and fifty-four Jews, Turks, and heretics, as

the census had it, attacked with hydrophobia. But it is so. A

preternatural dread of water rages among all the inhabitants of Rome,

from the untitled down to the titled.

'Madame,' said Rocjean to a distinguished female model, 'I assure you

that, in the sixth century, [or as Sir Gardiner Wilkinson has it, in the

five hundred,] there were nine thousand and twenty-five baths in this

city.'

'Those must have been good times,' replied she, 'for the washerwomen,

_seguro!_ There are a good many clothes of the _forestieri_ [strangers]

washed here now; but not so many different places to wash them in.'

'I mean places to bathe one's self all over in.'

'_Mai!_ Never, never!' exclaimed the woman with horror; 'never! 'twould

give them the fever, kill them dead!'

Mr. Van Brick, of New-York, arriving in Rome early in the morning,

demanded of the porter at the hotel where he could find a _bagno_, or

place where he could get a bath. He was directed to go down the Babuino,

and at such a number he would find the establishment. Forgetting the

number before he was three steps from the hotel, he inquired of a man

who was driving a she-jackass to be milked, where the bath was. As he

spoke very little Italian, he had to make up by signs what he wanted in

words. The man, probably believing he wanted a church, and that his

motions signified being sprinkled with water, pointed to the Greek

church, and Van Brick, thinking it was a solemn-looking old _bagno_,

strode in, to his astonishment finding out as soon as he entered that he

was by no means in the right place. As he turned to go out, he saw an

amiable-looking young man, with a black cocked hat in his hand, and a

black serge shirt on that came down to his heels, and had a waist-band

drawing it in over his hips. He asked the young man, as well as he could

in Italian, where there was a _bagno_.

'The signore is English?' asked the youth in the black shirt.

'I want a bath,' said Van Brick, 'which way?'

'Have patience, signore. There are a great many English in Rome.'

'Farewell!' quoth Van Brick, turning on his heel, reflecting: 'That

youth talks too much; he does it to conceal his ignorance; he don't know

what a bath is.' Coming out of the church, he met a good-natured looking

Roman girl, without any bonnet, as usual, going along with a bottle of

wine and a loaf of bread.

'Can you tell me where the bath is?'

'_Chi lo sa_, signore.'

This CHI LO SA, or, 'who knows?' of the Romans, is a shaft that would

kill Paul Pry. It nearly throws an inquisitive man into convulsions. He

meets it at every turn. The simplest question is knocked to pieces by

it. So common is it for a Roman of the true _plebs_ breed to give you

this for an answer to almost every question, that Rocjean once won a hat

from Caper in this wise: they stood one evening in front of a grocer's

store, down by the Pantheon; it was brilliantly illuminated with

hundreds of candles, displaying piles of hams, cheese, butter, eggs,

etc., etc. Chandeliers constructed of egg-shells, where candles shone

brightly, particularly struck Caper.

'You see,' said Rocjean, 'as anyone else can see, that those chandeliers

are made of egg-shells. Now, I will bet you a hat that I will ask four

men, one after another, who may come to look in this window, what those

chandeliers are made of, and three at least, if not all four of them,

will answer, 'Who knows?' (_Chi lo sa._)

'Done!' said Caper.

Rocjean asked four men, one after another. All four answered; 'Who

knows?'

But to continue the bath-hunt: Van Brick was thrown over by the girl's

answer, and next asked an old woman, who was standing at the door of a

house, buying broccoli from a man with a hand-cart.

'Can _you_ tell me where the bath is?'

'The bath?'

'Yes, the bath.'

'Is it where they boil water for the English?'

'That must be the shop,' quoth Brick.

'That's the place,' pointing with her finger to a house on the opposite

side of the way.

Van Brick crossed over, and after five minutes' hunt over the whole

house, was coming down disheartened, when he saw a pretty girl, about

eighteen years old, standing by the doorway.

'Can you tell me where the bath is?'

'_Seguro!_ I attend to them. You can't have a warm bath for two or three

hours yet, for there is no fire; but you can have a cold one.'

'Well, let me have it as quickly as possible.'

'Yes, sir. We have no soap for sale, but you can get it two doors off.'

Van Brick went out, and after a time returned with a cake of soap.

'Signore,' said the girl, when he went back, 'the water is all running

out of the hole in the bottom of the tub, and I can't stop it.'

'H'm! Show me the tub; I am a splendid mechanic.'

The hole being stopped, the tub was rapidly filling with water. Van

Brick, in anticipation, was enjoying his bath; when in rushed the

attendant.

'Signore, you will have to wait a few minutes--until I wash some

towels.'

Van Brick was in extremis. Taking a gold scudo, one of those dear little

one-dollar pieces the Romans call _far-fálle_ (butterflies) from his

pocket, he thus addressed her:

'Maiden, rush round the corner and buy me a yard of any thing that will

dry me; I don't care what it is, except salt fish.'

'Oh! but these English are bursting with money,' thought the girl, and

thus thinking, she made great haste, only stopping to tell three or four

friends about the crazy man that was round at her place, who didn't want

salt fish to make him dry.

'Behold me back again!' said the girl, 'I flew.'

'Yes,' said Van Brick, 'and so did time; and he got ahead of you about

half an hour. Give me the towels.'

'Si, signore, behold them! See how fine they are! What an elegant fringe

on them; and only twenty-five baiocchi a piece, fringe and all

included.'

Van Brick, at last left in peace, plunged into the bath.

When he came out, he found he had half a scudo to pay for the water,

half a scudo for towels, quarter of a scudo for soap, and another

quarter scudo for a _buono mano_ to the bath-girl. Total, one dollar and

a half.

'Now,' soliloquized Van Brick, as he dressed himself, 'I have an

arithmetical question to solve. If a Roman, by hard scratching, can earn

twenty cents a day, and it costs him twenty-five cents for board and

lodging, how long will it be before he saves up a dollar and a half to

take a bath? But that intelligent maiden will tell me, I know.' He asked

her.

'Signore, the Romans never bathe.'

'You mean the Catholic Romans, for the Pagan Romans didn't do any thing

else.'

'They're all burning up in the _inferno, Seguro_!' said the maiden.

'But they had fifteen aqueducts to keep them cool when they were alive,'

spoke Van Brick.

'_Chi lo sa_. We have three aqueducts, we Romans, and we have more

water, yes, more water than we can--drink.'

'Yes, while there's wine about. _Adio, bella ninfa!_'

GLANCES FROM THE SENATE-GALLERY.

II.

We considered, in the last number of THE CONTINENTAL, some of

the leading orators and statesmen who, in the last Congress, represented

the States now in rebellion against the Constitution. It can not be

denied that, by their secession from the floor of the Senate, that body,

which undoubtedly exhibits the best specimens of American eloquence, was

deprived of several of its fairest ornaments; but we believe that a

consideration of those Senators who remained faithful to the interests

of their country, will discover the fact that in them was displayed at

least equally conspicuous merit in oratory and legislation. A distinct

contrast was discernible between Northern and Southern eloquence; the

latter being of an impulsive and passionate character, unadorned

generally by the graces which mental culture lends to that art, (which

might be inferred from their well-known temperament,) while the former

appears to be more deliberate and thoughtful, indicating by its elegance

and harmony the refining and systematizing influence of education, and

partaking of the natural phlegm peculiar to inhabitants in colder

regions. While Southern eloquence seemed to endeavor to elicit feeling

and passion, Northern orators looked for their success rather to the

conviction of the understanding than to the indulgence of the weaker

elements of human nature. By pleasing and subtle sophistries, by

enthusiastic ebullitions of resentment and indignation, or by the more

amiable contrivances of patriotic and virtuous sentiment, Benjamin and

Davis sought, if they could not convince legislators, at least to

attract to their peculiar doctrines the impulsive and credulous masses

among their own people. On the contrary, it was apparent that Northern

statesmen, confident in the exercise of intellectual resources, relied

on the intelligence and reason of their auditors and constituents, and

seldom resorted to that species of oratory which was employed by their

adversaries, and which may be called in a manner strategetic, when

logical accuracy was likely to meet with more satisfactory and more

permanent success. Before we proceed to notice the eminent Senators from

the North, we propose to dwell briefly upon several who, though

representing slave States, were, in the last Congress at least, loyal to

the Government; several of whom, however, are now engaged in treason,

while others remain true to their allegiance.

The person who, both from the position he held in the Senate and from

his imposing personal appearance, first attracted the attention of the

visitor, was the Vice-President, Breckinridge, of Kentucky. His later

treachery has made him justly the object of bitter popular odium,

inasmuch as his delinquency was aggravated by his former professions of

loyalty. It was hoped by many who had witnessed his early elevation to

the highest dignities, his undoubted ability both as an orator and as an

administrative officer, and his apparently manly and ingenuous bearing,

that talents which promised to be of so great service to his country

would, in the approaching struggle, be exerted in behalf of its entirety

and honor. Southern 'chivalry' in him was exhibited in a nobler and more

amiable light than in his more petulant and less generous colleagues. A

certain graceful dignity was united with the most attractive felicity of

manner, and one could not help regarding him, when viewed in private

society, as a perfect model of a gentleman. His courtesy and delicacy

were exhibited to all alike, and strangers could not help admiring one

who had at so early an age been raised to so giddy a hight, and yet who

had retained such condescension of manner and such continual good-nature

to every body who approached him. His personal appearance, as we have

already said, was highly imposing; in which was combined a manliness of

demeanor and a strikingly handsome countenance and figure. His peculiar

fitness as a presiding officer made him popular in that capacity.

Seldom, indeed, has a Vice-President occupied the chair with such

perfect ease and such stately dignity. His oratory was worthy of a

Senator, elevated, earnest, and partaking less of passion and rancor

than other Southern speakers; but it rather lacked the substance and

solidity which a maturer stage of life would undoubtedly have given to

it. He seemed to be a fair representative of the Kentucky aristocracy,

possessing a delicate sense of honor, a bold spirit, though hardly

enthusiasm of soul. Evidently absorbed in a selfish ambition for power,

this fault is in some degree palliated by the circumstance of the early

age at which he was promoted to the public counsels. That this passion,

unduly encouraged, has led him into a deplorable and fatal mistake, is

now evident; and from what we have recently heard of him, we doubt not

that a similar conviction has made him wretched and desperate.

The father of the Senate, Mr. Crittenden, so well known during the last

weeks of his term as the would-be pacificator, by compromise, of the

impending rupture, was the last of the generation of statesmen of whom

Webster and Clay were the leading cotemporaries. His long service in the

national legislature procured him on all occasions a respectful and

attentive hearing, and were it not for this circumstance, the earnest

impressiveness of his declamation, at times relieved by sparks of

old-fashioned wit, would have attracted the notice of his auditors. He

was singular in his personal appearance, and a peculiarly fierce

expression of face frequently gave an erroneous idea of his character,

which was, making allowance for age and a life of turmoil, affable and

good-natured. He always reminded us of the portraits of Lord Chancellor

Thurlow, whose bushy eyebrows and stern countenance used to terrify

young barristers in Westminster eighty years ago. Rather negligent in

his dress, and far from elegant in manner, he would hardly be noticed at

first as one of the leading members of the body. As a lawyer, he has

been acute and learned; as a statesman, generally able, though hardly

profound; as an orator, not graceful, but forcible and earnest. His

patriotism was, no doubt, zealous and entirely disinterested; but

certainly ill-directed, and not adapted in the application it made of

principles to the exigencies of the times. Representing the most

respected and most prosperous of slave States, and being considered in a

manner as the statesman upon whose shoulders had fallen the mantle of

the illustrious Clay, his influence was considerable, both with

adherents and antagonists.

With sincere satisfaction, we turn to contemplate the character of a

true-hearted and undaunted Southern patriot, Andrew Johnson, of

Tennessee. Coming as he did from a section in which secessionism

predominates, and representing a mercurial and sensitive people, he

stood out fearlessly and zealously in behalf of the maintenance of the

Union at all hazards. He is an admirable example of the self-made man,

having received no education in his youth, and owing to the application

of maturer years the historical and political information he now

possesses. Born and bred among the lower classes of society, and

engaging in an occupation suited to his humble sphere, by perseverance

and patience and a very superior natural ability, he has won a deserved

place in the United States Senate. He is universally considered as one

of the leading intellects in that body, and by his speeches during the

last Congress, in which his enthusiasm as a patriot lent brilliancy and

energy to his naturally forcible declamation, he attracted to himself

the confidence and affection both of his auditors and of the country.

His personal appearance is rather ordinary, not at all imposing, and yet

his countenance indicates a sound judgment and a pure heart. His whole

manner is open and frank, his bearing that of a gentleman by nature, and

socially he is universally liked. His oratory is also of an ingenuous

character, calculated to impress one at once with his thorough honesty

and humanity. Sometimes he rose to admirable passages of virtuous

indignation and scathing rebuke, as he warmed with the subject of

Southern delusion, actuated by unprincipled leaders, and few of the

Senators who sat on the Democratic side escaped from his truly

formidable denunciation. Lane, of Oregon, a compound of conceit,

ridiculous ignorance, and servility to Southern masters, was totally

annihilated by the sturdy Tennesseean, for his imbecile attempts to

excuse his pusillanimous submission to his chivalrous dictators. So

successful was he in conjecturing and exposing the designs of the

malcontent Senators, that the boldest of them feared to meet him in

forensic discussion, and recoiled from the honesty and acuteness of one

who knew them and did not hesitate to hold them up to ignominy. Through

all the dangers which have beset the neighborhood from which he came, he

has stood firm in the assertion of patriotic principles; nor to save his

own household from disaster, has he yielded a jot to the demands of

traitor tyrants. At present, he is provisional Governor of Tennessee,

and is doing good service in bringing that once-honored State back to

the folds of the Union. Of few public men can we say, what may be

confidently said of him, that he has shown himself ready to sacrifice

every private interest to subserve the interests of his country, and has

given us a certain and practical example of a heroism unknown before the

present crisis to Americans, except in the colored narratives of

history.

Senator Green, of Missouri, was justly regarded as one of the clearest

thinkers and speakers in the Upper House. Irregularity of life had

somewhat blunted what must once have been a very superior mind. His

statesmanship was of a high order; his oratory ingenuous, generally

courteous and conciliatory, and always entertaining, from its lucidness

and keenness. He was decidedly popular in social circles, genial and

good-natured, and full of animal spirits. His excesses, indeed, rather

tended to make him the more companionable, though they undoubtedly

undermined an uncommonly fine intellect; and certainly nothing can be

more sickening than to see one so highly endowed, and who might command

the applause of listening senates, gradually sinking below the level of

manhood by habitual indulgences. In personal appearance, he was rather

awkward, of an ungainly figure, his countenance not highly intelligent,

but cheerful and rather pleasing. After the ostracism of the great

bulwark of Democracy, Douglas, from the councils of his party, Senator

Green became the leader of that side of the house, assuming the place on

the Committee on Territories made vacant by the Illinois statesman. As a

manager of party tactics, and as a bold, shrewd, and energetic leader,

few could equal and none surpass him. His rise to so high a

consideration among his political friends was rapid, but proved, in the

event, well deserved.

We have occupied more space than we had intended, in considering the

Senators from the slave States, and will now attempt to speak of some of

the more prominent Northern statesmen, in this paper, and perhaps

continue their consideration more at length in a future number.

The present Secretary of State was long regarded as the leading

Free-Soil Senator, and after the present Republican party came into

existence, he naturally assumed a prominent position among its

advocates. In caution, in profound foresight, in coolness and affability

of temper, and in perspicuity and logical shrewdness of oratory, he has

been without a superior since the death of Webster. He somewhat

resembles Earl Russell in the prudence and care with which he treats

political questions, and the vigilance with which he notices every

symptom of popular tendencies and popular desires. His circumspection is

constant, and the imperturbability of his character enables him to be

ever on his guard, and protects him from the enunciation of an unpopular

idea. Never permitting himself to be annoyed at ever so bitter a taunt,

perfectly self-possessed, and always mindful of the courtesy due to his

colleagues, and the respect due to the most dignified body in the

nation, he has generally succeeded in completely disarming his less

prudent antagonists. In general debate, his coolness and mental balance

enabled him to cope with the most formidable opponents, and although at

times the overwhelming eloquence of Douglas got the better of the more

philosophic orator, such an occurrence was rare, and a triumph was

gained over him only by the greatest exertions of the greatest orators.

His labored speeches, as will be testified to by all who have perused

them, are rich in profound thought, a clear discernment and

comprehension of events, causes, and results, and occasionally in

passages of stately and brilliant eloquence. Graceful rhetoric and

shrewd logic appear to be ever at his command, as he has occasion, in

the course of argument, to resort to one or the other, to illustrate or

to enforce his reasoning. In person, Mr. Seward is of about medium

hight, rather stooping, with reddish-gray hair, an aquiline nose, and

dull, sleepy, blue eyes. His countenance is hardly intellectual, and no

one would suppose, on seeing him for the first time, that he was a man

of conspicuous ability. He is affable to every one, and enters freely

into conversation with all who call upon him; nevertheless, he is

extremely guarded at all times in expressing his opinions, and will

never betray himself into an unguarded sentiment. His manner of speaking

is extremely easy, and occasionally dull; and when in the Senate, he

used to take his position by leaning against the pillar behind his seat,

twirling in one hand his spectacles, while with the other he enforced,

by slight gestures, the more striking passages of his speech. His

delivery was far from animated, and his intonation was rather

conversational than declamatory. He has a quiet dignity at all times,

which is yet consistent with a polite and amiable demeanor; and while

the former inspires the respect, the latter elicits the esteem of all

who approach him.

The present Vice-President was, during the last Congress, Senator from

Maine. He was long known as an able Democratic politician, and in 1856

was elected Governor of Maine by the Republicans, in a hotly-contested

election. He is remarkable rather for a sound judgment and practical

good sense than as an orator or in the higher arts of statesmanship. He

was always listened to with attention, because all looked upon him as

well informed in the everyday duties of the Senate, and as one whose

opinion was formed from accurate observation and a clear head. He is in

no sense an orator, his delivery not being pleasant or his sentiments

couched in graceful or forcible language. He is of a dark complexion,

rather tall, with jet-black hair, a little bald, and would not be

selected as one of the leading men in the Senate from his personal

appearance. As a presiding officer, he ranks well, being apparently

posted on parliamentary law and impartial in his decisions, although he

has not the dignity and grace which lent _éclat_ to Mr. Breckinridge's

performance of the office.

Senator Fessenden, of Maine, is considered one of the first statesmen

now prominent before the country; and the ability he has exhibited, not

only in the practical details of his position but in the wider range of

comprehensive statesmanship, entitles him to a place superior to most

and equal to any of his contemporaries. Since the retirement of Senator

Hunter from the Finance Committee, (which may be considered as the most

important in the Senate,) Mr. Fessenden has executed the duties of its

chairmanship with an accuracy and vigilance which has elicited the

praise of all sides of the house. His superiority as a financier is

marked; but not more marked than his high capacity for comprehending and

elucidating the great national issues, which swallow up all minor ones

in the magnitude of their importance and the intensity of their

interest. For maturity of judgment, deliberateness of thought and

manner, fearlessness of speech, a presence of mind never lost, and

bitterness of invective, no one ranks above him in the Chamber. His

oratory is of that substantial and yet spirited character which at once

convinces and interests and engages the attention of the mind, without

wearying it by unrelieved exertion. Always the master of every topic on

which he attempts to enlighten, he is neither foiled by the sophistries

nor embarrassed by the bravadoes of his opponents. His eloquence is not

demonstrative, but calm, dignified, and earnest, apparently confident in

the correctness of his views, and yet cautious to avoid giving offense

to others. He is always listened to with the utmost respect, and his

opinions are of much weight among his political friends. His appearance

is dignified and highly intellectual; his forehead being broad and

indicative of great ability, and his general manner being in harmony

with the prominence and responsibility of his office. Never resorting,

in default of argument, to the petty malice of personal abuse, his

course has been liberal, consistent, and uniformly courteous. In private

life, he retains the dignity which appears to be natural to him; but is

yet affable and sociable, attracting one alike by the rich products of

thought and the courtesy of his manner.

Benjamin F. Wade, Senator from Ohio, is a noble specimen of a self-made

statesman. He migrated, at a very early age, from New-England to his

present residence, being entirely without means and devoid of every

thing except his own invincible spirit, with which to secure a

livelihood. The qualities which made him successful sooner than his most

sanguine expectations taught him to hope for, appear in all their

maturity in the character of the Senator. A perseverance the most

constant, a firmness approaching to stubbornness, a courage which never

feared man, and a power of application wonderful in a mind disciplined

only by rude nature, are the component elements which have promoted him

to and maintain him with conspicuous honor in the Senate of the United

States. His honest and intrepid advocacy of principle has won him an

enviable position in his party, and no one possesses the entire

confidence of the country to a greater degree than he. He was

particularly prominent in the last Congress for the bluntness and

severity with which he handled the Southern Senators, and the little

hesitation with which he exposed their delinquencies in the strongest

light. His harangues were full of impulsive, strong, and fearless

invective, and he never stopped to consider the delicacy of chivalrous

sensitiveness, when treason and conspiracy were to be exposed. Probably

no man was more feared by the other side of the Chamber, for he could

neither be cowed by threats nor restrained within the limits of

punctilious courtesy. He dealt with them in the plainest language, and

combined with powerful effect argument, sarcasm, and eloquent

denunciation. Strong sense is a leading feature of his character, and a

practical wisdom which renders him eminently capable in the discharge of

details. In private life, he is genial and always good-natured, ready

for a joke at all times, and enjoys his leisure hours with a zest which

is quickened by previous earnest toil. Although as bitter and

unconciliatory as any of his colleagues in his treatment of the Southern

statesmen on the floor of the Senate, he always manifested the utmost

good temper toward them in social intercourse, and was frequently seen,

after a sharp and irritating episode in debate, laughing and talking

with Green or Benjamin in the most cheerful manner imaginable.

We hope to present more sketches of Northern Senators in a future

number.

THE LAST DITCH.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland

Is that last ditch--his final stand?

Is't where the James goes rolling by

Used-up plantations worn and dry,

Where planters lash and negroes breed,

And folks on oyster memories feed?

Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!

To find it you must further go.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland

Is that 'last ditch,' his final stand?

Is't where the Mississippi runs

His mighty course for many suns,

To where New-Orleans fills the flat?

[Ben Butler's taken charge of _that_]

'Tis ours--to the Gulf of Mexico,

So that can't be the ditch, you know.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland

_Is_ that last ditch--his final stand?

Is it about Fort Donelson,

Where Floyd 'skedaddled,' _minus_ gun,

Packed up his traps and stole away

By night--as he had done by day?

Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!

To find it you must further go.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland

Is that last ditch--his final stand?

Is it at Nashville, Tennessee,

Once more a city of the free,

Where Isham Harris and his tools

Thieved just two millions from the schools?

Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!

To find it you must further go.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland

Is that last ditch--his final stand?

Is't at Montgomery, where in May

Hell's blackest tricks were put in play,

Where right and might were overruled,

And people into treason fooled?

Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!

To find it you must further go.

Where in the Southron's fatherland

Is that last ditch--his final stand?

Is it at Charleston? Time shall prove

How much that precious nest we love,

When, crushed to dust and damned to shame,

We give the place another name.

Yet 'tis not there, I tell you, no!

Much further off its waters flow.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland

Is that last ditch--his final stand?

Is it at Natchez, high or low,

Or Newbern, where the pine-trees grow?

Is it where ladies 'dip' and snuff,

And white men feed on dirt enough?

Not there, not there; far down below

And further off its waters flow.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland

Is that last ditch--his final stand?

Knowest thou a stream folks call the Styx,

Round a plantation of Old Nick's,

In which, as Beauregard once swore,

His horse should drink when all is o'er?

There, there, my Southern friend, you'll find

A ditch exactly to your mind.

Ay, there in truth. God! can it be

That falsehood, sin and tyranny,

Though eighteen hundred years be past,

Still roar and revel wild and fast?

Well, let them rave; thou knowest the way--

'Tis darkest ere the dawn of day,

And well we know, whate'er befall,

Where runs the ditch to hide them all!

PATIENCE.

Patience! why,'tis the soul of peace;

Of all the virtues, the nearest kin to heaven.

It makes men act like gods. The Best of Men

That e'er wore earth about him was a Sufferer,

A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,

The first true Gentleman that ever breathed.

REWARDING THE ARMY.

It is a brave thing that we can truly say, after more than a year of

fierce hostilities, the war in which this country is engaged goes on

with undiminished--nay, with increasing Northern spirit. The enemy has

been obliged to resort to forced conscription, and to declare every man

within its limits a soldier, while we have not as yet had recourse to

drafting; nor, as the late sudden call showed, nearly exhausted our

volunteers. A thousand, and even fifteen hundred dollars have been

offered in Virginia newspapers for a substitute, and yet behind this

there has followed an Executive order for enrolling every man in the

army whether he have purchased a substitute or not. 'Our flag floats

over Nashville and Natchez, over Memphis and New-Orleans, over Norfolk

and Pensacola, over Yorktown and Newbern.' We have girded them in on the

Mississippi, on the Atlantic, and on the Gulf. We know that they are

destitute of almost every thing save mere food and arms, and that every

month sinks them deeper and deeper in destitution and misery. The war is

on their own soil, and their own armies are a scourge and a curse to

their own estates. Every where the plantation and the farm are made

desolate--every where the direst distress is taking the place of

comfort. And all this they brought on themselves by the most determined

will. They believed that Northern men were all cowards and

half-traitors--their allies and friends among us promised them easy

victories and certain independence--they thought that the greed of money

was stronger among us than the sense of dignity and honor--and now they

are reaping their reward.

Yet despite the bitter need into which they have brought themselves, it

does not seem that those of the South who are in earnest have lost any

of their desperation, or gained a better opinion of their foes. Their

journals still trumpet the loudest lies and the mass still believe that

sooner or later their shattered bark will outride the battle and the

storm, and float safely into the broad sea of independence. Would that

they could see the North as it is, in all its comparative prosperity,

with millions still left to volunteer, and with thousands of foreigners

eagerly seeking for places in the fray. We have found it necessary to

instruct our ministers and consuls abroad that we can not accept for the

present any more of the many military officers of different nations who

desire to fight for the stars and stripes. We have money in abundance,

and there is no flinching at taxation--indeed, the great source of

apprehension at present is an excess of 'flush times' such as is too apt

to bring on a reaction. When the war broke out we had, indeed, divided

counsels. The old Southern Democrats whined and yelped, and attempted

'peace-parties' and the like; but they have vanished, and traitors now

confine themselves to less offensive measures, while their ranks have

been woefully thinned. We may have disasters; nay, we can hardly hope to

escape them. But in the present state of the war we may fairly boast of

having the upper-hand. And the Northern tenacity which did not yield

when misfortune lowered around, will not be likely to loose its hold now

that it has learned to measure its might, man for man, with the arrogant

enemy.

Under the wise and judicious policy inaugurated by President Lincoln, we

see Slavery, the great cause of this trouble, in a fair way to disappear

in a manner which can give offence to no one. His 'remuneration

message'--the shrewdest document which ever emanated from an American

Executive--shows itself, as events proceed, to be a master-stroke of

genius. The longer the cotton States prolong their resistance, the more

precarious does slave property become, and the more inclined are the

men of the tobacco States to sell their human chattels. Already in

Kentucky, Tennessee, Maryland, and Delaware, people are longing to

'realize' something on what bids fair to become altogether intangible

amid the turns and tides of skirmishes and battles. Meanwhile with every

day's delay Emancipation, as a predetermined necessity, gains ground

among the people, and very rapidly indeed in the army. It was the lowest

and most tyrannical form of an aristocracy--that of slaveholding

planterdom--which caused and is still causing all this trouble, and it

is beginning to work its way into the minds of the multitude that it is

hardly worth while to risk every thing, and see the real criminals

reïnstated after all in their privileges and possessions, when the one

can only serve to continue the old sore, while the other might be better

employed in free labor. And better employed, we may add, in rewarding

those noble men whose lives were risked in defense of our liberties.

