Hitherto France had disclaimed as her subjects the roving cattle-hunters

upon the island of Hispaniola; but after they had formed settlements and

established themselves so firmly upon Tortuga, the French West India

company took them under the ægis of the lilies for protection; and M.

Ogeron, 'a man of probity and understanding,' was sent from the parent

country to govern them. With the arrival of the new governor the

domestic relations of the buccaneers underwent a material change, for

the former brought many women with him--fit persons, from the past

profligacy of their lives, to consort with the inhabitants of Tortuga.

But the buccaneers were not fastidious in the selection of wives, and

history gives us no right to suppose that there was a single forlorn

damsel left without a husband. 'I ask nothing of your past life,' would

the buccaneer say to the fair one to whom he proposed himself. 'If

anybody would have had you where you came from, you would not have come

here. But as you did not belong to me then, whatever you may have done

was no disgrace to me. Give me your word for the future, and I will

acquit you for the past.' Then striking his gun barrel, he would add,

'Shouldst thou prove false to me, this will not.'

Meanwhile, the buccaneers, becoming stronger and stronger every day,

extended their designs, and pushed their operations with a degree of

audacity and success that rendered them the terror of the seas. As yet

their marine consisted only of boats and canoes, but these were, as

before stated, of a size to carry from fifty to a hundred men each. They

attacked not only merchantmen, but vessels of war, with a degree of

intrepidity unexampled in the history of man. No matter for the size of

a ship, or for her armament. They paused not to calculate chances. Their

invariable practice was to carry their prizes by boarding. Their boats

were propelled with the swiftness of an arrow. As certain as they

grappled with a vessel, she was sure to be taken; for their onslaughts

were desperately furious and irresistible. The Spanish Government

complained bitterly, both to England and France, of the outrages upon

her commerce by the pirates, a large majority of whom were the born

subjects of those nations. The answers, however, of both were the same:

that those piratical acts were not committed by the buccaneers as their

subjects; and the Spanish ambassador was informed that his master might

proceed against them as he saw fit. In consequence of the transactions

of the buccaneers with the people of Jamaica, England went farther, and

actually removed the governor of that colony. But, whether with the

connivance of the civil authorities or not, the intercourse between the

pirates and the people continued without serious interruption. Some of

the buccaneers, however, pretended to hold commissions both from the

French and the Dutch; but it was mere pretext. Their authority was in

truth nothing more than what the sailors are wont jocosely to call 'a

commission from the Pope.' Yet they affected to consider themselves in

lawful war against Spain, for the reason that the Spaniards had debarred

them from the privileges of hunting in the forests and fishing in the

waters of St. Domingo--thus depriving them of the exercise of what they

called their lawful rights. In regard to the cruelties which they

frequently inflicted upon the prisoners who fell into their hands, they

pleaded in justification those enormities which the conquerors of

Spanish America inflicted upon the aborigines there. The horrible

cruelties of Cortez and Pizarro are familiar to every student of

history. 'I once,' says Las Casas, speaking of the conquest of the New

World, 'beheld four or five chief Indians roasted alive at a slow fire;

and as the miserable victims poured forth their dreadful yells, it

disturbed the commandant in his siesta, and he sent an order that they

should be strangled; but the officer on duty would not do it, but,

causing their mouths to be gagged that their shrieks might not be heard,

he stirred up the fire with his own hands, and roasted them deliberately

until they all expired.' The conquerors had resorted to these dreadful

executions under the cloak of religious zeal, but in reality to make the

poor wretches disclose the secret depositories of their treasures.

Instances of the same refined cruelty, at the contemplation of which

humanity shudders, marked the history of the buccaneers. Their motives

were the same as those which had governed the conduct of Cortez; and

they, too, found a salvo for their consciences by persuading themselves

that they were commissioned as a court of vengeance--the instruments of

retributive justice in the hands of Providence--to punish the Spaniards

for the remorseless cruelties practised upon the unoffending Mexicans.

And here another extraordinary fact may be noted in the history of the

buccaneers. After their community had become consolidated and their

government in a manner systematized, strange as it may seem,

notwithstanding their murderous profession the observances of the

Christian, religion were introduced to sanctify their atrocities. 'They

never partook of a repast without solemnly acknowledging their

dependence upon the Giver of all good.' In their infatuation, whenever

they embarked upon any expedition, they were wont to invoke for its

success the blessing of Heaven; and they never returned from a marauding

excursion that they did not return thanks to God for their victory. 'On

the appearance of a ship which they meant to attack, they offered up a

fervent prayer for success; and when the conflict had terminated in

their favor, their first care was to express their gratitude to the God

of battles for the victory which He had enabled them to gain.'

* * * * *

The first leader of the buccaneers, after their concentration upon

Tortuga, whose deeds of desperate valor 'damned him to everlasting

fame,' was PIÉRRE LE GRANDE, a native of Dieppe, in Normandy.

The crowning act of his piratical career was his taking the ship of the

vice admiral, convoying a fleet of Spanish galleons, near the Cape of

Tiburon, on the western side of St. Domingo--an act which was performed

with a single boat, manned by only eighteen men, and armed with no more

than four small pieces of ordnance. And even these latter were of no

use, as the admiral's ship was carried by boarding, with no other arms

than swords and pistols. Le Grande had been so long at sea, without

falling in with any craft worth capturing, that his provisions were

becoming short; and his crew, pressed with hunger and brooding over

their ill success, were desperate. Thus situated, they espied the

Spaniard bearing the vice admiral's flag, and separated from the rest of

the flotilla. Notwithstanding the immense disparity of force, Le Grande

determined to capture her, and his crew took an oath to stand by him

till the last. The boat of the pirates was descried by the Spaniard in

the afternoon, and the admiral was admonished of what might be its

character; but he scorned the admonition, viewing the apparently pitiful

craft with contempt, and adopting no precautions against it. Just in the

dusk of evening the pirates ran alongside of his ship. As already

remarked, the crew of Le Grande had sworn to stand by their captain; but

in order to cut off all means of escape in the event of defeat, and

therefore to make them fight with greater desperation, their chief, at

the moment they were climbing the sides of the ship, caused the boat to

be suddenly scuttled, and sunk. Indeed the boarding of the Spaniard was

hastened by the necessity of leaping from their own vessel, already

sinking beneath them. Under these circumstances, the boarding was so

rapid, that the Spaniards were completely taken by surprise; so much so

that as the pirates rushed into the great cabin, they found the captain,

with several boon companions, engaged at a game of cards. Exclaiming

that his assailants must be devils, the commander, with a pistol at his

breast, was compelled to an immediate surrender. Meanwhile a portion of

the assailants took possession of the gunroom; seized the arms, and

killed all who resisted. This vigorous assault soon carried the ship by

a surrender at discretion. She proved to be a rich prize; and the

prisoners were treated with lenity, which was not always the course

adopted by the buccaneers when they were disappointed in the amount of

their expected plunder. Many were the crews compelled to pay with their

lives for the poverty of their cargoes. In the present case Le Grande

retained for his own service such of the common sailors as he needed,

and after setting the rest on shore, proceeded to France with his

prize, where he remained, without ever returning to America.

The success of this exploit, and the rich reward by which it was

crowned, at once stimulated the cupidity of the Tortugans, and fired

their breasts with the ambition of emulating the bravery of the Great

Peter. Those who were yet engaged in planting or in other honest

occupations, at once abandoned them, and betook themselves to the more

inviting trade of piracy. Being unable to build larger vessels than the

boats or hoys then in use, they carried on the war in these against the

smaller vessels of Spain engaged in the coasting trade and in the

traffic of hides and tobacco with the inhabitants of Jamaica. The

vessels thus captured were substituted for their own smaller craft, by

means of which they were soon enabled to make longer voyages, and

stretch across to the coasts of the Spanish main. At Campeachy and other

points they found many trading vessels, and often ships of great burden.

Two of these commercial vessels they captured, and also two large armed

ships, all laden with plate, within the port of Campeachy, which they

boldly entered for that purpose, and sailed with them in triumph to

Tortuga. Such rich returns greatly augmented the wealth of the island;

and every additional capture enabled them to increase their marine,

until at the end of two years from the last achievement of Piérre Le

Grande, the pirates had a navy, very well manned and equipped, of more

than twenty ships of different sizes. With such a force, composed of men

of the most desperate fortunes and dauntless courage, the commerce of

Spain with her colonies in Central and South America was in a few years

almost entirely destroyed. The ships bound from Europe for the colonies

were rarely molested by the pirates, who chose to fall upon them when

laden with the precious metals, which Spain, in her avarice, was

transporting home--not foreseeing that by that very process she was

gradually working her own national ruin. Sometimes a fleet of galleons,

when under strong convoy, succeeded in the return voyage; but a single

ship, of whatever strength or force, seldom escaped the vigilance of the

pirates. They followed such fleets as they judged it unsafe to attack,

and a slow sailer or a straggler was inevitably captured. So daring were

these robbers, that even before they were enabled to obtain a smaller

craft, a crew of fifty-five of them in one of the large canoes sailed

into the Southern Ocean, and proceeded along the coast of the continent

as far north as California. On their return, they entered one of the

ports of Peru, and captured a ship, the cargo of which was valued at

several millions. Their canoe was then exchanged for the noble prize, in

which they returned in triumph.

Preparations for their expeditions were made with the utmost care, and

articles of agreement were always carefully written out and signed; and

the dealings of the robbers among each other were usually characterized

by the most scrupulous honor. In regard to their provisions, the rations

were distributed twice a day--the officers, from the highest to the

lowest, faring no better than the common sailor. It was stipulated

exactly what sums of money or what proportionate sums each person

engaged in a voyage should receive, with the understanding, of course,

_no prey_, _no pay_. The commanders of the ships were frequently the

owners. Sometimes they belonged to a company of adventurers on board. In

other instances they were chartered for the service of individuals or

companies on shore. The first stipulation, therefore, on arranging for a

voyage, regarded the compensation to be received by the owner or owners

of the ship, being ordinarily one third of the products of the cruise.

If the boat or vessel in which an enterprise was first undertaken was

the common property of the crew, the first vessel captured was allotted

to the captain, with one share of the booty obtained. In cases where the

captain owned and fitted out the original vessel, the first ship taken

belonged to him, with a double share of the plunder. The surgeon was

allowed two hundred crowns for his medicine chest, and a single share of

the prizes; and whoever had the good fortune to descry a ship that was

captured, received a reward of a hundred crowns. A tariff of

compensation for the wounded was also adjusted according to the greater

or less severity of the wounds they might receive. For example, the

compensation for the loss of a right arm was six hundred pieces of

eight, or six slaves as an equivalent; for a left arm, five hundred

pieces of eight, or five slaves; for the loss of a right leg, five

hundred pieces, or five slaves; for an eye, one hundred pieces, or one

slave; for the loss of a finger, the same. Claims of this character were

first paid at the close of a voyage, from the common stock of the prize

money. The commander of an expedition was allotted five portions of a

common seaman; and the subordinate officers shared in proportion to

their rank. The residue of the booty was then divided with exact

equality among the crews, from the highest to the lowest mariner, not

excepting the boys. Some of the duties of these latter were peculiar.

For instance, when the pirates had captured a vessel better than their

own, they transferred themselves to it, leaving the boys to escape from

the deserted vessel last, after having set it on fire. Favor never had

any influence in the distribution of the booty, which was rigidly

decided by lot--lots being drawn for the dead as well as for the living.

The portions for the dead were given to their surviving companion; or if

the companion had also been killed, the allotment was sent to the family

of the deceased. If they had no families, then the money or plate or

other goods that would have belonged to them was distributed to the

poor, or piously bestowed on churches, which were to pray for the souls

of those in whose names the benefactions were given. These allowances to

the dead and wounded were considered debts of honor--such as the brokers

of Wall street would note as 'confidential.' Their intercourse with each

other was marked with civility and kindness. They, of course, squandered

their money on coming ashore, in all manner of dissipation, and with the

recklessness which has ever characterized the sailor. To those who were

in want they would contribute freely; and the kind offices of humanity

among each other were readily interchanged. In ordinary cases, their

prisoners were liberated, save those who were needed for their own

assistance; and these were generally discharged after two or three

years. Whenever they were in want of supplies, they landed upon the

islands and levied exactions upon the people--planters and fishermen.

The green turtles, however, among the Florida Keys, supplied a large

portion of their food; and it is presumed that they became as great

adepts in the turtle line as the corporation pirates of modern times.

So extensively was the commerce of Spain in these seas, under her own

flag, cut up, notwithstanding the ships of war repeatedly sent for its

protection, that foreign flags were resorted to, in hopes of deceiving

the rovers. But the _ruse_ was not successful. Two of the buccaneer

chiefs, Michael de Basco and Brouage, receiving intelligence that a

cargo of great value had been shipped under the Dutch flag at

Carthagena, in two ships much larger than their own, boldly entered the

harbor, captured both, and plundered them of their treasure. The Dutch

captains, chagrined at being thus beaten by inferior vessels, said to

one of the pirate chiefs that had he been alone, he would not have dared

thus to attack them. The buccaneer haughtily challenged mynheer to fight

the battle over again--stipulating that his consort should stand aloof

from the engagement, and, that should the Dutchman conquer, both the

pirate vessels should be his. The challenge, however, was not accepted.

At another time, when Basco and two other chiefs, named Jonqué and

Laurence Le Graff, were cruising before Carthagena with three

indifferent vessels, two Spanish men-of-war put out to attack them. The

result was the capture of both the latter by the pirates, who kept the

ships, but magnanimously sent the crews on shore--affecting, from the

ease with which they had been vanquished, to look upon them with utter

contempt.

There was yet another pirate chief, whose name stands out in bold

relief, for his infamous cruelties, even among the bloody records of the

buccaneers. He was a Dutchman by birth, who had settled in Brazil during

the occupancy of that country by the United Provinces. On the

restoration of the Portuguese to their Brazilian possessions this bloody

wretch retreated to Jamaica. His name not being known, he received the

soubriquet of _Rock Braziliano_, by which he was henceforward known.

Very soon after his arrival at Jamaica, he joined the pirates, first as

an ordinary mariner; and acquitted himself so well as to gain, in a

short time, the respect and affection of his comrades. A mutiny breaking

out on board the vessel in which he was embarked, caused a separation of

the crew; a second vessel was taken possession of by a portion of them,

and Braziliano chosen chief. He pursued his career with various success

and the most frightful cruelty. His hatred of the Spaniards was

exceedingly bitter, and when landing in Spanish settlements to procure

provisions, he frequently roasted the inhabitants alive if they were not

forthcoming at his command. In one of his cruises upon the coast of

South America, he was wrecked, and his vessel lost. Escaping to the

shore with his crew of only thirty men, he was pursued by a troop of one

hundred Spanish cavalry. Upon these he turned, and defeated them with

terrible slaughter, and with but trifling loss to himself. Mounting the

horses of the slain, Braziliano continued his course coastwise, until,

falling in with some boats from Campeachy, which he seized, he made sail

for Jamaica--capturing another ship on the voyage laden with merchandise

and a large amount of money in pieces of eight. Remaining on shore long

enough to dissipate their booty in the usual round of drunkenness and

debauchery which characterized the buccaneers when not upon the wave,

Braziliano and his companions put to sea again, directing their course

to his old haunts about Campeachy. Shortly after his arrival, while

looking into the port, in a small boat, to espy what ships were offering

for prizes, he was captured and thrown into prison. The Spanish

authorities determined upon his execution; but in consequence of an

admonition that terrible vengeance would be inflicted upon all Spanish

prisoners falling into the hands of the pirates, in the event of his

punishment, this horrible villain was released upon the security of his

own oath, that he would forthwith relinquish his profession. But before

he reached Jamaica on his return, he captured another prize; and after

the avails of that were spent in every species of debauch, he went to

sea again, committing greater robberies and cruelties than ever.

Jamaica, though a British possession, having, as we have seen, long

afforded a market for the pirates, had in process of time become equally

a rendezvous with Tortuga. Wealth, in immense quantities, had been

poured into that island by the pirates, and had been diffused thence

among the other West India possessions, British and French. The

licentiousness of the buccaneers was unbounded, and their blood-stained

spoils were scattered with incredible prodigality. Indeed they seemed to

be at a loss how to spend their money fast enough. Their captains had

been known to purchase pipes of wine, place them in the street, knock in

the head, and compel every passer-by to drink; and mention is made of

one, who, returning from an expedition with three thousand dollars in

his pocket, was sold into slavery three months afterward for a debt of

forty shillings. If admonished in regard to their reckless waste of

money, their reply was that their lives were not like those of other

men. Though alive to-day, they might be dead to-morrow, and hence it was

folly for them to hoard their treasure. 'Live to-day,' was their maxim,

'to-morrow may take care of itself.' Those, therefore, who were worth

millions to-day, robbed by courtezans and stripped at the gaming table,

were often penniless in a week--destitute of clothes and even the

necessaries of life. They had therefore no recourse but to return to the

sea, and levy new contributions, to be dissipated as before.

But the commerce of Spain with her colonies was ruined. Failing in her

exertions to conquer the buccaneers, and finding them to be so firmly

established as to defy any force which she could send against them, and

wearied in making so many consignments, as it were, directly into their

hands, Spain dismantled her commercial marine and closed her South

American ports, in the hope--a vain one, as it proved--that when the

resources of the pirates upon the high seas were cut off, their

establishments would be necessarily broken up, and the freebooters

themselves disperse. But far different was the event. No sooner had

these rapacious and savage men ascertained that there were no more

galleons of her bullion to be taken, than they concentrated their

forces, with a determination to strike nearer the mines themselves.

Powerful expeditions were therefore openly organized at Jamaica and

elsewhere, for the purpose of making descents upon the cities and towns

of the Spanish main. The temptations to such a course were indeed

strong; and the Spaniards, by their ostentatious display, materially

assisted in their own ruin. For instance, the city of Lima, in 1682, on

the occasion of the public entry of the viceroy, actually had the

streets paved with ingots of silver, to the amount of seventeen millions

sterling! 'What a pretty prize,' exclaims the _London Times_, 'for a few

honest tars!' Then the splendor and magnificence of their churches,

ornamented with immense gold and silver images, crucifixes, and

candlesticks, and not unfrequently large altars of massive silver,

became objects of a _devout regard_. Nor did the pirates fail to present

themselves before every accessible shrine; for in truth, they swept over

the vast central portion of the continent from Florida to Peru,

plundering and laying in waste the most populous regions, and the

wealthiest cities--meeting, moreover, with less resistance than attended

the march of Cortez and Alvarado in achieving the conquest. Their

visitations were sudden, and wherever they struck their blows fell like

the thunderbolt. The consequence was that the consternation of the

people upon the land became as great as their terror upon the ocean. The

great roads were deserted; and the lands were no more ploughed than the

sea.

VIRGINIA.

(SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY J. McENTEE.)

'The tree has lost its blossoms,...

But the sap lasts,--and still the seed we find

Sown deep even in the bosom of the North;

So shall a bitter spring less bitter fruit bring forth.'

_Childe Harold._

Wan and weird the solemn twilight gleameth in the dreary sky,

Dusky shadows growing deeper, sad night-breezes sorrowing by,

Sighing 'mid the leafless bushes bending o'er the sullen stream,

Wailing 'mid the fire-stained ruins darkly rising 'gainst the gleam

Of the wild unearthly twilight. In the shivering evening air

Cheerless lie the gloomy meadows--blight and ruin everywhere!

Far away the wide plain stretches, dark and desolate it lies

'Neath the shuddering winds that murmur, 'neath the gleaming of

the skies;

Hark to the swollen river, how it moaneth in its flow,

'Mid the bridge's fallen arches, 'neath the bushes bending low,

Now unbroken by a ripple, flowing silently and still,

Gives again unto the heavens twilight gleaming wan and chill.

Where the corn once waved in beauty its bright wealth of shining leaves,

Glittering in the noonday's glory, rustling in the summer eves,

As the murmuring wind swept o'er it, bending low each tasselled head,

'Neath the soft and shimmering radiance by the moon of summer shed--

There no plough will make its furrow--waste the sunny field doth lie,

And no grain will wave its tresses to the breezes wailing by.

Where amid the whispering forests once the laughing sunlight fell,

Fallen tree and blackened stump now the dreary story tell

Of the woe and desolation sad Virginia shadowing o'er,

From the fatal Rappahannock to Potomac's fort-crowned shore,

Tell the tale of saddened hearthstones, desolate hearts that mourn

each day

For the dearly loved ones stricken, wounded, dying, far away.