This consideration brings us to the very important question: How shall

we reward our army, and what should be its future mission in the

reconstruction which every freeman will be called to aid?

There is no use in disguising facts, shirking inevitable issues, or

trying to cheat either destiny or honest labor. We have got this

question of rewarding our soldiers with the property of rebels, before

us, and must meet it squarely. The pro-slavery Democratic press may

oppose it, as they have been doing, with all the malignity which their

treasonable friendship for the South may inspire; but we have an

inevitable road before us over which we _must_ travel, and it would be

well to consider it betimes, that we may tread it fairly and smoothly,

and not be dragged along shrieking, by a pitiless destiny.

There are two good reasons why we should begin to consider betimes, the

expediency of rewarding our army with Southern lands. The one is the

necessity of a future Northern policy; the other the claim of the army

to such reward.

If when this war is concluded, our Government is to have a policy or a

principle, it should manifestly be that of reïnstating itself in power,

in consolidating that power, and in acting as a powerful unity,

according to the letter and the spirit of the Constitution. The

CONSTITUTION--bear that word well in mind--the Constitution

which suffers no State to usurp a single power belonging to the General

Government, and which was expressly framed for the purpose of making all

its freemen the citizens of one great nation. Let the reader consult the

Constitution, study its unmistakable plan of national integrity and of

state subordination, and then reflect whether, according to its spirit,

any and every mere state privilege which may be claimed should not yield

to the paramount claim of _the Union_?

If this war has demonstrated any thing, it has been, firstly, the fact

that the South SHALL stay in the Union, and secondly, the folly

of permitting the old Southern system to control us in politics, in

social life, and in every thing. We have had enough of it. Manufactures,

free labor, science, schools, the press, learning, new ideas, social

reforms, the whole _progress_ of the age, inspiring twenty millions, can

no longer be cuffed and scouted in the Senate and snubbed in the _salon_

or public meeting by the private interests of half a million of the most

illiberal and ignorant conservatives in existence. Henceforth the North

must _rule_. 'Must' is a hard nut, but Southern teeth must crack it,

whether they will or no. We may shuffle and quibble, but to this it must

come. Every day of the war renders it more certain. The farm must

encroach on the plantation, the rural nobility give place to the higher

nobility of intelligence; social culture based on mudsills must make way

for the mudsills themselves--for lo! the sills which they buried are not

dead timber, neither do they sleep or rot--they were fresh saplings,

and with the reviving breath of spring and at the gleam of the sun of

freedom, they will shoot up into brave, strong life.

Let them talk, dispute, hem and haw, that will--we can not set aside the

great fact that in future our Government will be united in its policy,

great in its strength, and no longer impeded by the selfish arrogance of

a petty planterdom. Labor and capital are bursting their bonds--the

Middle Class of North-America which Southerners and Englishmen equally

revile, is becoming all-powerful and seeks to substitute business

common-sense for the aristocratic policy which has hitherto guided us.

It is no longer a question of radicalism, of poor against rich, of

lazzaroni and royalists, but of a new element--that of labor and of

intellect combined--the guiding-spirit of the North. And the question

is, how to best aid this element in its progress?

The army of the United States at the present day contains within itself

the best part of such free labor and intellect as is needed to reform

the South. That dashing and daring energy which gladly enters on new

fields, and loves bold enterprises, has streamed by scores of thousands

from the farm and factory toward the camp and the battle-field. There it

is doing brave service for God and for freedom. Every day sees martyrs

for the holy cause drawn from the ranks of these good and noble

volunteers. They die noble--ay, holy deaths, and as they die new

aspirants for honor step forward to fill their places. When the war

shall be over, it is to the army that we should look to revive the

wasted South, to farm its exhausted plantations and employ its blacks.

Is there no significance in the numerous anecdotes which reach us of

Northern intellect already displaying itself in a thousand forms of

restless activity? The newspaper before us states that General Shepley,

in New-Orleans, has threatened that if the bakers of his conquered city

do not supply bread more cheaply he will remodel their whole business

and employ bakers from the army. 'Bakers from the army!' Ay, smiths,

engineers, editors, and every thing else are there, amply capable of

reörganizing the whole South--of tilling its fields to greater

advantage, of developing its neglected resources, of making the old,

desolate, lazy, dissolute Southland hum with enterprise. Let them do it.

_We_ may as well do it betimes with a good grace, for it is very

doubtful if those who venture to oppose the settlement of our soldiers

in the South, will not stir up such a storm of trouble as this country

never saw. An army of half a million after a year or two years of

battle-life, will not calmly return to its wonted avocations,

notwithstanding all that has been said to that effect. A warrant for

Western lands, which will possibly bring a hundred dollars, will seem

but a small matter to men who have seen unlimited paths to competence in

the rich fields of the South. They will not comprehend why the enemy

should be allowed to retain his possessions while they themselves have

been thrown out of employment. There is to be some end to this

protecting the rights and property of rebels. And it is very certain

that a vast number of those who were non-combatants will perfectly agree

with them.

It is pleasant to see the process of reconstruction going on so well in

New-Orleans under the bayonets of our troops. But neither in New-Orleans

nor elsewhere has it any vitality save under Northern direction, aided

by Northern industry. The hatred of the South for the old Union is

insane, terrible, and ineradicable. The real secessionists will never

come back, they will never be conciliated. They will oppose Union,

oppose free labor, hinder our every effort to benefit them, and be our

deadly foes to the last. We might as well abandon now and forever any

hope of reconstruction to be founded on reformed secessionists. A large

party there is--and it will, if properly protected, become much

larger--who will join the Union for the sake of preserving their

property. _But this party will not be increased a single man by our

neglecting to punish those who have been active rebels_, while on the

other hand it will dwindle to nothing if left exposed to temptation and

enmity. We must proceed with the utmost energy, and our only hope is in

a complete reörganization of the South, by infusing into it Northern

blood, life, ideas, education, and industry. And the only effective

means of doing this will be to settle our army in the South. The task

before us is a tremendous one, but so is the war, and we must not flinch

from it.

We have come to an era of great ideas and great deeds, such as rarely

overtake nations in history, and which when they do, either crush them

to the dust or elevate them to the topmost pinnacle of glory. Petty

expediency, timid measures, small politics, will no longer help this

country. There is a great cause of evil in America--slavery--which is

destined to disappear, and which _will_ disappear whether we legislate

for or against it. It _is_ disappearing now under the influences of the

war. Beyond it lies the equally great evil of Southern hatred, inertia,

laziness, ignorance, and depravity. We must learn to live in the great

ideas of making all this disappear before superior intelligence,

industry, and humanity. The great principles of free labor, scientific

reforms and culture, the enlargement of capital, the feeding and

teaching the poor, should become as a deep-seated religion in our

hearts, and we should live and labor to promote this great and holy

faith which is in reality the practical side of Christianity--that great

shield of the poor. To extend these doctrines over the whole continent

is a noble mission, and one not to be balked or hindered by foolish

scruples or weak pity for a pitiless foe.

He who can raise his mind to the contemplation of the government of

North-America, ruling over a perfectly _free_ continent, may see in the

future such a picture of national greatness as the world never before

realized. _Every_ State attracting the eager labor of millions of

emigrants--for there will be no cause in future for the foreigner to

carefully shun the slave hive--the native American directing as ever the

enterprises--one grand government spreading from ocean to ocean--the

whole growing every year more and more united through the constant

increase of industrial interests and mutual needs--this is indeed a

future to look forward to. And it is no idle dream. It will be something

to be an American when we count one hundred millions of _united_

freemen.

The first step in this advance lies right before us. It will be in

'Northing' the South and in completely sweeping away, by means of free

labor and free schools every trace of the foul old negro-owning

arrogance. And to do this we must begin by finding or making a way to

induce a large portion of the army to remain in the South and reform it.

It is a grand scheme, but we live in the day of great deeds, and should

not flinch from them.

It is, however, tolerably clear to him who looks to the future, that

whether we boldly embrace this scheme or not, it will force itself upon

us or else entail some great disaster. It is more to our interest to

reward the army with Southern land-grants than it is even for theirs to

accept them. The longer we bolster up in its possessions an insolent

enemy, so much the longer shall we have to support an army and pay

taxes. The sooner we weaken the enemy by introducing industrial rivals

into his country, the better it will be for us.

If it be difficult to settle our army all over the South, let there be

at least a vigorous beginning made in Texas, and other States. With

Texas thoroughly colonized from the North and from Europe, sedition

would be under constant check, and its boasted cotton supremacy

completely held in by an unlimited rival supply of free-labor cotton.

Every Southern port should be held and governed as New-Orleans is now

being treated. In due time there would spring up a new generation of

Southrons who would think of us as something else than cowardly,

vulgar, stingy serfs, and learn that social merit is conferred not by

being born on this or that piece of 'sacred' dirt, but by full

development and exercise of the talents with which God has gifted us.

But to do all this there must be _no flinching_. This is not the time to

prate of the 'unrepresented rights' of traitors, or wince at the

prospect of reducing to poverty the men who have labored for years to

reduce us to utter ruin!

JOHN McDONOGH THE MILLIONAIRE.

In the year 1850, and for nearly forty years previous, there could be

seen almost every day in the streets of New-Orleans, a very peculiar and

remarkable looking old gentleman. Tall and straight as a pillar, with

stern, determined features, lit up by eyes of uncommon, almost unnatural

brilliancy, with his hair combed back and gathered in a sort of queue,

and dressed in the fashion of half a century ago, to wit, an old blue

coat, with high collar, well-brushed and patched but somewhat 'seedy'

pantaloons, of like date and texture, hat somewhat more modern, but

bearing unmistakable proof of long service and exposure to sun and rain;

old round-toed shoes, the top-leathers of which had survived more soles

than the wearer had outlived _souls_ of his early friends and

companions; a scant white vest, ruffled shirt, and voluminous white

cravat, completed the costume of this singular gentleman, who, with his

ancient blue silk umbrella under his arm, and his fierce eye fixed on

some imaginary goal ahead, made his way through the struggling crowds

which poured along the streets of New-Orleans.

The last time this strange and spectral figure was seen making its

accustomed rounds was on the twenty-sixth of October, 1850. On that day,

a very remarkable event occurred, which attracted the notice of

passers-by and was even snatched up as an item by the ever-vigilant

reporters of the daily press; this consisted simply in a notable

variation from the routine and habits of the old gentleman in the

long-tailed blue. He was seen to stop on Canal street, to hesitate for a

few moments, and then deliberately enter an omnibus bound for the lower

part of the city. Such an occurrence created quite a sensation among

street-corner gossippers. There must really be some new and pressing

emergency, which could produce this departure from the custom and

invariable habits of forty years; so said every one who knew the old

gentleman. The omnibus stopped at the court-house; the subject of these

observations and his blue umbrella emerged from it, and both soon

disappeared in the corridor leading to the so-called halls of justice.

That was the last that was ever seen of the strange old gentleman on the

streets of New-Orleans. The evening journals of the next day contained

the following obituary:

'Died this morning, the twenty-seventh of October, 1850, at

McDonoghville, opposite the city of New-Orleans, after a short

illness, John McDonogh, a native of Baltimore, but for forty years

a resident of Louisiana.'

And the strange old man, who could not ride a few squares in the omnibus

without attracting the attention of every body and exciting public

curiosity to such a degree, was the millionaire, the Croesus of the

South, the largest land-owner in the United States. He had reached the

advanced age of seventy, and his remarkable vigor and health had never

given way under the pressure of the severest and most incessant labor.

Generation upon generation had lapsed into the grave under his eye. A

few, a very few shriveled old men were known to him as cotemporaries.

Suddenly, while pursuing so eagerly his imaginary goal, he was seized

with faintness on the street. Other men would have taken a cab, and

ridden home, or at least to a physician's; but when did John McDonogh

turn aside from business to relieve any weakness or want? He had an

important document to file in court. It must be done that day. He is too

weak to walk. There is the omnibus; the fare is only a dime; but that

dime is so much taken from the poor, for John McDonogh is only an agent

for the poor, so appointed and called of God. Such were the reflections

that passed through his mind before he could be induced to perpetrate

this serious violation of the settled rules of a life, this single blot

and stain on a career of unbroken self-abnegation. With a sigh, he took

his seat in the omnibus.

It was his last ride.

In a cold, desolate, dreary, brick building, constituting almost the

only visible sign of the existence of the town of McDonoghville, situate

on the right bank of the Mississippi, opposite to the centre of

New-Orleans, and in a large room, the furniture of which was

old-fashioned, worn, and time-stained, there lay on a small hard

mattress the gaunt figure of the millionaire, tortured with pain and

fast sinking under the ravages of that terrible disease, the Asiatic

cholera. The only beings near were negroes; no white persons were ever

allowed to spend the night under that roof. Those negroes were the rich

man's slaves in law, but companions and friends in fact. His immense

business, his vast estates were administered through them. Even his

documents were copied by them. They were true to him in his moment of

distress and sickness. All that their limited knowledge of medicine

could suggest was done for his relief. At last, in disregard of his

command, a physician was brought from the city, who pronounced his

condition a very critical one. The doctor's first demand was for brandy.

'Massa, there an't bin no brandy in this house for twenty years,' was

the reply of an old, gray-headed domestic.

A servant was dispatched to the nearest grocery; but it proved to be too

late. The dying man perceived his condition, and requested that his

lawyer should be sent for. In an hour that gentleman arrived. He was

just in time.

'Roselins,' he said, addressing one of the most eminent of the lawyers

of the New-Orleans bar, as he held his hand, 'You see I am going; you

see I am not afraid to die. Take care of the estate; 'tis not mine,'tis

God's and the poor's.' And thus, without a struggle, the soul of John

McDonogh passed to its Maker.

His death was truly a desolate one. No devoted relatives or friends

gathered around his couch to cheer his last moments with those tender

tokens of love and sorrow which so sweeten the otherwise bitter cup of

death. No soft hand of woman smoothed his pillow or relieved the agony

of pain and suffering by the timely opiate or emollient. No weeping

little ones were there to cheer his heart with the assurance that on

their dear pledges of affection his name and virtues will live after

him. His lawyer, physician, and his servants were the only witnesses to

the mortal agony of one who could have commanded troops of devoted

friends, and who possessed the qualities which might have adorned the

domestic and social circle.

So departed this life the rich and eccentric possessor of acres

sufficient to have made a duchy or a kingdom, and of money adequate to

the maintenance of the dignity and power of such a position.

But if his death and funeral were attended by so few witnesses, an

occasion quickly followed which was honored by the presence of a large,

eager, curious crowd. It was when his will was probated and read in

court. Intense was the curiosity of the public to know what disposition

the eccentric old man had made of his enormous property. This feeling

was soon gratified. The will was produced. It was a curious document,

written on stout foolscap by the testator himself, in a remarkably neat,

clear hand, with the lines as close as type, and his autograph signed to

every page. Being an holographic will, under the law of Louisiana it

required no witness. Ever since 1838, this will had lain among certain

old papers of the deceased; and yet, during all this time, it had been

'the thought by day and dream by night' of the devoted old millionaire.

In its preparation, he had consulted the most eminent lawyers and

studied the most approved law-books bearing on his grand scheme. Truly,

a curious, bold, and gigantic scheme it was. But let us to the will. In

a slow, solemn and impressive tone, the judge proceeded to read to an

eager and interested multitude this remarkable testament.

After setting forth, in the usual form, his nativity, his present

residence, his belief in God and in the uncertainty of life, and that he

has no heirs living in the ascending or descending line, and directing

an inventory of his property to be taken immediately after his death, he

proceeds to bequeath to the children of his sister, a widow lady in

Baltimore, a ten-acre lot in Baltimore, the usufruct to remain in the

widow, with six thousand dollars in cash. He then emancipates his old

servants, ten in number, whom he designates. The rest of his slaves he

provides shall be sent to Liberia. Certain of them are to be sent after

serving those who shall succeed to his estate for fifteen years. The

slaves to be sent to Liberia are to be supplied with plows, hoes,

spades, axes, clothing, garden-seeds, etc.; also with letters of

recommendation to the colonists, and with a copy for each of the volume

of the Holy Gospel of the Old and New Testament, as the most precious of

all the gifts we have it in our power to give or they to receive. The

will then proceeds to provide:

'And for the more general diffusion of knowledge and consequent

well-being of mankind, convinced as I am that I can make no

disposition of those worldly goods which the Most High has been

pleased so bountifully to place under my stewardship, that will be

so pleasing to him as that by means of which the poor will be

instructed in wisdom and led into the path of virtue and holiness.'

He gives all the residue of his estate to the corporations of

New-Orleans and Baltimore, in equal proportions of one half to each, for

the several intents and purposes set forth, and especially for the

establishment of Free Schools for all classes and castes of color,

wherein they shall all be instructed in the knowledge of the Lord and in

reading, writing, arithmetic, history, geography, etc., provided that

the Bible shall be used as one of the class-books, and singing taught as

an art.

And now comes the ingenious scheme which had engaged the constant

thought and study of the testator for forty years, by which the grand

passion of his soul for accumulation might survive the dissolution of

his mortal frame and still direct and control the acquisitions of his

life. Of his real estate, no part is ever to be sold; but it is all to

be let out on leases, never to exceed twenty-five years, to be improved

by the tenants or lessees. At the expiration of those leases, the

property is to revert, free of cost, to his estate, to be thereafter

rented out by the month or year. All his personal property is to be sold

and converted into real estate, the aggregate of which is styled his

general estate, which is 'to constitute' a permanent fund on interest,

as it were, namely, a real estate, affording rents, no part of which

fund (of the principal) shall ever be touched, divided, sold, or

alienated, but shall forever remain together as one 'estate.'

The net amount of rents to be divided equally between the two cities, to

be applied as follows:

1. An annuity for forty years of one eighth part, or twelve and a half

per cent of the net yearly revenue of rents of the whole of the estate,

to the American Colonization Society, provided the sum does not exceed

twenty-five thousand dollars a year.

2. For an asylum for the poor of both sexes, of all ages and castes of

color, where they may be sheltered, clothed, fed, and taken care of,

made useful according to their respective degrees of health, strength,

and capacity, and mendicity thereby be banished from the streets of the

cities, he gives one eighth, or twelve and a half per cent of the net

revenue of rents, until the sum shall reach six hundred thousand

dollars, when it shall cease. This legacy is to be received by

commissioners appointed by the corporations, who, as they receive, shall

invest the amount in bank stocks or other good securities, on landed

estate on interest, so as to augment the amount thereof by the

accumulation of interest to the largest possible amount up to the time

when the last of the annuity shall be received, when the commissioners

shall proceed to take such part of said sum, not to exceed one third of

the whole of principal and interest, and invest in the purchase of real

estate and buildings, furniture, etc., essential for the asylum; the

residue to be invested in real estate, which is never to be sold, but

always rented out for the support of the asylum. The locality and

character of the buildings are particularly described. It is recommended

that the persons who shall reside in this asylum be employed in the

cultivation of the mulberry-trees, (this was during the _morus

multicaulis_ mania.)

3. For the Orphan Boys' Asylum in New-Orleans--an existing

institution--one eighth, or twelve and a half per cent of the net yearly

revenue of rents. This annuity is to be set aside and deposited in some

bank-paying interest, until it reaches four hundred thousand dollars,

when it shall cease. This fund as it accumulates is to be invested in

real estate, which is never to be sold, but rented out, and the rents

devoted to the charity.

4. For a School-Farm in the city of Baltimore, on an extensive scale,

for the destitute and the poorest of the poor of the city of Baltimore,

Maryland; secondly, of every town and village of said State; and

thirdly, of all the great maritime cities of the United States, of all

classes and castes of color, from four years to sixteen, where they

shall be sheltered, lodged, clothed, fed, instructed in the Christian

religion, and a plain education given them, and taught husbandry

practically, as well as the science of agriculture, providing that the

Bible shall be read and singing taught, especially 'divine psalmody,'

one eighth part, or twelve and a half per cent of the whole revenue of

the general estate, to be paid until it shall amount to three millions

of dollars, when it shall cease. This sum, too, as it accrues, is to be

invested in real estate, until the whole amount of three millions is

received. One sixth of the rents from this investment is to be applied

to the purchase of the School-Farm, the other five sixths to be invested

in lots in Baltimore, which shall be leased out and the rents applied to

the support of the farm.

The modes in which these various institutions are to be governed and

directed are then set forth in tedious detail, interlarded with many

rather trite and moralizing reflections on the importance of having the

young reared up in habits of virtue and industry. A complex system of

government is arranged, and great care taken that the funds thus

bequeathed to charitable institutions shall never be controlled by the

corporations of the two cities. It is also provided, that

'No compromise shall ever take place between the Mayor, Aldermen,

and inhabitants of the city of Baltimore, in Maryland, and the

Mayor, Aldermen, and inhabitants of the city of New-Orleans, nor

shall any agreements be made between these two cities contrary to

the directions of the will. If such compromise or agreement be

made, these legacies shall be void, and the States of Maryland and

Louisiana shall receive the general estate half and half, for the

purpose of educating the poor of said States, and in case of any

lapse of the legacies to the cities, the States shall inherit the

general estate.'

After these dispositions and directions, the testator proceeds:

'Now, with the view of setting forth and explaining more fully and

particularly (if it is possible) my desires and intentions as

expressed in the foregoing dispositions of this my last will and

testament, in relation to my general estate, I will add, that the

first, principal, and chief object I have at heart, (the object

which has actuated and filled my soul from early boyhood with a

desire to acquire fortune,) is the education of the poor (without

the cost of a cent to them) in the cities of New-Orleans and

Baltimore, and their respective suburbs, in such a manner that

every poor child and youth of every color in those places may

receive a common English education, (_based, however, be it

particularly understood, on a moral and religious one_, that is,

the pupils shall on particular days he instructed in morality and

religion, and school shall be opened and closed daily with prayer.)

And in time, when the general estate will yield the necessary

funds, (for in time its revenue will be very large,) over and above

what will be necessary to the education of the poor of those two

cities and their respective suburbs, it is my desire and request

that the blessings of education may be extended to the poor

throughout every town, village, and hamlet in the respective States

of Louisiana and Maryland, and was it possible, through the whole

of the United States of America.'

After paying off all the annuities, which the testator thinks will be

completed in forty years, the net annual revenue of rents of the general

estate is to be equally divided, one half to each, between the said two

cities of Baltimore and New-Orleans, for the purpose of educating the

poor.

The testator then proceeds to inculcate a better feeling between the

poor, and rich, declaring that the latter are 'reservoirs in which the

Most High makes to flow the rich streams of his beneficence, to be laid

up and husbanded for his all-wise and all-seeing purposes, and for

seasons of distress and affliction to the poor. Instead, then, of

looking on them as their greatest enemies, they should, on the contrary,

consider them as they really are, their best friends. This is the

position of all rich men, whose hearts occupy the right place in their

bosoms, stand toward the poor.'

Then follows a remarkable and consoling confession of the superior

happiness of the poor man:

'Besides, let the poorer classes of the world be consoled, assured

that the labor-loving, frugal, industrious, and virtuous among them

possess joys and happiness in this life which the rich know not and

can not appreciate; so well convinced am I (after a long life and

intercourse with my fellow-men of all classes) of the truth 'that

the happiness of this life is altogether on the side of the

virtuous and industrious poor,' that had I children, (which I have

not,)' [how lively and sagacious the apprehension of the old

millionaire lest some putative offspring might come forward to

disturb his darling bequests!] 'and a fortune to leave behind me at

death, I would bequeath, after a virtuous education, (to effect

which nothing should be spared,) a very small amount to each,

merely sufficient to excite them to habits of industry and

frugality, and no more. As the poor man's friend, then, I recommend

to him to honor and respect the virtuous rich, and to lay these

observations to their heart and to store them up in their mind. And

to the rich, I would say, (if they own feelings, and worthy of

their regard,) 'Give them an occasional reflection.' Hoping

thereby, that the world may advance in happiness, in virtue, and

holiness.'

Lastly, the old man grows tender, sentimental, and poetic, He who for

forty years had never been seen or known to manifest a single emotion of

gentleness, of tender feeling or sentiment, of love of children, of

nature, or any domestic affection, in his last will desires to be held

in loving remembrance by the fresh young souls for whose benefit he

declares he has led his long career of toil, of self-sacrifice, and

devotion, to gain. The association of sweet flowers, sprinkled over a

green grave by the hands of innocent children, with the life and

character of one of the most intense, hard and severe devotees to Mammon

that ever lived, is a strange and incongruous one, but it was a picture

which appears to have been very distinctly sketched on the imagination

of John McBonogh, as will appear from the following clauses in his will:

'I request my executors (hereinafter named) to see that my funeral

is plain, made without parade, and with the least possible

expenses. And (I was near forgetting that) I have still one small

request to make, one little favor still to ask, and it shall be

the last: It is, that it may be permitted annually to the children

of the free schools (situate the nearest to the place of my

interment) to plant and water a few flowers around my grave. This

little act will have a double tendency: it will open their young

and susceptible hearts to gratitude and love to their divine

Creator for having raised up (as the humble instrument of his

bounty to them) a poor, frail worm of earth like me, and teach them

at the same time, what they are, whither they came, and whence they

must return.'

Such was John McDonogh's grand theory of philanthropy, which he had

devoted so many years of sacrifice, study, and labor, to mature and

prepare.

Accompanying the will, and inclosed in the same box, were certain

memoranda of instructions to his executors, who were distinguished

citizens of Baltimore and New-Orleans, including Henry Clay, of

Kentucky, and K. R. Gurley, of Washington City, These directions to his

executors are very minute and specific. Certain observations in this

document are worthy of being copied, as characteristic. His reasons for

preferring to invest in land are thus stated:

'For the base of a permanent revenue, (to stand through all time,

with, the blessing of the Most High,) I have preferred the earth,

'a part of the solid globe.' One thing is certain, it will not take

wings and fly away, as silver and gold, government and bank-stocks

often do. It is the only thing in this world of ours which

approaches to any thing like permanency; or in which at least there

is less mutation than in things of man's invention. The little

riches of this world, therefore, which the Most High has placed in

my hands, and over which he has been pleased to place and make me

his steward, I have invested therein, that it may yield (its

fruits) an annual revenue to the purpose I have destined it

forever.'

He also states his motives, as follows:

'My soul has all my life burned with an ardent desire to do

good--much good, great good--to my fellow-man, as it was chiefly by

that means, and through that channel, that I could bend, greatly

bend to the honor and glory of my Lord and Master,--which was my

soul's first, great, chief object and interest.'

He says, however, he has much to complain of the world, and gives

instances of its injustice, especially in suits, where his just claims

were ignored because he was rich:

'They said of me: 'He is rich, old, without wife or child; let us

take from him, then, what he has.' Infatuated men! they knew not

that it was an attempt to take from themselves, for I was laboring,

and had labored all my life, not for myself, but for them and their

children. Their attempts, however, made me not to swerve either to

the right hand or to the left, although to see and feel so sorely

their injustice and ingratitude made me often lament the frailty,

the perversity, and sinfulness of our fallen nature. I persevered

in an onward course, determined, as the steward and servant of my

Master, to do them good whether they would have it or not. And I

have so strove, so labored, to the last. The result is in the hands

of Him who fixes and determines all results; he will do therewith

as seemeth good unto himself.'