Wake, Virginia! from thy slumber, from thy wild and traitorous dream;

Wake! and welcome loyal Northmen, sabres' ring and bayonets' gleam;

Cast aside the clanking fetters that still echo on thy soil,

Teach thy sons that no dishonor clings to manly, honest toil:

So again thy tree shall blossom, fairer, stronger than before,

And God's peace will rest upon thee, thy scourged fields will hover o'er.

VISIT TO THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.

APRIL, 1863.

We remember many years ago passing directly from the gallery of

Düsseldorf pictures, then recently opened in New York, to the hall of

the National Academy. The contrast to a lover of his country was a

painful one. The foreign school possessed ripeness of design, and

accurate, if in many instances somewhat mannered and artificial

execution. The native collection exhibited a poverty in conception, and

a harshness and crudity in performance, sadly discouraging to one who

would fain see the fine arts progress in equal measure with the more

material elements of civilization. Since that time, however, year by

year, the art of painting, at least, has steadily advanced, the light of

genius has been granted to spring from our midst, our artists dwelling

in foreign lands have returned to find a congenial atmosphere under

their native skies, and, in so far as landscape is concerned, we have

now no need to shun comparison with the best pictures produced abroad.

Our school is an original one, for our artists have gone to the great

teacher, Nature, who has shown them without stint the bright sun,

luminous sky, pearly dawns, hazy middays, glowing sunsets, shimmering

twilights, golden moons, rolling mists, fantastic clouds, wooded hills,

snow-capped peaks, waving grain fields, primeval forests, tender spring

foliage, gorgeous autumnal coloring, grand cataracts, leaping brooks,

noble rivers, clear lakes, bosky dells, lichen-covered crags, and varied

seacoasts of this western continent. Here is no lack of diversity, here

are studies in unity, both simple and complex, and here, too, even

civilized man need not necessarily be unpicturesque; witness Launt

Thompson's 'Trapper,' Rogers's bits of petrified history, or Eastman

Johnson's vivid delineations of scenes familiar to us all. We have no

reason to follow in any beaten, hackneyed track, but, within the needful

restrictions of good sense, good taste, and the teachings of nature, may

wander wherever the bent of our gifts may lead us. We may choose

sensational subjects, striking contrasts, with Church, follow the

exquisite traceries of shadow, of mountain top and fern-clad rock, with

Bierstadt, learn the secrets of the innermost souls of the brute

creation with Beard, revel in cool atmospheres and transparent waters

with Kensett, paint in light with Gifford, in poetry with McEntee, or

with Whittredge seek the tranquil regions of forest shade or quiet

interior.

In the examination of every work of art, we find three questions to be

asked: Has it something to say; is that something worth saying; is it

well said? In painting, poetry, music, sculpture, and architecture,

satisfactory replies must be given, or the mind refuses to recognize the

work under consideration as fulfilling the conditions necessary to

perfection within its individual range. Too often worthlessness of

meaning is hidden under exquisite execution, the most dangerous form an

aberration from the true principles of art can take, especially in an

age when the material receives an undue proportion of attention, and the

spirit is exposed to so many risks of being replaced by a false, outside

glitter. A worthy, noble, or beautiful idea, clad in a corresponding

form, is then the core of every art production; and although much of

which the fundamental idea is neither worthy, noble, nor beautiful, is

sometimes admired, yet the impression on the whole is painful, as would

be exquisite diction and entrancing eloquence flowing from the lips of a

man of genius arguing in a cause unholy and pernicious to the best

interests of humanity.

Notwithstanding the tasteful and judicious arrangement of the pictures

in the hall of exhibition, No. 625 Broadway, a cursory survey only is

required to enforce the conviction that the necessities of light and

space demand the erection of a building especially adapted to the

purposes of an academy of design, and we hope the fellowship fund will

speedily justify the commencement of that important undertaking.

The first picture that meets the eye on entering, is one of 'Startled

Deer,' by W. H. Beard, N. A. (No. 197). This is a noble

delineation--such stately forms, splendid positions, and expressive

eyes! This artist is not content with giving us color, shape, and every

hair exact, but we look through the creatures' eyes into the depths of

their being. His animals love, fear, wonder--in short, are capable of

all the manifold feelings pertaining to the brute creation. Who can say

how much of that creation is destined to perish forever! The gesture of

the spotted fawn seems reason sufficient why the Lord of love should one

day give happiness and security in return for apprehension and pain

suffered here below, especially if indeed the sin of man be the moral

cause of the sorrows incident to the lower existences. At all events,

Beard's animals are so endowed with individual characteristics, that we

make of them personal friends, who can never die so long as our memories

endure. The herbage in the foreground is tenderly wrought, and the whole

picture preaches an impressive sermon.

No. 151. 'An Autumn Evening'--Regis Gignoux, N. A. This picture does not

satisfy us nearly so fully as others we have seen by the same artist.

The general effect strikes us as somewhat artificial, the light does not

seem to fall clearly from the sky, but as if through prisms or tinted

glass. We have seen the inside of a shell, or the edge of a white cloud

turned toward the sun, glittering with similar hues, very beautiful for

a small object, but wanting in dignity and repose for an entire

landscape. We remember with great pleasure Gignoux's 'Autumn in

Virginia,' and his painting of 'Niagara by Moonlight' gave us a far more

majestic impression of the great cataract than the famous day

representation by Church. As we gazed, we called to mind a certain night

when the moon stood full in the heavens, vivid lunar bows played about

our feet, and, mounting the tower, we looked down into the apparently

bottomless abyss, dark with clouds of mist, seething, foaming, and

thundering. We shuddered, and hastened down the narrow stairway, feeling

as if all nature must speedily be drawn into the terrible vortex, and we

become a mere atom amid chaos. The picture caused us a shivering thrill,

and we acknowledged the power of the artist.

No. 90. 'Mansfield Mountain, Sunset'--S. R. Gifford, N. A. A glorious

tale, gloriously told! 'The heavens show forth the glory of God, and the

firmament declareth the work of his hands. Day to day uttereth speech,

and night to night showeth knowledge. * * * He hath set his tabernacle

in the sun; and he * * * hath rejoiced as a giant to run the way: His

going out is from the end of heaven, and his circuit even to the end

thereof: and there is no one that can hide himself from his heat.' This

artist seems literally to have dipped his brush in light, pure light. We

remember a juvenile book, entitled, 'A Trap to catch a Sunbeam;' such a

trap must Gifford possess; he surely keeps tubes filled with real rays

wherewith to flood the canvas and transfigure the simplest subject. Here

we have a mountain, a lake, some sky, clouds, and a setting sun--but

what an admirable combination! The picture seems fairly to illumine that

part of the gallery in which it is placed. Had the artist lived in the

olden time, he might have been feloniously made way with for his secret,

but the present age seems more generous, and his fellow workers delight

to praise and honor his genius. We find from the same hand 'Kauterskill

Clove' (No. 15)--a flood of golden beams poured upon a mountain glen,

with rifted sides, autumn foliage, and a tiny stream; a coming storm

obscures but does not hide the distant hills. A bold delineation--but

very beautiful, and true to the character of the scenery it represents.

There are also a reminiscence of the present war ('Baltimore,

1862--Twilight,' No. 409), and one of foreign travel ('Como,' No. 385),

equally suggestive of--not paint--but real, palpitating atmosphere.

No. 49. 'Mount Tahawas, Adirondacs'--J. McEntee, N. A. A picture of

great simplicity and grandeur, and one we should never weary of looking

into, waiting for the opaline lights of dawn to deepen into the full

glory of day. This, like all the works of McEntee we have had the good

fortune to see, bears the impress of a poet-soul. A vague stretching

forth toward the regions of the infinite, a melancholy remembrance of

some enduring sorrow, a tender reminiscence of scenes peculiar to

certain heartfelt seasons of the year, a hazy foreshadowing of coming

winter, a lingering over the last dying hour of day, a presaging of

storms to come, or a lotus-eating dream by some quiet lake, are the

themes to be evolved from many of his conceptions. Alas for 'Virginia'

(No. 218), mother of presidents, and nurse of the Union! Can it indeed

be her sky that shines down so weird and strange over desolate plains,

through broken walls and shattered beams, and darkens as it shrinks in

horror from the broken bridge once spanning the blood-stained waters of

the fatal run? No. 233 is a 'Twilight,' No. 58 an 'October on the

Hudson,' and No. 171 a 'Late Autumn,' by the same artist, all excellent

specimens of his tender and poetical mode of handling a subject. In

looking at one of his pictures, we think more of the matter than the

manner, and, carefully correct as is the latter, the mind is often too

filled with emotion to care to examine into the very minutiæ, whose

delicate execution has so powerfully aided to produce the general

effect.

No. 123. 'Morning in the White Mountains'--J. F. Kensett, N. A.

Excellent in every way, with crystal water, living rocks, and

rose-tinted morning clouds.

No. 74. 'Coast Scene, Mount Desert'--F. E. Church, N. A. A puzzle. We

are glad once more to welcome to a public gallery a significant work by

this widely known and much admired artist. Of late, the exhibition of

such works (in so far as we know) invariably alone, may perhaps have

subjected him to some misconception.

No. 73. 'The Window'--W. Whittredge, N. A. This is a charming picture of

a home that must be dear to all the dwellers therein. A lovely landscape

is seen through an open window, which admits a mellow light to fall upon

a Turkey rug, tasteful furniture, and that 'wellspring of joy in a

house,' a young soul, endowed with undeveloped, perhaps wonderful

capacities, crowing in the arms of a turbaned nurse. It is altogether

one of the best interiors ever exhibited in New York. No. 305, 'Summer,'

a pleasant nook, and No. 121, 'Autumn, New Jersey,' are by the same

accomplished hand. The latter is a meadow scene, with a pleasing sky,

some graceful trees in the foreground, and a most attractive bit of

Virginia creeper dipping into a clear pool. The gifts of W. Whittredge

are manifold, and his works conspicuous for variety in subject and

treatment. In the small room, we observed a portrait of this artist by

H. A. Loop, N. A., a beautiful picture and excellent likeness. We do not

wonder the fine head tempted Mr. Loop to expend upon it his best care.

No. 181. 'Portrait of Dr. O. A. Brownson'--G. P. A. Healy, H. A

powerful portrait of a man who has never been ashamed openly to confess

that he could be wiser to-day than he was yesterday. We never met Dr.

Brownson, and it was with a thrill of pleasure that we beheld the

massive head containing so eminent an intelligence. The learned tomes,

antique chair, and entire attitude are in excellent keeping.

No. 66. 'Fagot Gatherer'--R. M. Staigg, N. A. We owe this artist much

for his beautiful inculcations of the charities of life. How many stray

pennies may not his little street sweeper have drawn from careless

passers-by? No. 59, 'Cat's Cradle,' is another pleasing representation

of an attractive subject.

No. 202. 'Anita'--George H. Hall. The sweet face, harmonious coloring,

and simple pose of this little Spanish girl has made an ineffaceable

impression on our memory. We should like to have her always near us. The

fruit and flower pieces of this genial artist are delightful and

satisfactory.

No. 468. 'Elaine,' Bas Relief--L. Thompson, N. A. The face of Elaine is

of great sweetness, and the tender trouble on the brow, in the eyes, and

quivering round the mouth, seems almost too ethereal to have been

actually prisoned in marble. We think if the Elaine of the legend had

looked thus upon Launcelot, and he were truly all that poets sing him,

he could not long have preferred to her the light-minded Guenevere. The

busts of children by the same hand are also fine, so truthful and

characteristic. A worthy pupil is Thompson of that natural school of

which Palmer was our first distinguished representative.

No. 466. 'The Union Refugees'--John Rogers. This group tells its own sad

tale. The stern defiance in the face of the young patriot, the

sorrow-stricken but confiding attitude of the mother, and the child's

uplifted gaze of wonder, speak of scenes doubtless often repeated in the

history of the past two years--scenes which must sink deeply into the

hearts of all beholders.

No. 467. 'Freedman'--J. Q. A. Ward, A. This picture, no doubt, has its

fine points, but to our mind it is rather conventional. Neither does it

bear out its allegorical relation to the freedmen of our continent. If

the chains of the negro are being broken, he does not appear in the

character of a Hercules, but rather as a patient and enduring martyr,

awaiting the day of deliverance appointed by Heaven.

No. 10. 'Sunrise at Narragansett'--W. S. Hazeltine, N. A. A fine effect

of transparent sky, faithful rocks, and rolling surf. The warmth of

coloring and vivid reality of this picture render it eminently pleasing.

No. 211. 'The Adirondacks from near Mount Mansfield'--R. W. Hubbard, N.

A. A beautiful foreground of fine trees and rocks, with a far-away

lookout over a hazy distance. A lake glitters in the plain beneath, and

the whole scene is harmoniously bewitching and tranquillizing.

No. 158. 'Out in the Fields'--A. D. Shattuck, N. A. A charming pastoral,

with some elms, graceful and feathery as the far-famed trees on the

meadows of North Conway.

No. 27. 'Heart's Ease'--William P. W. Dana, A. We heard a little three

and a half year old reply, in answer to a question as to which picture

she would prefer taking home with her from the Academy: 'The sick

child;' and we could not wonder at her choice, for a more touching

design has seldom been placed on canvas. The name, the accompaniments,

and the child's expression betoken a rare delicacy of conception. The

flowers are exquisite, and the cheerful contrast of color in the drapery

seems a promise of gayer, if not happier hours.

But space--together, probably, with the patience of our readers--fails

for the enumeration of all the interesting and meritorious paintings in

the exhibition of '63; otherwise, we might discourse at length upon the

two masterly works by Bierstadt (Nos. 6 and 35), the 'Swiss Lake,' by

Casilear, W. T. Richards's carefully elaborated foregrounds,

Huntington's charming figures, De Haas's spirited sea scenes, and other

meritorious productions under names well known to the lovers of art in

New York.

As good ofttimes springs from evil, may not perhaps the present severe

trial through which our country is passing aid in lifting the hearts of

her children to more spiritual regions, that they may approach ever

nearer and nearer to a more thorough comprehension and enjoyment of the

'Eternal Beauty, ever ancient and ever new,' as feebly mirrored in human

art?

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 IV.--(_Continued._)

During the long weeks of Joel Burns's illness and convalescence, he had

become much attached to James Egerton. And when the medical student

quitted Burnsville, after carrying Mr. Burns through the fever in

triumph, the latter felt more grateful than words would express. It is

true, young Egerton remained at his bedside by direction of the

physician whose pupil he was: still the manner in which he had

discharged his duties won the heart of the patient. So, when at length

he was preparing to depart, Joel Burns endeavored to think of some way

to manifest his appreciation which would be acceptable to the youth.

This was difficult. Both were of refined natures, and it was not easy to

bring the matter to pass. Mr. Burns, at length, after expressing his

grateful sense of his devotion, plainly told Egerton that he would

delight to be of service to him if it were possible.

'I feel obliged to you, Mr. Burns,' said the student; 'but it is not

just that I should excite such emotions in your breast. Let me confess

that while I do respect and esteem you, it is love of my _profession_,

and not of any individual, which has led me to use more than ordinary

care while attending to your case. I have a firm belief in the method of

my principal, and it is a labor of love with me to endeavor to

demonstrate the truth of his theory in the treatment of typhus fever.

Your case was a magnificent one. My master is right, and I know it.'

'Now you take just the ground I admire; you enable me to say what before

I hesitated to speak of,' said Mr. Burns, warmly. 'Tell me honestly how

you are situated. Can I not aid in affording you still further

advantages for study and practical observation?'

'Mr. Burns,' replied the student, 'it is my turn to feel

grateful--grateful for such genial recognition of what I am, or rather

what I hope to make myself. Something of your own history I have learned

in this place--this place of your own creation--and I may say there are

points of analogy between your own early struggles and mine. But I must

depend on myself. To accept aid from you would weaken me, and that you

would not wish to do.'

'Go,' said Mr. Burns, with enthusiasm; 'go, and God go with you. But

promise me this: let me hear from you regularly. Let me not lose sight

of one of whom I hope so much.'

'That I promise with pleasure.'

Then he turned to find Sarah, to bid her good by. She was running across

the lawn, but stopped abruptly on hearing her name called.

'Little maiden,' said the young man, 'I am going away. We shall have no

more races together. When I see you again, it won't do for either of us

to romp and run about.'

'Why? Are you not coming to see us till you are old?'

'I don't know that, but I shall not come very soon. After a while I

shall go across the ocean, and you will grow up to be a young woman. So

I must say a long good-by now to my little patient.'

Sarah was twelve, Egerton scarcely twenty. For the instant, young as she

was, there was actually established between them a sentimental relation.

They stood a moment looking at each other.

'Good-by,' said Egerton, taking her hand. 'I think I must have this for

a keepsake.' It was a straggling curl, detached from its companions,

which the student laid hold of. Sarah said not one word, but took a neat

little morocco 'housewife' from her pocket, produced a small pair of

scissors, and clipped the curl quickly, leaving it in Egerton's hand.

'You won't forget me,' he said.

'No.'

In an instant more she was bounding over the green grass, while the

other walked slowly into the house. In a few minutes he was off. I do

not think this scene produced any impression on Sarah Burns beyond the

passing moment; but to Egerton, who was just of an age to cherish such

an incident, it furnished material for a romantic idea, which he

nourished until it came to be a part of his life plans. Whatever was the

reason which actuated him, it is a fact that he wrote Mr. Burns, not

often, to be sure, but quite regularly. After two or three years he went

abroad, still keeping up his correspondence. Mr. Burns, for some reason

we will not conjecture, was not in the habit of speaking to his daughter

about Egerton. Possibly he did not wish her to remember him as a

grown-up man while she was still a little girl. Possibly, he desired,

should they ever meet, that their acquaintance might commence afresh. At

any rate, Sarah was left quite to forget the existence of the young

fellow who watched by her so faithfully; or if by some chance some

recollection of him, as connected with that dreadful season, came into

her mind, it was purely evanescent and without consequence. Mr. Burns,

however, always cherished certain hopes. The reader will recollect his

sadness of heart when he discovered how matters stood between Sarah and

Hiram Meeker. This was owing principally to his honest aversion to

Hiram; but a disappointment lurked at the bottom. It was only the week

before the scene at the preparatory lecture that he had received a

letter from Egerton, written on American soil, advising him of his

return from Europe in a vessel just arrived from Marseilles. Mr. Burns

answered it immediately, inviting him to come at once and make him a

visit; but he breathed not a word of this to Sarah.

Affairs between her and Hiram were brought to a crisis much faster than

Mr. Burns could have anticipated. In short, Dr. Egerton arrived at the

most auspicious moment possible. But I shall not be precipitate. On the

contrary, I shall leave the lovers, if lovers they are to be, to pursue

their destiny in the only true way, namely, through a tantalizing maze

of hopes and fears and doubts and charming hesitations and anxieties to

a denouement, while I return to the proper subject of this

narrative--Hiram Meeker.

CHAPTER V.

Hill has opened a wholesale liquor store on his own account! Where did

Hill raise the money to start in business--a poor devil who could never

get eighteen pence ahead in the world? It does not appear. For one, I

will say that Hiram Meeker did not furnish it. _He_ not only belongs to

the temperance society, but he believes all traffic in the 'deadly

poison' to be a sin. Still where did Hill get the money or the credit to

start a wholesale liquor concern? More than this, Hill is doing a pretty

large business. Singular to say, he drinks less and swears less than he

did. He is more respectable apparently. He has a very fine store in

Water street. He does not deal in adulterated liquors. He sells his

articles, if the customer desires it, 'in bond;' that is, from under the

key of the custom house, which of course insures their purity. By a

singular coincidence, Hill's store is adjoining a 'U. S. Bonded

Warehouse.' Hill's goods, for convenience' sake, are sent to that

particular warehouse--frequently. The liquors are stored in the

basement. This basement is not supposed to communicate with the basement

of Hill's store. Certainly not. Yet Hill, _solus_, entirely and

absolutely _solus_, spends many evenings in the basement of his store.

Hill is a large purchaser of pure spirits. Pure spirits are worth

thirty-one cents a gallon, and brandy of right brand is worth two or

three dollars a gallon. One gallon of pure spirits mixed with two

gallons of brandy cannot be detected by ninety-nine persons of a

hundred. Some say it is equally difficult to detect a half-and-half

mixture. Still Hill sells his brandy in bond. I repeat, Hiram Meeker

does _not_ furnish Hill the money. It is true, their intimacy still

continues. Further, Hill has good references--none other than H. Bennett

& Co. Strange as it may seem, H. Bennett himself has been known to put

his name on Hill's paper. Yet I am told he does not even know Hill by

sight! Hill is making money, though--is making it fast. Hiram is still

in the house of Hendly, Layton & Gibb, but this has not prevented him

from making, with permission of the firm, several ventures on his own

account. These ventures always turn out well. It was not long since he

shipped a schooner load of potatoes to New Orleans on information

derived from the master of a vessel which had made a remarkably rapid

passage, and who reported to him, and to him only. He more than doubled

his money on this venture.