Who was John McDonogh, the maker of the foregoing will, and contriver of

such a grand scheme of charity? The answer to this inquiry will be the

most interesting part of this narrative. John McDonogh was born in

Baltimore, Maryland, in 1779. The only incidents of his youth that are

known are, that he was a clerk in a mercantile store in an inland town

of Maryland; that he was noted then for eccentricities, and for an

excess of imagination, which led to the apprehension that he was not

entirely of sound mind. Still his energy and intelligence secured him

employment and the confidence of his employers. About the year 1800 he

was sent out to New-Orleans by a house in Baltimore, with a letter of

credit and considerable resources. He engaged largely in business, but

soon renounced his agency, and starting on his own account, became a

leading and prosperous merchant. In a few years he accumulated a large

fortune--say at least three hundred thousand dollars--then a vast amount

in the colony. He was one of the nabobs of the city. His style of living

and habits conformed to his position and resources. His mansion was one

of the most showy and luxurious in the city. He kept his carriages and

horses, his cellar of costly wines, and entertained on a scale of great

extravagance and sumptuousness. He was, in fact, the centre of fashion,

frivolity, sociability, and even of the fashionable dissipations of the

day. His person, which even in extreme old age was remarkable for

dignity, erectness, and courtliness, at the period we write of, was

conspicuous for all the graces of manhood. Indeed, he was styled the

handsomest man in the colony. That such a young man should attract the

favorable notice of ambitious Creole beauties who then composed the only

female society in New-Orleans, of managing mothers, desirous of

providing for their daughters, or of fathers, who, in addition to the

latter motive, might also desire to secure a connection which might

promote their own business prospects, was quite natural. The handsome

American merchant, with his still handsomer fortune, was, therefore,

much courted. Though always gay, gallant, and polite, Mr. McDonogh

proved for some time invulnerable to even the charms of Creole beauty.

At last there were indications that a young Orleanoise of fortune equal

to his own, and of personal charms that were the theme of general praise

and admiration, had captured the obdurate Croesus. This young damsel

was then emerging into sweet sixteen. She was the toast and heiress of

the city. Her name and family were among the oldest in the French and

Spanish colonies. Her father was the venerable Senor Don Pedro

Almonastre, an old official under the Spanish government, who, by

prudent investments, accumulated a large property in the very centre of

New-Orleans. He it was who donated the ground on which the Cathedral of

St. Louis now stands. It is for the rest of his soul that mass is

offered up and the bells are tolled every Sunday afternoon in this

venerable temple.

The daughter and only child of Almonastre--her maiden name we

forget--was born in the Colony, of a French Creole mother. She had

attained the age of sixteen about the year 1811. It was then that Mr.

McDonogh's propositions for an alliance were favorably considered, and

all the arrangements were made for the betrothal of the parties.

Suddenly, however, a new actor appeared on the stage, who overturned

this well-arranged scheme. There resided in the city a grim, austere,

and wealthy man, who had served in the French and Spanish armies, who

was noted no less for his ferocity and pride--which had been displayed

in several sanguinary duels--than for his wealth. He had an only son, a

handsome, graceful, and fascinating young man, who, at the suggestion of

his father, and perhaps at the prompting of his own heart, stepped

forward to lay his claims at the feet of the lovely heiress of

Almonastre. Fortunately for the cause of humanity, as will appear

hereafter, though unfortunately for the American merchant, the young

Frenchman supplanted him in the regard of the fair Creole.

The alliance of two such wealthy families as the Pontalbas and

Almonastres, was a great event in the city, and it was duly celebrated

by many brilliant festivities, at the close of which the happy couple

departed for Paris, accompanied by the father of the young man.

Purchasing a splendid hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain, the Pontalbas

gave themselves up to all the fashionable dissipations of that gay city.

The younger Pontalba was appointed by Napoleon one of his pages, with

the title of Count. Leaving them to continue their gay life, we return

to New-Orleans.

The day after the marriage of Miss Almonastre to young Pontalba, there

stepped into the office of an old auctioneer on St. Louis street, no

less an individual than the rich and elegant American merchant, John

McDonogh, Esq.

'Sir,' remarked the merchant to the auctioneer, at the same time handing

him a voluminous roll of paper, 'there is the inventory of my furniture,

carriages, horses, liquors, stores, plate, and all that pertains to my

establishment in Chartres street I desire you to sell them all for cash,

immediately. Accordingly in three days the extensive establishment of

Mr. McDonogh was all converted into money, to the great surprise and

deep regret of his many friends and guests. With the proceeds he

purchased a small, lonely house, on the opposite bank of the river,

where, with scarcely furniture enough to satisfy the most ordinary use

and demands of humble life, he immured himself in perfect seclusion.

From that period until his death--forty long years--he ceased to have

any connection or association with the world except in the course of

business. He would neither dispense hospitality himself nor share that

of others. Purchasing all the land around him, he placed himself beyond

the curiosity and annoyance of near neighbors. His negro servants alone

were permitted to reside in his house, and they were the depositories of

the secrets of his household, and acted as his clerks and agents in all

his transactions with the outside world.

Whilst thus socially secluded and morose, Mr. McDonogh continued to

prosecute his acquisition of property with augmented vigor and ardor. It

was about this time his passion for accumulating vast acres of waste and

suburban land began to manifest itself. All his views regarded the

distant future. The present value and productiveness of land were but

little regarded by him. His only recreation and pleasure were in

estimating the value of his swamp and waste land fifty, a hundred, and

even a thousand years to come. This passion at last gained such an

ascendency over him that he seemed to court and luxuriate in waste and

desolation. He would buy cultivated places and allow them to go to ruin.

He would build on his lots in the city miserable shanties and rookeries,

which would taint the neighborhood and enable him to buy out his

neighbors at low rates. One of his favorite plans of operation was to

purchase the back-lands of plantations on the river, the value of which

would be increased enormously by the improvements in front of them. So

he eagerly pounced upon all the lands in the neighborhood of the towns

and villages in the State. One of the most brilliant of his feats in

this sphere was the completion of his lines of circumvallation around

the city of New-Orleans. For many years he pursued this object with the

greatest ardor and intensity. Commencing at the upper end of the city,

he stole gradually around through the swamps, purchasing large belts of

land, until at last, a few years before his death, meeting one of his

old friends in the street, he slapped him on the shoulder, and with his

face full of enthusiasm and joy,--exclaimed: 'Congratulate me, my

friend; I have achieved the greatest victory of my life. I have drawn my

lines around the city, and now entirely embrace it in my arms--all for

the glory of God and the good of my race.'

During all this eager pursuit of acres there was never any manifestation

of selfishness or of the ordinary repulsive characteristics of grasping

avarice. It is true, he was exacting, punctual, and opinionated. He

pursued his own course in all matters, but there was no misanthropy or

harshness in his manner or deportment. He rarely gave for charitable or

other purposes, for the reason that he would never sell any property he

acquired, because he said it was not his; that he was only the steward

or agent of God for certain great designs. His agency, however, did not

include a power to sell. Hence he could not be induced by any offer or

consideration to alienate any property he had once acquired. Abstemious

to a fault, withholding himself from all the enjoyments and associations

of the world, he devoted his time to the care of his large estate, to

the suits in which such acquisitions constantly involved him, working

for seventeen hours out of the twenty-four, the greater part of which

labor consisted in writing the necessary documents relating to his

titles, in corresponding with his lawyers and overseers. For the fifty

years of his residence in New-Orleans, he never left the State, and

rarely, if ever, passed beyond the limits of the corporation. It was

well known that he was entirely wrapped up in some grand scheme of

charity, the nature of which, however, was only known to a few lawyers,

with whom he consulted in regard to the legality of his proposed

dispositions, though none of them knew the mode and form in which those

dispositions were to be made.

McDonogh's scheme was certainly a grand one. In the execution of it, a

man of his character and mind might well feel and display the

extraordinary zeal and enthusiasm that gave to his appearance, habits,

and conduct the characteristics of a monomaniac. Without ever once

turning aside for pleasure, ambition, curiosity, affection, or enmity,

he steadily pursued his great design, until death released him from the

severe servitude to which he had bound himself. But, save in this entire

self-abnegation and social exclusion, Mr. McDonogh had none of the

habits of the miser. He was not a usurer, a money-lender, or a

speculator. He did not extort his riches from the distresses and

weaknesses of his fellow-men. He acquired by legitimate purchase, by

entries on public lands. He dealt altogether in land. Stocks,

merchandise, and other personal securities were eschewed by him. The

wonder is, how, with a comparatively small revenue, his property not

being productive, and his favorite policy being to render his lands wild

and unsuited for cultivation, he was able to go on every year expanding

the area of his vast possessions. Such enormous accumulations are not

surprising under the operation of compound interest on sums of money

loaned; but when effected by purchases of unproductive lands, they

constitute a puzzle which the most intimate of Mr. McDonogh's friends

have found it difficult to unravel.

So much for the labor and practice of realities of the life of the

millionaire. We must not conclude our sketch without rounding off the

romance of that life which is the starting-point in the strange career

pursued by him for forty years, with such ascetic severity and

undeviating fidelity. What became of the betrothed of the gay and

wealthy young American, from whom he had experienced the shock and

disappointment that threw so much gloom over and produced such a

thorough change in his future life? She had left with her gallant young

husband, in bright hopes of a brilliant future. For some years their

life in Paris was one of gayety, pleasure, and joyfulness. In the course

of a few years, the dissipations of Paris began to pall upon the taste

of the young couple. With unbounded wealth and means of enjoyment, they

grew _ennuyéed_, discontented, and finally contentious. Jealousy, like a

serpent, stole into their household, and involved the mind of the

husband in her snaky embrace. Rumors reached his ear which nourished

this passion, until it exploded in a violent and irreconcilable quarrel.

One of the chief instigators of the young Count, in this quarrel with

his high-spirited wife, was his own father, who, in the retirement of a

chateau near Paris, grew daily more morose and misanthropic. He had

heard that his son had been dishonored, and his rage and bitterness were

unbounded. The son abandoned his wife's hotel, and repaired to his

father's chateau, where the two lived in seclusion and gloom. After they

had been separated for some time, the Countess was either enticed by

lures thrown out by the elder Pontalba, or of her own accord resorted to

the chateau, for the purpose of consulting the Count relative to certain

dispositions of their joint property, or certain arrangements for the

education of their children, of whom there were three. The son was not

at home; but the father, receiving her in the hall, invited her into his

study. In a few moments afterward, the servants in the chateau were

aroused by the report of a pistol, followed by the scream of a woman,

and by another report; then all was silent. Rushing toward the study of

Mr. Pontalba, they forced the door open--it had been locked on the

inside--and there a terrible spectacle was presented. The Countess lay

on the floor, bathed in blood, which gushed in torrents from a large

wound in her breast, whilst her dress was burning from the nearness of

the shot by which the wound had evidently been inflicted. But a still

ghastlier object lay near. It was the body of the elder Pontalba, her

husband's father, who had blown off the top of his skull with a large

dragoon's pistol, which he still grasped in his hand. Though insensible,

it was discovered that the Countess was not quite dead. A surgeon was

soon obtained, and on examination it was discovered that though her

wound was a terrible one--three buck-shot and one large bullet having

entered her breast--yet there was some hope for her. After incredible

suffering and long confinement, she recovered; though to the day of her

death she will feel the effects of the terrible wound, to which was

added the mutilation of her hand, which caught the bullet.

The causes and circumstances of that tragedy were never unveiled to the

world. Nor is there any great desire to penetrate the mystery. The

Countess got well, and continued her fashionable life, appropriating a

large portion of her great rental in New-Orleans to the purchase of

property and the improvement of her elegant hotel in Paris. The

Revolution of 1830 found the Countess a fierce Bourboniste, and produced

such apprehension of confiscation, and danger to her life and liberty,

that she concluded to return to New-Orleans. Here she found that her

property had greatly augmented in value, and after a short sojourn in

her native city, discovering that Louis Philippe's dynasty was an

unproscriptive one, she returned to Paris, where she resided until the

Revolution of 1848 again filled her with alarm for her large

possessions. Beside, she was well known to be a conspicuous Legitimiste

of the party of Henry V. Again she returned to New-Orleans, full of

horror of Red Republicanism and Socialism, and with disgust for the

fickleness of the French.

Directing her attention, with characteristic energy and ardor, to the

improvement of her property which incloses Jackson Square, the principal

public place in New-Orleans, she built some forty elegant houses, and

then assuming the government of the municipality, she succeeded in

inducing the authorities to cut down the old trees on the square, and to

have it laid off in the parterre style. The 'Woodman spare that tree'

sentiment strongly opposed this reform; but it was vain to resist the

Countess. The trees obstructed the view of her fine rows of houses, and

down they must come, and down they did come, very much to the

improvement of the city, and to the full justification of the taste and

good sense of the Countess.

After thus improving her property, and augmenting her resources, the

Countess thought she might trust herself again in Paris, though a

parvenu filled the throne which, in her view, was justly the property of

the elder branch of the Bourbons.

But before she left, an incident occurred which must close this

desultory sketch. It happened one day, while the Countess was in a

notary's office, for the purpose of signing some deeds, that a tall,

grave, and eccentric-looking old gentleman entered, and seeing the

notary engaged, took his seat to wait his turn. After completing her

signature of the deeds, the Countess, raising her eyes from the

parchment, perceived that she was the object of close and keen

observation of the eccentric old gentleman with the very brilliant and

piercing eyes. A single glance served to bring that face and form

distinctly back to her memory. Rushing up to the old gentleman, she

threw her arms around his neck, in an affectionate embrace, exclaiming:

'Oh! Mr. McDonogh, is it you? I have not forgotten you during our long

separation.' And after a pause, her emotions checking her utterance, she

continued: 'We were once betrothed; it would have been better for both

if we had married. Is it too late to repair that fatal error?'

For the first time for forty years, the old man was deeply affected by a

tender and human feeling. The ancient love was aroused from the deep

recess of his heart, where it had kin dormant and forgotten, and for a

moment triumphed over the passion which had been growing and expanding

for the half of his lifetime, until it had gained the entire mastery of

his soul. Greatly moved by this penitence of his once-loved betrothed,

Mr. McDonogh begged to be permitted to consult his better judgment, and

tearing himself from the bewitchments of the Countess, he repaired

instantly to the office of his lawyer. Walking in with the appearance of

great excitement, he paced the office of the lawyer in an anxious and

excited manner for some time, to the profound astonishment of his

ancient counselor. At last the cause of this emotion was explained,

when, turning to his lawyer, Mr. McDonogh confessed that he was under a

great excitement, produced by meeting his old love, the Countess. 'And

what would you think now, R----, if I were to marry her?'

'I should think,' replied the unsentimental counselor, 'that you had

become crazy.'

'Ah?' replied the millionaire interrogatively, and then pausing

thoughtfully, he continued: 'And you would think right--you would think

right; so let us to business.'

HELTER-SKELTER PAPERS.

In choosing a caption for the heterogeneous collection of reflections

that are likely to be the result of the 'present writing,' the

superscriber makes no apology for his title not being also a topic to

any further extent than its consideration in this paragraph. The object

held in view in giving _any_ name to the succeeding lucubrations was

merely to obtain a starting-point; it being conceded that the

commencement of a _tas_ of papers need have no greater influence on

their course than the point of departure of a railroad-train exercises

on its terminus and intermediate stopping-places. To resort then to my

heading or its derivations for any indication of my purpose in what may

follow, would be futile, and I am free to disclaim any premeditate

purpose of governing my pen by either _hilariter_ or _celeriter_, save

as accident may determine. This, at least, gives hope of variety in the

consequences of my present step; but whether spiciness will also ensue,

will depend entirely on the humor of the writer and the complaisance of

the reader hereof. So with no further introduction, the following

children of my moods are presented for the kind consideration of those

under whose eyes they may fall.

--HAS A MAN A RIGHT TO USE AN OLD PUN IN MAKING A NEW JOKE?

This was a question which arose in the Quidnuncs coterie the other

evening, after Muggins had sent in the following, for the comic column

of a weekly paper, the editor of which had returned it gratefully but

firmly, on the score of superannuation: 'If Truth lie at the bottom of a

well, why should we be surprised that so many kick the bucket before

they are able to reach it?'

Slight sympathy was expressed for Muggins, but in my opinion that was

owing rather to the depravity evinced in the particular attempt than to

any condemnation of his conduct in making an old joke answer the purpose

of a new one. I confess that I don't see why a good pun should be

thrown aside after it has served as the soul of a single sentence. I am

a supporter of the doctrine of Transmigration of Puns. For a true pun

always has a humorous idea behind the verbal quip that is its prominent

characteristic. And though the verbal quip may be 'old as the hills,'

the joke may present a face fresh as that of a young maiden and bear a

meaning merry as her eyes. Thus an adept in this art once renovated two

veritable antiques:

'I tell thee, Binks, that the proposition is incontrovertible; any thing

that is worth doing is worth being _well done_.'

'Well, then, brother Noggs, what hast thou to say to a beef-steak? Does

not thy rule fail thee there?'

'Truly it doth, Binks; but thou wilt grant me that thine is a _rare_

exception?'

'That will I, right readily.' And both laughed heartily, and went their

ways.

--'SIR, YOU ARE TREADING ON MY FAVORITE CORN,' was the mild

protest of one in a crowd against the act of a neighbor who had

encroached on his pedal extremities, by attempting to violate the

philosophical axiom that two bodies can not occupy the same space

simultaneously. The remark raised a laugh; yet it involved a great

truth. Each of us has at least one pet infirmity, which we nurse as

earnestly, with a view to its becoming chronic, (perhaps unwittingly,)

as we strive earnestly to eradicate other morbid troubles. And the

position is true regarding moral as well as physical invalids. Who has

not often been doubly irritated by the removal of his source of

irritation? Thus Paterfamilias Bloggs, having been 'riled' by the

overcrowding of the omnibus in which he proceeds homeward, makes up his

mind that if Materfamilias B. has not provided fish-balls for supper, he

will 'raise a row.' And he so gloats in expectancy over the imaginary

denunciation that he will inflict on that long-suffering female, that he

is quite disappointed, on entering his basement, to discover at a glance

that a dish of beautifully-browned fish-balls decks the evening table.

So Bloggs' wrath is smothered, and smoulders for the rest of the

evening, finding insufficient vent in boxed ears for the children, and

short, crisp replies to civil questions from the older members of the

family. Thus you see that removing a cause does not always do away with

a consequence.

--WHO EVER GAVE A SATISFACTORY EXCUSE FOR AN INOPPORTUNE LAUGH?

Certainly, no child transgressing in this particular ever failed to

receive less than ten-fold its due of punishment therefor, as many grown

persons will join me in testifying. Especially is this true in instances

of church cachinnation. I solemnly aver that I have felt a stronger

tendency to hearty laughter in a church than I ever experienced in a

theatre, and yet I could not and can not give any satisfactory reason

for the inclination. I wanted to laugh for the child's reason,

'Because.'

Not many months since, in a land thousands of miles hence, I was

stretched upon a bed of sickness. In pursuance of the humane duties of

his calling, the minister of the Episcopal Church called upon me, and

after a short conversation, proposed addressing the throne of grace.

This he did in a few eloquent extemporaneous phrases, closing with the

Lord's prayer. Now, from the outset, I felt an uncontrollable

inclination to laugh; but for a time succeeded in restraining it. But

when, in close succession upon the minister's words, there arose from

the next room (separated from us by a thin board partition) a sepulchral

echo in the voice of my room-mate, a grim and swarthy miner, who

probably had not heard the prayer since he repeated it after his mother

at her knee, and from the still potent though long dormant force of

habit, now joined in its utterance, the incongruity of my surroundings

overcame me, and I electrified the worthy priest by bursting into a

guffaw. Looking back on the scene, I can see far more pathos than humor

in it; but at the time, the scene was to me irresistibly ludicrous. And

oh! the paltry excuse that I raked up. 'Nervousness,' I think. No

matter, I had 'spoiled the whole party and broke up the ball!' 'Tis

always the way.

* * * * *

--SOMEBODY HAS SAID THAT TO BE A SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR, IT IS ONLY

NECESSARY TO FEEL WHAT YOU WRITE. This I deny, for many reasons

which I might but will not cite, contenting myself with saying that to

write what one feels, though much more gratifying and in a moral sense

far more commendable than to conceal or falsify sentiments, is

dangerous, and has been known to cause a writer to feel not only more

than he wrote or could write, but more than he had any expectation or

desire of feeling in such connection. Thus, whenever under an assumed

but transparent title, I introduce my friend Scroggs into a little

sketch of my production, I never express in that performance my actual

estimate of Scroggs, physically or mentally. Nor in my glowing

description of the incidents of a trip to Catskill Mountain House, do I

confine myself to the expression of what I felt in viewing the many and

varied scenes of rural beauty that presented themselves during the

progress of that undertaking. Do you suppose that I would run the risk

of conveying to Claribella, who was my only companion in that

expedition, that I never was more bored in my life, and that my

conversation was the result of operating with a constantly working

though invisible pump at the well of common-places and platitudes, which

a gentleman accumulates for such emergencies in the course of his social

experience? Heaven preserve my hair, should I venture on such a step.

'But you digress,' some impatient reader suggests.

Digress! That is an impossibility in an article without a topic. But

even if I plead guilty, my impatient critic; did you ever take a walk in

the country, and if so, did you choose those broad roads that lead to

churches and the village stores and the 'Academy,' or did you plunge, by

some little modest path, into the recesses of a grove, careless whither

your steps carried you, so content you were to yield to the enchanting

guidance of accident? And what though, in following your bent, you were

compelled to climb an occasional fence or cross a chance puddle, the

satisfaction of coming suddenly upon some pleasant view, or unexpectedly

entering an apparently previously unexplored nook, more than atoned for

such trifling annoyances. Without digression in some degree, neither

spoken nor written language can be made entertaining to the person

addressed. Who is more discursive than the Autocrat, the Czar of

table-talkers; and whose productions are more charming or wiser? We do

not do our everyday thinking in strictly logical or consistent forms. It

is sufficient to introduce hypotheses, premises, or syllogisms, when

there are ends to be attained by such a course. Impulse is far more

attractive than prim consistency in the character of those we love; and

if this be true as to pet persons, why not in our favorite writings? So

the most charming women I have met would be styled in Spanish _las

inconsecuentes_. Therefore, when amusement is the aim of writing, let

digression have full swing.

--I ENVY A GOOD TALKER. There is no class of persons so

generally underrated and vilified, yet this would be a dull world

without them. And the faculty is not to be acquired. Really good talkers

are born, not made. (And some, I hear a skeptic say, are not to be borne

in certain contingencies.) Talk is like a river; it rushes onward, by

expression of ideas, _making room for thoughts_ to follow, and the dull

elf, whose mouth is a mill-dam, finds his fancies and thoughts

accumulate on his brain, till that organ is dull and sodden as is his

facial aspect. Why is it that some can only be fluent from the point of

a pen, while others can only address their fellows effectively by word

of mouth? Of course there are conversational monsters as well as other

violations of nature's creative processes. And the more thought that

talk holds in solution, the more grateful the offering. But I have

often listened attentively and pleasurably to an hour's flow from the

lips of a pretty, graceful woman, or an interesting child, just saying

enough myself to prove that sleep had not seized me. And at the

subsidence of the tide, I could not for the life of me recall a single

idea to which verbal embodiment had been given. Perhaps I had been

carried away by the music of tone, or the charming, ever-changing curves

of the opening and closing lips, or the dimples in the cheeks, as they

budded, blossomed, and faded in the light of the now laughing, now

languishing eyes, that never lost their hold of mine, yet never bore

mine down by that most intolerable of all social manifestations--a

stare.

* * * * *

--I have a friend, who declares that he has LOST A SMILE. Not

one from his sweetheart, for that would be either recoverable or

replaceable with another. The smile he mourns is--his own. To speak

plainly, he has lost, through neuralgia, the control over the risible

muscles of his face, and they not only refuse to obey him in his desire

and design to beam upon all peaceful comers, but occasionally put in

motion another set of facial strings, which give him a depressed and

lachrymose air when he would fain appear most jubilant. He says he never

till now knew how much of his facial aspect was artificial. His present

condition is only relieved when he is under the control of some powerful

emotion. _Then_ he can laugh as heartily and present the appearance of

so doing as fully as ever. It is only the conventional smile, the bland,

self-possessed smile of society, that is utterly gone from him. I

elicited the confession by entering his room noiselessly one day, and

detecting him in the act of making the gloomiest grimaces at a small

boarding-house mirror on the wall. He was much confused, and at first

denied any such employment; but ultimately admitted that he had been

practicing facial gymnastics for the purpose of simulating the smile he

had lost. Perhaps some of our fashionable dentists may be able to aid

him by a suggestion. They certainly have more smiles at their command

than any class of men that have come under my observation. How singular

that the most ferocious quadrupeds and the blandest of men should evince

their most contrasted characteristics--fierceness and amenity--by

showing their teeth.

I sometimes think those are blessed who are endowed with a coarse

organization. Sensitive people are chronic martyrs. Their nerves are so

many toes, that their neighbors and friends are perpetually treading on.

Not only are the pangs of such more acute, but the occasions of injury

are infinitely multiplied by super-susceptibility. Talk of the happy

hours of childhood! Ask nine persons out of ten, who are of susceptible

organization, at what period in life their sufferings were most intense

and unremitting, and if they be gifted with good memories, their reply

will be, 'before adolescence.'[3] For susceptibility of nerve implies

also high mental capability, acute intelligence, vivid imagination, all

of which go to intensify sensation, and thus to aggravate the mischief.

And our sympathy is due to one who by one of those strange

contradictions in human nature finds herself, a highly nervous creature,

the victim of an affection for one of the coarser organizations to which

I have alluded. I say victim, for such attachments seldom result

happily. The effect produced, in the first instance, by the magnetism of

a strong over a weak nature gradually dies away. With it die the

brilliant colors in which the beloved has been invested by the belover,

and life is thenceforward only lit up by the lamps that heaven sets in

the eyes of the little children that sometimes cheer the darkness of

these ill-assorted unions.

* * * * *

--'SIR WE ARE TOO POOR TO BE ECONOMICAL.' These were the words

which I once heard a woman use to a rich relative of her husband, who

had followed up his refusal of assistance by allusions to many little

short-comings which he had noted in the domestic details of the family.

The phrase seems to involve a contradiction; but a little consideration

will show even the most superficial thinker that it expresses a truth.

Great is the power of ready money. Ready money can save by wholesale

purchases. Ready money can save by choice of place of purchase. Ready

money can save by choice of proper time for purchase. Ready money can

save by discount obtained under threat of discontinuance of trade; a

threat futile in the mouths of the poor. Ready money can save in

furniture and wearing apparel, by being able to provide the best in

fabric and construction, and therefore the most lasting. But it is

needless to extend the catalogue of ready money's powers. None know them

better than those who seldom are able to obtain their aid.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Quevedo has broadly satirized his faith in 'Childhood's

happy hour'. In his _Visions of Hell_, where Satan, wearied by the

continual grumbling of the condemned, requests them to leave, go back to

life, be born again, and live it all over. On due reflection, they

conclude that rather than suffer the whippings, schoolings, and

scoldings incident to boy and girlhood, they--would prefer to stay where

they were.--NOTE BY EDITOR.]