In Dr. Chellis's church, Hiram has made respectable progress. He has

permitted himself to break over the strict rule first adopted as to his

social life. He goes a little into society--the very best society which

that congregation furnishes. Report says he is engaged to Miss Tenant.

She is the only child of Amos Tenant, of the firm of Allwise, Tenant &

Co. This firm is reputed to be worth over a million of dollars. Miss

Tenant--Miss Emma Tenant--is the young lady who, from the first, took

such an interest in Hiram at the Sunday school. She is an excellent

girl. She is very pretty, too, and, I am sorry to say, she seems to have

fallen in love--really and positively in love with Hiram. _He_, the

calculating wretch, has canvassed the whole matter, has made careful

investigations of the condition of the house of Allwise, Tenant & Co.,

and has satisfied himself that it is firm as a rock, and that Mr. Tenant

is no doubt worth the pretty sum of three hundred and fifty thousand

dollars, or such a matter.

Emma is an only child!

Oh, Hiram, how dare you utter those vows of love and constancy and

everlasting regard and affection, coming, as you do, with your fingers

fresh from turning the leaves at the register's office, where,

forgetting your dinner, you have spent the entire afternoon in

satisfying yourself about the real estate held by 'Amos Tenant?' Had the

record under your precious investigation not been satisfactory, you

would not have spent five minutes thereafter in the society of Emma

Tenant.

Yet your conscience does not reproach you. No, not one bit. Positively

you are not aware of anything reprehensible or even indelicate in what

you are about. Thinking of the matter, as you carefully scan the books

of record, you regard it precisely as you would any other investigation.

To you it is essential that the girl you are to marry should have money.

If she has, you will love her (for it is your _duty_ to love your wife);

if she has not, you cannot love her, and of course (duty again) you

cannot wed her.

Poor Emma Tenant! No protecting instinct warns you against the young man

who is now making such fervid protestations. You receive all he says as

holy truth, sincere, earnest avowal, out of his heart into yours, for

time and for eternity!

You, Emma Tenant, are a good girl, innocent and good: why, oh, why does

not your nature shrink by this contact?

* * * * *

We forbear to paint the love scene in which Hiram figures. Enough to say

that Emma could not and did not disguise the state of her affections.

Yes, she confessed it, confessed she had been attracted by Hiram (poor

thing) from the day she first saw him enter the Sunday school to take

his place as one of its teachers.

How happy she was as she sat trembling with emotion, her hand in Hiram's

calculating grasp, while she blushingly made her simple confession.

'But your father,' interposed Hiram, anxiously--'he will never give his

consent.'

'And why will he not?' replied Emma. 'I am sure he likes you already,

and when he knows'--

She stopped, and blushed deeper than ever.

'When he knows,' said Hiram, taking up the sentence, 'he will hate me: I

am sure he will.'

'How can you say so?' replied the confiding girl. 'I am his only child,

and he will approve of anything which is for my happiness.'

'But he may not think an engagement with me (you see Hiram was

determined on the engagement) will be for your happiness. I am not known

here--am not yet in business for myself, although so far as that is

concerned'--

'Don't speak so--it pains me; as if I could think of such things _now_,'

she whispered, as if really in bodily distress.

'But it _must_ be mentioned, and at once; we must tell your parents. It

would be highly improper not to do so.'

He meant to make all sure.

'Oh, well, I suppose you are right, but it will make no difference to

papa if you had not a penny. I have heard him say so a thousand times.'

'Have you,' replied Hiram, drawing a long breath, 'have you really?'

'Indeed I have. He has always said he would prefer to see me marry a

high-minded, honorable young man, of strict integrity, without a cent in

the world, to the richest man living, if he were sordid and calculating.

Oh, he despises such persons. Now are you satisfied?'

Hiram _was_ satisfied, that is, logically; but somehow he _felt_ a hit,

and in spite of himself his countenance was clouded, and he was silent.

'I have said something to wound you. I know I have,' exclaimed Emma.

'To wound me! My angel, my'--etc., etc., etc. (the pen refuses to do its

office when I come to record Hiram's love expressions). 'How can you

think so at this moment of my greatest rapture, my most complete'--etc.,

etc., etc. (pen fails again). 'It was my intense joy and satisfaction to

learn how noble and disinterested your father is, that rendered me for

the moment speechless.'

After considerable discussion, it was arranged that Emma should be the

one to communicate to her parents the interesting fact that Hiram sought

her hand. On this occasion his courage so far failed him that he

preferred not to break the subject himself, although generally so very

capable and adroit in personal interviews.

Mr. Tenant, as usual with papas, was a good deal surprised. He had not

thought of Emma's marrying--considered her still little else than a

school girl, and so on--well--he supposed it must come sooner or later.

He knew very little about the young man, but what he did know was

certainly in his favor.

To cut the story short, the whole matter was soon pleasantly settled,

and Hiram established as the accepted of Miss Tenant.

In a subsequent interview with Mr. Tenant, our hero quite won his heart.

That gentleman was an old-fashioned merchant; the senior member of a

house known as one of the most honorable in the city. I say senior

member, for the 'Allwise' whose name stood first was a son of the

original partner through whose capacity mainly it had been built up and

made strong. Mr. Tenant, I repeat, was a merchant of the old school,

high minded and of strict integrity, not specially remarkable for

ability, but possessing good sense and a single mind. The house once on

the right track, with its credit and its correspondents established, he

had only to keep the wheel revolving in the old routine, and all was

well.

Mr. Tenant was quite carried away by Hiram's conversation. The latter

was so shrewd and capable, yet so good and honest withal. He first

recounted to his prospective father-in-law a little history of his whole

life. He portrayed in feeling terms how God had never forsaken, but on

the contrary had always sustained and supported him--in his infancy, at

school, through various vicissitudes--had conducted him to New York, to

Dr. Chellis's church, into his (Mr. Tenant's) family; and now, as a

crowning mercy, was about to bestow on him the greatest treasure of the

universe to be a partner of his joys and sorrows through life.

Then he discoursed of affairs; of what he hoped with a 'common blessing'

to accomplish. He informed Mr. Tenant confidentially that in the

approaching month of May he should commence a general shipping and

commission business. His plans were matured, and though his capital was

small--

'Count on me, young man, count on the house of Allwise, Tenant & Co.,'

interrupted the kind-hearted old gentleman. 'I have no boy,' he

continued, with tears in his eyes; 'my only one was snatched from me,

but now I shall look on you as my son. You will start in May. Good. And

what the house can do for you will be done.'

'Then perhaps I may be permitted to refer to you?'

'Permitted? I shall insist on it. What is more, I will see two or three

of our friends to make up your references myself. You must begin strong.

Where do you keep your account?'

Hiram told him. It was a bank where Mr. Bennett had introduced him.

'That is well enough, but those are dry goods people, not at all in our

line. I must introduce you at our bank, or, what is better, I will get

Daniel Story to introduce you at his. There you will get a double

advantage.'

Need I add that Hiram was in ecstasies? His position would now equal his

most brilliant dreams. To be placed at once on an equality with the old

South-street houses! To have Daniel Story introduce him to his bank! It

was even so. The future son-in-law of Amos Tenant would gain just such

an entree to business life.

And profitable use did Hiram Meeker make of these 'privileges.' He no

longer thought of depending on H. Bennett & Co. Very quietly he thanked

his cousin for his kind offer of assistance by way of reference, etc.,

but he was of opinion it would be better to have some names in his own

line. Then he mentioned who were to be his 'backers,' whereat Mr.

Bennett was amazed, yet highly gratified, and, without seeking to

inquire further, told Hiram he 'would _do_,' he always said he would,

that he must call on him, however, whenever he thought he could give him

a lift, and predicted that he would be very _successful_ on his own

account. All which Hiram received meekly and mildly, but he said nothing

in reply.

It is not my purpose to give in detail the particulars of Hiram's

commercial life. Having been sufficiently minute in describing his early

business education, the experience he acquired, the habits he formed,

the reader can readily understand that his career became from the start

a promising one. He was familiar with all the ramifications of commerce.

He thoroughly knew the course of trade in New York. He had studied

carefully the operation of affairs, from the largest shipping interest

to the daily consumption of the most petty retail shop. He had managed

to lay up quite a respectable sum of money, and all he now wanted was a

good opportunity to launch himself, and it was presented.

I am inclined to think Mr. Tenant would have been willing to have taken

him into his own firm, had Hiram wished, but he had no such ambition. He

desired by himself to lay broad and deep the foundation of a large

business, and have it expand and become great in his own hands. He did

not believe in partnerships; it is doubtful if he were willing to trust

human nature so much as to admit anybody to such a close relation as

that of business associate.

In the management of his affairs, Hiram made it a point to acquire the

reputation of fair and honorable dealing. His word was his bond. That

was his motto; and he carried it out fully and absolutely. Mistakes

could always be corrected in his establishment. No matter if the party

_were_ legally concluded. He stood by his contracts. A mere verbal say

so, though the market rose twenty-five per cent. on his hands the next

half hour, could be relied on as much as his indenture under seal. And

so he gained a splendid name the very first year of his mercantile

career. Yet, I _must_ say it, behind all this fine reputation, this

happy speech of men, this common report and general character, sat Hiram

alert and calculating, whispering to himself sagaciously: '_Honesty is

the best policy_.'

[In affairs, he meant. Had he carried the apophthegm out into every

detail of life, through its moral and social phases, it would have

required indeed the eye of the Omniscient to have discerned and

penetrated his error.]

I come to the close of Hiram's first year of business on his own

account. He had suddenly loomed into importance. But never was there an

effect more directly traceable to a cause. He did not embark till he was

in readiness for the venture, and results came quickly. With change of

position he had made corresponding changes in his social life. He left

Eastman's, and took pleasant though not expensive quarters in a more

fashionable part of the city, not far indeed from Mr. Tenant's house. He

visited in company with Emma all her family friends and acquaintances.

He made such progress in the church, that the majority of the female

teachers in the Sunday school were in favor of electing him

superintendent. In short, he was becoming a very popular young man.

As I have said, I come to the close of Hiram's first year. I wish I

could stop here. I go on with that reluctance which I invariably feel

when recording what must add to the repugnance with which we all regard

Hiram's character.