SKETCHES OF THE ORIENT.

The world is undergoing a wonderful change. Even within the memory of

some twenty-five years, what events have occurred to verify the remark.

Civilization changes all the preconceived perfections of the past, and

introduces new scenes of life; it reforms without injuring, and leaves

us undecided as to the value of the progress made. New customs and new

habits leave man where he was; his nature is still the same, and perhaps

he has only engrafted on a faulty structure what neither embellishes nor

improves, and shows how slow is the progress of the human mind toward

this goal for which it has, since the commencement of time, been bent.

This is peculiarly verified in the 'Orient,' the most ancient of climes

and lands. Through the mist of so many centuries, so many thousands of

years, the 'far East' has followed the 'even tenor of its way' through

revolutions and systems; its usages have been consecrated by time, and

the parent has handed down to his son the usages which were more nearly

allied to the natural state of man than those of the more famed and

progressing 'West.' The animal has had more sway than the intellectual

part of his nature, and what the curious traveler most admires is the

still primitive condition of the latter. Violence there reigns superior

to reason, and if changes be made, the former consults but little the

latter in the measures which it adopts for the prosecution of its plans.

There is seldom any appeal made by the reformer to the understandings of

the people to be reformed; they must blindly adopt the innovations

offered, and this without the means of contrasting what they are thus

compelled to receive at the hand of the bestower with what they forsake.

Tossed in the billows of doubt, they are exposed to the rocks of

misconception, and are too often wrecked through the total absence of

any chart to guide them in their new voyage of life. The transitory step

is always a dangerous one to a people who have not entire confidence in

their leader, for his plans may inspire neither conviction nor approval,

and if they fail, leave his followers exposed to all the fury of storms

without any haven in which to seek a refuge.

Sultan Mahmoud, believing that European civilization was superior to

that of the East, imagined that he adopted it, when he only assumed its

exterior, the costume of Frankistan. How little did he know of the

defects to which this simplest part of it led. Luckily, he adopted only

the habiliments of the male sex, leaving those of the female unchanged.

The flowing robes, full of ease and comfort; the turban, soft to the

head, and giving it protection from the colds of winter and the heats of

summer; the commodious shoe, which leaves the feet uncrumpled and free

from the results of the tighter and closer ones of the West, were laid

aside for the dress of Europe. The only part of the garb which we use,

that he did not assume and compel his people to accept, was the unseemly

and uncomfortable hat, and this he would also have taken, had religion

not interposed to prevent it. Of all parts of the Christian's costume,

the hat is the most calculated to inspire disgust in the sight of the

native of the Orient, and if ever he adopts it, it is because it is

supposed to cover him with protection against the injustice of his own

rulers, and not from any preference or even choice. It is always an

object of ridicule, and serves to point many a remark of derision and

contempt against the wearer. On the other hand, what is more noble and

dignified than the turban, with its snowy white folds, or its varied

hues of green or red? Just as the external appearance of the colored

man, and the knowledge of his total deprivation of civil abilities

perpetuates the existing prejudice against him, so does the dress of the

Frank clothe him with all that is distasteful and revolting in the eyes

of the native of the East, with his prejudices dating back to the

earlier days of the prophets. To pass over the external appearances of

the reformed Eastern, let us examine the results of the civilization of

Europe with which his costume has clothed him. Tight clothes have

unfitted him for the broad and soft luxury of the sofa, and many persons

resume the flowing robe and full trowsers within doors, so as to be able

to enjoy the comforts which they lost with them. For the same reason,

they must sit at a high table, on a high chair. The sleeve of the tight

coat scarcely permits of being rolled up, so that the man of the East

can return to his primitive use of his fingers in place of the fork, and

for this he rejects the coat for the flowing pelisse, or he goes to his

meal in his shirt-sleeves. It is amusing to see the _homme de bureau_,

or the humble clerk, endeavoring to sit on his sofa cross-legged, with

his writing paraphernalia before him as formerly, or to examine the

broad chair which he has had to invent, so as to suit himself to his new

transitory state. It may even be doubted whether he has gained any thing

by the change, as a _cavalier_, for the full trowsers were far more

comfortable than the present tight pantaloons, and any one who has seen

the Bedouin horsemen, with their commodious saddles and flowing robes,

must have given them his entire approbation in point of contrasted

beauty.

As yet the Oriental has made no innovation in his domestic life and

habits, or if any, it is that his ladies wear the slender _botine_ of

the Christian lady in place of the loose slipper of former years. As yet

there is no commingling of the sexes, no excursions by land and sea in

boats or carriages together, in undisturbed and unrestricted familiar

intercourse. The lady of the house has not yet met her husband's friends

at the dinner-table, at the social _soirée_, or in the ball-room. He is

quite willing to go to these, at the house of his Frank friend, but he

has not been convinced of the propriety of the change, and his sovereign

has not carried his reforms into harem life. It will require some years

yet to fit the Oriental for witnessing the displays of female beauty at

such places with the calm indifference of the more accustomed native of

Frankistan. He is willing, however, to commingle with the females of his

European neighbors' household, even to embrace them in the mysteries of

the mazy polka or waltz; but he hesitates admitting that such are the

advantages or benefits of civilization. Indeed, it may be doubted

whether his own wife and daughters would suffer such, were they told

that they might do so without fear of reproach; for it is mostly to the

mothers and wives that the Eastern world owes its tardy progress in the

civilization of the West. Some time since, during the late Carnival,

there was a Persian ambassador present at a ball given by the Italian

minister, attended by the ambassador extraordinary of the Shah of

Persia, who had never been to Europe or in a 'civilized European'

society. Being asked by a foreign gentleman how he was, and how he liked

the ball, he frankly replied, that such an exhibition as that of the

beautiful ladies assembled there _decollé_, etc., had taken him quite by

surprise; that it was more than his nerves could stand, and he felt so

bad that he thought of leaving the ball and retiring to his own

quarters. The same gentleman, to induce him to remain, jocosely told him

that it was the paradise of the Christian, whilst his (that of

Mussulmans) was in the life to come. At this he smiled, and turning

toward a bevy of very handsome young ladies, dressed in the hight of the

fashion, his eyes gloating on the fair scene, answered, that he admired

the Christian paradise very much, and as the other was somewhat

uncertain, he thought he could be satisfied with the persons now around

him. It is quite possible that, except for the loss of dignity which

would have attended the act, the Shah's ambassador might easily have

been induced to join in a polka with one of the infidel houris then

present.

Many of the Mussulmans (Turks) of Stamboul come over the Golden Horn to

Pera, to witness the merry scenes of the Christian Carnival. They do not

select the most fashionable places of resort, and consequently fall into

rather doubtful company. They come sometimes with a companion or two,

but prefer to have only their own people with them, or at most a _toady_

or two to keep them in countenance. Such a person finds a conspicuous

place, where he can see what is going on, throws off his more than half

European coat, puts on his loose pelisse, calls for his _Tchibook_, or

pipe, and, it must be added, something very much like hot punch, and

goes in for the full enjoyment of the evening. In an hour or two, he is

rather 'pulverized,' and very disregardful of what he says and does. The

true semi-barbarian then comes to view; he becomes very ostentatious,

and is disposed to act the fast man; a friend will always find him a

lady, whom he invites to accompany him over to his _konak_, (private

dwelling in Stamboul,) which she refuses; he urges her to play _faro_ or

_rouge et noir_ with _his_ money, which she does, until his purse is

rather light, and by this time our Turk is so far insensible as to

require to be conveyed to his carriage by the toadies or private

attendants above mentioned. This he thinks is all right, and calls it _à

la Franka_, or conformably with European civilization and fashion.

The Armenian and Greek ladies, too, are adopting the same ideas of

reform and improvement in social life. One of the former, a fair,

married lady, of good family, having lately fallen in with a young and

handsome foreigner attached to one of the legations, allowed his visits

to become more and more frequent, so that one day her husband, returning

home rather sooner than expected, caught the couple in _flagrante

delicto_. This was carrying European civilization somewhat to a delicate

point; but she shielded herself against the husband's reproaches by the

assertion that it was _à la Franka_, and the matter was compromised

without any 'secession movement.'

The late Sultan built a theatre, and had a corps of ballet-girls for

private amusement. He frequently gave entertainments at the former to

the foreign legations, and one season even attended a _bal paré_ at the

British Embassy, and a _bal en ordinaire_ at the French. This rather

startled some of his subjects; but as such things were considered _à la

Franka_, it passed over without any serious results. At the former, it

is said, an amusing incident occurred, which, if not altogether true,

is _bon troveto_. The late Sultan was extremely sensitive about coming

in close contact with non-believers in the principles of the blessed

Prophet. He never could touch the letter accrediting a foreign

ambassador without hastening to perform ablutions, and as to conforming

to the custom of shaking hands with an infidel, it was too horrible to

be thought of for a moment. All animals, except horses, he held in

abhorrence, and changed his entire costume several times a day, if he

happened to have occasion to expose himself even to the winds blowing

from the direction of the infidel hill on which Pera, the residences of

the Christians, are built. On his arrival at the ball in question, he

was, as is customary, shown into a private apartment, for a moment's

repose previous to entering the salon in which hundreds of gay visitors

were collected. The apartment happened to be that of the lady of the

Ambassador, in fact, her _boudoir_, in which her poodle-dog, _Bijou_,

had been accustomed to stay. Scarcely had the Sultan taken a seat,

before poor Bijou made his appearance, and was at once driven away by

some of the frightened attendants; but soon after returning unnoticed,

the spiteful brute approached the Sultan, and offered the greatest

indignity in his power to the pantaloons of the sensitive monarch.

Imagine the indignation which occurred, and the designs of the wily

British Ambassador to civilize the Turkish Sultan would have been wholly

frustrated had not the chief gardien of the Sultan's wardrobe

fortunately brought with him a full fresh suit for his master, in case

of eventualities.

On the same occasion, the British Ambassador, for the same laudable

purpose of civilizing the various clergy of the Ottoman capital, had

insisted upon the Armenian, Greek, and Catholic Armenian Bishops and the

Greek Rabbi of the Jews appearing at his _bal paré_ in their canonicals!

Against this they strongly remonstrated, but the influence of the

Ambassador was greater than their own, and they had to make their

_débût_ at his ball in full dress. But this was, however, soon

forgotten, as it was all _à la Franka_.

Some years ago, the late Sultan, on the occasion of the circumcision of

one or two of his sons, gave a series of entertainments to his own

functionaries, and one to the foreign diplomatic corps, in one of the

valleys on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus, called Hyder Pacha. With

the view of properly amusing the foreign legations, _à la Franka_, the

Sultan got up an extemporary theatre, adjoining the splendid pavilion,

in which his guests were assembled. The play selected as best calculated

for the purpose, was the _Milliner's Shop_, the like of which the Sultan

had noticed while passing through the great street of Pera--the windows

filled with bonnets, dress-caps, crinolines, etc., and very handsome

dolls, some quite as 'large as life,' _decollé_, and thanks to the

miniature crinolines, often showing very well-made chaussures and

ankles. The little stage was not much raised above the green sward of

the valley--a ditch had been dug out for the use of the orchestra, and

the counter of the milliner separated this from the audience. As the

whole affair had been got up rather hurriedly, the _entrepreneur_ had

not been able to procure a sufficient number of blocks on which to

exhibit the bonnets and caps, and as men were readily obtained for the

purpose, holes were cut in the counter, through which these thrust their

heads, and on them rested the articles in question. A man also figured

against the wall, on whom to hang up a ready-made dress or two, while

his head also served as a block for a first-rate bonnet with flowers and

feathers to suit the occasion. Now the weather had threatened a change,

and much to the regret of the Sultan and his Court, who had it at heart

to give such an entertainment to the diplomatic corps of Europe as would

tell largely in the papers, and prove the great progress made by him in

civilization, just as the play commenced, the rain began to fall in

torrents. In their pavilion, the foreign ambassadors, etc., were

somewhat secure, but not so the _dramatis personæ_. The ditch soon

filled with water, and the orchestra had to hold their instruments above

their heads, while the water rose to their waists, and finally drove

them to open 'secession.' But the man-blocks which supported the

millinery were still more to be pitied. Their heads were fast in the

holes made, and partially closed again in the centre, so that they were

unable to escape from the rain which deluged the whole affair. The water

fell in torrents over the gay bonnets, caps, crinolines, etc., until

they became a mass of tawdry, and the bare pates of those under them

came ludicrously into view. It required the assistance of a carpenter

and his aids to get the poor fellows free from their bondage, and enable

them to seek safety in flight. As to the man fastened against the wall,

he bore his torture, and the merriment which he occasioned among the

audience, for some time, but finally was compelled to put an end to his

part of the entertainment by a timely retreat.

Sultan Mahmoud was the first reformer of the Ottoman Empire, and his

second son, Sultan Abd-ul-Aziz, the last. The reforms of the late

Sultan, Abd-ul-Mejid, nearly ruined him, and the consequence is, that

the present sovereign has wisely concluded to fall back upon some of the

older fashions of his people. Mahmoud thought to drive away the

remembrance of the Dervish-Janissaries whose violences seldom allowed a

Sultan to die of disease, and never of old age. To effect this, he

disbanded their several corps, and created new ones, in another dress.

Perhaps this was wise at the time, but the object once reached, he

might--or his successor, at most--have restored the broken spirit of his

people, by a return to their national costume. It was only by force and

fear that he induced his new troops to adopt the dress of the deeply

detested Ghiaours, and the measure greatly alienated the respect and

affections of his subjects, especially those of the interior of the

empire. The higher classes of the capital assumed it with less reserve,

on account of the economy which it admitted, and because it was _à la

mode_, but the lower were less disposed to lay that one aside which had

been worn by their ancestors, and served to designate the true

Mussulman. The picturesque costume of the natives of Arabia, of Egypt,

Syria, and Albania, had to be thrown aside for the tight pantaloons and

coat of the Infidel, and Mahmoud went so far even as to require the

_Bombardiers_ of his army to wear a head-dress, black, and tall as a

hat, differing from it by the absence of a rim, and open on the top,

covered only with a bag of dark silk, drawn together with a cord. This,

how-ever, disappeared in the reign of his successor.

The present Sultan has adopted a middle course. Without either restoring

the costumes of the Janissaries, or even assimilating the habiliments of

his troops to that which they wear in their own country, which would

have inspired a strong and useful _esprit de corps_, he has accepted the

uniform of the Zouave and Turcos of the French army. It is sufficiently

Oriental to meet the object desired, and is very popular in the Sultan's

army. It leaves to the wearer the free use of his limbs, but as a

parade-dress will not show so favorably, to European eyes, as the more

dignified dress of the Guards. The most difficult part of a military

costume is the head-dress; and the common red cap of the Turks, called

the _Fez_, is even more objectionable than the unseemly slouched hat

worn in the regular army of the United States. Around this cap the

Sultan has had a small turban bound, in one or two folds, which is a

relief to the eye, and easily kept in order. It is readily taken off, in

case of need, and may be bound around the waist as a sash, or girdle.

This change in the dress of his army has given to his people the idea

that their new Sultan is anti-Christian, and will restore the Ottoman

Empire to its former state and condition. How far this will be verified,

still rests to be seen. Reforms not entirely needed, and but half

carried out, leave the recipients in that transitory state which weakens

and demoralizes without effecting any permanent and real benefit. An

external change is certainly less efficient than a moral one, but it

goes far toward influencing the feelings of patriotism and loyalty which

are so essential to man in his political condition, and it is more than

probable that the anti-reforms of Sultan Abd-ul-Aziz will effect more

real good in his capital, and elsewhere, than the boasted reforms of his

illustrious father.

WITCHES, ELVES, AND GOBLINS.

The creative power of man, though so much boasted, is after all but a

mere phantom--a vapor which rises from the ground and floats with little

change of form from place to place. The diapason which we thought so

extensive, appears, on inquiry, to consist of only a few notes, and the

changes that may be rung upon them, may almost be counted upon the

fingers. Homer's fables are near of kin to those of Shakspeare; the

legends of ancient Greece find their details mirrored exactly in the

traditions of Spain, Scotland, and Scandinavia. Whether in the remoter

fogs of the past some glimmering traces of light may lead us to discover

a common origin, a universal fountain, whence proceed pure and limpid

all the streams that are contaminated by baser contact in their later

course, is a question which might mightily task the most powerful minds.

The gods of Greece and Rome are reproduced in Odin and Thor, Freia, and

Gerda and Tduna. Aphrodite at Athens, Venus on the Seven Hills, Freia in

the North, differ but in name. Dark hair and coal-black eyes, and a

warm, sunny beauty may please the ardent inhabitants of Greece and Rome;

the Swedes and Germans may bow before golden hair and blue eyes, fair

and blooming cheeks. But transport the Grecian Aphrodite to the

Dofrefield glaciers, and she will soon grow white as their snow, her

eyes will fade to the pale cold blue of their skies, and with the winter

frosts her hair will turn like fall leaves, golden yellow; and under the

sun of Italy, Freia will tan to the burning, dark-hued, voluptuous Venus

of the South. The two soils naturally breed the one cold statues, the

other passionate life, but these two different phases are in themselves

identical, Thor's hammer, and the various wonderful exploits of the

Northern gods and goddesses, their dim, ill-defined notions of creation,

of time and space, and of future worlds, are but natural growths from

the nature of the North. Their gods, like their men, are all action, and

to raise their actions above those of the human race, they naturally

invest them with peculiar supernatural physical endowments, and a

strange, mysterious mode of action. The powers of magic come to their

aid; they are not absolutely omnipotent. Dwarfs forge them invincible

arms in subterranean caverns; earth, air, fire, and water, conspire to

assist them. The elements rage or are appeased at their command.

In the same way the gods of Greece and Rome are all repose. Their

actions acquire a superiority over those of man not by supernatural

agencies or extraordinary developments of physical power; their

preëminence lies in the quiet assumption of power, in the immediate

sequence of action on volition. Their divinity is esoteric, consisting

in attributes innate and not assumed. Action with them is power; but in

the North power must be superadded.

Thus we find all the various attributes embodied in the gods of the

South, likewise deified and modified in the North, Thus Loke is the

Mercury of the ancients. He is the same sly rogue as Hermes, though he

has not some of the better qualities of that god. He is essentially the

god of deceit. His deceptions are more subtle and deep-laid than those

of the Grecian adept. He combines with the Pagan element something of

the old Christian Satanic element. Without the horn and hoof of the

Christian devil, he has all his peculiar mental qualities, and uses them

to the great prejudice and harm of the other gods. So, likewise, with

many of the more human [Greek: muthoi]. We find the same ideas to spring

up in the agora of Athens, the wilds and snows of Norway, and the

heathers and hills of Scotland. The fable of the Sirens finds an exact

counterpart in the North. Like Ulysses, Duke Magnus and innumerable

others escape with difficulty from the charms and enticements of

sea-nymphs. Sometimes it is their wonderful song which the earth and

the elements obey as they did Orpheus, that attracts them. Sometimes it

is by more sensual blandishments, and sometimes by sweet and tender

persuasion, _suadæ medullâ_. Mountain elves start from the ground, and

from unseen caverns, and attempt to entice brave knights to their ruin;

they dance round them beneath the trees, and endeavor to make them join

in their dances. The natural fortitude of the stalwart champions is

rarely able to resist the temptation, and they are always on the point

of falling, when some unoffending barn-yard fowl sounds the signal for

retreat, or some Christian word is uttered, or sign made, and the fair

visions vanish, either naturally or in divers shapes with odors of

brimstone and sulphur. The differences between the Grecian and the

Northern conceptions are striking. In the Greek the forms are clear and

vivid. The sirens are beautiful women, with angelic voices and vulture's

talons. There are nothing but conceivable realities in their story.

There is nothing strange or supernatural in their accessories. But in

the Scandinavian elves the case is different. They vanish and reäppear

at different times; they have no actual, permanent existence. The crow

of a cock or the sign of the cross is enough to drive them back to their

hiding-places. They shun daylight and fixed, customary spots. They

generally surprise casual travelers, and upon them in lone, romantic

spots, practice all their arts of enticement and seduction. There is

always something of magic, of the supernatural, connected with them. The

Greek sirens are not like common women; but once conceive of their

physical existence, and you understand them thoroughly. Their laws of

action are purely human, and we do not find them one half so unnatural

as our neighbor that has a splay foot or a hunchback. The Northern

witches, however, are formed like human females, but obey unknown and

mysterious powers. The commonest words and associations of men are bans

to them. Only so long do they have power as nothing human disturbs and

overthrows their supernatural spells.

Again let us look for a moment at another division of Grecian fiction.

The grim Cyclops who toils for Vulcan, working like mortal men, and

forging divine things, it is true, like any Grecian blacksmith, has a

counterpart of a somewhat different character in the North. The reality

and vividness of the Greek changes as we approach the Pole. In deep

caverns distorted, strange little dwarfs work by the aid of supernatural

powers wondrous weapons, swords of incredible qualities, armor that

defies mortal blades, bracelets of wondrous and cunning finish and

singular properties--all here is miraculous, the workman, the process,

and the work. The vividness with which Homer presents to us the one-eyed

Polyphemus, with his tree-staff and his ponderous body, is exchanged by

the Scandinavian for smallness, indistinctness of form and of power. The

grand in the South is obtained by giving enlarged pictures of man as he

is; in the North, by investing him with strange, magic, mysterious

qualities. In mental as well as material nature, a general haziness of

outline conveys the idea of greatness as strongly, though in another

manner, as the sharp and perceptible outline of any thing really great.

This peculiarity we shall find running through the literature, the

character, and the mind of the two nations. The North is misty,

undefined, illimited; the Greek is clear as crystal, sharp and angular,

on every side. Its conceptions are never vague, but are tangible, real,

and human. Thus with the Greek, a vast ocean, like that they know,

encircles the whole earth, and fixes its bounds and the limits which man

shall not pass; the Northerns compassed it about with a vast serpent of

immense size, which bounded infinity and space, time and eternity,

thereby mirroring, in some degree, as it were, the ancient symbol for

time and space without end, the snake biting his own tail, the circle

with no one beginning nor end. The heaven of the Greeks is the summit of

one of their own mountains, known to every peasant and inhabitant.

Accessible only to the gods, there they live, as unconcernedly as though

the earth were not. Thor, and Odin, and Freia live in the 'Shining

Walhalla,' whither go the souls of brave and good warriors. Their way

thither is over the heavenly bridge, the many-colored rainbow, thrown

over between heaven and earth for the passage of the happy souls. And

there in this dim, ghostly Walhalla they sit like the Grecian gods, and

drink mead instead of ambrosia and nectar. They do not share in the

earthly vices of the Southern gods. Thor never begat such a progeny as

Jupiter.

Repose is also, as hinted at, a characteristic of Southern mythology,

while action, assisted by supernatural agencies, is the feature of the

Northern deities. Thus Jupiter sits majestic and silent upon Olympus and

nods his head, and the whole earth shakes. He is human in his character,

but of an ideal and superior human nature--man immensely magnified. The

gods of Norway are also human, but they are, in themselves, _mere_ men.

What makes them gods is the magic power which is joined with them, a

mere adjunct not forming a part of them. They toil and act like

men--they are never still. Thor bears the hammer, the emblem of physical

strength, energy, and activity. He can at a draught half drain the sea,

and cause the tides to rise and ebb; he can lift the serpent that

surrounds the world; he can wrestle with Death himself, and almost come

off victorious. The giants are his mortal enemies, and against them he

wages war and bears deadly hatred, as Jupiter against the Titans. None

but the warrior, who has fought long and well, enjoys the long dreamt-of

mead of Walhalla. A death on one's own bed is almost as ignominious as

that of the coward. The straw-death (_strödod_) they will endeavor to

avoid by opening their own veins and bleeding to death, and as the warm

life-blood pours forth, they sing triumphant death-songs, and see the

portals gradually open to receive them, and Braga the Scald, seated at

the gate with his magic-sounding harp, his fingers running through the

golden strings, and in such ecstasies they give up the ghost. The Greek

dies in a more quiet, philosophical, and practical manner. He does not

fear the shame of a warm and soft bed. Achilles, and Ajax, and Diomed,

are not the only inmates of Elysium. Socrates, and Plato, and Homer,

Apelles and Zeuxis, are all there too. The poet and the philosopher, the

painter and the sculptor, rank as high through pen, pencil, and chisel,

as the warrior by his blade and his bloody exploits. Art, in the North,

finds no existence, and strikes no sympathizing chord in the bosoms of

the sturdy Northmen. Art, to be perfect, requires a distinctness of

conception, and an assimilation to human nature in its subjects,

entirely at variance with the dim, mysterious character of the

Scandinavian imagination. Painting is a thing utterly unknown, and

sculpture, where found, deals in shapeless blocks and huge, massive,

ill-proportioned forms, analogous to the primitive Egyptian art. In the

Northern mythology and legendary history, minstrels play an important

part. They are as indispensable as the Welsh bards, though not invested

with the same authority as they. At the table of the gods, Braga strikes

his wonderful harp and chants the triumphal hymns of dead warriors as

they enter the Walhalla. Round the boards of the rougher Vikings, among

the muscular, sun-browned champions, hardened to blood and strife, the

minstrel is ever present, and as the huge cups pass around the long

line, they sing the triumphs and praises of their hosts. They are like

the old Grecian minstrels; like Phemius and Demodocus, they chant old

memories of great sea-kings and champions, legends of magic elves and

dwarfs, and wondrous and often touchingly beautiful stories of love and

passion. The vague impressions of music seem to harmonize marvelously

with the Northern nature. It is wild and weird in its character, for

much of it, with the innumerable ballads of those days, have reached us

from father to son, and vividly recall the times whence they date, and

the men whose characters they mirror. There is often a magic element

connected with their music. The music of the elves is like that of the

sirens and of Orpheus, often irresistible. Through many of their ballads

runs the same legendary undertone. A maiden's song moves the king's

heart, and one by one he offers in vain every gift in his power, to the

very half of his kingdom, and ends by placing a crown of gold upon her

head, and seating her beside him on his throne as his lawful queen. The

story of the two sisters, one ugly and one beautiful, reappears in the

North in various forms. The younger and more lovely of the two is

murdered, and the elder is to wed her bride-groom. Pilgrims who meet

with the body, make a lyre from the bones, and string it with the golden

hair of the maiden, and as they play at the bridal, each string tells

its tale of horror in turn, while the unhappy sister sinks under these

inanimate accusations.

In the Greek myths we find none of these mysterious elements. The

supernatural creations we meet with are innumerable, and no less strange

in themselves. But there is nothing in Polyphemus, in Circe, in the

Sirens, beyond their physical natures, which can make us look beyond

ourselves to understand and fully sympathize with them. Once fully grasp

their superhuman endowments, and you feel they act like men on a large

scale. Not so with the Northern supernatural beings. In themselves they

approach nearer to men, and are but little above them in endowments and

character, but it is their mode of action which makes them superior to

us; their divinity and power lie not in themselves, but in the agents,

visible and mysterious, that they employ. They are not like Jupiter,

omnipotent. They are brought to a stand quite as often as more humble

mortals. Thor, without his hammer, is no longer Thor himself. His trusty

Mjölner is more to him than the thunderbolt of Zeus to the Grecian

father of the gods. The eagle and thunderbolt of Jove, the ægis of

Minerva, the girdle of Venus and Mercury's wands, are mere emblems of

what powers their own natures give them. With the Northern deities their

whole strength lies in the possession of these. Without them they are

powerless, and in spite of all their might, they are often obliged to

call on one another for assistance, and sometimes even stand in need of

mortal aid. We may, perhaps, consider the Grecian gods as mere

personifications and idealities, but those of the North are essentially

real. They are the creations of a powerful but vague imagination, forms

which resemble a Norwegian mountain, distinct in itself by its

glittering snows and icy rocks, but which shrouds its head in a

perpetual mist, except when some adverse wind with its indiscreet

blowing, displays it in all its nakedness, and plain though grand

reality.

Analogous to the story of Circe and Ulysses is a myth which forms the

foundation of some of the most beautiful and pathetic ballads of Sweden,

Denmark and Norway. The mountain king bears to his cavern in the

hill-side a fair maiden, and with him

'For eight long years, I ween, she lived in the mountain there,

And sons full seven she bore him, and eke a daughter fair.'

And here the resemblance ceases, and the Northern legend assumes a more

beautiful tone. The maiden longs for her mother and her old home, and

goes from the mountain king with the promise not to mention her seven

sons. She tells her tale, however, and the elf-king straightway appears,

and strikes her till the life-blood flows. She then says:

'Farewell, dear father, and farewell, dear mother, too,

Farewell, my sister dear, and dear brother, farewell to you.

Farewell, thou lofty heaven, and the fresh, green earth, farewell!

Now wend I to the mountain where the mountain king doth dwell.'

And so they ride to the mountain, through the long, wild, black wood,

the mother weeping bitter tears, while the elf-king smiles. Her little

daughter reaches her a golden chair:

'Oh! rest thee, my poor mother, so sad and woe-begone.'

She takes the foaming mead in her hand,

'And scarce from out the mead-glass bright the first draught

does she take,

(The hour goes heavy by,)

Her eyes were sudden closed, and her weary heart it brake,

(Ah! well sorrow's burden know I.)'

That the Greeks had similar ballads and legends can not be doubted, but

to revive them from their present destruction is a task beyond the power

of science and antiquarianism. Hardly more than a quarter of a century

has elapsed since the first important steps were taken in the North of

Europe to preserve these ballads which had thus been orally handed down

from ages that vanish in the darkness of the past, and which in a few

years more, with the gradual disappearance of primitive simplicity in

Sweden and Norway, might have been, for the greater part, lost to us

forever. Who knows but that in some remote corner of Greece, in spite of

the revolutions and shocks which have convulsed it, there may still lurk

an occasional shadow at least of some good old popular song?

The refrains which accompany the Northern ballads, and which are, in

fact, found among all nations whose ballad poetry has been preserved,

merit some attention. Sometimes melancholy and sad, sometimes gay and

joyous, they impart character wonderfully to the piece. There is

something peculiarly mournful in the recurring of these sad, touching

thoughts and words, and as the interest of the ballad deepens, their

touching simplicity grasps more deeply into the soul, and affects us in

a manner which nothing else could. When they are joyous--a rarer form,

however--they impart to us also their own buoyancy and gayety. Sometimes

they convey the moral of the piece, some simple yet profound reflection,

which marks by itself the feeling that pervades the whole ballad; at

other times they are merely descriptive of nature, and borrow their

enlivening or heart-rending character from the assimilation or contrast

they present with the groundwork of the poetry. The origin of this kind

of refrain is evidently due to the manner in which the ballads were

composed. Mainly extemporized, both words and music, by wandering scalds

or minstrels, the refrain was a pause to enable the singer to compose

the next line. The utter disregard of rhyme, alliterations the most

slight and imperceptible, and words of no similarity of sound almost

always taking their place, rendered this a very easy task. A thorough

knowledge and mastery of legendary lore, and a little power and

concentration of thought and imagery, were the only qualities requisite

for a ballad-monger. Some of them bear the marks of superior minds, both

by their wonderful vividness of description and by the tone of deep,

genuine feeling which pervades them throughout.

There is a wonderful affinity between the Scotch and the Norwegians and

Swedes, especially in their traditionary literature, which marks a

common origin and common customs at some remote period. We find among

the genuine Scotch ballads many that are almost literal versions of the

same Scandinavian legends no less indigenous in their own land. A large

number of the most beautiful Scotch ballads plainly point to an

extraneous Northern origin, and their exact counterparts in form, ideas,

and words, we find circulating as popular songs among the Swedish,

Danish, and Norwegian peasantry. These may often be traced back

centuries, at the end of which they seem still to be as old and as

thoroughly implanted in their native soil as they now seem. They have

been sung from mouth to mouth, with the same wild old melodies and the

same quaint language, as they were sung centuries ago among the scenes

they so faithfully depict.

The characteristics we have so briefly alluded to as marking the two

classes of nations, namely, mysterious grandeur among the Northmen, and

among the Greeks ideality, grandness, and vividness of conception, might

by skillful hands be traced in more modern times under the influence of

an ever-changing and growing civilization. I will only allude, in

passing, to a few prominent points.

The literature of Greece, as we know it, had already reached its hight,

two thousand years before our time. It was already gray with years

before the North had begun its infancy. Homer is the boundary which is

insurmountably opposed to our further retrospection, and Homer is

already the beginning of perfection in Greek letters. Of earlier periods

we can but conjecture that there must have been such, bearing a

character analogous to the relics of those nations whose fabulous

history is better known to us. Northern literature can hardly be said to

have had an existence till within the last hundred years. Before that

time we must look for all phases of progress and germs of progress in

the physical and animal character of the nation, their social and

political features and relations. The vividness and ideality of the

ancients find their natural change in the more purely impassioned style

of more modern Southern poetry. Their creations have naturally lost with

the fall of paganism, the supernatural endowments they had, and

retaining in some their ideality, they have hightened and fired the

human nature they depict by the addition of wilder and more flaming

passions, of love that consumes, and ambition, revenge, and hatred that

destroy. Thus we again obtain consistent characters governed by human

laws, but raised above the ordinary mass of men by different qualities

from those which ennobled ideal creations among the ancients. Repose

still constitutes greatness in some instances; but the inner man is made

all fire, and seething metal, ever-burning and quenchless. Elevation and

subtlety of ideas naturally follow these causes, they are another

natural growth of the simple ideality of conception.

The Northern character at the present day has very different qualities.

Though renowned for philosophical and metaphysical prose, yet their

poetry they require to deal with realities and not with ideas; it must

be clear as a fountain, and any opaqueness is an inexcusable flaw. They

are yet in the infancy of literature, and the imagination is still more

sensuous than acute and subtle. However much they court abstractions in

prose, in verse they love only the actual, the real, the tangible.

Nature, and not metaphysics, are the subjects of their poetry, and they

still preserve a freshness and simplicity reminding of more ancient and

ruder days, delightful amidst the hair-splitting of most modern poetry.

Their infancy is like the infancy of all national literatures,

peculiarly modified by the advanced state of civilization in which their

birth was thrown. At first sight there seems something unnatural and

unaccountable in this apparent contradiction in the character of the

nation, manifested respectively in their prose and their poetry. But on

farther examination all becomes clear as a spring day. Their prose was,

as their whole literature might and should have been, contemporary with

their civilization through its various phases. Metaphysics is the last

refinement, or rather, corruption, which national literature undergoes.

Their prose had naturally arrived at this stage when the true poetic

feeling woke for the first time. And in spite of the rational tendencies

of the age, it assumed that character of warm, bodily imagination which

marks all early literatures. The tendency to the mysterious and the

superhuman has mostly vanished, and more vivid conceptions of every

thing have, under their Christian development, taken the place of dim

magic and weird creations. Northern poets still delight in dealing with

those wonderful poetical inventions of their own ancient mythology, and

revel among the elves and dwarfs that surround the bosoms of mountains

and woods. Lif, with her golden hair, Gerda, with cheeks like auroras,

the cunning Loke, with his mixture of guile, wickedness and deceit,

Thor's mighty Mjölner, and the mead-horns of Walhalla--from among these

wonderful beings, they have culled with a careless hand, and every sprig

and flower is radiant with poetic beauty. The taste for old legends and

traditions has revived within a few years, and scholars and antiquarians

are now laying open unknown mines of treasure.

A TRUE ROMANCE.

Among my friends at Rome, during a few weeks that I spent there, was one

old resident of the 'Eternal City' whom I had often begged to give me

some authentic narrative of Catholic experience. He was naturally

reserved, jealously truthful, a 'know-nothing' upon religious

controversy, not at all the man to invent an exciting story, not fond of

legends, Romish or Genevan, not a violent partisan of republicanism in

church or state, and not familiar enough with American thought to

suspect the use that might be made in the United States of such an

incident as I am now to repeat. In fact, as I compare him with other

sources of intelligence open to travelers, sure as I am that no one

could question his belief of whatever he told, every weight that

character, intelligence, years, experience, could confer, rests upon

the only monkish secret which he professed to know. One night he

invited me to a subterranean restaurant, famous for its excellent

creature-comforts, and there over some royal English beer, without any

graces of style or attempts to exaggerate the incidents, he unfolded

what I believe to be a true record of unblessed love.

General readers are familiar with the fact that many a nun immures

herself for life under a sort of moral compulsion, because her high-born

family has become too indigent to maintain its stately style of living,

because the lady herself is in danger of contracting some degrading

alliance, declines peremptorily such connection as her relations

approve, or has committed some imprudence that clouds over her future

prospects. The secret influences which entangle men in the Catholic

orders correspond to this. It would be arrant bigotry to doubt that some

offer up an unstained heart, in aspirations for usefulness or sighs for

holiness; but many times a youth is led blindfold to the altar by

ambitious relatives, like Talleyrand, and discovers too late his perfect

unfitness for the vow he has assumed. And these last are they whose

lives become a scandal to their profession, whose levity shocks so many

Protestant observers, whose consciences have no true peace, who die

sometimes in open unbelief and, living, are the worst enemies of the

cause they advocate.

As my story goes, at nearly the same time that a gallant young man of

high family disappeared from the gay circles of Rome, a lovely girl of

distinguished parentage had suffered her blonde tresses to be shorn, her

graceful limbs draped in forlorn russet, her merry meetings with girlish

spirits like herself exchanged for the tears of the confessional, the

lengthened prayers of the cloister, the frequent fastings and sometimes

scourgings of monastic life. The cause of this contemporaneous

disappearance was known only to the most intimate friends of two

celebrated but no longer wealthy families, who deemed the sacrifice

necessary, and so recked not of the wounds it might make, the perjuries

it might tempt, the life-struggle of duty with feeling it might cause.

Time passed on. Forgotten by society, it was supposed these victims of

artificial life had forgotten the circles they were wont to charm,

forgotten almost themselves in a system most ingeniously arranged to

blot out one's individuality and to make its subject a perfectly ordered

part of a grand machine. But, unsuspected by their friends, unknown to

their superiors, these two pledged hearts had met. Love will break

through even convent-walls, will speak amidst monastic silence, will

rise unbidden under ascetic discipline. No one can tell, very few can

imagine how they agreed upon their trysting hour. Through a neglected

drain, from some underground apartment, where she had been imprisoned

for negligence, the slender form of the delicate maiden worked its way

into the free air where her lover awaited her in the eagerness of a

stolen pleasure; and the hours supposed to be given to prayer or repose

flew fast in the worship of the 'winged god.' If I recollect rightly,

there were deeply-shaded groves not far from their place of meeting, in

which they felt secure from observation during the night season.

But Love has always been blind to its own peril: a prudent lover would

be indeed a black swan; if such there have been, these were not. And one

night, when the beautiful nun would return through the friendly passage

in season, that her absence might not be detected when the sisters were

summoned to their matin service, the rain, whose torrents she had not

noticed while her lover's arm sheltered her, had filled up the only

pathway to her cell, and not even by the hazard of life could she

recover her room once more. A few hours more, and her absence would

inevitably come to light, would be fearfully punished, if not by a death

such as Scott portrays in one of his poetical legends, by a disgrace far

worse than physical suffering, from which nothing but the grave could

give her relief. The alternative, flight, where no provision had been

made, with no possible help from any friend, with the likelihood of

treachery where they might least expect it, seemed impossible.

In despair rather than hope, the forlorn lady recollected that her

uncle, who had some spiritual supervision over the Roman convents,

though he was sure to be more outraged by her misstep than any one else,

had (besides the motive of shielding a family name from disgrace)

perhaps some remaining affection for his favorite niece. At any rate, if

she were to die, she thought it would be a satisfaction to die humanely,

by the speedy stroke of offended honor than by such cruel penances as

would slowly wear life away. And, what might she not hope, if there were

still one humane drop in that aged bosom, one indulgent memory of

youthful passion beneath that austere cowl, one fond thought of a

childhood which seemed to herself a dream of paradise, when his hand

blessed her curling head, and his lips gave a parting kiss, returned so

heartily by herself.

There was not a moment to lose--they hardly knew how time had sped, but

they had never found his wings slow when they were together. So, hand in

hand they hastened to the presence which was to be either deliverance or

condemnation to them both; and when at last they reached the palace, and

after some delay were admitted to kneel before his eminence, no words

can paint the horror with which he exchanged his dreams of the papal

chair for a sight of the apostate priest and self-doomed nun confessing

in one breath that they had 'loved not wisely, but too well'--that God

once brought together those whom cruel relatives tore asunder--that _he_

was their only escape from double ruin, and infamy worse than death.

The moments seemed hours while he who had approved the punishment of

other celibates for no greater sins, sought how he might ward off a blow

that struck so near his own bosom--that was to crush one the grace of

whose childhood had not been more marked than her affection for

himself--than the earnestness of the tone with which she was wont to

declare herself 'his little daughter.' He had not the courage to hazard

his position by espousing her cause or undertaking her escape. He felt

that she had been more sinned against than sinning, in having been

forced into a vow of perpetual virginity when she had already made

another vow which her loving nature had rejoiced to keep.

And yet, the preservation of his dignity was of infinite moment to his

peace--nor could he help seeing that a flood of disgrace would sweep

over the Church were such breaches widened by the public protection of

the offenders, and, of course, the enemies of monastic institutions

would seize upon the opening for fiercer assaults.

Suddenly he dismissed the erring brother in too much trouble to bestow

the admonition which the other was in too great anxiety to heed--threw

over the trembling girl the cloak and hat of a common citizen--summoned

his household servants together as quickly as possible, and hastened in

the twilight of early dawn to the sleeping convent with as large an

attendance as such hot haste would permit.

For some time no admittance could be obtained; and the rain seemed to

pour down in sheets, as if all the windows of heaven were open. But his

orders were peremptory, his authority was ample, his excuse ingenuity

itself: 'He had just heard that a man was secreted within those

consecrated walls; he was determined to see for himself, if he had to

tear one stone from another; under his supervision no such infamy should

be so much as suspected.' And so, making a virtue of necessity, the

panic-struck lady abbess yielded her dignity, and the _posse_ of

pretended inspectors stood within the drowsy walls before one rose-tint

in the East threatened their secret with exposure.

So responsible an official could not be satisfied with seeing the nuns

together, or witnessing their earliest chapel-service; he must enter

every room, survey every cranny, and leave no possibility of deception,

no corner for concealment. And posting some of his servants--whose

excessive watchfulness might prove a little inconvenient--at the two

principal entrances, with his remaining attendants he proceeded orderly

from room to room, the superior refusing, as was expected, to sanction

by her presence such an invasion of the sacred privacy of her

institution. When they reached the cell adjoining that where our tale

properly ends, the disguised nun was far enough in the rear of the

feebly-lighted party, and they too busy in the pretended search, for her

disappearance to be noticed--her uncle had made her see that this was

the only chance--so, flinging the coat and hat through an open window

into the yard, she glided with ghost-like tread into her own apartment,

and when the drowsy servitors opened her door, she was seen upon her

knees before the crucifix, praying more fervently than ever the jubilant

prayer of a newly-rescued soul.

The trouble threatened to lead to some farther difficulties. For these

ladies were of the Roman aristocracy, and their honor had been

impeached, their sanctuary invaded, their solemn asseverations had been

disregarded, their protector had become their accuser. It might have

gone hard with the father who had planned this ingenious device to save

his name from disgrace and shield his niece from suffering. But, just

before the party turned from the convent-gate, a keen eye detected the

fallen mantle; and the trophy was exhibited to the agitated superior, in

proof that some of the forbidden sex had been lurking around, and had

stolen away in terror from so formidable a search; she was warned to new

vigilance, and offered every assistance for the future which the papal

guards could bestow.

And so ends all that my informant knew of the love-lost girl. Her

accomplice in guilt, who did not desert her till he saw there was hope

in her uncle's face, was hurried away as a missionary to South-America;

and, as the waves of the sea rolled between him and his only object of

affection, he must have 'rejoiced with trembling' that the crimson waves

of death had not mingled her and him in a common doom. He wanted the

independence to detect the injustice of a system which made a pure

attachment guilt, and its discovery condemnation; so he raised no

protesting voice against it. Truly, the day of strange stories in Italy

is not yet over.

HUGUENOTS OF NEW-YORK CITY.

Governor Stuyvesant was among the earliest to encourage the emigration

of the Huguenots to New-York, and whose descendants for generations have

ranked with our best and most honorable citizens. On the twenty-fourth

of January, 1664, N. Van Beck, a merchant in New-Amsterdam, received

letters from Rochelle, stating the wish of some French Protestants to

settle in New-Netherland, as their religious rights had been invaded and

their churches burned. The Governor and Council resolved to receive them

kindly, and grant them lands gratuitously. In a letter of M. de

Denonville to the French government, dated sixteenth November, 1686, he

reports that fifty or sixty 'men, Huguenots,' arrived at New-Amsterdam,

'who are establishing themselves at Manat, (New-Amsterdam,) and its

environs. I know that some have arrived at Boston, from France.'

Although the waves of the Atlantic divided the two countries, the French

King does not seem to have forgiven his banished subjects in America. In

his instructions to Count De Frontenac, respecting the expedition from

Canada against New-York, and dated seventh June, 1689, he directs him to

'send to France the French refugees, whom he will find there,

_particularly those of the pretended Reformed Religion_,' or Huguenots.

His royal but remorseless spirit was not gratified, however, as the

French did not venture to attack New-York, and instead of their

Protestant brethren being sent back to France, a few years afterward

they erected a church for their own religious services. This was _Du

Saint-Esprit_, and built on Pine street, directly opposite to the

present Custom-House, by the Huguenots and Walloon settlers, the last of

whom were a part of the French Protestants, although they emigrated to

America from the river 'Wael.' An earlier French chapel had been erected

on Marketfield street, then called Petticoat Lane, near the Battery. It

was an humble edifice, but hither, every Lord's day, the Huguenots from

the city, Staten Island, the Wallabagh, and New-Rochelle, by wagons, in

which they lodged, were wont to assemble to worship God, without the

fear of royal, persecuting edicts, or armed bands. _L'Eglise

Saint-Esprit_ was founded in the year 1704, with a cemetery adjoining.

It was a plain, neat, stone building, and nearly square--its bell the

gift of Sir Henry Ashurst, of London. On its tablet in front was

inscribed: ÆDES SACRA GALLOR PROT. REFORM. FONDA. 1704. PENITUS REPAR.

1741. In our day its sacred walls have been taken down, the dead

removed, and the venerable spot, like many others in our busy city, is

now devoted to Mammon. The successors of _Saint-Esprit_ long since

united with the Episcopalians, and erected the beautiful marble church

in Leonard street, where the doctrines of the ever-blessed Reformation

continue to be declared in the same language in which they were so

eloquently preached two centuries ago, by Claude, Laurin, and other

Reformed French Ministers.

The Rev. James Laboire was the first pastor of the _Saint-Esprit_, which

soon numbered a flourishing congregation. Some of its members would walk

from New-Rochelle, on Saturday night, to worship God in this place, and

thus spending the holy day, would return home again in the evening,

joyfully singing Marot's old French hymns to cheer them by the way. The

Staten-Island Huguenots would make the same pious journey in their light

skiffs and boats. For some years Mr. Laboire, the pastor, toward his

support was 'allowed a yearly sallary of twenty pounds per ann. out of

ye Revenue of this Province.' The religious services were here

performed in the primitive manner of the French Calvinistic churches;

but after the sovereignty of the English was established over the Dutch,

the forms of their church worship were gradually introduced, until at

length the Huguenot congregation united with the Protestant Episcopal,

in this diocese.

In the _Documentary History of New-York_, vol iii. p. 427, may be found

an old curious article, entitled, 'A Full and Just Discovery of the weak

and slender foundation of a most Pernicious SLANDER, raised

against the FRENCH PROTESTANT REFUGEES, inhabiting the Province

of New-York, generally, but more particularly affecting Captain

BENJAMIN FANUEL, a person of considerable note amongst them.

Printed and published by license of his Excellency Edward Viscount

Cornbury, Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the said Province, in

favor of Justice.'

It appears that one Morris Newinhuysen, a mate of a vessel, in 1706, was

taken by the French, and a prisoner of war, at New-York, reported that

the 'French Protestants' here corresponded with 'the inhabitants of

France, tending to the taking and destruction of this city, by Her

Majesty's declared enemies.' The New-York Huguenots considered this

accusation a 'crime of so high a nature in itself,' and so 'altogether

false and untrue,' as to petition Governor Burnet to cause 'the said

Morris Newinhuysen, and all others who may appear concerned, to be

strictly examined upon the same report, and if found out, be punished

according to the nature of the crime.' This petition is dated 'February

10, 1707/8,' and signed by 'Stephen D'Lancey, Elias Nezereau, Abraham

Jouneau, Thomas Bayeux, Elias Neau, Paul Deoilet, Augustus Jay, Jean

Cazale, Benjamin Fanuel.' These must have been leading Huguenots at the

time. To another petition of a similar character, we find the names of

Daniel Cromelin, John Auboyneau, Francis Vincent, Alexander Allaire. His

Excellency the Governor, ordered the report to be considered, which was

done, when his Council reported that there was not 'any ground to

suspect Captain Faneuil of holding a correspondence with France.' This

was cheering news to the 'French Refugees' in the Province of New-York,

as such a slanderous report, to use their own language on the occasion,

was 'of pernicious consequence to all the French refugees in general,

and disturbs their peace and quiet, and obstructs that affection and

familiarity which they had formerly enjoyed with the other inhabitants

of this Province, to their just grief and resentment.'

The Rev. Louis Rou was also a pastor of the 'Reformed Protestant French

Church in New-York.' As early as the year 1713, among other names in its

official records, are found John Barberie, elder, Louis Carré, ancien,

Jean Lafont, ancien, André Fuyneau, ancien.' During the year 1724, there

was great excitement in the French congregation, caused by a party

question. Stephen De Lancey, a wealthy merchant, and patron of the

church, with others became dissatisfied with the pastor. He was

dismissed for want of zeal, and for innovations which they contended he

had introduced into their church discipline; but the minister, with his

friends, appealed from this decision to Governor Burnet and his Council,

when they sustained him. Indignant memorials were published by both

parties, and things went so far, that when De Lancey was elected to the

Colonial Assembly, the Governor refused to administer his oath of

office, alleging that he was not a subject of the British crown. De

Lancey, the Huguenot, contended that he had left France before the

revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and had received denization in

England, under the great seal of James II. He was right, and the

Assembly sustained his argument and claims against his Excellency the

'Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the Provinces of New-York,

New-Jersies, and Territories thereon depending in America.'

For the curious in old families, among the official friends of the

French minister, we find James Gou, John Hastier, Elias Pelletreau, Jr.,

Jean Va Chan, Andrew Foucault, Jacques Bobin, N. Cazalet, Samuel

Bourdet, David Le Febrer, Francois Bourdet, Peter Morgat. They testify

to Mr. Rou's 'exemplary piety and instruction for upwards of fourteen

years,' which 'have rendered him exceedingly estimable to all who knows

him, which can't but be acknowledged even by those who are now the

occasion of this trouble.' We find a more general list of French

families, his friends also, and dated thirty-first December, 1724, and

they speak well of him, 'with edification, always leading an exemplary

life:' James Bergerron, Francis Bosset, Daniel Girand, Daniel Gailliard,

Elias Chardavoine, Paul Pelletreau, James Many, Gamaliel Guyele, Anthony

Pintard, Jeremie La Touche, Samuel Bourdet, Jean Bachan, Elie Mainburt,

Andrew Richard, James Belleveau, Peter Quintard, John Bosset, James

Bobin, Daniel Bossuet, Charles Jardin, Amand Perot, William Huertin,

John Vezier, Peter Dennys Doctr, John Many, Peter Tillou, Peter Ebrard,

Henry Collier, John David, Noe Cazalet, Gabriel Le Boyteix, Jr., Elias

Groséllier, Andrew Girand, Francis Baumier, James Des Brosses, James

Renaudet, Lawrence Cornisleau, Daniel Mesnard, John Ganeau, Peter

Monget, John Hastier, David Le Telier, Jean Le Chevalier, Philip

Gilliot, Abraham Bertrand, Abraham Butler, Daniel Cromelin, John

Pintard, Abraham Pontereau, Peter Burton, Stephen Bourdet, Paul Pinaud,

Peter Fauconnier. As the same old chronicle says: 'Here followeth the

names of the widow women, and others, members of the same church:'

Rachel Ebrard, Elizabeth Heurtin, Marie Anne Ablin, Magdalene

Fauconnier, Anne Bachan, Mary Perot, Susanne Magle Bosset, Mary

Sergeran, Esther Bouniot, Marquise Boyteul, Martha Brown, Renée Mary

Rou, Judith Morget, Martha Pentereau, Mary Bargeau, Susanne Boutecon,

Susanne Ford, Mary Oaks, Mary Ellison, Martha Perot, Esther Masse,

Elizabeth Tillou.

At this period, a Rey. Mr. Moulinars was the assistant minister of Mr.

Rou, and united with the party who opposed him, and they also have left

records of their views, in which they claim to have paid Mr. Rou in

full, and that then the Consistory could dismiss him when they saw fit.

'We are not indebted unto Mr. Rou one farthing for all the time he hath

served us,' is their language, and to their official act are the

signatures of 'I. I. Moulinars, ministre, John Barheweeld, Louis

Carréansien, Abraham Gouneau, ans., Fran. Cazalz, ans., René Het, ans.,

January twenty-eighth, 1724.' Still the Council decided in favor of Mr.

Rou, and were 'of opinion that the said congregation be admonished that

every person in it do all in his power to preserve peace and unanimity

in their congregation.' That body also advised 'that the ministers of

the French congregation who shall officiate next Sunday be ordered to

read publicly the said opinion and admonition, immediately after divine

service in the forenoon.'

All these efforts did not produce harmony in the French congregation.

Moulinars evidently had a restless spirit, and was much opposed to the

Church of England, at that time the established religion of the New-York

Colony, and respected by many of the Huguenots. Through his efforts, a

'meeting-house' was erected for the French refugees at New-Rochelle, and

its members numbered one hundred persons. One old document (May twelfth,

1725) records 'that the said Mr. Moulinars has declared (as can be

proved) that he finds our Church (Episcopal) and that of Rome as like

one another as two fishes can be ... and one of the chiefest reasons of

this violence against Mr. Rou has no other ground than his constant

affection to the Church, and the public approbation he has at all times

given to its ceremonies and doctrines.' The churchmen also complained

that Moulinars caused 'great prejudice in general to the Church of

England, and in particular to that of New-Rochelle, where he would come

quarterly from New-York, and plead among the people.' New-Rochelle was

then a parish, and its rector, of course, considered the French preacher

a dissenter. From the parochial account of the former, the town embraced

two Quaker families, three Dutch ones, four Lutherans, and several of

the French; and the Huguenots settling among them in the year 1726,

gathered a congregation of 'about one hundred persons.'