The engagement between Hiram and Miss Tenant had been made public. The

time for the marriage was fixed at about the first of July--only six

weeks distant. It was a period when Hiram felt he could leave town most

conveniently for his wedding trip. The preparations on Emma's part were

ample as became her family and social position. She was very happy. She

loved this young man, and believed he loved her. Hiram was good natured

and agreeable, and did all in his power to exhibit his best qualities.

The result was that he was very much liked by both Mr. and Mrs. Tenant,

and was already quite domesticated at their house.

During the spring there was a great deal of speculation in certain

leading articles of export. The house of Allwise, Tenant & Co., having

first class correspondents abroad and enjoying large credit, advanced

more liberally than was prudent. It was the younger members who decided

to go largely into the enterprise. There came a panic in the market.

Several leading houses in London and Liverpool failed, others in New

York followed, and among them Allwise, Tenant & Co.

It proved that this firm, though eminently sound and above board, was

not as wealthy as was generally supposed. Its high character for

integrity and honor, and an existence of near forty years without a

reverse gave it great reputation for wealth and stability.

The blow was sudden and effective. The capital of the concern was wiped

out of existence, and the individual property of the partners followed

in this wake of destruction.

Hiram, like others, had overestimated Mr. Tenant's property. The latter

was nevertheless a rich man for those days, and worth over one hundred

thousand dollars. By this reverse he was penniless.

Hiram was on 'Change when he first caught the rumor of the catastrophe.

His position with regard to the family (for his relations with it were

now well understood) made it difficult for him to make many inquiries,

but he hastened to his counting room and despatched a messenger to Hill

to come to him forthwith. Hill was prompt, and having been carefully

charged with his commission, at once started to execute it. He came back

duly.

'All gone to----. Not a grease spot left of them.'

'Don't be so gross, Hill. You are constantly shocking me with your idle

profanity. Are you sure, though?'

'Yes. More bills back, twice over, than they can pay. A clean sweep,

by----.'

'That will do, Hill--that will do; but don't swear so, don't.'

'Now I am here,' continued Hill, 'what about that invoice of brandy to

Henshaw? He declares the brandy ain't right. You know you thought'--

'Hill,' interrupted Hiram, 'I can't talk with you now. Leave me alone,

and close the door after you.'

Hill went out without saying a word.

If we except a slight paleness which overspread his countenance, Hiram

had exhibited no sign of emotion from the moment he heard of Mr.

Tenant's failure to the time he disposed so summarily of his satellite

Hill. When Hill left, he rose and walked two or three times quickly up

and down the room, and then took his seat again. His thoughts ran

something in this way: 'I never supposed old Tenant to have any business

ability, but I thought the concern so well established it could go

alone. So it could if those young fellows had not made asses of

themselves. What's to be done? Tenant certainly has a large amount of

individual property. It is worth saving. Respectable old name--if he

keeps his money. (Hiram smiled grimly.) I will step round at once and

offer my services, before other folks begin to tinker with him.'

On my word, reader, during all this time Hiram never once thought of

Emma Tenant. She did not for a solitary instant enter in any of the

combinations which he was so rapidly forming and reforming. So entirely

was he occupied with canvassing the effect of the failure on his

personal fortunes and thinking over what was best to be done under the

circumstances, that he had no space in his brain, much less in his

selfish heart, for the 'object of his affections,' to whom he was to be

married in one little month.

How would _she_ feel? How would the blow affect her? What could he do to

reassure her? How could he best comfort her? What fond promises and

loving protestations could he offer that now more than ever he desired

to make her happy?

Nothing of this, nothing of this occupied him as he sat in his private

office, rapidly surveying the situation.

Poor Emma!

Carrying out his decision, Hiram took his way to the establishment of

Allwise, Tenant & Co.

He was immediately admitted to Mr. Tenant's private room. That gentleman

sat there alone, with his eyes fixed on a long list which his bookkeeper

had just furnished him. He looked somewhat disturbed and solicitous, but

presented nevertheless a manly and by no means dejected mien.

'Ah, my dear boy, I knew there was no need of sending for you. I _knew_

you would be here. God bless you. Sit down, sit down. I want to use your

ready wit just now for a few minutes. Thank God, I have your clear head

and honest heart to turn to.'

All this time Mr. Tenant was pressing Hiram's hand, which lay

impassively in his. The honest man was too much carried away by his own

feelings to notice the other's lack of sympathetic pity.

'Why, my dear sir,' said Hiram, at length, 'did you not give me some

hint of this? We might have'--

'I had no idea of it myself till the mails were delivered this morning.

Phillipson & Braines's stoppage has destroyed us. Such a strong house as

we thought it to be! When they suspended, it discredited us with our

other friends, for everybody knew our relations with them, so that they

would neither accept our bills nor protect us in any way. We are struck

down without warning.'

'No hope of reconstruction?' asked Hiram.

'None.'

'You wanted me just now, I think you said.'

'Yes. There are one or two matters which I am inclined to think should

be treated as confidential. Certain collections, and so forth. We have

already discussed it somewhat. You shall examine and give me your

opinion.'

'Had you not better first make some arrangements to protect your

individual property?'

'What?'

Hiram repeated the question, and in a more definite shape.

He was astounded when the honorable old merchant told him that he should

make no reservations--that his property, all of it, belonged to his

creditors, and to his creditors it should go.

Even in this juncture Mr. Tenant was so taken up with his own position

that he failed to discover Hiram's real object. He actually turned

consoler.

'Courage, my boy,' he exclaimed. 'My wife has a little sum of her own,

about twelve thousand dollars, enough to keep us old folks from

starving; and as soon as you are married, we will club together, and

live as happy as ever--hey?'

'I hope, after all, matters are not as bad as you suppose,' said Hiram,

wishing to make some response, but determining not to commit himself.

'Oh, but they are,' said Mr. Tenant. 'We must not deceive ourselves.

However, let that pass. Now tell me what you think about these

collections?'

Hiram forced himself to listen patiently to Mr. Tenant's statement, for

he had not yet decided on the course he was presently to pursue. So he

talked over the question, pro and con, managing to fully agree with the

views of Mr. Tenant in every particular.

'I knew you would think as I do about this,' exclaimed the latter,

joyfully. 'It does you credit, Hiram. It shows your honorable sense. How

could I take that money and put it into the general indebtedness? How

could I? Well, well, I have already employed too much of your time. We

shall do nothing to-day but examine into matters. You will be up this

evening?'

'Certainly.'

'Good-by till then, my dear boy.

Emma must spare you to me for once. To-night we will have our various

statements ready, and I shall want your help to look them over.'

'The old fool,' muttered Hiram, as he left the place. 'The old jackass.

I won't give it up yet, though. I will try his wife. I will try Emma.

No, I won't give it up yet. I will go there this evening, and see what

can be done. But if I find that--'

The rest of the sentence was inaudible.

HOW MR. LINCOLN BECAME AN ABOLITIONIST.

Perhaps, Messrs. Editors, you may recall

A story you published some time in the fall,--

I think 'twas October--your files will declare,--

Bearing the title of 'Tom Johnson's Bear.'

* * * * *

Well, the story since that time has grown somewhat bigger,

And has something to say about holding the 'nigger;'

And something, likewise, about letting him go,

The which I've no purpose at present to show:

To wit, how a woodman, a kind-hearted neighbor,

Returning at night from his rail-splitting labor,

Found poor Mistress Johnson forlorn and distressed,

In that perilous posture still holding the beast;

And how she besought the kind gentleman's help,

And how he'd have nothing to do with the whelp;

And how he and Johnson soon got by the ears,

And fought on the question of 'freedom for bears;'

And how, _inter alia_, the beast got away

And took himself off in the midst of the fray;

And how Tommy Johnson at last came to grief:

All which I omit, as I wish to be brief.

The story's too lengthy--it must not be sent all

To cumber your pages, my dear CONTINENTAL.

At present my purpose, my object, my mission is

To show how the woodman became 'Abolitionist.'

Introductions, you know, like 'original sin,'

Hang on, while you long for some sign of repentance

In shape of the last and the welcomest sentence,

So, in short, I'll cut short, draw a line, and begin.

* * * * *

The woodman one night was aroused by a clatter,

Each one in the house crying, 'Ho! what's the matter?'

All jumped out of bed and ran hither and thither,

Scarce knowing amid their alarm why or whither;

But soon it was found 'mid the tumult and din

That burglars were making attempts to break in.

And now there arose o'er the turmoil and noise

The woodman's loud summons addressed to 'the boys.'

'The boys' quickly came, and on looking around,

At one of the windows a ladder was found,

And on it a burglar, who, plying his trade,

A burglarious opening already had made.

Now the woodman, though making this nocturnal sortie

All armed and equipped, at the rate of 'two-forty,'

Called a halt, and proposed, before firing a gun,

To question with care what had better be done.

Forthwith he assembled a council of war,

To gravely consider how fast and how far

In a case of this kind it was lawful to go.

Some said, 'Smash the ladder,' but others said, 'No,

There were many objections to that, and the chief

Was the constitutional rights of the thief;

That the ladder was property all men agreed,

And as such was protected, secured, guaranteed;

And if 'twas destroyed, our greatest of laws

Could not be upheld and maintained 'as it was.''

But others replied, 'That ladder's the chief

Supporter, as all men may see, of the thief;

Let's aim at the ladder, and if it should fall,

Let the burglar fall with it, or hang by the wall

As well as he can; and by the same token,

Whose fault will it be if his neck should be broken?'

To which it was answered, 'That ladder may be

The chattel of some honest man, d'ye see.'

'Well, then, we will pay for't.' 'No, never!' says V.,

'To be taxed for that ladder I'll never agree;

You have brought on this fuss,' said V., mad and still madder;

'You always intended to break the man's ladder;

You have been for a long time the people deceiving

With false and pretended objections to thieving;

You never desired to have robbing abolished;

You only have sought to have ladders demolished.'

'Pray, hold!' said another, 'perhaps while we're trifling

About this old ladder, the thief will be rifling

The house of its contents, or, venturing further,

May set it on fire--the children may murder.'

'Can't help it,' says V.; 'though he murder to-day,

Who knows but to-morrow the murderer may

Repent and reform; then who shall restore

The ladder all perfect and sound as before?

But whether or no, I can never consent

That the thief and the ladder should make a descent,

Which haply might hurt a burglarious brother,

Or totally wreck and demolish the other.'

The woodman bade 'Silence!' He cried out, 'Ho! list!'