The Rev. Messrs. Daille and Labord appear early to have served the

French Protestant Church in New-York; but of the latter we have learned

nothing. The former had been pastor awhile to the French Protestants in

Boston. About the year 1690, the Dutch Church Consistory employed Mr.

Daille to preach to the French in their own language, at New-York, and

also to conduct the religious services of the pulpit during a part of

the Lord's day.

In 1763, Jean Carll was the pastor of Du Saint-Esprit, for we discover

his name, together with Peter Vallade and James Desbrosses, the present

elders, Daniel Bounet and Charles Jardine, the present deacons of the

French Protestant Church in the city of New-York, to a petition for a

charter. Their church property, they state, was purchased agreeable to

an act of the Legislature in 1703; 'a decent edifice for the public

worship of Almighty God, according to the usage of the French Protestant

Churches,' erected; 'and the residue they devoted to the use of the

cemetery or church-yard for the interment of their dead.' 'Ever since,

they have maintained a succession of ministers there, who have dispensed

the ordinances of divine worship in the French tongue.' Besides this

property, they received the rents of a house and parcel of ground in the

township of Breucklin, on Nassau Island, near the ferry, and the French

Church now asked from the legislative authorities a proper charter. With

honest pride they boast, in their petition, of the most inviolable

fidelity 'to all those indulgent states and powers who protected them

from the merciless rage of their Popish persecutors. As your petitioners

in particular are the descendants of a people who suffered the greatest

hardships and flew from their native country to preserve the purity of

the Christian faith and worship.' Eloquent and truthful words. The

Huguenots were a great blessing to every land where they settled. The

name of their body politic was 'the Ministers, Elders, and Deacons of

the Protestant French Church of the City of New-York.'

During the Revolutionary War, New-York became literally a city of

prisons. The pews of the North Dutch Church in William street were used

for fuel, and eight hundred American prisoners were incarcerated within

its old walls, without fuel or bedding, and here many died from cold and

starvation. The 'Brick Meeting,' in Beekman street, was also used at

first for a prison, and afterward changed into an hospital. The

Rose-street Friends' Meeting-house and the Wall-street Presbyterian

church became hospitals also, and Du Saint-Esprit was made a dépôt for

military stores. The Middle Dutch, the present Post-Office, stripped of

its sacred furniture, was the abode of three thousand American

prisoners. 'Here,' says John Pintard, himself a most respectable member

of the Protestant French Church near by, and an eye-witness of the

disgusting sight, 'the prisoners taken on Long Island and at Fort

Washington--sick, wounded, and well--were all indiscriminately huddled

together by hundreds and thousands, large numbers of whom died by

disease, and many were undoubtedly poisoned by their inhuman attendants,

for the sake of their watches or silver buckles.' The suffering inmates

were afterward transferred to other places of confinement, and the

venerable building turned into a riding-school for the British dragoons.

Its floor was taken up, the ground covered with tan-bark, and the

window-sashes removed for this sacrilegious purpose. The French Huguenot

church remained in its original form one hundred and thirty years, until

1834, when it was taken down, the grounds sold, and its dead disinterred

and removed to other resting-places. In their native lands, the ashes of

the Huguenots would sometimes be dug up, burned, and scattered by

persecuting hands to the winds of the heavens; but in ours--Protestant

and more favored--their sainted dust, wherever buried, is watched and

preserved with pious care and affectionate fidelity. It would be a

pleasant but an impossible duty to trace the histories of thousands of

our most excellent New-Yorkers, whose pious ancestors worshiped God in

the old sanctuary of Du Saint-Esprit, and whose ashes reposed, in

Christian hope, alongside of its humble and venerable walls. But records

are scarcely to be found. Still we may love their characters and strive

to imitate their noble and generous virtues. Hallowed be those precious

memories!

The remains of many Huguenots repose among the innumerable dead of old

Trinity church-yard, that vast home of the departed; and where can be

found their memorials of honor, patriotism, and exalted piety. Here lie

the ashes of the Rev. Elias Neau, near its northern porch. He was a man

of more than ordinary eminence; his life useful, beneficial, and

religious. Mr. Neau was the paternal ancestor of Mrs. Commodore Oliver

H. Perry, of Rhode-Island.

Previous to his escape from France, he suffered confinement for several

years in the prisons and galleys, and while in his dungeons, learned by

heart the liturgy, and became attached to the English Church service.

When the Rev. Mr. Vesey was rector of Trinity, Mr. Neau was appointed

catechist of that church. For a number of years, he faithfully

discharged the duties of this important appointment among the Indians

and the slaves, of whom some fifteen hundred were catechumens in the

city of New-York. He could only collect them together on Sunday nights,

after the last public services; and when properly prepared, would

present them to Mr. Vesey, for baptism. Mr. Neau may be said to have

founded the Free School of Trinity, an institution so useful and well

known among the noble charities of New-York. Its former tablet is still

preserved among the mementoes of the olden time. This excellent Huguenot

closed his useful life in 1722, resting from his earthly labors

alongside of God's holy temple, where he had so long worshiped and'

served him.

The Rev. Elias Neau, his wife Susannah, and daughter Judith, left

France, for America, with the Huguenots, about 1685. Judith married a

Rabineau in New-York, and their only child, Marie, married Daniel

Ayrault; their issue was six sons and five daughters; and the second

son, Daniel, married Susannah Eargrass, whose children were Daniel and

Mary Ayrault. Mary married Benjamin Mason, and their children were two

sons and two daughters. The eldest son, Benjamin Mason, M.D., was

educated in England, marrying Margaret Champlin, of Newport, R. I., and

their issue was three sons and one daughter. This daughter, Elizabeth

Champlin Mason, became the wife of the patriotic and brave Captain

Oliver Hazard Perry, of the United States Navy. From this last union

were four sons and one daughter, Elizabeth Mason Perry. This daughter

married the Rev. Francis Vinton; and their children, seven sons and

three daughters, make the _eighth_ generation from their venerable,

pious Huguenot ancestor; Mr. Vinton himself serving in holy things at

the same sacred altar of old Trinity, where the Rev. Elias Neau

worshiped, and after a lapse of one hundred and fifty years. How

enduring is sacred truth! It will abide forever.

Johannes Delamontagnie was another Huguenot refugee, who reached

New-Amsterdam in 1773. Governor Kieft appointed him a member of his

council, then the second office in the colonial government. He purchased

a farm of two hundred acres at Harlaem, for seven hundred and twenty

dollars, naming it' Vriedendel', (Valley of Peace.) The land was

situated East of the Eighth Avenue, between Ninety-third street and the

Harlem river. His grandson, named Vincent, died in May, 1773, at the

very advanced age of one hundred and sixteen years. Numerous descendants

are still among us from this early French Protestant emigrant, although

some abbreviations have been made in the name.

THE BANE OF OUR COUNTRY.

While sharing the Provost-Marshal's office, in Portsmouth, Virginia, I

was struck with the almost utter absence of cultivation of the

understanding of the people living there or in the surrounding country,

who entered to obtain passes, or for other purposes. Scarce one of them

at first appreciated the nature of an oath, which they all shrank from

taking, or objected to, when proposed as a condition of obtaining either

the passes or the protection they wished. They were not merely

illiterate and untaught, but showed also an extremely low grade of

reasoning power. There was, indeed, in most cases, but little

development even of those lower grades of intellectual ability which are

so frequently seen in simply 'illiterate' persons. They hung back from

committing themselves, in any way, as friendly to us, though they

evidently did not feel that hatred or ill-feeling characteristic of the

bolder secessionist. I afterward saw many more of these people, in

Norfolk, at our office. With our continued occupancy of the city, and in

the absence of any aggressive action by our Government, they presented

themselves more frequently. Among them there was occasionally one who

avowed himself, without reservation, for the Union. These people are, I

am confident, the only ones in the rebellious States who are other than

secessionists. Love of the Union--that which the reader identifies with

patriotism and nationality--they had not, because this can nowhere be

found in the rebellious States, except in isolated instances. That they

remained silent and subdued under the progress of the acts of the

secessionists, and never raised hand or voice in contradiction to them,

proves in this class an absence of that force of character, or of that

moral courage or 'energy' which is the distinguishing attribute of our

Northern people, even the poorest, and this was also evinced when we

first occupied the town. It was not peacefulness of disposition which I

remarked, but the lack first, of _decision of character_, and next, of

_decision of understanding_ respecting the questions at issue. In

conversation they could express only very simple notions, nor could I

promptly elicit more from them. Even their feelings lacked the qualities

of force and intensity. Yet this class is next to the ruling and leading

part of the population, which is composed of planters, cotton, tobacco,

and produce factors' families, professional men, and others, who court

patronage, including shopkeepers, small manufacturers, and

money-lenders, and who support in political affairs _their_ own

_clientéle_ of supporters. The latter people constitute the determinedly

rebellious. It is the first class only, that we can regard as the sole

support to Unionism which there is in the rebellious States; but in them

we shall find no moral force or power even when the reign of the leading

class shall have ceased. These facts, I am aware, are in striking

contrast to the usual estimation of the courage and daring of the people

of the South. But the usual estimation is true only of the people who

have a concert of interest in slavery, and who, whatever their petty

disagreements may be, concur in their politics. Nowhere, therefore, is

democracy less actual than in the rebellious States; a ruling and a

subservient class exists precisely as in England or Austria. To increase

the latter, comprising the people I first described, is by no means to

increase the power and extend the domination of the other, but the

contrary; and undoubtedly the diminution of their number by the

sacrifice of their lives in the rebellion, is considered by the chief

managers as desirable, in view of the success of their scheme of polity

and government.

Accordingly, in enforcing their plan of formally identifying the various

States with secession--the form being the ordinance of secession--the

suffrages and sense of this ruled class were ruthlessly unheeded, and

denied validity.

Hence we say that several of the rebel States did not 'secede,' it being

true that a majority of the people expressed their aversion to

rebellion--this majority being, for the occasion, the ruling one, in

virtue of the principle to which _all_ equally deferred. But it is the

_will_ of the ruling or aristocratic class in all similar cases, and not

the forms of law or principle, which accomplishes such changes, whether

according to the forms of law or in disregard of them. _This class are

never respecters of principle_, but rule in virtue not of what

principles empower them to do, as a majority, but of the power of might

and dominant strength. It is obvious that were they to do the former,

they would be destitute of any other power than pertained to the whole

community, they in part, and others equally. Accordingly, they having,

once for all, in their adhesion to the Constitution, and again on its

eve, consented to an election, and therefore its issue, when a majority

of the entire nation elected a representative of the Chicago

declaration, they reverted to their power of might, and rebelled.

It is, therefore, the subversion of an _un_principled (the term is of

the strictest accuracy) ruling class, or aristocracy, and the

obliteration of their peculiar power, that we have to accomplish. This

power consists wholly of certain peculiar interests as masters. To

deprive them of these, is the only possible terminus of the question at

issue. So plain and palpable is the whole question, that we need hardly

say that their whole scheme of government turns upon and clusters about

this interest. For the preservation of this interest, which they thought

touched by the advances of freedom, they rushed into war, and for the

conservation of their power, they base all upon it.

That the general question of property is at all affected by the

obliteration of this interest, is an egregious error. The property, the

possession of which is valid and inviolable, is the product of human

skill, industry, labor, invention, or what not. Nor does it confer

political dominance on its possessor. The slaveholders are the only

class in the nation whose property interest does so; and reciprocally,

the sole object of the maintenance of this interest is the maintenance

of this dominant power. Whether it be or be not criminal to possess it,

is not the point upon which the demand for the abrogation of this

interest turns--at least, there is no legal precedent to so think of

it--but it turns upon the fact that it is ruinous to a republican

system. Not the whole force of republicanism can at once maintain itself

and conserve and cherish _that_; and _if_ it, to a certain extent

cherish it, it will do no more than continue the basis of the power of a

class, who will use it in the only way it can be used, namely, in

contesting whatever interests, principles, or practices are averse to

it.

Hence, for more than thirty years not a single widely beneficent measure

of legislation has been allowed to pass and become operative by the

representatives of this interest. So the South, the seat of this

interest, has always been, in its own estimation, 'the South,' despite

what we have said of a national Union; rendering it impossible that the

republican patriot could _unite_ in one sentiment that which this

particular interest _divided_ itself from.

That humanity should dictate the freedom of the slave in the interests

of morality, is but natural. With this we have nothing to do; but that

the being of an 'aristocracy based on property' should be excluded from

the bounds of a republic, is of an importance to it and mankind, not

second to religion itself.

THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS.

VII.

The Chinese thief, they say, greases himself and sticks knives in his

queue, so that it is nest to impossible to catch him. Old Time is about

as slippery a fellow as a Chinese thief. I don't know that he has a

queue, and have fancied that when queues were worn, and Time was in the

fashion, some old fogy, too slow to keep up with him, caught him by his

queue. Time, who never yet was detained by mortal grasp, pressed on and

left it behind. Since then he has cultivated only that _ungraspable_

forelock. Fleet of foot as he is, it is thought that Young America, with

his telegraphs, will, in the long run--that is, in the race round the

world--come out 'a leetle ahead' of him. Indeed, Young America talks of

annihilating Time. But, though he may have 'one foot on land and one on

sea,' he has no commission to 'swear that time shall be no more.'

We are a fast people--no mistake. Perhaps a little too fast. Did we only

_anticipate_ Time, and pull down only what, with those sure sappers and

miners of his, the years, he is certain to overthrow, it would be well

enough. But we wish to destroy what he has left untouched, or would

remodel it, would modernize it.

The dear old creed of our fathers; _old_ creed, did I say? Ever _new_

creed; for what Time passes by, never grows old. This we would change to

suit ourselves, fancying we have outgrown it; or thinking it, like the

Spartan iron coin, too cumbersome for general circulation, we would

change it for lighter, and as we think, more precious metal. We deem

this the age of gold.

There is a great deal said about our progress toward mental and moral

perfection. Some seem to think that education is all we need to make us

perfect moral beings. 'Ignorance is the cause of all evil;' all things

are as they should be; our minds are as the _camera obscura_, a darkened

chamber which a few rays enter, and every thing only _appears_ upside

down. All we need is more light, to see to set every thing straight. It

is true that we see things in an inverted position; but in this

prison-house, we shall never have light enough to see them as they are.

There is a lens that corrects these false impressions, and the light

that enters through it shows us many things upside down that we before

saw right side up, and _vice versa_.

Intoxicated with conceit, we fancy that we have but to eat of the tree

of knowledge to become gods. Some go so far as to say that we are even

now a part of divinity. 'The universe--it is God;' therefore we, as a

part of the universe, are a part of God. The universe God? If it is a

part of God, (which it is not,) it is so small a fraction that in all

mathematical calculations, it would be called nothing. Were all the

minds in the universe mingled into one, that one would be but as a drop

to the ocean that girdles Infinity--God.

You will think me too earnest. The O'Mollys were ever an earnest race

and an orthodox race. With what earnestness did they, in the good old

times, from those peculiarly Irish goblets, that wouldn't stand, drink

Irish whisky, till they partook of the nature of the goblets and came to

the floor with them--the goblets with a crash, but the O'Mollys got up

as sound as a bell, and next morning were ready to attend mass, into

which they entered with as much earnestness as into their revelry. No

people equal the Irish in earnestness in _spiritual_ matters. It is

perhaps not for a female O'Molly to record these roysterings; but I am

the last of my race, I only am left to chronicle the glorious doings of

my ancestors. Then, too, on our escutcheon is one of these same goblets.

The origin of this escutcheon it has been a family task to trace, with

but little success, however, till the present generation, I had a cousin

who inherited all the family pride. He became a martyr to his devotion

to the 'time-honored custom;' for alas! good old Irish whisky is as

certainly among the 'things that were,' as are the Irish kings. Some

have shrewdly thought that it was the only real Irish king. Well, then,

it is owing to this cousin's loyalty to the usurper, or rather

pretender, that I am the family chronicler. He was wonderfully

ingenious; could from the slightest hint guess at the whole story; he

was equal to those naturalists who from one bone can make out the

animal. With the remains of an old family tradition for his clue, he

traced the origin of the escutcheon. It was on this wise. One of the

Irish kings, traveling incog., stopped at the castle of an O'Molly, who,

though he knew not the rank of his guest, entertained him with the

utmost hospitality. Freely the goblet circulated, and as they two only

drank from it, it was soon broken. The king, next morning, revealed his

rank to his host, and dubbed him _Knight of the Goblet_; hence the

goblet on the shield, an emblem of hospitality. And never has there been

a stain on the escutcheon of the O'Mollys.

I said they were an orthodox race. Perhaps they were too bigoted in

their adherence to the old customs and the old faith. But there is too

much latitudinarianism in this nineteenth century. Too many think it

matters but little what a man's belief is, if he is only sincere in it;

as if the consequences of any thing could be averted by not believing in

it. The hands of your clock may be so turned around that they will point

to the wrong figures; does that change the time? Or, what amounts to the

same thing, it may be so ill-regulated, the machinery may be so out of

gear, that you are deceived. But morning, noon, and night do not

regulate their face by your clock. There is a dial that unerringly marks

'the stately stoppings' of the sun of suns--let us regulate our belief

by it.

Truth is not like the clouds that, it is said, take the form of the

country over which they pass. It does not change to suit your condition

or mind, and we can not change it, neither can we dilute it. What is

not truth is falsehood, and this, as the acid dissolved the pearl which

Cleopatra dropped into it, will dissolve truth and convert it into its

own nature.

How little we prize truth, even if we do not thus attempt to dissolve

it. It lies in our heart unheeded. We are almost as unconscious of it as

the oyster is of the pearl within his shell.

A friend of mine, having a daughter 'to finish,' looked over

advertisement after advertisement, till finally her eye lighted on the

circular of Mrs. Smith's Female Seminary, situated in the quiet and

salubrious village of----, within a few minutes' walk of three or four

places of worship.... Great care taken of the health, manners, and

morals of the pupils.... Exercise insisted on.... Those whose parents

may wish it, allowed the use of a quiet saddle-horse.... The pupils

under the immediate supervision of the principal.... They have all the

comforts of Home, etc., etc. All this, in addition to a thorough course

of instruction in every thing ever heard of, not forgetting the Use of

the Globes.... Music on the piano and guitar; there are six pianos in

the institution.... Drawing, Monochromatic, Grecian, Oriental, etc.,

etc. Painting in oils and water-colors.... Embroidery, ten different

kinds.... Terms, $--per annum. Then follows an imposing list of

references, Reverends, Esquires, and Honorables.

My friend, taken with this, decided that her daughter, Bessie, should go

to Mrs. Smith's seminary. Accordingly, a short time before the

commencement of the next term, she accompanied her there; was so pleased

with Mrs. Smith's bland politeness toward herself, and her affectionate,

almost matronly manner toward her daughter, that she came away relieved

of all anxiety on Bessie's account.

I hope I am not 'violating the sanctity of private correspondence,' in

giving the following letter from Bessie:

'MY DEAR MOLLY: I received yours last evening, and hasten

to reply, though, to answer your numerous questions will take me

till after prayers. I shall consequently, as I am not the _model_

pupil, get an absence-mark. You inquire as to the advancement I am

making in my studies. One thing is certain, I shall not come home

the _encyclopedia_ mother expects. I'll not say that this

'flourishing institution' is a humbug; but will say that facts and

the circular do not exactly tally. A few of the facts I will give,

and you can judge for yourself.

'To begin with the supervision of the bland, portly principal. She

enters the school-room makes a few criticisms, asks a blessing at

the table; occasionally a misdemeanor is reported to her, when the

offender is cited to the august presence, and duly reprimanded, not

according to the quality of the offense, but, in an inverse

proportion, to the _quality_ of the offender. Her teachers do the

mental drudgery of the institution. Their life is about as varied

and pleasant as that of a churn-dog; that is, if the dog were kept

churning all day. The balancing of accounts with them, and the

making out of the bills for the patrons, are certainly 'under the

immediate supervision of the principal.' These bills, which fond

parents suppose amount to $--, have a rat-like appendage (excuse

the expression) of 'incidentals,' that wasn't drawn into the

_modest_ 'terms' of the circular. I nearly forgot her Friday

afternoon lectures, for which she sometimes substitutes _Hannah

More_, and the _Young Ladies' Own Book_. These lectures are as

commonplace as expatiations on the importance of cultivating the

mind and heart, interspersed with 'hence the necessity,' and

'highly essential,' can mate them. Last Friday, as she was

enlarging on the advantage of having had our birth in an

enlightened, Christian land, Jenny Dean wrote on a slip of paper,

and poked it over to me,'not _have_ our _berth_ in a Christian

land.' Mrs. Smith saw her, confiscated the paper, and gave her a

severe reprimand, for evincing such a disposition to trifle with

serious things. Jenny was right; if ours is a Christian berth,

commend me to heathendom. Mrs. Smith neglected to mention in her

circular the instruction in _entomology_ her pupils receive;

probably because they are, as 'the Autocrat' says every traveler

is, _self-taught_. I wish she would omit a few lessons in the 'Use

of the Globes,' and teach the servants the use of hot water,

corrosive sublimate, and roach-poison.

'I begin to understand why it is called a _finishing_ school. Don't

tell mother, or she will have me put in quarantine when I return.

But, really, I'm getting quite thin; the demand made on my system

being greater than the supply of 'plain wholesome food.' Now, I'm

not going to complain of this 'plain wholesome,' though the butter

is sometimes strong, the lamb (?) ditto, (see circular in regard to

home comforts.) But I wish you would suggest to mother the

propriety of sending me another box; the last we finished in short

metre. You know this is a _finishing_ school. Only one of the girls

of our hall is too mean to _treat_, and she gets _lots of things_

from home. Yesterday, she brought a beautiful basket of apples to

my room, just to show me how nice they _looked_. I suggested that

'the proof of the pudding was in the _eating_.' She was too obtuse

to take the hint. It is almost sacrilege to talk so about her; she

is Mrs. Smith's _model_ pupil, which, as I before informed you,

your humble servant is not. Jenny Dean and I are always getting

into trouble. Somehow, we've got a bad name, and our _slightest_

misdemeanor is noticed, so we think that we 'might as well be

killed for a sheep as a lamb:' in other words, if the camel's back

must be broken, it may as well be by a hundred-pound weight as a

feather.

'We have an Italian music-teacher, chiefly noticeable for his

length of limb, an exiled nobleman, of course. I hinted to Jenny a

doubt as to his nobility. She said, if he didn't belong to 'the

Brahmin caste,' he did to the _Bramah cast_, and that was the next

thing to it. He has become violently attached to the assistant

music-teacher, who is very thin. Now, he has been teaching us to

screech 'For Bonnie Annie Laurie.' Jenny persists in calling it,

For bony Annie Laurie. The gravity with which he each time corrects

her is amusing. Signor _executes_ to the admiration of patrons,

etc.; though music on those horrid pianos is rather like music on

the rack. Of the six inventoried, (see circular,) two are in the

garret, superannuated; two more ought to be; as for the remaining

two, on one of them your friend Bessie practices, and it is too

great a trial to her nerves to speak of them. You say that you have

music in your souls that I must learn to express for you; that you

can't turn a tune to save your life; that the attempt is like the

attempt to make a curve of straight lines, (you see how I remember

all you write or say.) If you were here, you would wish all the

melody of the institution _voiceless_, and that it wouldn't ooze

out at the finger-ends.

'As for drawing, (see circular,) this department, to save expense,

Mrs. Smith's _accomplished_ daughter has. She teaches crayoning and

pencilling--a few learn to daub in water-colors--but this she

rather discourages, as colored crayoning is much easier and quite

as _showy_--this is the word for everything here. Miss Smith also

teaches French--_Anglicized_. It is hardly worth while to mention

'the solids,' as these are shoved into a corner to give place to

the accomplishments.... As for the exercise--we do, two or three

times a week, file down the street, then file back again--are thus

exhibited to the admiring gaze of the Esquires, Reverends, and

Honorables, (see circular.) The 'quiet saddle-horse' (see circular)

is a 'poetic fiction,' a 'pious fraud'--as much a myth as Pegasus

himself. Though there is a tradition in the school that, a short

time after the founding of the establishment, the late lamented

husband of Mrs. Smith, who was fond of equestrian exercise, kept a

horse--which a parlor-boarder, niece of Mrs. Smith, was allowed to

ride--hence the provision in the circular. One part of it is

correct--he doubtless is now a _very_ quiet saddle-horse--that is,

if he had not the tenacity of life of the _lamb_ that, judging from

the savory odor, we are to have for dinner, ('what's in a name?')

Perhaps the 'late lamented' was as fond of his nag as was the man

who entertained his guests with his horse in the form of soup.

Jenny Dean says that is what she calls true _horse-pitality_.

'There goes the bell. Don't forget the box. Mrs. Smith--unlike many

principals--approves of them--the reason you can guess--the _fact_

please mention to mother. In haste,

BESSIE.'

It seems hardly consistent with my regard for the 'dear reader,' to add

any thing by way of remark on this true school-girl letter. But it is so

suggestive. How many circulars do tally with facts? Even in those of the

best schools, that need none of this clap-trap, there is a little

humbug. But this is rather the fault of the patrons; like Bessie's

mother, they will hardly look at a plain advertisement. The truth is, we

love to be humbugged. Among the 'wants of the age' may be classed

_humbug_.

I have read of a painter with disproportionately short legs, who, in all

his pictures of human figures--from Moses down to the Mayor, done in

heroic style--substituted his own legs. Your thorough utilitarian,

deficient in imagination, his idea of mental symmetry being his own

mental proportions, thinks no mind well balanced that has not a similar

deficiency. He is a believer in nothing but the real and the useful--all

else is stuff and nonsense; to him a mountain is a high elevation of

land; a plain, a level tract; a forest, so much timber in a green

state; a cloud, a collection of vapor. He sees in every thing just what

there is in it and nothing more. Why does any one see more? It has been

a puzzle to me, the undefinable longing I have sometimes felt in looking

at a beautiful scene; a feeling akin to this, though lower, is that

awakened by the fragrance of some flowers--it is so unsatisfactory, you

wish to _taste_ them. These somethings bring up a shadow of 'shadowy

recollections,' an echo of an echo of a past so indistinct, so dimly

distant, that it seems to have been a part of another life.

It may be that all earthly things are but types of spiritual things in a

future spiritual existence--hence the yearning; or they may be

expressions of spiritual things in a past spiritual existence--hence the

'shadowy recollections.' One thing is certain: all beauty and grandeur

are faint expressions of the ideas of the All-Father; therefore, O

utilitarian! you do wrong to ask of them: 'What use?' Better cultivate a

taste for them, and with this taste an earnest desire to look into that

Mind and read there thoughts of which Mont Blanc and the exquisite

flowers are but feeble utterances.

How the Great Teacher has lavished on us illustrations of his goodness,

as if he would in some way make it plain to all, '_what use_.' There

_must_ be a use in every thing he creates. Every dew-drop that the

meanest weed has wooed and won from the atmosphere, is as tenderly cared

for by him, as the stream is that supplies your mill-pond; every briny

tear on the infant's cheek, as the ocean that bears on its bosom your

merchant-vessels. What use? Have not some things been made useless--in

your sense of the term--that they might be preserved from destruction?

The gorgeous-plumed birds, and brightly-enameled fish of the tropics,

are unfit for food--so, to your mind, of no use. I wonder if this holds

good in cannibal countries; if so, it would be no protection to poor

Molly O'Molly if she were there.

I, too, am a believer in the real and the useful; but to me, the sphere

of both is almost infinite. Are not the feelings awakened on viewing a

beautiful sunset, as real as your satisfaction after eating roast-beef?