Then called on the burglar his work to desist,

And made proclamation throughout all the town

That if in a specified time he came down

And gave a firm pledge of obeying the laws,

He might keep his old ladder all safe 'as it was;'

But if he pursued his felonious intent

Beyond the time given, he'd cause to be sent

'Mid the conflict of arms and the cannon's loud thunder,

A missile to knock his old ladder from under.

Then pausing to see the effect of his speech,

He saw nought but the thief still at work at the breach;

And, being opposed to thieves visiting attics,

Combined with those vile anti-ladder fanatics,

And sent a projectile which left the thief where

Thieves and traitors should all be, suspended in air,

Except that he lacked what was due to his calling,

A hempen attachment to keep him from falling.

Then burglars, and thieves, and traitors, and all

Their friends sympathetic forthwith 'gan to bawl,

'We're ruined! we're ruined! To what a condition

The country is brought by this man's abolition!'

And echo replied: 'Oh! dreadful condition!

Abolition--bolition--bolition--abolition!'

COST OF A TRIP TO EUROPE, AND HOW TO GO CHEAPLY.

The question is often asked of those who have been to Europe: 'What does

it cost?' 'For how little can one travel abroad?' etc. For it is within

the hopes of many to go at one time or another; and many would indulge

the anticipation more freely, if they 'could see their way,' as the

Yorkshire man wanted to do when he thought of getting married. I propose

to throw some little light on this oft-repeated question.

The expense of a journey depends greatly on the manner in which it is

made. People who go to Europe, frequently imagine that they must go in a

certain degree of style; they must expend something by way of showing

that they are somebody in their own country! To carry out this idea,

they go, on first landing, to expensive hotels; they carry considerable

luggage, travel in first-class carriages, and incur various other

expenses, to show John Bull and the continentals that they belong to the

superior class at home. These people pay largely for their whistle, or

trumpet. They will tell you you cannot go to Europe for less than three

or five thousand dollars apiece. They fancy they have made a good

impression on the Europeans; whereas the Europeans never noticed their

vain little attempts at showing off. Nobody cared what they paid or gave

away; and the very courier who flattered, or the servants who fawned on

them for their money, laughed at them behind their backs. There is

another class, more quiet and moderate, who want to be economical, but

do not know how to be. They will tell you a short trip can be taken for

a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars. They go by the guide books, and

those are based always on 'first-class prices and a liberal

expenditure.' There are no guide books for those who would _study_

economy; who would submit to some privations for the sake of seeing

foreign lands and acquiring the desirable knowledge which can only be

gained by personal observation. For such, a guide book is very much

needed. They constitute a large class of persons. They have an ardent

desire to visit the Old World and places of renown--they would go in

crowds, but for fear of the expense, and the assurances of their friends

that it will cost so much. When we assure them that a trip to England

and Scotland, and a tour through France, Germany, Prussia, Holland,

Switzerland, and part of Italy, covering four or five months, may be

made, has been made, for four hundred dollars, including first-class

steamship passages going and returning, they may be encouraged to think

of starting as soon as gold is at par.

A gentleman who has established hotels in England and Scotland, and

published a Guide through London, says no traveller need pay at a hotel

more than eighteen pence (thirty-seven cents of our money) a day for his

room. To this is usually added from eighteen to twenty-five cents for

attendance; gas being two cents extra per night. In London, however,

such moderate hotels are usually in the business part of the town. In

the desirable portions for a sojourn, private board and lodging can be

had from a guinea to a pound and a half a week; or two furnished rooms

may be taken at four or five dollars or more per week. This includes the

service of cooking and serving meals; the tenant furnishing the

marketing, which costs from two dollars to two dollars and a half a week

for each person. This is the cheapest way of living for a party. Such

rooms may be found by looking in newspaper advertisements. Agents make

them cost more. It will be easy, by making a few inquiries, to hear of a

dozen such places; and as people do not move so often in London as

here, the knowledge may be available for a year or two.

In Edinburgh, Glasgow, and other cities, the cheap hotels are found in

the very best localities. They usually advertise in Bradshaw's 'Monthly

Guide,' and in the newspapers. They have clean beds and nice rooms

almost universally. If the traveller desires strictly to economize, he

need not pay for meals in the hotel, where 'a plain breakfast' (tea and

bread and butter) will cost twenty-five cents, and dinner fifty cents;

he can, if he choose, go to one of the numerous restaurants in the

vicinity, and dine comfortably for twelve cents: other meals in

proportion. These places are numerous and good in the cities of Great

Britain. On the Continent, the prices at restaurants are higher, for

strangers at least; a marked distinction being made between them and the

inhabitants of the country. '_I forestieri tutti pagano_' (foreigners

all pay), said a Venetian sexton; and that is the rule for universal

practice throughout Europe. An order for roast beef at a restaurant will

not cover, as it does here and in England, potatoes and bread; they are

charged for extra; from three to five cents for a roll; six or eight for

potatoes. Ice is too expensive a luxury everywhere across the seas to be

thought of by the tourist limited in means. But if restaurants are dear,

the markets are cheap in Europe; and the people of the country usually

carry provisions with them. You may see ladies provided each with a

small basket, from which are produced in the cars a bottle of _vin

ordinaire_ and water, rolls of bread, and slices of ham or tongue. These

furnish the simple but wholesome repast. Cream cheeses, delicious in

quality, are to be procured in France and Italy, with cooked mutton

chops, parts of roast fowl, sausage of fresh chicken and tongue, pork

and mutton pies, etc., all obtainable fresh at provision stores. A bunch

of grapes that will cost a franc (twenty cents) at the railway-station

refreshment room, may be had in the market for one or two cents; and

other articles in proportion. The custom of the people, and the abundant

provision of such things, will suggest to the economical traveller a

method of saving largely in his daily expenses. Those who like

tea--which they cannot get well made on the Continent--had better take a

spirit lamp and apparatus for making it in their rooms. But little

trouble is involved in thus providing for one's wants; the most is in

making tea or coffee. Those in the habit of so living will save the

expensive hotel meals. In hotels, where there is a _table d'hóte_,

dinner costs from three and a half francs (seventy cents) to five (a

dollar). The breakfast consists merely of bread and _café au lait_,

unless extras are ordered, and those are liberally charged for. Nowhere

are travellers expected to pay for meals at hotels unless they choose to

take them. _Se non mangiate, non pagate_. ('If you eat nothing, you pay

nothing.')

The prudent tourist will always bargain for the prices of rooms. In the

first-class hotels on the Continent there are usually to be had upper

rooms at thirty or forty cents a day. In second-class hotels in France

and Italy a room may be obtained for twenty cents, the charge for

service being ten cents extra. Candles are always charged for

separately; in cheap rooms, ten cents; in higher priced, a franc each

per night; the waiter being careful to remove the partially burned one.

The best plan is to carry wax candles in one's basket. Soap is never

provided, and is an expensive article when called for.

In Germany and Holland the price of a room per day is a florin or

guilder--about forty-three cents. Living generally is higher than in

Italy, but cooked provisions are abundant and excellent. Throughout

Europe, you may be sure of clean beds and tables, no matter how

uninviting the premises appear.

One half the cost of travel, and one's temper besides, may be saved by

going in third-class carriages. On the Continent the second-class ones

are as luxurious as the first, and are preferred by tourists generally.

But, except in having no cushions, the third class will prove

comfortable enough; the chance for seeing the country is rather better.

Here the people of the country are met--chiefly the poorer class--very

decent in appearance, however, and invariably respectful and kind in

their manners. A large number of monks and nuns will be found here, also

well-dressed ladies, who feel more protected than in the superior class

of carriages. In the latter, indeed, one is exposed to various

annoyances escaped in third-class carriages. The tourists, who abound,

are often insolent and encroaching. A burly Englishman or stolid German

will not hesitate to turn a timid lady out of her seat; and if ladies

have no gentlemen with them, they may be insulted by rude staring or

scornful looks from women provided with escorts or a little more finely

dressed. All these causes of disturbance are escaped among the third

class, where the utmost deference is always shown to strangers.

In Great Britain, where Mrs. Grundy reigns with absolute sway, there is

a prejudice against the inferior classes of railway carriages, partially

overcome among the middle people of late, as far as the _second_ class

is concerned; they dare not go in the third. But strangers may be more

independent, and may do as they please without reproach. There is

nothing to choose in the way of comfortable accommodation between the

second and third-class carriages in England; the latter are called

'parliamentary,' on account of the governmental regulation compelling

the companies to run them, and fixing the fare at one penny (two cents)

a mile. Smoking is not permitted at all in England; on the Continent it

is customary, even in first-class carriages and in diligences. When

travelling in the diligence or stage coach, secure, if possible, the

_coupé_ or highest priced places. The front windows command a better

view than the side ones of the interior; and where a better view can be

had, it is worth paying for. On the Mediterranean steamers take

first-class places; the best are bad enough to be intolerable. The

second cabins of the steamers crossing the British Channel are pretty

good for a short voyage.

A copy which I am permitted to make from the diary of one who travelled

with some ladies last summer, from Paris to Florence in Italy and back,

gives the entire cost of the trip--occupying a month--at $106.13. This

estimate includes hotel fares, fees, carriage hire, etc., as well as

travelling expenses. A copy from the note book of a party who travelled

over England and to Edinburgh and Glasgow--spending over two

months--gives the sum total of that as $119.42. This includes fares to

and from Paris ($5 second class), and board in Paris as well as in Great

Britain. We may therefore put down the cost of a trip to Europe as

follows:

Passage (first class) on steamship

of New York, Philadelphia

and Liverpool line, from

New York to London $80 00

Returning in same line (fifteen

guineas) 79 00

Travelling and board in Great

Britain and Paris 119 42

Tour on the Continent 106 13

Allow for stewards' fees, cabs,

omnibuses, and a few expenses

not noted 15 45

Total cost of European trip, $400 00

Fees to guides, sextons, etc., on the Continent, seldom exceed a franc

(twenty cents) each; half that, or a franc for a party, will often

suffice. If a church is open for service, nothing is to be paid. Gifts

to guides in England average sixpence or an English shilling. The

custom of giving money to servants in private houses where one is

entertained as a guest, is burdensome and unjust.