Though I acknowledge that no one can thoroughly enjoy the one, who feels

the need of the other; if then weighed in the scale, the sunset would

'kick the beam.' All things 'by season seasoned are to their right

praise and true perfection.' It would, for instance, be rather out of

place to talk of the beauty of the stars to the houseless wanderer, for

whom there were no 'cheerful lights of home;' to expatiate on the

loveliness of the moon to him who must spend the chill night with no

other covering than her 'silver mantle.'... Moonlight and memory are

associated together in my mind--reflections of a set sun, wrapping in

their calm, beautiful light, all things, even the graves of those we

love.... I have thought that the murmur of the brook was the _voice of

Silence_. Moonlight expresses to the eye--_silence_.... 'All this

unreal?' I beg your pardon; I claim for my feelings the same reality

that you claim for yours. Is only what is gross real? Is not the sky as

real as the mountain that pierces it? Is there more reality in the chink

of the dollar than in 'the music of the spheres'? This first is, I

acknowledge, to me a pleasant sound, though only 'heard at rarest

intervals.'... Yet I am rather inclined to believe in the reality of

the music of the spheres; it is too ethereal, too spiritual a music for

the ear to _sense_ it; the food and drink of the gods, ambrosia and

nectar, even were we to swallow them, could our mortal palates taste

them? Even thus may we drink in the music of the spheres, and, strange

as it may seem, the more _ear_ we have, the less likely we will be to

hear it.

But--_not_ 'in this connection,' in no connection--the utilitarian also

thoroughly despises cobweb theories, as he terms them. The world owes

its greatest achievements to theories--cobwebs they may be. In caves

have been found books of stone, whose nucleus was but cobweb; along

these webs the calcareous solution ran, and hardened into stone. A

cobweb theory has been the thread, on which, drop by drop, as it were,

experiments have run and hardened into a possibility on which might be

hung a _steam-boat_.

There goes the night-train. Every morning as the engine with its train

passes, the dark smoke rushing out of the chimney is touched by the rays

of the rising sun and made glorious. I doubt not my enjoyment in looking

at it is as real as that of the heaviest stockholder. Here I 'pitch my

foot against'--as Paley says in his famous watch-argument--_a

quotation_.

'Life is transfigured in the soft and tender

Light of love, as a volume dense

Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendor

In the setting sun.'

But this warm subject of love I avoid as the whale avoids the warm water

of the Gulf Stream. So I will wheel about--first, one more digression:

This love, like the Gulf Stream, softens many a climate naturally as

cold as that of Labrador. I just throw out this hint for the sentimental

reader to enlarge upon.

That quotation from Alexander Smith reminds me of one other thing, for

which your utilitarian has a sovereign contempt--that is _poetry_. What

is poetry? Every thing that stirs the soul to its depths, or but crisps

the surface, is poetry--every truth does this, therefore every truth is

poetry. Mind, I don't say _conversely_, etc. There--that word

'conversely,' suggests to you that now you have me; there is

mathematical truth, you say; you might as well attempt to raise a tree

from cube-root as to attempt to make poetry sprout from mathematics....

Is there no poetry in the marked path of the vessel on the trackless

ocean--no poetry in the magnificent sweep of suns and worlds through

space--in the eccentric orbit of the faithful comet--faithful, for from

the most distant errands he passes right by earth, and even Venus,

lingers not a moment, but hastens back to his lord--is there no poetry

in the icing over of the brook, (if you think not, read Lowell's _Sir

Launfel_,) each icy crystal being an exact geometrical figure? When 'God

geometrizes,' he also poetizes.

Then if we can't say conversely all poetry is truth, yet poetry gives to

every thing she touches with her magic wand, the charm of reality. Are

not Ariel, Puck, Oberon, real characters, though but 'beings of the

mind'? Shylock and Lady Macbeth are to me as real as John Wesley and

Hannah More, and far more real than the dimly defined heroes of

Plutarch, except those that Shakspeare has thrilled with his own

life-blood--his very ghosts have an awful individuality--they are enough

to make you believe in ghosts. But hark! what was that--pshaw! it is

only a screech-owl on the maple near my window--Keats' 'owl, for all his

feathers, was a-cold,' I should think this was, from his shivering

notes. Listen again! how old is the dead Time, whose age the distant

town-clock is tolling? I don't care to count--to tell the truth, that

owl makes me nervous--and if it is 'the witching time of night,' I don't

care to know it--so good-night.

In haste, MOLLY O'MOLLY.

WOUNDED

Up the quiet street in the early Sunday morning, came with slow

steps and silently, two wounded soldiers:

One with shattered arm and a cruel sabre-cut on his forehead;

One with amputated leg, hobbled slowly along on crutches.

In the thunder-storm and sharp crash of terrible battle, 'mid blood,

carnage, and death,

Comrades in arms, they fell side by side; one of them senseless, the

other feeling his life-blood flowing away...

Faintness came over him, breathing the sulphurous smoke, with the

tornado of battle stunning his brain--

Faintness--forgetfulness. A vision of childhood, of the sweet

Heaven-time of life, came to him...

He hoped it was death, coming as no king of terrors, but as a

beautiful flower-crowned child,

Bidding a hero welcome to the great halls of the laurel-wreathed

dead--those who died for their country.

From this dream of the Future came sharp awaking to life; rattling

away in the ambulance...

Crashing pains shooting wildly from leg to brains--the heart now and

then grasped with steel fingers and squeezed...

The knife and the tourniquet, the rapid surgical operation: the

poor, pale fellow maimed for life.

At home in a hospital kindly nursed and tended, hearing for the

first time in life the name of God--not taken in vain: seeing the

good DEEDS of true woman...

Knowing that should he die he would ask no gentler sounds to cheer

him on his road to the Hereafter, than the prayer he once heard

read by The Lady in Gray to a dying soldier in the same

hospital:... thus passed he back again to life.

Now convalescent he walks in the fresh morning up the quiet street,

under the leafy shadow of lindens... he and his comrade in battle.

In the faces of both you may see that they know how earnest is

life...

The Angel of Death on the battle-field raised the veil of the

Future: transient the glimpse, but they will never forget it...

The Angel of Mercy here in the hospital bound up their wounds,

cheering their hearts with kind looks and well-spoken words of

true sympathy...

Solemnly earnest and beautiful is Life to these two wounded soldiers.

The lame one is weary, and halts by the steps of a handsome house;

his comrade with one arm helps him sit down there, on the lowest

step, leaning against the white marble balustrade.

Through lace and silk curtains, from drawing-room window, looks down the

street a beautiful woman, waiting impatiently carriage, coachman, and

footman, to carry her grandly to church.

Up comes the carriage; wide open the doors of the house: Madame

descends...

How is this?... She stops by the two wounded soldiers.

I have two sons in the army, she thought; what if they were weary and

wounded like these?

Then she speaks to the comrades in battle, and learning where they were

going, insisted on their taking her carriage. She will have no refusal:

and now John the footman, inwardly groaning, assists the lame man to

enter, then the other one takes a seat...

Off they whirl to their hospital-home, with a blessing upon the fair lady

who dared follow the teachings of ONE whom that morning she worshiped

with words ... and with deeds.

Open your hands--and your hearts--ye who stand afar off from the battle!

Lo! the wounded and dying are here at your doors.

Slumber no more; but awake, AWAKE TO THEIR CRIES!

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ASTOR AND THE CAPITALISTS OF NEW-YORK.

The accumulation of wealth has always been a chief proclivity of our

race. The earliest of all books (Job) mentions it with sharp reproof, as

though even then it had become a theme with the moralist. In olden time,

wealth was even more unreliable than at the present day, especially as

the mere possession of gold was enough to endanger one's life. The

modern capitalist avoids this by devolving the custody of his cash on

some bank and holding its stock instead of a hoard of ingots. The

science of wealth now takes a more philosophic turn, and may be summed

up in one word, _debt_. To be rich is simply to have brought the

community in debt to yourself; and the greater it is, the greater, of

course, your riches. To be poor is simply to reverse this condition, and

to be in debt to others. The richest of all mankind may not have on

hand, in specie, at any one time, more than the amount of a single day's

income, and may be only able to show for his entire capital sundry

pieces of paper, representing value. This is a vast improvement upon

antiquity, since then wealth was identified with the holding of bullion,

for whose protection an especial deity was invented. By a strange

coïcidence, while Pluto was god of the lower regions, a slight change of

the name represented his moneyed colleague, and Plutus presided over

money. This connection is with sober wit hit off by Milton, who sets the

fallen angels at once to work digging gold.

'Soon had his crew

Opened into the hills a spacious wound

And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire

That riches grow in hell: that soil may best

Deserve the precious bane.'

The term 'almighty dollar' is stereotyped in modern slang, and yet the

idea could not but have existed under other words in the days of those

flush individuals, Midas and Croesus. The first of these moneyed

gentlemen found gold too plenty for comfort, while the latter, by his

unfortunate end, proved that even at that early time riches had learned

to fly away. Gold entered very largely into the politics of antiquity,

and by this means Crassus got a partnership in the grand triumvirate of

which Mark Antony and Octavius formed the more active parties. Poor

Crassus found, however, that to be a sleeping partner in a concern was

quite a dangerous position.

The danger in which money involves its possessor, is shown with dramatic

power by Scott, in his splendid medieval dream, _Ivanhoe_--in the

torture-scene, where the Jew is racked to obtain his gold. In connection

with this, it may be noted as a surprising fact that while poverty has

always been dreaded, it has ever been exempt from one term of peculiar

wretchedness. With all his privation, who ever heard a poor man

designated as a _miser_?

Wealth is a matter of comparison. The original term applied by the

New-England savages to the white was, _knifeman_; the possession of one

implement making the latter rich in the view of the Indian. What a vast

investment in wampum would such a weapon be? Carrying out the same

comparative idea, it is reported as one of John Jacob Astor's sayings:

'That a man worth fifty thousand dollars is as well off as though he was

rich.' So strong is this comparative aspect, that the money-hunter finds

his mark continually receding, and when he has attained his hundred

thousand, he is appalled by finding himself but a mere beginner compared

with others. He is but at the foot of the mountain which others have

climbed, and which towers above him in

'Many a fiery, many a frozen Alp.'

Hence, there is nothing more clearly proven in the psychology of man

than that accumulation utterly fails to fulfil the idea attached to

riches; that is, satiety or even satisfaction, and there is often a

bitter poverty of soul gnawing the owner of millions. The organic

thought crops out of great and small alike. It is said that the chief of

Boston merchants of the olden time, William Gray, when asked what would

satisfy him, replied, 'A little more;' while the Indian to whom the same

inquiry was made, replied with aboriginal simplicity: 'All the whisky

and all the tobacco in the world.' 'Nothing else?' added the inquirer.

'Yes,' replied the Indian in an anxious tone, 'a little more whisky.'

The same insatiable craving is shown in poor Isaac K----, the

half-witted boy, whose droll sayings of a half-century ago are still

remembered about Boston. 'Father,' he one day exclaimed, 'I wish every

body was dead but you and me.' 'Why so, my son?' 'Why, then, father, you

and I would go out and buy all the world.'

The power of gold to inflict pain on its possessor suggests deep

philosophical inquiry. Even at a superficial view, one can not but be

struck by the fatal facility which it affords to vice on the one hand,

while on the other, how many suffer untold distress from the miser's

self-inflicted poverty? There are multitudes of ruined youth, who, had

they been bound to labor instead of being reared to a life of affluent

ease, would have become useful men. Indeed, by merely changing the

costume of Hogarth's _Rake's Progress_, we may see it enacted by scores

of young men in any of our leading cities. The writer once knew a

worn-out debauchee of thirty, who, even at that early age, had got rid

of an inheritance of a half-million.

The miseries of poverty are severe, and such men as Johnson and De

Quincey have painted them in colors drawn from their own experience; but

what scenes vastly more terrible might they not have sketched had they

held that master-key which unlocks the abodes of pleasure and summons

the dreadful crew of temptation?

One can not but pity the former of these, as he thinks of his wandering

the live-long night through the streets of London, unable to buy a

lodging, and eating each occasional meal, not knowing when he would get

another. Yet, had as this might have been, how vastly more pitiable

would his case have been, had he fulfilled the infernal career of some

of his rich cotemporaries, such as Lord Lyttelton or Lord Euston, whose

dying horrors Young has so thrillingly described in his _Altamont_.

Horace, who had so thoroughly studied the philosophy of life, could

refer to his lowly condition:

'Sæva paupertas et avitus apto

Cum lare fundus:'

and then cite the race reared in poverty as those who saved the

commonwealth, by defeating Hannibal. His deep-toned objurgations at the

degeneracy of Rome are brought to mind by the increased dissipation and

licentiousness of American youth.

Who can read lines like these without thinking of our concert-saloons

and other facilities of vice? (the former happily suppressed.)

Damnasa quid non immmuit dies.

The history of capitalists would be interesting, if only as showing this

single feature, namely, that the secret of great success lies in one's

placing himself in some channel where the stream must soon flow, and

thus anticipating the future.

Johnson, in the midst of his cheerless poverty, had some golden dreams,

was sensible of this fact, and illustrates it in one of those Oriental

apologues which occur in the _Rambler_, where he shows the tiny rivulet

gradually filling a lake. With the same idea permeating his mind, he

exclaims, when Thrale's brewery was to be sold: 'Here are the means of

wealth beyond the dreams of avarice.'

The history of rich men also proves that it is not so much the art of

getting as that of keeping which insures success. New-York and other of

our great cities contain thousands of poor men who, but a few years ago,

were heavy operators, and whose future seemed brilliant with promise.

Yet here they are, now struggling for mere bread.

Riches are winged creatures, which break cage with strange facility and

are not to be whistled back again. The array of agents, brokers,

book-keepers, and decayed gentlemen who but lately were numbered among

merchants, bankers, and ship-owners, is quite a moving spectacle. Thus

A. B----, for thirty years connected with trade, during most of which

period he was a leading member of the great cloth house of----, has been

worth two hundred thousand dollars, but is now a book-keeper for a

concern in John street. I. S---- has been forty years in trade, and was

considered successful beyond all liability to future risk; and for many

years ranked among the rich men of the street, but has since failed, and

is now poor. B---- and M----, princes in the dry-goods line, built two

palatial stores in Broadway, have been immensely rich, but after

battling honorably with adverse fortune, have failed. J. R----, a

retired merchant, estimated at five hundred thousand dollars, holding at

one time fifty thousand dollars in Delaware and Hudson Canal stock,

subsequently got involved and lost all. Instances like these might be

multiplied to volumes, but they are sufficient to illustrate the

transitory nature of earthly possessions.

The great capitalists of New-York are chiefly identified with its real

estate, and their wealth has generally arisen from its advance in value.

Few great fortunes have lasted long, when left to 'the caprices of

trade, and the sons of our merchant-princes generally turn out poor men.

The great estates of the city are of a very limited number, and are

mainly included in the names of Whitney, Goellet, Lorrillard,

Rhinelander, Stuyvesant, Lenox, and Astor. The first of these was so

long an _habitué_ of Wall street, Front street, and Coenties Slip, that

even now, when wandering along those thoroughfares, we almost momently

expect to meet him. We can not but think that at the next turn we shall

see that shrunken and diminutive form, that meagre, hungry-looking

countenance, and that timid, nervous eye, which indicated the fear of

loss or the dread approach of charity. His office was held for years in

the second story of a warehouse in Front street, a spot in whose

vicinity he had passed nearly three-score years. Thither he had come in

his boyhood, a poor, friendless, New-Jersey lad, had found friends and

employment, had at last got to be a grocer, and had gradually

accumulated a large capital, by the closest economy. At this time the

war of 1812 broke out, and cotton became very low, in consequence of the

difficulty of shipping it to England. Mr. Whitney had at that time a

vast amount of outstanding accounts in the Southern States, and his

debtors were glad to pay him in this depreciated article. We have been

informed that Jackson's cotton defences of New-Orleans were of his

property. As neutral ships were permitted to sail between the

belligerent ports, Mr. Whitney exported large quantities of cotton to

England, and held the balance of his stock until the close of the war,

when it advanced enormously. This advance, together with the proceeds of

his exports, at once made him a millionaire, and the capital thus

acquired never lost a chance of increase. Giving up the details of

trade, Mr. Whitney bought large quantities of real estate, on which he

erected warehouses and obtained a princely rental. In addition to this,

he dealt more largely in commercial paper than any other man in the city

and perhaps in the Union. His habits of industry continued, and were a

theme of remark, as we observed him in his daily walk from his office to

the great moneyed centre of America, where the price of paper and money

rates regaled his ears. He was a good judge of paper, and needed no one

to advise him. He touched nothing but what in commercial parlance is

termed 'gilt-edged,' and of this he purchased almost daily for thirty

years. These notes being made payable to the order of the drawers,

needed no other indorsement, and hence might pass through an hundred

hands without this fact becoming known. Mr. Whitney's bills receivable

falling due in Wall street must have been at the rate of thirty thousand

dollars per day, and his purchases of paper, of course, were at about

the same rate. Much of this paper brought rates but little better than

interest, but on others from one to two per cent per month was obtained.

The secrets of this trade are deep and little understood, and few even

of the best dealers knew that when their notes had been given for

invoices of merchandise, they passed almost directly into the hands of a

few bill-buyers, and that perhaps in Stephen Whitney's portfolio might

be found almost the whole amount of good paper made in Front or South

streets. Mr. Kimball's recent work, _Undercurrents_, throws much light

on this traffic, and exhibits the result of deep study of our mercantile

system.[4] Mr. Whitney's management of his estate soon brought him up to

an estimate of ten millions. I used not only to meet him daily at the

mart, but also attended the same church, (Dr. Alexander's.) He was a

regular attendant, and a close listener, and I used to marvel how he

could bear the plain truths that fell upon my ears. Here in the pulpit,

at least, was one who was no money-worshiper. How well we remember the

exclamation from that earnest preacher: 'Wealth! in comparison with this

thing, (religion,) let it not be mentioned!' Whitney was a great admirer

of plain preaching, though, we believe, he never got into the communion

of the Church. Both the preacher and his millionaire listener are now

dead, and the church has been pulled down, and the site is now covered

by a block of splendid stores. Mr. Whitney's charities were on a very

limited scale. When the congregation above referred to were building a

mission-house, he was applied to, to head the subscription, which he

did with a trifling sum. The gift was refused, and a larger one was

demanded, as in better keeping with his position. 'Sir,' was his reply,

'if you go on this way, there will not be a rich man left in the city of

New-York.' It is also said that on a certain occasion, he was called on

to aid a political movement with his subscription. 'Sir,' was his reply,

'I have no money to spare, but I'll come and sit up all night to fold

ballots for you.'

The Lorrillard estate was chiefly acquired through an immense tobacco

business which the patriarch of that house started nearly a century ago,

and which led to the purchase of large landed property. The original

identity of the name continues, and 'short cut' and 'ladies' twist' are

still sold under the sign and brand of the Lorrillards. We presume that

it is the oldest house in America.

The Stuyvesant farm was a vast but unprofitable tract of marshes in the

eastern part of New-York, but now covered by serried blocks, and among

the most densely populated portions of the city. Forty years ago, these

marshes were favorite skating-fields in winter, and here a lad was at

that time actually drowned by the breaking of the ice. Being out of

town, the drier portions were converted into an American Tyburn, and

here the murderer Johnson was hanged. Such were the Stuyvesant meadows,

whose worthless wastes have been raised to immense value by the growth

of the city.

Among those of our city capitalists who are more identified with general

benevolence, the names of Stuart and Lenox are chief. Messrs. Stuart are

two brothers, who are largely engaged in refining sugars, and who have

in this business made large sums. The concern originated in a small

shop, where, some fifty years ago, a Scotchwomen sold candy, with her

two boys as clerks. Instead of that little candy-shop, there stands on

the same spot an enormous refinery, whose operations employ hundreds of

hands, and whose purchases are by cargoes. What would the worthy mother

say to this transformation of her shop, as by some act of magic? But it

is the magic of industry and enterprise. The Stuarts use their wealth

with judicious liberality, and evidently mean that the world shall be

better for their living in it. Their contributions are large, and their

opportunities are great, for be it remembered, such men are under

incessant solicitation. Indeed, there are few things more fatal to one's

peace than a reputation for liberality, which lays one open to a siege

of begging faces and an inundation of begging letters, whose demands

would exhaust all resources. It is our opinion that, avoiding

ostentation on the one hand and importunity on the other, the Stuarts

contribute conscientiously to every worthy enterprise, in a proportion

corresponding to their profits.[5]

The name of Lenox appears among some of the early Scotch emigrants, such

as the Irvings, Masons, Douglases, Grahams, etc. Robert Lenox became a

distinguished New-York merchant. His profits were wisely invested in

land, and this became very valuable. His only son, James, inherited the

larger portion of this estate, whose increasing value made him a

millionaire, and in its use, he has exhibited a remarkable benevolence.

We say _exhibited_, for though acting with studied secresy and silence,

his life has been so full of good works, that they can not be hid. In

these benefactions, Mr. Lenox exercises close discrimination, and for

this purpose has for years refused personal applications. This measure,

indeed, was necessary, in order to escape a perpetual siege, which would

soon have driven any man distracted. He has been in the habit of

considering written applications, and of selecting such as seemed worthy

of his patronage. Mr. Lenox annually disburses an enormous sum in a most

useful as well as most quiet manner. Indeed, his mansion is one of the

benevolent institutions of the day, and to all intents and purposes, its

occupant is but an actuary driven by perpetual duties and working with

assiduity to fulfil an important trust. He is a thoroughly practical

man, posted on all the details of business, and, inheriting the peculiar

abilities and energy of his father, puts them to the best of use.

We may say that the whole purpose of his life is benevolence to all

classes. Mr. Lenox will pardon us if we allude to his munificent gifts

toward educational enterprise, and especially to those which enrich the

institutions of Princeton. He has long been a trustee of Nassau Hall, in

whose behalf he has expended large sums, and whose gallery is enriched

with his portrait. The Theological Seminary is also an object of his

affectionate care. A few years ago, he observed that it needed increased

accommodation for its growing library. Carrying out a scheme which had

its inception in this circumstance, he quietly employed an architect to

draft plans, while at the same time a suitable range grounds was

obtained, the materials hauled from New-York, and the present noble

edifice, known as the Lenox Library, erected. That library has been of

vast assistance to the institution, and not a student visits its

alcoves, who does not gratefully remember its founder with a sentiment

like that uttered by Gray in reference to Eton:

'Where grateful science still adores

Her Henry's sacred shade.'

We understand that it has been recently decided to change this structure

into an oratory, and to build another library, and we presume that in

this also Mr. Lenox takes the initiative. We have referred to the fact

that Mr. Lenox only considers written applications, but lest this

statement should lead to their increase, we would add a word of

explanation. Their number has already become so large as to create a

great burden, and the daily task of reading these his begging letters is

very annoying. Mr. Lenox is greatly overladen, and we advise any one who

may think of his name as a _dernier resort_, to refrain from adding to

the labors of an overworked philanthropist. Rest assured, dear reader,

that Mr. Lenox will do all possible good with his money, and if it fails

to reach you, it may flow to a more deserving object.

Mr. Lenox is deeply interested in the Free Church of Scotland, and was

one of its most efficient helpers at the time of its exodus. A

correspondence between him and De. Chalmers conveyed his benefactions

through the noblest of instrumentalities, and a portrait of the great

Scottish theologian graces the mansion of his American friend. It was

painted by Henry Inman, during his sojourn abroad, and is the finest

picture of Chalmers we have ever seen. Mr. Lenox is a man of fine taste,

and finds recreation in gathering rare books, of which he has a valuable

collection, and he possesses, in addition, a splendid gallery of

pictures. Among them are two of Turner's landscapes, and we know of no

others in America.[6] We might say more of this estimable man, but will

not too soon anticipate the voice of fame. Our statements are made

mainly to correct some false impressions about one who, with all his

reticence, is one of the public men of his day, and who fulfills the

idea of the poet:

'Do good by stealth and blush to find it fame.'

Such a man was George Douglas, one of the same circle of wealthy

citizens of Scotch descent, who, though in a pecuniary view, hardly in

the same rank with Mr. Lenox, was still very rich. Mr. Douglas preserved

a studied retirement, and passed much of his time on his noble farm, but

was still active in philanthropy. His estate can not be far from a

half-million, yet it was used humbly in the service of his race.

'Though nursed in greatness, and to riches born,

Yet in earth's fairest flower he saw the thorn.

Beneath the finest linen sackcloth felt,

And bound his purple with an iron belt;

Lived Heaven's trustee, and lent, and gave away,

To God's own heirs who never could repay;

And died a rare example to the great,

Of lowly virtue in a high estate.'

But among all American capitalists the name of Astor looms up in

unapproachable solitude, and stands as it has stood for nearly forty

years.

We may get the better idea of the Astor estate by a comparative view.

Thus, a man worth one hundred thousand dollars is a rich man; a man

worth five hundred thousand dollars is a very rich man; a millionaire is

still more the ideal of wealth. Mr. Astor, then, is, if rightly

estimated, equal to twenty-five millionaires, or two hundred and fifty

rich men of the class first mentioned. In the seven hundred thousand

inhabitants of New-York, there are not more than two hundred men worth

one hundred thousand dollars; not more than twenty-five of the second;

not more than ten of the last. Approaching the assessment-roll, we may

estimate the Astor estate at one thirtieth of the entire city. Thus he

stands one seven hundred thousandth in the proportion of population, and

one thirtieth in that of wealth; or in other words, he owns what would

be a fair proportion for twenty-five thousand of his fellow-citizens.

The commencement of this estate was, as is well known, by small

beginnings.

Among the emigrants who landed in New-York about the close of the French

Revolution, was a rude German, from Baden Baden, whose life in the New

World was commenced as a laborer. He afterward became a peddler of fancy

goods, and eventually a dealer in peltries. In 1791 there appeared at

Number 40 Little Dock street, the unpretending name of John Jacob Astor,

and here the foundation of his estate was laid. Astor soon took fair

rank among business men. He was prompt and snug in his dealing, honest

and straightforward, and beside this, carried great weight of character

in his countenance. No man could be much with him without being struck

with his depth of character, and the solidity of his views. At that time

the fur-trade was brisk along the Mohawk, and the peltries, after

passing through the hands of frontier dealers, generally found their way

into Astor's warehouse, in Liberty street. Here they were sorted with

great care by his own hands, and prepared for foreign markets. An

octogenarian merchant informed me that, calling once at Mr. Astor's

store, he found him in an upper loft clad in a long, coarse wrapper, and

engaged among his furs. 'I shall get for that,' said he, holding up the

skin of a splendid silver fox, 'forty dollars, in St. Petersburg.' It

probably cost him less than five dollars. Astor had no sooner gained a

position as a thrifty trader, than he took a higher step by induction

into Free-Masonry. We say a higher step, not with a view of glorifying

this institution, but because at that time it was exceedingly popular

and aristocratic, and gave tone to citizenship. Among the leading

Free-Masons of New-York were Peter Irving and his brother William,

Martin Hoffman, the founder of the great auction business, and father of

the late L. M. Hoffman. Moving among these magnates, John Jacob Astor

became Grand Treasurer. Mr. Astor had a brother of the same thrifty

turn, though not so successful in acquiring wealth. He was a butcher by

trade, and slaughtered himself into a pittance of one hundred thousand

dollars, which, as he died early, he bequeathed to William B., his

nephew. 'To him that hath shall be given.' Mr. Astor's oldest son is

said to have been a very promising lad, but his brain became injured by

a fall, and he soon fell into a state of derangement. A private asylum

was arranged for his use years ago, and this, with its grounds, covers

an entire block in the western part of the city.

Mr. Astor's profits rolled in upon him at a rate which no one could have

dreamed of, and he kept their amount a secret until he had so penetrated

the frontier by his agencies that he controlled the whole trade, when he

occasionally acknowledged a degree of wealth which astonished those who

heard. For instance, we may state this fact in illustration: He had

occasion at a certain time to use a large amount of cash, and what was

very rare with him, applied to his bank for a heavy discount. The

unusual circumstance and the sum demanded startled the cashier, who in a

plain, business way, put the question: 'Mr. Astor, how much do you

consider yourself worth?' '_Not less than a million_,' was the reply. _A

million_! the cashier was overwhelmed. He supposed that he knew all his

customers, and had rated Astor at hardly more than one tenth of that

sum.

Mr. Astor commenced at an early day to buy real estate, and the habit

grew upon him until it became a passion. He was for years a leading

character at sheriff and other land sales, and it was the commonest

thing at such places to hear the closing words of the auctioneer: 'Last

call--going, going--gone--to John Jacob Astor.' At that time many large

estates were broken up, and among others, that of Aaron Burr was put

into the market, and speedily became the property of Mr. Astor. It

embraced a small suburban principality, whose mansion, 'Richmond Hill,'

was Burr's country-seat. The whole property is now in the heart of the

city and is worth millions, where once it brought thousands. Mr. Astor

boldly bought those wild lands, including swamps, rocky knolls, and

barren commons, which lay at waste from Canal street onward to

Bloomingdale, and while others affected to laugh at his judgment, the

correctness of that judgment is now quite apparent. A case similar in

character is that of the late eccentric Jonathan Hunt. This man, who had

accumulated a vast fortune South, was quite noted, a few years ago, for

his dashing land purchases in New-York, and his relatives actually

served on him a warrant _de lunatico inquirendo_, with a view of

preventing him from wasting his estate. Subsequently, however, it turned

out that these incessant purchases which had made him a leading man at

the Merchants' Exchange, and an object of distrust to his family, were

splendid operations. Poor Hunt's bid was subsequently refused by the

auctioneers, on the score of insanity, while the lots he bought on

Madison avenue and elsewhere, were, in fact, as speculations, superior

to the operations of the most sagacious speculators.

Astor's boldness increased with years. He bought government loans at a

time when other capitalists shrunk, and the price had run down to the

lowest mark. He bought claims against old estates--one of which paid an

enormous profit, and would have been accounted a splendid fortune of

itself--while the gradual increase of the city brought his waste lands

into demand; and the opening of the Erie Canal may be said to have at

one stroke added a million of dollars to the value of his estate.

Whatever was bought was held with determined grasp, however small the

prospect of advance. For instance, a friend of ours (now dead)

purchased, in company with Mr. Astor, two lots on Broadway, of which

they took separate deeds, and held for an advance. Year after year

passed by, but no advance appeared, while assessments were continually

made for city improvement. At the end of this period our friend called

on Mr. Astor and stated that he was weary of such long delay in getting

return for his investment, and asked him if he would not take the lot

and give him its simple cost. Mr. Astor calmly acceded to the proposal.

Had our friend held the same views as the great land operator, he would

have realized a fortune from this single lot, since what then cost one

thousand dollars is now worth fifty thousand dollars.

The Napoleonic character of Mr. Astor's mind is shown by the great

commercial schemes which shared the claims of real estate. He was

extending the ramifications of his trade through the North-west

wilderness and competing with the Hudson Bay Company for the peltry

taken by the numerous tribes of savages, while at the same time a vast

export trade was carried on with Europe, and also with China, whence he

brought teas in exchange for furs. It was this broad ambition which

prompted the grand scheme of a new station at the mouth of the Columbia.

And this scheme, though it failed, was not without great national

results. Its misfortunes were chronicled by the pen of Irving, and in

his pages the story of the crew murdered, and the ship plundered and

burned, was recorded among the tragedies of commerce.

Mr. Astor lived to old age, and his life was one of few changes. From

his humble shop in Little Dock street (now Water street near Coenties

Slip) he removed his place of business to Liberty street, (Number 71,)

and subsequently to Broadway. His longest place of abode was Number 223

Broadway, now a part of the site of the Astor House, whence, after a

residence in Hoboken, he removed up-town to a block in Broadway near

Prince street. Here he remained until death, but he lived long enough to

see the progress of the city covering his lands with dwellings, and

bequeathed to his son the largest estate in America. Mr. Astor had a

literary taste, and was fond of book-men. He gave Fitz-Green Halleck a

snug and profitable clerkship, and on the death of the capitalist,

William B. Astor presented to the poet the sum of ten thousand dollars.

Mr. Astor also sought the acquaintance of Washington Irving on the

return of that distinguished gentleman from Europe, and it was at his

especial request that the _Astoria_ was written. The friendship between

these two distinguished men continued until death, when it was found

that Mr. Irving had been appointed one of the executors of the will. The

fees connected with this office could not have been less than one

hundred thousand dollars, and the executors (six in number) at one time

received ten thousand dollars apiece.

Mr. Astor's project of the library was conceived long before his death,

and he had Dr. Cogswell for several years engaged in the collection of

books for this purpose. The full provisions, however, were not known

until the reading of the will developed the plan and funds. The plan was

not carried out in detail, but was left to the judgment of the trustees,

who modified it considerably, making an institution for reference

instead of a mere circulating library.

To the original bequest Mr. William B. Astor has since added a large

conveyance of real estate, and the institution is nearly double its

original size. Speaking of Mr. William B. Astor, we may be led to a few

references of a personal nature. As the ordinary street-passenger is

traversing Prince street, he is not likely to be struck by any of its

surroundings. The street itself is but of third-rate character, and the

houses are but of a common stamp. Near Broadway, however, one may notice

a small brick office, neatly built, of one story, with gable to the

street, but with doors and windows closed, and the whole appearance one

of security. Near the door may be seen a little sign which reads thus:

'Entrance next door: office hours from nine to three.' The next door, to

which we are referred, is a plain three-story brick dwelling, with no

name on the door, and might be taken for the residence of some

well-to-do old-fashioned family. Hence one is quite startled to find

that this is the headquarters of the chief capitalist of America.

Entering the street-door, one will find himself in a small vestibule,

neatly floored with checkered oil-cloth, and opening a door on his left,

he will enter a well-lighted front-room, destitute of any furniture but

a counting-house desk and a few chairs. At this desk stands an

accountant (or perhaps two) working at a set of books, and evidently

enjoying an easy berth. He will answer all ordinary inquiries, will do

the duty of refusing charitable demands, and will attend to any thing in

the ordinary run of business; but if one has any thing special on hand,

he will point to a door opening into a rear office. This apartment is of

moderate size and of simple furniture. On the table are a few books, and

on opening one of them, which appears well thumbed, it will be found to

contain maps of plots of city property, carefully and elegantly

executed, and embracing the boundaries of an enormous estate. Seated by

the table may generally be seen a stout-built man with large and

unattractive features, and upon the whole an ordinary face. He is

plainly dressed, and has a somewhat care-worn look, and appears to be

fifty or sixty years of age. One naturally feels (that is, if he be a

poor man) that it is quite a rare thing to address a capitalist, and

especially when that capitalist is the representative, say of

twenty-five millions of dollars. Such, at least, was our experience at

our first interview with William B. Astor.

Mr. Astor occupies an imposing mansion in Lafayette Place, and

immediately adjoining is the magnificent library to which we have

referred, and which should commemorate the name of the son as well as

that of the father. At this house he spends that small portion of his

time which is not occupied by his duties in Prince street, where he does

a full day's work (Sundays excepted) every day in the week. Thus the

daily routine of the richest man in America is a walk to and from home,

of a half-mile or so, and close attention to business.

The care of Mr. Astor's estate is a vast burden. His tenements of all

grades number several hundreds, ranging from the dwelling at three

hundred dollars per annum to the magnificent warehouse or hotel at

thirty thousand dollars. To relieve himself from the more vexatious

features of his business, he has committed his real estate collections

to an agent who does the work well, and who is, no doubt, largely paid.

He, with his clerks, collects rents, and makes returns of a rent-roll,

whose very recital would be wearisome. As a matter of course, such a man

must employ a small army of painters, carpenters, and other mechanics,

in order to keep up suitable repairs. As Mr. Astor pays no insurance,

the work of rebuilding after fires is in itself a large item.

A large part of Mr. Astor's property consists of vacant lots, which are

in continual demand, and which he generally prefers to hold rather than

sell; hence he is much employed with architects and master-builders, and

always has several blocks in course of erection. This is a very heavy

burden, and were it not for the help derived from his family, would, we

believe, crush him. However, his son, John Jacob, is quite a business

man, and bears his share of the load. This young gentleman has shown his

patriotism by serving in the army for the Union, in which he bears an

important commission. In addition to this, Mr. Astor has the aid of a

gentleman of business character and habits, once a member of one of the

largest shipping houses in the city, who has become connected with the

family by marriage. The labors of all these parties would not be more

than adequate to the task of collecting interest on bonds, looking after

dividends, etc., since that little fire-proof office in Prince street

contains several millions of Government and State securities.

In order to give something like an estimate of the immense income

rolling in upon this family, we must commence with the fact that two

dollars per day is considered fair wages for working men; that the man

who makes five dollars per day all the year round may be considered very

fortunate; that ten dollars per day is attained by that few who are more

favored and gifted, and whose proportion to the mass is about one to a

thousand. Starting from this estimate, we may be better prepared to rate

Mr. Astor's position by comparing any of the above sums with six

thousand dollars, which is said to be his daily income. Bless me! one

can not but exclaim; here Croesus himself might die with envy. Yet we

reply, after a moment's pause, let no one envy the man of gold. It is

said that when John Jacob Astor was once congratulated by a certain

person for his wealth, he replied by pointing to his pile of bonds, and

maps of property, at the same time inquiring: 'Would you like to manage

these matters for your board and clothes?' The man demurred to the idea.

'Sir,' continued the rich man, '_it is all that I get_!' Hence, thinking

on these things, we have never envied Mr. Astor, and would not bear the

burden of his wealth for all its glory. It is not the possession but the

use of money, which affords enjoyment, and this is a secret which the

rich seldom learn. Alas! among the annals of moneyed men, how seldom do

we meet a Stuart or a Lenox--men who have learned what Goldsmith calls

'the luxury of doing good.'

It is one of the peculiar misfortunes of the rich, to be subject to the

attentions of parasites and flatterers, and hence they can not possess

that same certainty of the value of friendship enjoyed by the poor. The

latter of these classes know that when a kind act is done to them, it

comes from a pure motive; the other seldom can be sure that it is not

from selfish ends. To illustrate the idea which wealth suggests, as to

the motive of friendly visitors, we may state that among Mr. Astor's

class-mates in Columbia College was a young man who became a preacher.

The students separated--the one to handle millions, and to touch the

springs of the money-market, and become the colossus of wealth; the

other to his flock, as a poor domestic missionary, whose history was

indeed a 'shady side.' The latter struggled on through thick and thin,

and never in all his privations thought of sending a begging-letter to

his old class-mate. But being once upon a time in New-York, he yielded

to the inclination to make him a visit. Mr. Astor received him

courteously, and the two conversed on the scenes of their early days. As

the pastor arose to depart, an idea struck the capitalist's heart, which

we mention to his credit. '_Can I do any thing for you_?' he inquired.

He had, in fact, misconceived the object of the visit, and supposed that

under the guise of a friendly call, lurked an inclination to beg, which

fear of refusal had suppressed. The poor clergyman at once perceived the

drift of the question. Nothing could have been farther from his mind,

and blushing at the thought, he acknowledged the suggestion with an

expression of gratitude, and retired.

Perhaps a view of the unrest of the human heart appears most terrible

when contrasted with the almost fabulous heaps of surrounding wealth,

and one is thus led to the conclusion arrived at by Goldsmith:

'Vain, very vain, my weary search to find

That bliss which only centres in the mind;

With secret course which no loud streams annoy,

Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;

Still to ourselves in every place consigned,

Our own felicity we make or find.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: _Undercurrents_ is not a romance, and although its author

calls it a 'Romance of business,' it is a life-like presentation of the

deep things of trade, a series of dramatic scenes, holding the mirror up

to a terrible reality. The characters are no fictions; they exist, they

labor, they suffer daily, and will continue to do so, go long as the

present system obtains, Mr. Kimball boldly lays bare the secret disease,

like a demonstrator of anatomy. He is the only author who has succeeded

in this department of literature, and here he shows himself a master.]

[Footnote 5: Since writing the above, we have heard of that masterpiece

of munificence, the gift of fifty thousand dollars to the Theological

Seminary of Princeton by the Messrs. Stuart.]

[Footnote 6: Calling on Church lately, we found him finishing his

Cotopaxi for Mr. Lenox. Price, six thousand dollars.]

THUNDER ALL ROUND!

'When it once begins to thunder,

You will hear it all around!'

And we waited--till in wonder

Soon we heard the awful sound:

Crashing cannon, rifle-rattle,

Bowing many a traitor-head:

On, McClellan, with the battle!

Strike the Typhon-serpent dead!

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one _lives_ it--to

not many is it _known;_ and seize it where you will, it is

interesting.'--_Goethe_.

'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished

or intended.'--_Webster's Dictionary_.

CHAPTER V.

SOME ACCOUNT OF JOEL BURNS OF BURNSVILLE

You will find, as you travel through the country, but few very poor

people in New-England. Rarely are the 'selectmen' called to act either

on applications for admission as one of the 'town's poor,' or to 'bind

out' a boy or girl till one-and-twenty.

One evening--it was the close of a cold, raw day in the latter part of

November--the stage deposited a woman, and a lad perhaps twelve years

old, at the village tavern in Sudbury. She was intending to ride all

night; indeed, she had paid her 'fare' through to New-Haven, but, seized

with sudden illness, she was compelled to stop. Her malady proved to be

typhus fever. The doctor was summoned, who subjected his patient to the

terrific treatment then in vogue for that disorder, and in due course

she died. It turned out on inquiry, that the woman, whose name was

Burns, was on her way to a married sister's in Pennsylvania; further,

that she was a widow, the lad her only child, and the sister in

Pennsylvania the only near relation she had in the world. This sister

was by no means in affluent circumstances, but she could offer a home to

'Sarah,' which the latter was glad to accept. After disposing of the

trifling articles unsuitable to carry with her, she had barely money

enough to defray the expenses of herself and 'Joel' to their new abode.

The poor woman's journey was interrupted, as we have explained, at

Sudbury, and a new direction given to it. She departed for 'the

undiscovered country,' leaving little Joel to cry himself asleep; for

the time quite heart-broken, and desolate enough.

There was not time to write to the married sister; so the selectmen,

after ascertaining what money still remained in the purse of the

deceased, undertook the burial. They ordered a cheap pine coffin,

scantily 'stained.' It cost but a quarter of a dollar to dig the grave,

and old Sally agreed to 'lay the woman out' for the comfortable dress

she wore on arriving at the inn. Of the three selectmen of Sudbury, two

were from the east part of the town--thrifty, hard-working farmers; the

third was a Mr. Bellows, a popular store-keeper of the village. The

latter had not interfered with the action of his colleagues, because he

himself was very busy, and they, having very little to do at that

season, were pleased with the excitement the affair afforded them. But

passing the inn the morning Mrs. Burns was to be buried, Mr. Bellows

stepped in a moment at the request of the landlord, who was a

kind-hearted fellow, and did not feel quite satisfied with the

arrangements. Ascending to the chamber, he saw a sad but

handsome-looking boy standing over a rudely constructed coffin, a

picture of sorrow and despair. The little fellow had witnessed the

action of the coarse-hearted men who took the direction of the funeral.

He heard their private discussion as to the 'cost of burying the woman.'

He was a witness to their haggling with Aunt Sally about laying her out.

He could hear various propositions as to what was to be done with _him_.

He saw his mother hurriedly draped for the coffin and placed inside of

it. He did not sob nor cry; a dreadful reality had so overcome him, that

he lost the power of doing either. Once or twice, when every body had

left the room, he had stolen softly up and kissed the face of the

corpse, and some tears would then roll down his cheeks. It was at such a

time that Mr. Bellows entered, and his heart smote him that he had not

sooner looked in. He spoke kindly to Joel, which seemed to loose the

flood-gates of his grief, and for a time he continued to cry in the most

piteous manner. Mr. Bellows soon decided what to do. His own family was

small; he had a wife and one child--a little girl nine years old. He

took Joel in his lap, told him not to cry--that he should go home with

him, and be _his_ boy. The tone in which this was uttered had more

effect to soothe the lad than what was said to him. After a few minutes,

Joel was persuaded to leave the room and to accompany his new friend to

the house. Mr. Bellows then called on his minister, and requested him to

perform the funeral rites at the grave; for so little interest had been

shown in the fate of the strange woman, that her illness had not even

been communicated to the clergyman, and the selectmen did not think it

'worth while to have any funeral'! Mr. Bellows hurried hack to the inn.

The coffin was placed in a wagon. It was followed by the clergyman and

Mr. Bellows, the two other selectmen, the landlord of the inn, and his

wife. The burying-ground was soon reached, a short prayer made, and the

company dispersed, leaving the man to fill up the grave according to

contract. Mr. Bellows and his two associates returned to the tavern

together, in order, as the latter expressed it, to settle up the

business. Going into the sitting-room, and taking seats around a small

table, one of them opened the subject in a serious and important tone,

indicative of the weight of responsibility he felt was resting on his

shoulders, by asking what was to be done with the boy.

'What do you think best to do with him?' said Mr. Bellows.

'Well, I suppose there is room in the town-house. There is nobody there

now but Aunt Lois and foolish Tom, and we can probably bind him out next

spring.'

'I don't think we have a right to charge the town with the expense,'

said selectman number two. 'We know where the boy came from; the best

way is to send him back to Granby.'

'He has got an aunt,' said the other; 'hadn't we better write to her?'

'Gentlemen,' said Mr. Bellows, 'I will cut this matter short. I will

take the lad myself. You shall bind him out to me in the regular way. I

do not think you need fear any interference from the town of Granby. As

to his aunt, I propose first to write and get her consent. If she

prefers to take the boy, why, she will send for him.'

This question disposed of, the spokesman next proposed to go into the

accounts; which meant his own and his neighbor's charge for time and

personal expenses twice from East-Sudbury with horse and wagon. They

thought six dollars about right.

'How do you propose to be paid?' quoth Mr. Bellows.

'Twenty dollars and seventy-two cents was in their possession, taken

from the pocket of the woman after she died.'

'And how did you dare interfere with property of any kind,' exclaimed

Mr. Bellows, his smothered indignation bursting forth, 'without

consulting with me? Don't you know the landlord has the first claim on

every thing till his bill is paid? Don't you know, too, you are simply

doing the town business, and if you have any claim, the town must pay

you for it?'

Well, that is so, I guess,' said the third. 'It _is_ agin the town. I'll

take my chances, for one--had rather settle it that way, any how.'

The result of the conference was, that the whole business, including the

twenty dollars and seventy-two cents, was handed over to Mr. Bellows,

leaving his colleagues to make out and collect their bill at leisure.

Joel's aunt was written to, and freely gave her consent that the boy

should go with his new friend. The latter promptly paid the bill at the

inn, and the doctor for his services, and soon after paid his colleagues

what they claimed, lest it might in the future be a subject of comment

when Joel grew up.

He was a good man, this Mr. Bellows; not specially refined in manner,

but possessing a delicacy of character and a lively sensibility which

placed him among the ranks of nature's noblemen. He had been fortunate

in business, and owned the principal store in the place, where he

exercised a decided influence.

Little Joel gave promise of not disappointing his patron's expectations.

In fact, he was a child of most engaging manners. His features were not

regular, nor indeed handsome; but he had bright black eyes, a fine

complexion, and an open, ingenuous countenance. He was treated by Mr.

Bellows as considerately as if he were his own son. To be sure, Joel had

some unpleasant scenes to pass through. As nothing is ever lost sight of

in a small country village, the story of how he came to be living with

Mr. Bellows was not forgotten. At school, occasionally, one of the boys

would, on some slight provocation, point at him and call him 'Bellows's

nigger,' or make faces and cry 'charity boy,' 'town's poor.' Now,

fortunately, Joel had a happy, joyous nature--somewhat fiery and

irascible, but still joyous--else he might have become morbidly

miserable. As it was, these manifestations only provoked his anger, and

led him forthwith into a rough-and-tumble fight, in which, whether

victor or not, he always showed unquestionable pluck. If he came off

second-best a dozen times, he went confidently into the thirteenth

trial, brave as Bruce, and equally successful. At length the voice of

gossip was hushed. Joel became the most popular lad in the village.

Every body liked him, and what is better, he deserved it.

But the evil days came at last to good Mr. Bellows--came after years of

happy, moderate, unclouded prosperity. First his wife died. This was

when Joel was twenty years old, and Ellen Bellows seventeen. The illness

was short, and the daughter was summoned from boarding-school in time

only to attend her mother's funeral. Mr. Bellows, after that, as every

body said, was an altered man. He could not bring his mind to business.

Some people thought at times he acted strangely, by which they meant he

was a little out of his head. Still, his affairs could not suffer while

such a young man as Joel Burns was about. The fact is, in some things

matters were even better managed than before. But great mistakes were

made in the purchase of goods, which Mr. Bellows continued to attend to,

and which Joel had too much respect for his benefactor to criticise. The

succeeding year, speculation in wool ran high. Mr. Bellows was anxious

to go into it. Joel took the freedom of begging him not to do so. The

latter appeared to be persuaded; but he did what was worse than engaging

actively in purchases, for then he would have had Joel's tact and energy

to aid him. He lent his name to an acquaintance, for a very large

amount, who was to go extensively into the scheme with him and divide

the profits. The result was disastrous. Wool fell rapidly. An attempt

was made to borrow money on it and hold it over to the next

season--worse and worse; Mr. Bellows was ruined.

One morning, very early, several attachments were levied on his goods,

and the store was shut up. One of the officers next proceeded to the

house and took possession there, so that Mr. Bellows was now tied hand

and foot.

I suppose few of my readers can appreciate what it is for a man to 'fail

up' in the country. In our large cities, it is regarded, to be sure, as

a misfortune, but one to which every merchant is exposed; and the usual

course is to propose a compromise, obtain a release, and set cheerfully

to work again, with loss of property, doubtless, but _not_ with any

damage to reputation. But in the country, failure is regarded as a

disgrace, and a 'failed man' is looked and pointed at something as a

felon would be.

When Joel Burns awoke in the morning and found every thing in the hands

of the sheriff, he was astounded, for Mr. Bellows had not told him a

word about his last year's operations. He perceived the amounts were

larger than could ever be realized. He took in the whole situation at a

glance. He hastened to consult with Mr. Bellows, but he was listened to

with entire apathy. The merchant would say but little, and that was so

incoherent and unintelligible, it was evident he was laboring under

mental aberration. He continued moody through the day, and the next

morning was found dead in his bed. He had severed an artery.

At this time Joel was in his twenty-second year. Already displaying

extraordinary capacity in affairs, this event served to call out all his

resources.

I ought to have mentioned, before this, what every body will guess, that

Joel was desperately in love with Ellen Bellows, without, however,

giving her the least reason to believe so, beyond that silent,

unobtrusive devotion which girls, after all, are not very apt to

mistake. Joel felt that in his situation he had no right to attempt to

win Ellen's affection; but he unconsciously took the very best way to

win it. In his intercourse with her he was reserved, almost formal, and,

I may say, apparently indifferent. Ellen, when she came home from school

to spend her vacations, used to feel a good deal piqued that Joel was

not more demonstrative in his welcome. I can not believe she did not

comprehend pretty well how Joel really felt; but his manner annoyed her,

nevertheless. For example, he would frequently step aside and permit

another to wait on Miss Bellows, when Miss Bellows would much prefer

Joel had not been so accommodating. In fact, she was vexed with him half

the time for what she called his stupidity, and half the time tantalized

by his 'studious reserve.' Meanwhile, Joel pursued his career of

self-martyrdom, honest and true-hearted.

Now the scene had changed, and Joel was no longer the diffident youth,

but a man, competent and energetic. He took the direction of every

thing; nothing was overlooked. Of course the relatives were sent for. It

was the old story: they had paid great respect to their rich cousin, but

they did not seem to care much for the memory of the broken-down

insolvent.

The day of the funeral arrived--a dreary November day. It was just

eleven years from the day Joel's mother was buried and he himself taken

to the house of Mr. Bellows. Joel did not forget it, and it gave

additional strength to carry out what devolved on him. There was a very

large attendance at the house. The circumstances of the failure and

subsequent suicide, the situation of the only daughter, and the many

petty incidents which were now the town talk, excited the curiosity of

the good people, and there was an opportunity to gratify it by attending

the funeral. They wanted to see how the corpse would look. They were

crazy to know how Ellen Bellows would appear, and what Joel Burns would

do. So the house was thronged. After all, there was not much to satisfy

their curiosity. The corpse was not exposed; Ellen Bellows, contrary to

all custom in New-England, remained in her chamber, for which, as you

may believe, she was pretty thoroughly picked to pieces; and Joel Burns

sat quietly, with sad but tranquil countenance, among the mourners.

The next day Joel called Ellen aside and asked her whether she was not

going home with her aunt.

'Am I not to stay here?' she said.

Joel could not explain to her just then the absolute ruin which stared

her in the face. He simply answered: 'No, Ellen, you must go away for a

few weeks. There is much to do, and for a time you had better be

absent.'

'Very well, Joel, if you advise it. I have nobody else to advise me,'

and she burst into tears.

Joel remained calm. He had previously made up his mind just what to do,

and he brought all the energy of his nature to sustain him. His composed

air helped to restore Ellen--she tried to be as calm as he.

'But aunt, since she came, has not invited me return with her,' she

said.

'Oh! but she will, I am sure,' replied Joel, and he went out rather

abruptly; for here was an obstacle to his plan which did not occur to

him before. He proceeded at once to the aunt, and found her preparing to

leave that afternoon.

'You will take Ellen with you, I suppose?' he said.

'I am sure I had not thought of doing it. You know all the children are

home, and really we have no room at present.'

Two weeks previous she had written a pressing invitation to Ellen to

come at this particular time. Joel bluntly reminded her of it.

'Yes, but circumstances alter cases. The fact is, I can't afford to

maintain the girl, and I don't think I had better begin; and that's the

English of it, Joel, if you force me to say so. You know very well there

won't be a cent left.'

'I think I know more about that than you do,' replied Joel, with an air

which would have done credit to a _diplomat_, 'and, I assure you, Ellen

will _not_ be left penniless; and if you will insist on her going with

you for a short time--mind, I say _insist_--I promise before long to

make certain disclosures which will satisfy you as to my assertion. But

she must not be here while they are settling up. You understand.'

The old lady did not understand, but Joel carried his point by the aid

of the mystery with which he surrounded it. It put her on her good

behavior at once, lest she should lose the promised revelation. She

spoke even affectionately to Ellen, and declared she should not let her

remain in the house alone, but she must go home with her.

Before the two left Sudbury, Joel had a very long interview with Ellen.

What passed at that interview never transpired, but the young girl's

countenance, though very sad, did not wear the desolate and despairing

expression which it exhibited before.

The stage now drew up, the ladies got in, and it rolled away, leaving

Joel and the deputy-sheriffs the sole possessors of the premises.