In Paris, board and lodging can be had at excellent houses, filled with

fashionable guests, for a dollar a day, exclusive of a franc a week each

to the maid and waiter. Arthur's celebrated family hotel, 9 Rue

Castiglione, afforded accommodation to a party of three at this rate,

with a suite of rooms in the Rue St. Honoré, breakfast to order in the

private parlor, the constant attendance of a servant, and dinner at the

hotel _table d'hôte_. The party found their own candles. A party thus

can be as well accommodated as in one of the chief hotels. A single

gentleman, who cares less for the elegancies of life, can have a

furnished room for seven dollars a month with attendance, or a room at a

cheap hotel for a dollar a week, without meals.

It must be understood that the estimate of $400 for the cost of a tour

abroad does not include the price of exchange at the present time, or

any exchange. It is simply the amount paid out in our own currency. The

purchases made by a tourist of clothing, curiosities, etc., are of

course extra. The amount will provide for a tour extending to between

four and five months. Three or four weeks are allowed for in London, and

two or three weeks in Paris. If the tour be extended and more time be

consumed, the additional expense may easily be calculated. Bradshaw's

'Continental Guide' will give the exact cost and distance on the

railways; and for hotel expenses, lunches, and fees, a dollar a day will

provide the economical traveller. He will need no courier, nor, if he

knows the language (French will do, but it is better also to understand

Italian and German), a _valet de place_. Both are better dispensed with.

One word as to luggage. Let no traveller encumber himself or herself

with a trunk on the Continent. A valise or a carpet bag that can be

carried in the hand, will hold enough. Four or five changes of linen,

and one dress, besides the travelling costume, are all sufficient.

Washing can be done in a few hours anywhere. A lady had better wear a

dress of strong dark stuff, and have a black silk for a change. She will

need no more, even if months are spent abroad. Even in England a trunk

is a nuisance; for luggage cannot be checked, and continual care is

necessary. In some remote stations even labels cannot be had, and

porters are scarce. I have known passengers, when no porters came to

take their trunks to the van, compelled to thrust them into the carriage

at the last moment. The better plan is to have only what can be carried

under your own eye.

TOUCHING THE SOUL.

Reader, did it ever strike you that there are many theories touching

this soul of ours which are generally accepted as truths, without any

thought whatever on the subject; so universally accepted, indeed, that

it is considered a waste of time to think upon them at all; but which,

upon a thorough investigation, might possibly lose some of their

old-time infallibility, and the consideration of which might well repay

the trouble, by opening a field of thought at once interesting and

instructive?

Such there are, and in this province alone are we of this day and

generation entirely controlled by the opinions of those over whose dust

centuries have rolled. We may speculate freely upon religion, and, while

all must acknowledge that true religion is not progressive, new schemes

of salvation spring almost daily into life from the brains of heretical

thinkers, in their bold presumption stamping with error the simple faith

of the primitive Christians. We may peer into the arcana of science and

boldly question the theories of the learned of all ages. We may exhaust

our mental powers upon points of political economy and the science of

government; and even the domain of ethics may be fearlessly invaded and

crowded with doubt. But into the unpretending pathway that leads to the

secret nooks of the soul, to the foundations of all spiritual

excellence, few feet may stray, and even those only to follow the beaten

track worn by the feet of those olden thinkers whose very names have

long since passed into oblivion, lest by their deviations they should

outrage some of those universal prejudices, whose only claim to

consideration is their traditionary origin.

And this path is but little trodden in our day, for two reasons; first,

because, to the careless eye, it possesses few attractions, and its

claims are lost in those of a more exciting and more eminently practical

course of thought; secondly, because it seems to have been so thoroughly

explored that we have only to read the writings of those who have gone

before, and listen to traditionary speculations, to learn all that can

be known about that which is our very existence, and, indeed, the only

_true_ existence.

Two great mistakes. The dying philosopher, one of the wisest the world

has ever known, declared that all the knowledge he had gained was but as

a grain of sand upon the seashore. So all that is known to-day about the

soul is but a drop in the ocean of that great revealing which shall one

day dawn upon man's spiritual existence. There is an infinite field yet

unexplored--a very _terra incognita_ to even those who pride themselves

upon being learned in the mysteries of the soul. And to him who ventures

upon this seemingly lowly path, so far from proving unattractive, it

becomes a very Eden of thought. Unlooked-for beauties spring to light on

every side; the very essence of music and poesy float around him as he

advances; while above, around, and through all, sounds the magnificent

diapason of everlasting truth.

True, there may be little of practical benefit--as the world defines

practicality--in searching out the causes of the myriad emotions that

sweep with lightning rapidity across the soul, now raising us to the

summit of bliss, now plunging us into the depths of despair--little of

practical benefit in endeavoring to analyze the soul itself into its

constituent elements, and to bring ourselves face to face with our

better, nobler selves, and with the Mighty Power which created us and

all things. But there is, in this inner life, a pleasure higher and

more lasting than those evanescent ones which the world can afford, and

which elevates and purifies as they do not. And aside from mere

pleasure, there is in such a study a practicability--taking the word in

a broader and nobler sense--which puts to the blush man's busy schemes

for wealth and honor. The beauties and sublimity of nature may indeed

fill us with awe at the omnipotence of the mighty Architect, and with

love and gratitude for His goodness, but it is only in the presence of

the soul--His greatest work--that we realize the awful power of the

Creator; it is only when threading the secret avenues of our own

intellectual and spiritual being that we are brought into actual

communion with God, and bow in adoration before Him who 'doeth all

things well.' Therefore, I maintain that he whose meditations run most

in this channel is not only the happiest, but the purest man; that his

views of life are the broadest and noblest; that he it is who is most

open to the appeal of suffering or of sorrow; who is most ready to

sacrifice self and work for the good of his fellow beings, and to

discharge faithfully his duty in that state of life to which it has

pleased God to call him.

But I am digressing into a prosy essay, which I did not intend, and

neglecting that which I did intend, namely, to jot down a few theories

which have crept into the brain of one not much given to musing.

For even I--a poor 'marching sub'--sitting here by a cheery coal grate,

and watching the white smoke as it curls lazily up from the bowl of my

meerschaum, have theories touching the soul--theories born in the

glowing coals and mounting in the curling smoke wreaths, but, unlike

them, growing more and more voluminous as they ascend, till I am like to

be lost in the ocean of speculations which my own musings have summoned

up.

I heard, to-night, a strain of weird, unearthly music, sweet and sad

beyond expression, but distant and fleeting. Yet long after it had

ceased, the chord that it awakened in my heart continued to vibrate as

with the echo of the strain which had departed. An unutterable,

indescribable longing filled my soul--a vague yearning for something, I

knew not what. My whole spiritual being seemed exalted to the clouds,

yet restrained by some galling chain from the heaven it sought to enter.

And then I asked myself, What is the secret of this mysterious power of

music; where shall we look for the cause of those undefinable yet

overwhelming emotions which it never fails to excite? A hopeless

question it seemed, one which the philosophers of all ages have failed

to solve, perhaps because they have not troubled themselves to inquire

very seriously about it; and again, perhaps it has baffled them as it

has me, and tens of thousands of others of the humbler portion of

humanity. And so I fell to dreaming after this wise:

The soul of man is created perfect, so far as regards the presence of

every faculty necessary for its development, for its happiness, or

misery, in this world or the next. Circumstances may alter it in degree,

but in its constituent elements never. The same yesterday, to-day, and

to-morrow, at the moment of its creation and a thousand ages to come.

Not even its passage from the body into its future and eternal home can

endow it with a single new faculty, or eradicate one of the old. Yet

each one of these faculties, capabilities, or sensibilities, is capable

of development to an infinite degree. And in this development lies the

soul's progress to perfection; it is to go on, through all the ages of

its eternal existence, constantly approaching the divine, yet never

reaching the goal, like that space between two parallel lines, which

mathematicians bisect to infinity. Certain of these faculties, of the

very existence of which even the soul itself is unconscious, are those

whose province lies purely in the world beyond, to which we all are

tending. Never exerted in this life, with which they have nothing to do,

through all the earthly existence they sleep quietly in their hidden

cells; but when once the silver cord is loosed, and the freed spirit

mounts into its native atmosphere, then these dormant powers and

susceptibilities are awakened from their slumbers, and take the lead in

the march of development, outstripping all others in the race, and soon

becoming the ruling powers of the soul. These are they which shall

listen to the music of heaven--these are the spiritual senses which

shall hear and see and taste and feel those ineffable glories, of which

our earthly pilgrimage has no appreciation, and which, if presented to

us in the body, we could not perceive, nor, perceiving, comprehend.

These are they which shall worship and adore, comprehending the glory of

Omnipotence, and drinking in and pouring out the full stream of divine

and never-failing love and gratitude.

Reader, did you ever listen to the sympathetic vibrations of a musical

string? Place in the corner of your room a guitar--it matters not if it

have but a single string, that alone is sufficient for the

experiment--then, sitting at some distance from it, sing, shout, or play

upon some loud-toned instrument, or, beginning at the foot of the

chromatic scale, sound, round and full, each semitone in succession and

at separate intervals. The instrument is mute to every note until you

strike the one to which the guitar string is attuned; then indeed, the

spirit of melody imprisoned within the musical string recognizes its

kindred sound, and springs sweetly forth to meet it. You pause, and a

low, sweet strain sighs softly through the room, as if a zephyr had

swept the string, dying gently away like the faintest breathing of the

evening breeze. Repeat the note, and louder than at first, and again its

counterpart replies, swelling higher than before, as if in gentle

remonstrance that you should deem it necessary to call again to that

which has already replied.

Even so it is with these hidden faculties or susceptibilities of which I

have been speaking. In the notes of witching music, in the numbers of

poesy, in the sight of beauty, either of nature or of art, either

æsthetic or moral, these silent powers recognize a faint approximation

to that beauty with which they will have to do in that world where they

shall be called into action: they too recognize the kindred spirit, and,

springing forward to meet it, vibrate in unison with the chord. But yet,

restrained by their prison of clay, bound down by the immutable law

which bids them wait their time, their great deep is but troubled, and

while, from their swaying and surging, a delicious emotion spreads over

the soul, filling the whole being with indescribable joy, it is an

emotion which we cannot fathom, vague and undefined, at which we wonder

even while we enjoy. To each and all of us the doors of heaven are

closed for the present; we never have heard the songs of the celestial

spheres, and how should we recognize their echo here on earth, even

though that echo is swelling through our own hearts? And the sadness and

yearning which such emotions invariably produce, may they not be the

yearning for heaven's supernal beauty, and sadness for the chains which

bar us from its full realization? Or is it the reflex of the struggles

and the disappointment of that portion of the spirit which I have

assigned as the mover of the emotion itself?